The Moon, the Crazy Moon

I felt that pain in my chest today. Not the kind associated with medical maladies, but rather that deep sobbing that may not even make a sound, but it feels like it's capable of turning you inside-out. Was it something Todd said? you may ask. No. Not at all. Todd has hurt me but he has never moved me to tears like this. This was the rare tug--the pull of true loss. I felt it at my sister's funeral, and I felt it when I was driving home after Charlie and I split up, while his child was still growing inside my womb.

What would bring about such internal contortion? Nothing Todd could say or do. I'm growing immune to his prodding. I think that comment he made a few weeks ago, "I didn't say 'we,'" in reference to moving back to the midwest, coupled with his accusation the following day that I had intentionally fainted at our wedding to get out of saying the vows combined to form the last straw. He can tick me off or annoy me... but really move me? Not so much.

What was it, then? I guess you could call it another silly self-therapy move. I wonder if I could get my own show on the DIY network.

I was reading excerpts from the book, Living with the Passive-Aggressive Man, and I started to feel really paranoid. I ran from room to room, closing the blinds on the windows and making sure the doors were locked, disassembled every smoke detector and heating vent to be sure there weren't any hidden cameras, dissected the phones in search of bugs, and peered into each closet (and the refrigerator) looking for spies. How could Scott Wetzler, Ph. D. know so much about what goes on in our house without the assistance of surveillance technology? What I read planted a tiny suspicion in my head... the thought that the problem between Todd and me is not completely about me being "crazy and impossible to talk to." Maybe I wasn't just imagining the mind game olympics that have been leaving me confused and feeling emotionally spent.

But then I went back to the log-eye thing.

Don't think of yourself more highly than you ought, I told myself. Todd's not the only one who has accused you of being an awful person, Bridget. Maybe it's true.

My mind went back more than a couple decades to that fateful, pivotal day when Doug told me everything that was wrong with me in one sitting. He didn't want to spend time with me anymore. It was over. Every time I walked by his best friend on campus, I'd hear him mutter the words, "hateful" or "Jezebel." Accusations like that don't just spring out of thin air, do they? Way back when this was happening, I confronted Doug's friend, asking him why he called me those things. All I was ever able to get out of him was that I had hurt Doug. When I tried to get him to tell me how, all he would say was, "at least you weren't married."

All of these years, that whole series of events has been confusing to me. I still don't know what happened. I still don't know what I did to hurt Doug. I've suspected that he liked me as more than a friend and he took my lack of response to his hints as a rejection, but I've never confirmed that. As those of you who have been following this blog know, Doug and I have been reconciled for quite a while. We're actually good friends now. But I still never figured out what went wrong way back then. He chalks it up to "we were young... naive... immature..." That's never really been enough clarity for me, but you can only dig so much when the others involved are pouring concrete and constructing buildings on the spot in question. I've let it go, wanting to know more every time one of my kids comes to me seeking advice on similar situations of the heart, but knowing that the only way to find out would be to come right out and ask him... which I still guess I fear might scare him away (I may also be a little afraid of what a blow it would be to my self esteem if I were to find out after all these years that he never did like me as anything more than just a friend, and that I was delusional to think that that was what had hurt him.)

Anyway, I finally did it yesterday. I finally broke down and told him that I really need to know what it was that I did, didn't do, said, or didn't say that caused him such great hurt that he didn't want to be around me anymore back then. What did I think knowing would accomplish after all these years? I may not have really known when I sent the message, but it couldn't be un-sent. As the day went by, I came to realize that it was, at least in part, self-sabotage--fishing for ammunition to use against myself. Perhaps he would raise accusations that would collude with what Todd says about me, confirming that I really am an awful person. You see, on the flip side of wondering how it was that I hurt Doug, part of me has always wondered IF I really hurt him... or if it was really just part of a game. He had spent time with me when he didn't have anyone else to spend time with, and then, when our mutual "friend" who was interested in dating him came into the picture, he tired of me, and the "you hurt me" story was just a convenient way to get rid of me. For all I know, that's just as likely to be true as the he had a crush on me delusion.

He did write back. And what he said didn't bring any more clarity.

"i appreciate the fact that you're trying to work through some really aweful pieces of our mutual past. however, i honestly can't remember any feelings about you that would have caused me to react to you in the way you described.

"here is my conclusion: like many people, i was a very confused and certainly a very insecure person. as we've discussed, i had my own issues with [our mutual friends]. i'm sure this included trying to impress them to the point of trying to make myself look like someone i wasn't--to the extent of acting out the immense insecurity that still haunts me to this day.

"knowing [the guy who called me "hateful"] as i did, he (like me) was often sarcastic and enjoyed the folly of mixed messages. i honestly cannot make any connection between you and the biblical jezebel in my wildest accounts and interpretation of what was going on back then. everything seemed to be about being funny, getting the laughs, and actually feeding each other in ways that were never conducive to real friendship or mutual understanding. the reality is, if we had the tools, we didn't apply them to all relationships to make them what they needed to be. rather, we did what we needed to do to make certain relationships work.

"if you were to see [those old mutual friends] right now, you wouldn't recognize them. they both have grown into truly godly, really terrific people, and the stuff we knew 26-plus years ago is no longer part of who they are. in fact, if we were to broach it, they, too, would likely be embarrassed and even repentent. i suspect that this would be the necessary connector for you: knowing that we all were young and immature, which doesn't necessarily cover over the multitude of sins, but helps to bring understanding for what we may continue to feel.

"here's a start. i'm happy to keep this going in processing through with you."

And I did reply to that message, but I'm not holding my breath in anticipation of anything that will bring any more clarity at all. It was while I was writing that reply that my chest did the contorting on me--while I was imagining all the horrible truths that could come out if I kept digging.

What will I do if he does at some point reveal to me that my suspicions of our friendship having always been a whole lot more lop-sided than I was willing to admit are true? I suspect it will be more of those deep chest contortions... hurting something awful... but it will be worth it to have the truth, right?

On another note, to celebrate my anniversary (a day late and alone) I watched a movie called Ira and Abby. It's a pretty cynical look at marriage, and therapy . . . How fitting!

Love this exchange:

Abby: Do you have a girlfriend?

Ira: No, I have a fear of perishables.

For some reason, as soon as it finished, I thought of the lines about marriage in Moonstruck:

Ma: Do you love him, Loretta?

Loretta: Ma, I love him awful.

Ma: Oh God, that's too bad.

It's kind of a relief that I don't love Todd awful. It's kind of a comfort to be numbed to that pain in the chest.

Inner Child Neglect

I'm usually skeptical of those who try to attach too much blame on childhood events for their present-day choices. Living in the present, it just doesn't seem all that helpful to dwell on the past. We've got what we've got--here and now. Some of us have been lucky and some of us have been dealt a lot of crap (AND some of us have dealt ourselves a load of crap). And the correlation between then and now is frequently the opposite of what you might expect. Those who were "lucky" as children can become complacent and lazy and make choices that really mess things up. Those who are less fortunate in childhood can buck up and with grace and resolve make a pretty sweet life. There are enough of those reverse examples to lead me to believe that it's more about what we make of the raw materials we have than it is about the raw materials.

That said, (in the words of one of my favorite lyricists) I've been "playing Cabbage Patch dolls with my inner child" lately. It's part of my patchwork self-therapy. Looking for the holes that need to to be patched in order to keep my soul from leaking out into a useless puddle.

I've been praying that I will recognize those things in myself--primarily faulty thought patterns that are shading the way I interpret my situation. What's come to my attention is the way in which my childhood does inform the way I respond to financial trials. I could say, "See! I can't help my reactions to this stress. It's all part of who I am." I could say that, but I refuse to be trapped in patterns born out of hurt, need, or insecurity. That is not the way of life I choose, so those patterns do not fit.

So, I've decided to "go there" -- to go back to my childhood and dig up the roots of my insecurity and fear -- not in order to wear them as an excuse, but rather in order to deal with them so that I can move on into joy and freedom.

The final nudge that prompted me to rendezvous with my inner child was an Easter blog post from a friend who alluded to how our childhood experience can affect our perception of God:

"...the way we view Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit speaks volumes of your enviornment that you grew up in and your view of men in general.... calling God father can often be an issue with many as it psychologically conjures up, often unbeknownst to us, our view of our own father and/or father figure(s). If we had a very strict father we may see God as a Legalistic Punisher expecting only perfection. If we had a father who was aloof and not emotionally there, we may see God very much the same. If we had a father who was caring and understanding perhaps that is how we see God as well...."

This came right after interviewing a man who, in his 50's, still struggles with the fact that he never knew his father. It was evident in the interview that the absence of a father figure early in his life still served as a template for how this man viewed himself all these years later. On some level, he still functions like an abandoned child--how he viewed himself, I said, not how he viewed others.

My friend's Easter blog post went on to pose this question about God: "He is what we need Him to be, don't ya think?" based on the assumption that "It's imperative that you view Jesus in a way that's helpful for you."

When this friend asked for my response, I was reminded of the scripture in which Jesus quizzed Simon to see if he really knew who He was. Jesus wasn't satisfied with Simon rattling off the company line, so He pressed on, "Who do you say that I am?" Simon's answer to Jesus' question wasn't, "I think you're ___," or "I need you to be ___," or "To me, you are ___." His answer was a very confident:

"You are the Messiah. The Son of the Living God."

And Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven." (Mt. 16:17)

As I typed these words right now, I got to thinking that, since actions speak louder than words, another way of applying Jesus' question to our lives today would be by asking:

"Who does my life say that He is?"

Then I thought of the musical, Jesus Christ Superstar. When the Mary Magdalene character sings, "He's just a man," some Christians run the other direction in terror, fearing that such blasphemy might be contagious. I, however, found the raw, honest questioning of the lyrics--rather than luring me away from an orthodox faith--set up the very sort of questioning that allowed me to be open to the answer.

It's not really who HE is that is negotiable... but rather who I am in relation to Him...

This may seem like a tangent, but it really does connect to this whole inner child discussion. If the Father in heaven had not revealed to Simon who Jesus was, Simon wouldn't have had the confidence to assert his faith so boldly. Conversely, the identity of his dad had never been revealed to the man I interviewed, and the result seemed to have affected this man's perception not so much of his father as of himself. Our early relationships provide a template for how we view ourselves, and what we expect from subsequent relationships.

If confidence comes from God, as I believe it does, then our image of God is utterly important. Comparing Him to a human father, or a mother, or a brother, or a buddy... all of these things fall short. I think certain aspects of who God is can be revealed to us in comparisons with things that we have an understanding of in the physical world, but I also think that there is a temptation that needs to be resisted to build God in the image as we would like to see him... and that is so limiting.

Looking back over the years, there have been times when I've doubted, but in retrospect, I can honestly say that I've never had a legitimate REASON to doubt. There have been times when my concept of God has been majorly screwed up, but He has remained constant. If I try to form an image of who He is out of my own needs or desires or observations, that is likely to be a false god.

What I need is for Him to reveal Himself to me... and when I ask and seek, He is faithful. The bigger question then becomes, "Who do I say that He is?" Who does my life say that He is--in relation to me? Do I know how to love Him? Can I let down my guard enough to be truly loved by Him? to be changed, truly changed? Who am I because of Him?

As I pondered these questions in relation to my childhood environment, my family of origin, and my earthly father, I began to realize how intrinsically tied up all of the relationships of our lives become. Maybe that's because relationships run on on tracks called "patterns."

I remember coming to a surprising realization sometime after high school graduation, when I first moved out on my own and attended churches where my daddy wasn't the pastor. I realized that growing up a P.K., I experienced role confusion with this first man in my life--my dad. When I needed a pastor, I had never really felt that I had one because he was my dad. When I needed a dad, there were also times when I didn't feel that security because he was a pastor. Being a pastor meant he was often busy shepherding others, and it also meant that he received a very low salary and we were poor. Although I don't blame God for our financial state, on some level there is an equation of the spiritual to physical lack. My practical relationship to God as seen through the template formed by my relationship with my dad/pastor could be described as "It's complicated."

I've stated before in this blog that I don't really have so much of a problem living with Todd not making a lot of money. I learned to live a relatively simple life growing up because of my dad's lower income and the influence of having older parents who still remembered the effects of the Great Depression. We had a black and white television that my parents had rescued from a dumpster when they were first married. Even though everyone else had colored TV's there was no reason to replace our old set as long as it was still working. We were that frugal, and we survived just fine. I even remember my mother using an old wringer washing machine, doing a lot of laundry by hand, hanging it out to dry on a clothes line, and darning our socks when they got holes in them. Most of my clothes were either hand made or hand-me-downs. I wouldn't have said we were poor--that was just how we lived. My parents didn't complain about the things we couldn't have, and they seemed to enjoy the things we did have. I look back on those early years as being almost charming because they provide such unique memories for someone in my generation. Few can identify, so it is a history that is uniquely mine.

It did become a bit of an embarrassment when I entered middle school, though. That's when I became aware that my clothes weren't cool, and that I was one of the poor kids who had to stand in a special line at the cafeteria because of the free or low-cost lunch program my family was on. Those things were irritations, but I learned how to adapt and retain a joyful youth: I learned how to sew and made outfits I saw in fashion magazines before they even came to our small-town stores. I skipped lunch altogether to avoid the cafeteria line issues, and enjoyed having a little extra free time in the middle of the day.

From that experience, I learned that having little didn't have to mean being miserable. Todd may have had a very different childhood. Maybe that's why he places so much value on having the right stuff, and he has great difficultly adapting to lean times, but rather keeps spending at the rate of his want rather than the level of need.

The insecurity I seem to have carried with me into adulthood is the fear of loss of home. In my growing up years, my family never owned a house. We moved from one parsonage to another, usually moving every three years. The houses were not bad, but they were not ours to decorate as we wished, and there was always the question in the back of my mind: How long until we move again? The sense of impermanence took a toll on my sense of security. Even though I learned not to put down deep roots, I yearned to feel connected to a place an a people. Our longest stay in one place stretched out to seven years--just long enough for me to finally start settling in, making plans. Then, right in the middle of high school, we moved two states away to an ugly house decorated by a group of colorblind church ladies, with discarded (out dated) wallpapers and carpets that I've never seen anywhere else (I suspect they came from some Twilightzonish parallel universe in which the sun never shines and dogs drag their tails about in an attempt to scratch the itches caused by fleas trying to eat their way out of the miserable world). As if the house wasn't bad enough (did I mention it was haunted, too?), the community was even worse. The town was smaller than small, and whoever said small town people were friendly must not have ever moved into a small town from outside.

That is the plight I was so delighted to spare my kids of when we were finally able to buy a house. It was with such joy that I picked out tile for the kids' rooms and drew out the pattern I would use to lay it. Then when we were able to add on a family room, I designed it myself with a certain flair created by angles that weren't typical. I selected colors for a faux finish that took four of us working in tandem to accomplish. Now when I sit in that room, it is the most comfortable place I've ever been. Like the parsonages I grew up in, it's a modest house... but it's ours. Beyond the house, the community has become home. We've lived here longer than I've ever lived anywhere--pretty much for all of my kids' lives. I've finally relaxed and put down some roots, and my kids are so connected I doubt they'll ever leave this area if they have a choice.

Having been relatively poor growing up, I learned to conserve--to hold on to things that still served a usable purpose--partially because things were not easy to replace. So, I take that pattern into adulthood, as we're living in a house with a mortgage significantly lower than what we would have to pay to rent a similar place almost anywhere in the country. Without a pension or retirement plan, I look at this house as our retirement plan. It's from that perspective that I'm looking when Todd comes along and reveals his retirement plan as moving back to his dad's house where he can get stuff for free. Now, to be fair to Todd, I must say that his dad's house is the house he grew up in. His parents built it, and I'm sure it is full of many pleasant memories of better, carefree times for him. I can see why he might wish to go back there. He did know when he married me, however, that I absolutely hated the climate of the state he grew up in, and that I had no intention of ever living there.

Now, faced with the possibility that his dad will not be moving back into that house and that the house will have to be "dealt with," Todd has voiced his intention to hold on to it. I tried to bring up the subject of how we would be able to afford the property tax and upkeep on a second home when we're barely making it with the first, but as is customary, he ignored the question. We could be months, even weeks away from being faced with decisions about the property, and my inner child is trembling. Is it selfish for me to expect Todd to choose our home over his parent's home? Am I making an idol of this house? Should I be willing to go where ever he chooses to go, even if it is a clear violation of the spirit of our vows years ago, when he knew I didn't want to live in his home state? Has clinging to this house made me unwilling to leave Todd for fear that I'd lose the house in the process? And because I've stayed and continued to enable Todd's irresponsible behavior by not being bold enough to issue an ultimatum, has my love of this house actually contributed to Todd's worst characteristics?

I don't want to play the victim. I know I am strong. I also know I am responsible. I'm not going to take my childhood woes and use them as excuses. I'm not going to blame my parents, God, the church, or even Todd, for the path I travel. I want to see clearly, act wisely, and speak the truth boldly in love. I wish Todd would want the same, but that's his deal. For now, I pray that I will continue to improve my sight when it comes to identifying my own shortcomings and strengths, my own responsibilities and possibilities. I pray that I will somehow be able to rediscover that inner child who was happy to run about in hand-me-down clothes in the fields on the edge of a remote prairie town, playing with sticks and rocks and home-made paper dolls instead of fancy toys. That child who was happy. Not because of stuff, but because of security in her parents' love. That child who had not yet learned to withhold herself from connections for fear of having to leave once again.

From the Steve Taylor masterpiece,

The Lament Of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Fredrick IV

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
I was far too young to depreciate
When they read me my expiration date

I'd built Iron Man stalls in the northern wild
I'd played Cabbage Patch dolls with my inner child
Now I'm getting sealed bids for a granite vault
And I'm pretty sure this is my parents' fault

Desi Ray, if I may be so blunt
Galahad, bag your agnostic front
Underwood, hire a good undertaker
Freddie, get ready to meet your maker

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
When they cancel your breathing policy
Tends to steal a bit of the old joie de vivre

I'd just found the lost key to my mythic life
So I bravely shook free of my kids and wife
I had seminars booked as a second career
Until a still, small voice screamed loud and clear.

Who Am I?

You've probably already guessed that I'm not really Bridget Monroe.

My dad used to say that he wanted to name me "Bridget Blodgett," which he thought would have made a mighty fine stage name, but my mother wouldn't let him. That probably wasn't true, but I heard the story enough times that it stuck with me and thusly* I've always found it a convenient name to hide behind when I want to be somewhat anonymous.

For years it was a joke, a name with the assonance of a made-up label, the sort of moniker I imagined a bimbo might bestow upon herself. However, recently I googled the name and found the top listing in the search engine to be a respectable-looking PhD candidate who conducts important research. How affirming to learn that even my "porn star name" is wrought with intelligence.

The "Monroe" part is a family name. I'd have to look it up to be certain, but I think it was my great great grandmother who was named Elizabeth Monroe. As a little girl aspiring to be an actress, I always thought that was the most beautiful name in my entire family tree. Of course, when you think actress and Monroe, the legendary Marilyn Monroe obviously comes to mind. Well Dad said we were related to her, too. I know what you're thinking:

Everyone knows that Marilyn Monroe was not born Marilyn Monroe. You're right. Norma Jeane Mortenson was born to a single woman named Gladys Baker. That didn't create a problem for my Dad's theory, but rather added what he considered to be pretty strong support to it. You see, my grandmother was a "Baker" and therefore it makes sense that this little girl, born to a Baker, when faced with the task of selecting a stage name would look into her family history and find a name that she thought was pretty. Monroe. It rolls off the tongue like fine silk.

Biographers confirm that the last name Norma Jeane selected was her grandmother's name. I guess there is a chance that Dad is right and we are related. It doesn't really matter, but occasionally throughout life, I've heard random comments (from people who know nothing of my alleged Marilyn connection) about things I've said or done that are in some way similar to the former Norma Jeane. Now that I'm getting older than she ever lived to be, such comparisons are rare, but I can think of one even within the past month. Hmmm, interesting... or not... you tell me.

So, we've established that Bridget Monroe is faux.

Who, then, am I? How about one more of my daddy's stories?

Here goes: My REAL first name (which I'm not going to tell you in order to protect the innocent... and the guilty) was selected, according to dear ol' Dad, for it's meaning. Ah, isn't that sweet? What is it? Precious child? Gift of God? Lovely? Sweetness? Joy of my life? Well, not exactly. In his own words, my first name, which he and Mom selected to bestow upon an innocent infant, means "a snare."

Huh?

Yes, you heard me right. It means, and I quote, "One who snares men with her beauty." Get out of town! What parent, in his right mind, would put such a curse upon his own darling daughter? "Glad to meet you, Sir. Allow me to introduce little she-who-will-cause-you-to-stumble-into-burning-meaningless-lust-as-she-hikes-her-skirt-up-dangerously-high. Isn't she cute?" What a mantel to be informed of right in the midst of the uncertainties of adolescence--that's when he told me... No, actually I don't think he told me. I think he told a man who had just commented on how I was growing up and did Dad have a gun to keep all the boys away? That's right. That's how it went down. I'm standing there in front of one of my father's colleagues whom I didn't really know, witnessing this conversation about me... followed by a deep ha-ha-ha. What on God's green earth is a girl to think? Now do you see why I decided to hide behind a pseudonym as I embark on my rambling cyber memoirs?

Through this blog, I intend to give myself a cheap form of therapy. Each time I write, I will recline myself on the couch and imagine you, the reader, sitting in a high-backed wing chair, hiding behind a yellow legal note pad, scribbling away furiously. Since many of my issues are rooted in the curse of the seductress' name, I will probably dwell on the men who have been in my life and all of the dysfunctional relationships I have had with them (or imagined having with them, or been painfully aware that I did not have with them...) I think you get the picture: This blog will be somewhat juicy, self-indulgent, and of questionable authenticity... that is when it's not whiny, depressing and morose. It will follow the journey of a small town late-blooming, flat-chested, insecure little girl from the Midwest all the way to Hollywood and where ever she goes from there....


* Sorry, I like saying "thusly"--it's one of my tics. The word "thusly" was introduced in the 19th century, most likey by humorists, who were "echoing the speech of poorly educated people straining to sound stylish." (thefreedictionary.com) Thusly, I think it's actually a very fitting word for me to use.