The cost of starvation

They took three years and wore me down to the bone. I was full of love and pleasure and now I am empty and fearful of giving myself away ever again. 

They were drawn to me because I was light and shiny and they captured me and held me, suffocated me with obtuseness and left me wishing for escape, believing he was there to save me when in fact he was there to starve me.

He made sure I was there and then he slowly took away the loveliness and magic we shared, letting it whittle away, asking for more of me, pressing, always pressing but never giving and taking, always taking, but never giving.

I challenged him as best I could and tried to be the best of myself for him. I wasn't always good but I've never been better. No one has ever gotten this much of me. And maybe he came and captured me to show me that I could love again and maybe that is the hope I should cling to, because the rest of it feels so contrived in hindsight's strong hand, that he was saying all the right things but he didn't know how to do them and that once again I gave my heart to someone that didn't deserve me and didn't respect me and didn't love me and left me hungry, starving for love.

Now I sit, having to resume my life, the life I was shedding, I rejected my home, my city, everything that meant anything to me, even tailored parts of myself to suit him, I feel more devastated than ever, than any of them have left me, even the worse ones, even the mean ones left me better off than this, because I didn't have to give everything up for them, I didn't have to prove myself, I didn't have to embarass myself the way I have for him.

I'm not mad, I'm not sad, I'm not even shocked, I'm simply numb from starvation, from the circumstances the last three years have served from the two of them, how forever I will avoid any of them that say they were born the same day as either of them, because even though they are very separate beings they both had the same obtuseness, that same entrapment under that mountain of insecurity and self doubt, that same murkiness, the depths of which were rarely shown and when I did manage to get a glimpse, even the hint of the darkness they kept so hidden terrified me to no end.

None of that matters now, because they taught me a valuable lesson on exactly who and what to run screaming like a banshee from. I will never try to love another that cannot accept my love and adoration and dismisses it on the grounds of their own self loathing.

All there is to do now is feed my hungry spirit and nurture my starving soul. It is already getting better, but there are so many things that ache with his presence, so many symbols we shared, so much we imbibed with magic and wonder and that will lesson as time passes, but it seems to move very slowly right now and the morsels of life I once enjoyed so easily and readily touch my lips and revive me bit by bit, reminding me that even though I struggled so hard, hard enough to alter myself completely, transformed, whittled down, I am still very much alive. And no matter how much they live, they will never know what that is or how that feels, to be alive, to love and to be loved, because they are incapable of it, they find it all a mystery and that is what nulls any moment's anger I am able to muster. 

goodnight moon

He asked, "Are you bringing anything with you from Canada?"

I laughed inside at the irony and said, "No, nothing."

trying to make sense of a dream

Everything is about to change. One way or another. Fork in the road, nothing will be the same, that moment in time you'll always wonder what if? kind of change.

Every day adds a new wrinkle, another complication, more of the anxiousness surrounding big change. The swells are rising, the tide is turning, it's about to swallow us up whole. You can't feel it?

Maybe I'm too sensitive, maybe I'm too observant, maybe I've been staring too hard trying to figure out the depths of the change I'm facing, but it's finally coming to fruition, the change I've been feeling for months, and as I look around, it's happening to him, and her, and them and we're all about to be drowned in it.

All I ask for, all I want, is for it to come, finally, to stop the churning and roiling of indecision, of wonder, of curiosity. I want to drown for once and for all and be delivered to dry land, the security of ground beneath my feet, to see one place and know it as mine, to belong somewhere and feel safe there.

To be lost like this, not knowing what tomorrow will bring, feeling lashed and bound by change which should feel free and pleasant has been an utterly harrowing experience. I've lost weight, I've lost my voice, I've lost my self.

And when I find dry land, who will I be? I'm already forever changed.

the little coffee pot

I have this little coffee pot. It's different than the one a lot people have. It doesn't require electricity, it doesn't have a water tank, it doesn't need paper filters, and it doesn't have any buttons or gizmos. It's simple. All you need is water, coffee and fire. And maybe something to hold it above a fire.

When it was new, it was a marvel. Silver and shiny, the metal gleaming from the perfection of never being used. It came with three metal parts, a reservoir on the bottom for water, a funneled coffee filter that nestles into the water chamber and a pitcher on top to collect the coffee. The three pieces meet in the middle and fit together in a threaded column. A slender handle and a tiny knob on the lid made out of black plastic provide safe places to touch and peek at the progress of the brewing coffee. It is small and only makes one cup.

Most people would take one look at this little contraption and think it was a joke. In a world of having the newest, best and greatest, I have an Italian stovetop coffee pot that was popular in the sixties and is still widely used in Europe and South America. Everyone knows how to press buttons and make coffee, but no one gets how to use this little coffee pot of mine. And that's fine by me.

One day, after a few years of using it, a friend of mine who was staying overnight in my apartment decided to try it out, I gave her a tutorial, I explained all the components, all she had to do was follow my instructions. What I didn't make clear to her is that even though it seems like an archaic thing, like it will take forever to brew one cup of coffee, it's actually very fast. So when she set it on the stove, she walked away for a while and the plastic handle melted from a larger than needed flame. She apologized profusely and bought me a new coffeepot to replace the one she felt she ruined. I tried to insist it was fine, sure the handle was a little misshapen, was less shiny from years of use, but it essentially still worked.

I continued to use my little coffee pot. The new one sat in its box for a long time until I decided I would send it to him, my love, my moon and share with him a small pleasure I'd found in life, making coffee with this little coffee pot. I was excited to send it to him as a housewarming gift and finally put the unneeded extra coffee pot in the hands of someone who would use it and appreciate it.

The day after I sent it to him, as I set out to make my coffee that morning, I suffered the cheery blathering of my roommate and as I grumbled to myself, distracted by her loud theater voice and ridiculous airs, I neglected to fill the water chamber and set my little coffee pot on the stove. As my roommate pranced about the kitchen in her mismatched shabby clothing that was her idea of pajamas and expunged on the latest man she felt might become her husband someday, I waited patiently for my coffee to brew. I waited and waited. I pulled up on the little knob and saw nothing inside the pitcher. I checked the flame. I wondered. I knew something was wrong, but my roommate was filling my attentions with idle chatter and I was too tired to realize what was going on.

Finally the smell of burning plastic began to rise to my nose. She smelled it too, but she kept talking. I touched my fingers to the knob on top of the lid to the pitcher and it skated slightly on the surface of the metal, loosened by heat. I turned off the flame and fretted and still she kept talking. I reached for the handle and watched it completely separate from the pitcher, sliding off and hitting the stove with a clunk. And still she kept talking.

Later, after the smell cleared, the kitchen emptied, I discovered my error, but it was too late, I had burned the pot, melted off the handle and ruined my coffee pot and given away a perfectly good new one that I'd never used.

And still, I kept using it. Now I had to use a kitchen towel to hold the pot as I poured it into a cup, but otherwise it still worked fine. Maybe it didn't look so good, maybe I had to be careful not to burn myself pouring it but it still worked just fine.

I'm telling you this so you understand something. Sometimes life is like a little coffee pot. And I'm stuck using the run down broken coffee pot because essentially it still works and seems wasteful to throw away, and no one understands why I'm doing this to myself, day after day making coffee in this debilitated machine, when I could just throw it away and get a new one.

Because that's not who I am.

My love endeavored to get me a new coffee pot, as a gift, to replace this one, the one that I use without regret every day, happy it still works despite my absentmindedness. He was ultimately unsuccessful because the little coffee pot I prefer is not widely available, certain small retail shops carry it, but despite his best efforts, he couldn't find any places that carried it. I appreciated the gesture and mostly that even though he wanted to replace something that to me seemed unnecessary, at the very least he understands me well enough to know not to buy me a big fancy gizmo coffeepot. Because that is really not who I am.

His efforts left me wondering. His frustration at using my little coffee pot led him to want to get me a new one. How much of life do I allow to be unworkable, at a disadvantage, defunct? And why? He thinks I deserve a working coffee pot and he not only tried in vain to get me one, he has me finally reconsidering using this one, the burned, scarred, ruined one I've used for over a year in this dilapidated condition. So now I can still be a person who loves my little coffee pot, but it doesn't have to be a ruined coffee pot anymore. I've embraced the run down coffee pot for long enough. It's time to get a new one.

the disappearing act

[I didn't mean to disappear. I love writing here, having done it for so long, knowing I can look back and see how far I've come. It's the last day of 2011, and while I don't normally fall prey to such conventions, I know I wouldn't forgive myself if I let this year end without some summation of what's happened.]

This has probably been one of the hardest years of my life, which coincided with the experience of growing the fuck up. It's been swell, young adulthood, it's been great. I had some amazing times with good friends. Some of them are gone, finding themselves in other parts of the world, some of them I've outgrown and some of them I've rediscovered again.

For me, it has been the year of being missing, everyone is saying, where are you? where have you been? where have you gotten back from? All the while I've been working and traveling and trying very hard to make sense of what is happening to me, like if I just pay close enough attention to every single thing maybe it will all make sense somehow and get better, but then there are so many things.

So many factors go into a disappearing act. It's not just one thing. They are all here, transcribed already. Money, family, love, sobering up, finding out that who I am is nothing without love.

And then there's this:

My family has never been close. It's just understood that the love is there and that's that. We don't talk, we don't see each other much except for holidays and we look forward to seeing my brother who has three cheerful wild children. We started to talk more, I won't get into the painful teary why, when you talk to someone who loves you and really wants to talk to you and they are kids it is a big gushy good feeling.

I wrote a story this year. One story. It is part of my novel, the seemingly never-ending source of mockery of my own making. It was an embarrassing story, difficult to write, hard to get out, a cringing unwelcome peeling of something unpleasant over and over again trying to find a way to make something of the effort of trying to figure out the magnet. Sometimes I am asked to explain why I write. This story made me realize that it is less about wanting to and more about needing to, because there was never a story I wanted to write less than that one.

Maybe because it turned out it was time to write some of Peter's story and remember what a presence he was. We miss him. Things haven't been the same since he left. His presence comes to me in strange visions, the sort of thing I've never experienced, I feel a little terrified of them, but grateful all the same because it never feels like the message or whatever I interpret the message to be is a bad one. He appeared to me in a dream, smiling, happy to see me, even though seeing him made me realize I had died and gone to heaven.

As some of my friends have disappeared, either to moves, marriages, or school; I find I am lonesome. I miss Siena, talking to people, discussing things, elaborating on things, remarking on things and there is no one I can do that with anymore. It makes me disappointed and dismayed. Recently, I saw some old friends and I realize I never want to see them again. She doesn't forgive me for saying she wears grandma sweaters (she does) and he can't see me without seeing the burnham. So even though there is time and love and there was some joy, it doesn't mean anything anymore. I can't keep spending time trying to line up and sort out the details of my past. Because somehow, without my realizing it, I have a future.

Being me, and living day to day, surviving, trying to see where I went wrong back there to avoid getting in the same spot again is why I had no future. You can't look forward if you're always looking back. Except the future isn't much clearer, an even murkier pond with a few spots of reflection and no clear view.

This year the moon reached out and grabbed me. He took my hand and helped me out of the darkness. He made the world seem small and simple. He holds a future for me, except to have it, I have to make a difficult decision, but for me it is not difficult. He is what I've been waiting for. So I will bide my time and wait, but I already know I am going to pack up and move one more time. It will be the best move of my life, it will be the best year of my life. I am ready for what will come and excited to share life with him.

I am glad for this year of struggle and sadness and fear. I learned that I can do anything as long as I take care of myself and am true to my own morals and ideals. I am also glad for it to be over.

“If you are depressed you are living in the past.
If you are anxious you are living in the future.
If you are at peace you are living in the present. ” Lao Tzu, Daoist philosopher

'advice from a caterpillar'

It feels like I'm speaking another language. Every interaction feels awkward and obtuse and confusing. Every word I say and hear has to be stripped of its meaning and contemplated.

She's the only person who understands the words I speak. She too is stuck in a whirl of change and is in between two worlds. She chased her rabbit down the bunny hole and landed in a world where everything is topsy turvy.

My head is in Chicago, but my heart is in Edmonton.

Having been lost for a long time, spending months and years in the abyss of limbo, wondering where to go next, what to do next, it is no strange surprise that being found is just as alarming. At least being lost was familiar, being found and stuck is worse.

He doesn't know this, but the first time he made the cold hard knot of hate that was my heart ooze hopefully was from a sentiment contained in a caption of the view from his balcony. I don't remember if his feet were in the picture, characteristically crossed at the ankles and propped up. I don't remember which portion of his view it showed, most likely the river valley and all the trees along it, because all I remember thinking is, my gosh, I would love to be there.

And the caption, corny, but sweet, went something like, looking for someone to share this with. A plaintive wail thrown into the dark night; a message in a bottle that I found and treasured. I never imagined I would get to see it for myself, I never thought I would prop my feet on the railing alongside his, I never considered something that seemed so far could be reached.

So to go there and be there again and spend time being found makes everything here feel like an obstacle. Even myself.

The Caterpillar and Alice looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the Caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and addressed her in a languid, sleepy voice.'Who are you?' said the Caterpillar.

This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation. Alice replied, rather shyly, 'I — I hardly know, sir, just at present — at least I know who I was when I got up this morning, but I think I must have been changed several times since then.'

'What do you mean by that?' said the Caterpillar sternly. 'Explain yourself!'

'I can't explain myself, I'm afraid, sir' said Alice, 'because I'm not myself, you see.'

'I don't see,' said the Caterpillar.

'I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,' Alice replied very politely, 'for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing.'

why love is my misery

It's been three years since that day. Three years since I came home in a drunken stupor and found him sitting up at two am in the dark texting a mysterious someone he tried to pretend was his brother. Three years since I woke up an hour later as he snored next to me and read the words that broke my heart. Three years since I discovered the other woman I'd been accusing him of looking for the entire time we were together. Three years since our relationship died in an instant despite lapses and breakups, crackling chemistry, intense passion and fiery love.

That I caused it makes it doubly agonizing.

That he withstood the machinations of that cold hard knot of hate that was my heart, the testing, the fights, the hurt, the endless and tiresome questioning of his mind, body and spirit is a testimony to how much he did love me. And all I gave him back was fear and jealousy, spiteful words and bad behavior that I loathed performing but found myself unable to stop.

Facing those demons isn't easy. Especially when they writhe in such delicious joy from causing so much pain, manipulating every word, twisting every scenario, searching for the proof of infidelity where there is innocence and fun being had. Because the demons don't like it when someone is having fun without them.

The origin of them is simple enough. Someone very important wasn't there, and every man that stood in his spot vanished eventually (from death, divorce, or despair), which was tangled up with witnessing my grandfather's heart attack from our apartment window across the street on the second floor. I couldn't do anything about it, but somehow it became my fault. And if I'm the reason they left, then I could never trust one that wanted to be with me in the first place.

And so it began.

It played out many times, many ways, with essentially the same underlying pattern being repeated. I let them love me, but I wondered why they did. I didn't want to be left alone so I would leave them first and find someone else. It wasn't until my heart was in it and his wasn't that the stakes got raised, and the demons slithered out from the despair I felt at his betrayal, whispering how I should have known.

Because looking back, I did know. I knew there was something between them. Everyone knew. Except he was in denial and she was sad thinking she lost him to me and I was just the catalyst that caused love to spark between them. I was so innocent, having just had the shocking metamorphosis of self as adult, which he bore witness to and encouraged and inspired.

And worse, he lied to me about her, didn't come clean for a long time, so the demons grew stronger in my rejection, in my assurances that I was right, in the sadness of losing him and being alone.

I barely had time to recover from this before I met another him, and eagerly enjoyed the air balloon of romance offered by a man who wanted to be something better than he was. I knew it was wrong, but I let him love me. It wasn't until our relationship felt threatened in a way that felt too familiar to what had happened before that I began to question him. He faltered, with me throwing stones at him with the repetition of a deranged lunatic. I beat him down so hard that it shames me. I have never been so cruel and so unkind and I hated myself the entire time I did it but I couldn't stop myself. I promised I would never be in another relationship if that was what I would do, because I couldn't put another person through that and I couldn't be that girl again.

I had to break the pattern. I was the problem. I shut myself off. I threw myself and my belongings into a tiny studio apartment and spent long nights staring out the window and wondering who I was, who I wanted to be, what the fuck was wrong with me. I smoked. I drank. I wandered through everything else. If someone came around I made sure to push them away. I built emotional walls with high standards, a tough exterior and rough edges. No one would ever hurt me again and I would keep myself from hurting someone the way I did him.

And then time passed.

Being alone felt good, doing what I liked to do, being solitary and not having to explain myself, enjoying the silence, no questions, no answers; no relationship, no demons. I thought I was healed. I felt confident in myself and who I was and where I was going. I thought since I had better friends and better days I was ready for this new relationship when it arrived unexpectedly.

At first it was careful and polite, then it was a surprise, an avalanche, an unstoppable force of nature, and as the days settle into a routine, and the words build up between us, and things in my life fell prey to a slew of unfortunate circumstances (my family, my friends, my jobs, my living situation all taking dark twists), the demons began to waken after their long slumber.

And more than anything I want to stop them. I will name them, call them out, shine all the lights on them that I can, because I don't want to be the girl they make me and more than anything I don't want to hurt him, my moon. The more I love without their voices behind my behavior the closer I get to being free.

the fiscal abyss

At first, a year ago, the descent was a tiny spiral staircase, worn smooth on the sides from constant hands rubbing past: a pay cut, less hours, one of my many odd jobs finding a conclusion, someone not paying me when they should have. The nature of my "work" is constant fluctuation and getting used to never knowing much in advance.

Then I moved, which cost a lot. And went on two trips, which was expensive. One of my best clients moved. And then, I quit a job. I absolutely had to do all of those things, the move, the trips, quit that job. Except, ever since I've been desperately broke. And it's been a long five months.

It's funny how being broke has changed me. First it was the little things, cutting out the trips to Starbucks, eating out less, waiting until something was absolutely out before I bought a new one. It felt temporary, because I've always been busy and working a lot and making enough money. So whenever I'd get a little bit of money I'd spend it all, not listening to the new meek voice in my head saying not to spend it.

You start to see how money affects your mood. When you have it, life is great. When you don't, life fucking sucks.

A month went by and then another, where it was not just hard to pay rent, but hard to pay my cell phone bill and buy groceries. And not only could I not pay the bills, I have a debt or two hanging over me that I cannot even consider paying. I started really scrutinizing where I was wasting money, and my sights settled pretty fast on drinking. So I quit going out. It coincided nicely with moving farther west and having a harder time getting home.

I went on a spending freeze. I looked for ways to make extra money. I started to use up the resources I had on hand that I was too picky for when I had all the money I needed, eating that bag of quinoa I had forever and using up all these toiletries I'd accumulated over the years of trying to find the perfect potion. No more socializing because socializing cost money. The few people I did socialize with are stubborn, generous or managed to catch me on a week when I had a little cash to spare.

And the worst part? I developed a horrendous case of worrying. My brain was like a nervous squirrel, digging, testing, wondering, scavenging, never ceasing its activity of adding and subtracting and worrying about money and when I was going to get it and how it would get to me before rent was due. The one characteristic I hate the most about other people I'd stumbled into and relied upon because I felt like I had no other choice.

I felt like I was drowning. I felt like I'd rather just give up than struggling so hard. I had to endure well meaning helpful suggestions from people who don't understand my livelihood. I can't really get another job unless it fits in with babysitting and my personal assisting gig (both of which are flexible, but never consistent). I can't really quit either of those jobs. I started to expand my pool of clients for my organizing business, but got disheartened when it seemed I never had free time that wasn't me sacrificing having dinner or an evening to myself at home. How could I be so busy and not have any fucking money to show for it?

And then, a long anticipated event finally arrived. I was due to go on vacation with my boss, a gift she extended me which was an all expense paid trip to Europe. All I had to do was leave my life for two weeks and go along for the ride. In some ways, it should have been the most wonderful gift, but all I could think about was how much it was going to cost, how hard I would have to work afterwards, how am I going to pay rent if I'm not working for two weeks? The meek voice turned nervous squirrel became an angry endless churning.

And long gone was my carefree happiness, my gladness and my joy.

Finally, the voice of reason broke through. I realized I wouldn't be able to work much if my boss was away. And, being a nervous squirrel worked. I had saved up some extra money. I worked hard and had more money than I needed. I felt a sense of quiet relief after I returned and realized everything was just fine. I still owe money to my friend, I still owe money on my student loans, I still have no idea how I am going to pay rent at the end of the month, but I'm tired of being held hostage by money or the lack of it. It never had a hold on me before, why should it now?

this new life

Sometimes it amazes me how many paths I've traveled. In what feels like another lifetime ago, I was almost married, sharing--for years, my space and life and thoughts and words and everything with a man who was great in nearly every way, except I wasn't ready for him. Had I stayed with him, kept on that path, I wouldn't have gone to school for my writing, I wouldn't have traveled, I wouldn't have done anything but been a good mother and a good wife and had a perfectly just fine life. Except even though I wasn't ready for that, it was something else I knew but couldn't articulate, the constant barrage of negativity, the tireless critiquing, the effort of catching up. I wasn't ready and I wasn't his equal and so I turned off that road, a sharp turn, a wild move, no one anticipated it and everyone thought I was crazy, but I had to go.

And in between I worked at the cafe, learned the dry cleaning business, had my first taste of personal assisting and was a nanny for an extremely wealthy family. If I was going to be the perfect wife, I had to learn how. My brain needed to be fed new things to learn and my body needed to be worn out to the point of exhaustion to make me numb.

When I ran away, I threw myself into the arms of the first man who paid me any attention, and luckily for me he was just about everything I needed at the time with a lot of things I didn't need thrown in for good measure. His artistic philosophies and commitment to his craft inspired me. His love for noise and smoke charmed me. His world was new and fascinating. There were stories everywhere. For the first time I was with someone who didn't want to be in a relationship with me except he was everything I thought I was looking for, so I let myself fall and fall hard, because falling seemed to be required. As I went to school and worked to the point of exhaustion, I learned how to keep a healthy distance and in that time alone I learned myself. In his eyes, he wasn't good enough for me, in my eyes I wasn't good enough for him; it was no wonder that it didn't work.

I hunkered down for the winter. School was there, work was there. I learned how to smoke. I listened to music. I wrote stories.

And then, when I least expected it, there was the burnham, who coincidence seemed to deliver as if hand-picked, so many times I wondered how dare I deny the fates that brought us together. There were so many perfect stories that circled around our union, all of them relied on not just one or two coincidences but a perfect storm of moments. And so I went along, trying to see what it was the universe wanted, why it had me collide with another who was in so many ways exactly what I needed, wanted and desired, except his heart was full of sadness and anger and there was no room for me in there. We drank to numb the pain of holding on to the thing that once loved you that we could not fathom why it loved us to begin with. After we bloodied our figurative heads and hands on each other's walls, fate intervened and diverged our paths as if we never met. And to think, I loved him with the aching agony of chemical, mental and physical desire, never to know him again. He was the mirror of my emotions that I could not have seen otherwise and for him I am eternally grateful.

All the while, there was this place, the cafe, where I grew up and learned how to conduct myself as a well balanced, articulate and lovely human being. When I began working there, I was painfully shy and extremely misanthropic. Every time I worked there I was afforded the opportunity to rise above a challenge, and for a long time I sank, gurgling in the depths of anger and choking on my own selfishness. It took me a long time to grow up. Nearly fifteen years I worked there, and somewhere around the ninth year I finally understood that no one gave a shit if I was sad or mad or tired or hungry or any other emotion. It didn't matter. No matter how hard I tried, nothing really mattered. There was never enough I could do, I could never be good enough, but I could certainly make it worse by complaining all about it. If it didn't matter what I was, I could be anything I wanted. I slowly revealed who I wanted to be, petal by petal.

Sometimes I think back to those lives, how deeply entrenched I was, how terrified I was that I was never going to get out, how I always felt a sense of foreboding and could never quite explain why, I just did. My intuition led me away, took me to school to do fiction writing and held my hand through all the jobs and pain. I didn't know why, I just followed.

So I quit working so hard. I stopped being in relationships. I got numb as often as possible for those and other reasons or out of habit and somewhere along the way I woke up into a dream:

He eviscerated me with words. He lavished me with more words. He made me laugh, made me wonder, made me proud of myself. He freely shared joyful things with me, all with a delightful grin of bemusement. His sense of whimsy and play is one of the best I've encountered. He was another candidate to be everything I ever wanted, except this time I had one thing on my mind, despite my intuition's firm approval, I had to be careful. So he came from far away to meet me and he made me feel comfortable and at ease. There are only a handful of people I've ever felt that way with, my family, a few close friends, children I babysit for, and him. And yet, he challenged me in ways that I can only say would have been difficult and tedious from anyone else but I took timid steps to meet his challenges and mostly succeeded at them.

I found myself eating dinner in a fancy restaurant, swept away in conversation, and staring across the table at a man I had known for less than forty eight hours (in one sense) and not needing to be anywhere else or do anything else or wanting anything else. It wasn't too this or that, I wasn't too this or that, he wasn't too this or that. Everything was just right. And I was incredulous and just a bit dubious. How easy is it when there is distance and a vacuum of time to enjoy each other? I wondered.

When he left, I resolved to go to his world, to learn his life, to see what he could not say about himself out of a refreshing humbleness and quiet reserve. I didn't know what I was looking for, just curious to see what it was and if I would recognize anything. I flew to him. I held my heart at bay, even though that part of me knew it was a useless endeavor, I still tried to maintain a safe distance just in case I was wrong.

(I never planned on it being right. Because being right is something I got used to not having. I learned to live without the good things, I let myself get by on the little dribblings of love I got from other areas in my life, I expected that when things could go a certain way, they would go the wrong way.)

I found myself in the woods, with no makeup on, no one around, wearing strange new clothes and eating delicious food and learning new things and sharing it all with him. I was none of the things that usually make me happiest, I had none of those things to rely on, there was nothing in the middle of nowhere and it was just right.

So this is my life now, I live in a dream. Everything is just right: I like where I live, I like where I work, I love who I say I love. I worry about waking up; it's hard for me not to. I stopped getting numb so much just to make sure I wasn't dreaming. Someday I will believe what I already know, that I'm already awake, but until then, I will let them be sweet dreams.

accumlation/expulsion

one foot in front of the other 4/03/11

When the coins fell, when I was brought to my knees by the mess I had made with my life, there was nothing I could do but pick them up. And laugh.

I'd already been broke for a week, spent my birthday hoping no one would want to do anything that cost money and anticipating that I had a little money to spend, but I found out it was less than a little, and of course, in typical me fashion, I didn't save it, hold on to it, I gave it away to the first person who gave me more than it was worth. And I stumbled home, drunk and destitute. Happy fucking birthday. I boarded the bus with a clear mind to get home and promptly fell into a deep sleep. When time resumed, when I awoke two hours later, I was far past my stop, so I got off and did what I do best, I let my legs out and moved my feet one step at a time and kept moving.

end of year sale 12/23/10

Sometimes, I look around and think, How did this happen?

It's a wonder. It's a wonder. I really thought I would be somewhere by now. Somewhere good and clean and good. And there is nothing. Actually, it's a negativeness, the most of it, the checks and balances lie mostly checked in the how did I get here category?

"how did you get so drunk?"/this juncture 12/18/10

I equally love and hate my life. It is the best time of my life. I am as free as possible. I am still constrained by the efforts of laboring for money to pay my bills and live the life I love, but for the most part, everything is just fine

the prison of guilt 11/09/10

he sits in his self-made prison. (What is my prison? Where am I free?)

wasps in my brain 11/08/10

feverish, unnecessary, the opposite of normal, where more time passing helps create tangibility and comfort. I am smitten.

untitled 8/26/10

After so many times of talking myself out of it, and wanting to go but not wanting to, I went.

spirit animal 8/09/10

It came to me like a clap of thunder; and I knew it instantly, and could not disagree.

I was sitting on the bus and I was very high, the kind of high when you vacillate from delighted to paranoid in a moment's notice. All of a sudden, yes, really, that archaic storyteller's device is suitable for use here, all of a sudden a dragonfly was lazily exploring the confines of the 22 Clark bus. And I seemed to be the only one who noticed.

on proving everyone wrong 7/9/10

I did it.

quest: 4/30/10

After the one particularly painful break-up I've endured (I described it as losing a vital integral body part) I wrote this sometime in November of 2002 as a rough estimate of what I wanted in a relationship:

And the thing is, more than anything, I just want to be wanted, to be consumed, to be ravaged, to be explored, to be taken, to be filled, to be emptied, to be burned, to be restored, to be used up and replenished.

untitled 4/23/10

In my last entry, I said that I wanted to experience the practice of the cleanse not solely for the health benefits, but for the halting of my busy life.

I wrote that entry in the bed of the mother I was standing in for, the woman I babysit for, as she was waking up in London. I had some idea there was a volcano that erupted, and as people across the internet began to whine about not being able to travel to and from London because of the cloud of ash that sat in the sky and caused a scramble between the airlines and scientists, I still hadn't connected the dots. It wasn't until she emailed me that it dawned on me. She was stuck, which meant, in turn that I was stuck. And for a week, I lived her life and unexpectedly got my wish.

arrival 4/1/10

My mom says I'm kooky. I've arrived at my destination. Always saw kooky people and thought, wow, those people look like they know how to have fun. And now I am one of them.

reflections only seen in stillness

Sometimes, especially when you live day to day, hours at a time, forging ahead and forgetting what's behind you, what makes you realize, take stock, think back is always something unexpected and shocking. Head in a whirl, life progressing, there's no time to look back, until everything stops and you don't know what else to do. Yesterday everything stopped.

We sat there, the place we'd all known each other, the place that was more a home to me over the years than a home has been. And we sat there.

We talked, we smiled, we were baffled, we were angry. We were there for her, for him, for each other. And we all just turned up, like lost pigeons finding home after so long of circling the skies. We tried to strategize, to sort it out, what had brought us there, it seemed unreal and unbelievable.

And then, once the bits of information began to fit, we reconciled ourselves to it, to the strange news. He's gone. This man we all loved, who loved all of us in very different ways, who meant so much to all of us without the fanfare of loving another person, who gave us all the joy of laughter in a world of confusion and discontent, who helped pass the time and in its passing soothed us all with his irreverence, his stories, his greatness; he's gone.

And then I realized, I belong to something bigger than me, even though I refuted it out of weariness and misunderstandings, even though I didn't always enjoy it, I'm part of this network of people, this group, this family. As I looked over our faces, filling with waves of grief, hearing the music we all knew him for, music we sang together, I realized even though I didn't belong to him, we were part of this thing bigger than him and me, and he is one of the most monumental figures among us. And I had been strong for her, even coolly distant from it because he was more important to everyone else, except he was important to me too, and I'd just been too busy living day to day to see all that we shared behind us.

When I cried, they peered into my eyes with red rimmed glossiness, held me and took care of me. It's been so long since I let someone take care of me. And then someone else cried and carried on, and it was an entire day of being there for everyone with waves of grief coming over us. The world stopped for us yesterday, and in this crisis we all found that there was nowhere we would rather be than with each other.

the secret queer

I don't know if it happened before her. I think back, lightly scratching at the veneer of what I projected to the world during the years of school and childhood and it all seems very innocent until she came along. I looked at them, but I looked at everyone. I study people, I watch people; that has always been a part of my life.

She was different. It seems trite, but yet, she was. The women in my life were mothers, sisters, friends. They were stuck in their roles and most of their life was spent in frumpy, but practical, attire.

Then I met her, who looked like she stepped out of the pages of a magazine complete with high heels, her blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, her smile demure and ever-present, dressed in all black, her clothing tight, her skirt just above the knee and that knee was covered in sheer black pantyhose. And that was the knee that changed me.

Now, you see them all the time; they are modern and put together and well-dressed. Back then, I had never met or spied a woman who looked or acted like her.

She was gracious and effusive, her laughter ringing through the space between us, she was brimming over with sexuality, her hand gently squeezing my forearm, her knee (that knee) brushing against my leg. She made me uncomfortable but I couldn't stand to ignore her.

And so began a lifetime of concern and wondering.

Her presence in my life was my first indication that I was attracted to women. She didn't make me the way I am, but she certainly lifted whatever veil I'd been hiding under from exposure to religious thinking and a deep-seated fear of the word "gay."

She was also the harbinger for many other things I'd never considered about myself, that I wanted to be a sophisticated, charming and fashionable woman, which was preposterous at the time, I was a dowdy copycat of my mother who wore no makeup and did not ever laugh just to laugh.

For a long time, I let myself believe that it was wrong to feel how I felt about her and many other women who I found myself attracted to over the years. I overcompensated for this by becoming ultra boy-crazy, sometimes while talking about whatever dolt I'd decided was my current crush, I would be watching the long legs of an attractive woman slink past my view and momentarily halted out of speech.

I was a secret queer.

I watched shows about gay people, I had gay friends, I danced in gay night clubs, I attended the gay pride parade (I even walked in it one year), I shadowed the life I couldn't live and hid in a presumed heterosexuality.

Men were safe. They liked me and I could hide in their arms. So I let myself be with men, lots and lots of them. I convinced myself that each one was the one I wanted, the one who could make it all better, the one who would rid me of this attraction and keep me from being alone like my mother. I didn't want to be alone, so I was never alone, jumping from man to man, crush to crush, leaping, hurling, fighting, wanting, hating myself, and all of it was useless, I thought I was hiding, but I was hurting everyone, especially myself.

When things with the burnham and I ended suddenly, still I tried to always be in a man's arms, but not finding what I needed or wanted, I was always unsatisfied, because I wasn't thinking about the person those arms belonged to, just that they were holding me.

And then I let go.

I chose to be alone. To see what would happen. To find out who I am. Who I really am. And every day I peel off a little more of that pretense, that projection that I felt the world should know me for, that perfect little nice girl that everyone saw me/sees me as.

I am attracted to men, but once I accepted that I was also attracted to women and didn't need to be with a man out of a fear of being alone or to hide being attracted to women, that drive to be with someone, anyone; all the chatter, all the effort of leaping from guy to guy just stopped. And in the quiet, I've realized I had been allowing myself to be taken by any man that would take me, rather than choose someone who inspires me, delights me and enjoys me and someone I inspire, delight in and enjoy.

And now, there is nearly a lifetime of cobwebs to sort out, of friends to be honest with, of people who I've lied to by omission, or lied to from fear, or lied to because I didn't know how to say it. It's taken me a long time to learn how to be comfortable with myself, for myself, not for anyone, not to please anyone, just for me. And now, when people ask me I will not hesitate to say, I'm queer. I don't want to hide it anymore.

rubbed raw/holding onto my sanguinity

As I look back, all I see are the waves of it all crashing, at first, a year ago, it was a tolerable amount of crashing, nothing I couldn't handle. Lately, I feel like I am drowning.

I know this is just part of the process of change, but as the water crawls over me, another inch, another mood, another moment, I find it hard to remain still, to let it embrace me, to give into the death of the things that don't work for me, to accept change is to give up those dead parts of my life.

It hasn't helped that I am adrift these past weeks, so that there is nothing to anchor myself to, except the spinning of time, and the small joys the world leaves me to sustain me. I have had so many trembling pleasures lately, moreso than ever before, but sometimes it feels like I have to give something of myself to have them. I have to pay for them in ever escalating terms, plunking myself down in places where I don't belong and cannot enjoy.

I see no horizon, no where to land, no beach waiting to hold me. I have always wondered where I will end up and I find that planning has made no difference, and letting things be as they are has relieved some of the worry, but it troubles me from time to time, the not knowing, the specks of thoughts of the future, and then reminding myself that there is only today and that is enough, for now. It has to be enough because it's the only thing I know for certain is real.

"It's really hard to find yourself if you keep on leaving..."

Every two years, I feel the need to shed a part of my self; and it is reflected in my starting a new blog. You didn't know? [2008; to escape his memories], and [2006; to evade his scrutinizing stares], and [2004; to find a new platform to dive from].

I've been running away from each of them, hoping that if I run far enough away it'll stick that time, and I can start fresh, accept and claim the perfection that comes with emptiness.

Every time it happens, I hope it is the self I yearn to be, the one I've always seen glimpses of, even when I was a kid, I saw myself in other women, in other people, perhaps in one it was their giving heart, in another it was their ability to articulate their thoughts, in another still it could have been the warmth I longed to share with someone, anyone.

This year, I don't feel the need to run. Perhaps because physically I have changed so much these past two years, I don't have any desire to make something new and start fresh, to have a beginning that makes sense to everyone, a clean slate for myself. I have been sharing my self in this form for years and years and years, with my father as my constant reader, who I will love forever, no matter what, simply for his eyes and attention to these words.

I never understood what I was doing here or there, or those other places. It wasn't until asked and I stumbled to come up with an answer, that I began to realize that the stringing of these moments in my life, creating strands of my stories required the entirety of my past, and that abandoning them didn't make them go away. All that I have known, loved, loathed, it is all part of who I am today.

The premise of this blog was based on the buddhist prayer bracelet called the mala, to which I added my nickname--or if you know me well enough, you just consider it my name--stine. I imagined that each entry might be something I ruminate on and in allowing myself to fully address whatever it is that is worrying me, I could let it go and I might find peace.

"All beads are worry beads - from the Pope's rosary all the way down to those little wrist malas... worn by Buddhists and non-Buddhists alike. People of every religious tradition will claim that their beads are for praying - for appealing to a higher power, for collecting the spirit or concentrating the mind - and while this is indisputably true, that is not their primary purpose. Beads are for worry. They answer a human need so basic it actually precedes a religious consciousness - and that is to fret over things...The difference between the Buddhist mala and the various Western-style rosaries is simply that it makes this explicit in the symbolism of its beads.

"The message of the Buddhist mala is 'Don't worry about things; worry about the fact that you are so worried all the time, and address the foot of that." From Tricycle, Winter 2006 (Clark Strand)

the knock at the door

They assume I'll stay. I suppose it is because I haven't said I don't want to. I play out each scenario in my mind and it always ends with the devastation of disappointment and hurt feelings. I know that part of the reason I'm saddled in a groaning misery that is difficult to shake off has to do with this situation and my inability to do anything about it (it is a daily barrage of noises, that the dog has only exacerbated, the clinking of the fork against his bowl, his rampant barking and nails clicking on the hardwood floor, his awareness that amplifies her awareness that underlines the feeling I'm always being watched, it is nearly unbearable after all this time and to imagine another year here tolerating the brunt of her insecurities and her rules and regulations among her chronic hypocrisy makes it worse). So I plunge my head further into the sand, telling myself I'm not in a place to take care of this problem, not right now, so I have to do the thing that proves to me that I'm a grown-up now, the one thing that children cannot do well; I will wait. I will be patient. I will hope for the best.

The dust here is stupendous. It settles along just wiped surfaces quickly, grows into thick gray strands, and I know the dust is affecting me, bringing sneezes in the morning, pounding my lungs and lining my nose and throat. I have never been sicker, so many colds in this year and a half, coupled with quitting smoking and starting smoking again and quitting again because you get so sick of being sick that the idea of putting a thing that you love that makes you both happy and sad anywhere near you becomes a chant stop doing that to yourself. I haven't smoked for two months, except for some reason, out of some defiance, out of some feeling of unfairness, I had a cigarette with them, standing outside with the men, feeling equal to them, making jokes with them. And then I resolved to never smoke again, again. I feel I am constant state of regaining ground after being sick and losing it by getting sick again.

Never before I have enjoyed the freedom of a light work schedule, weekends off, sometimes days off during the week, but with it comes less money, and with less money comes the terror and panic of not having enough, of struggling, of resorting to a constant mental anguish, a constant calculation of what money may be coming my way and what work I can do to get more of it to come my way. I was working a lot before but I had a lot of money to show for it; now I work a lot less and worry over paying the rent (another reason moving away from here isn't feasible, because even paying this low rent is tough, how can I afford to live alone?). Being broke for the last three months has cast a pallor over my social life and it is beginning to take its toll on me. I miss doing things like going out to dinner, being able to see a movie with a friend or doing a spur of the moment activity. I don't miss the drinking; the stupid brain cell bashing waste of time and money, but the rest of it, it is frustrating how bound I feel by the lack of money.

And then there is them, to imagine not being within walking distance of him, so that it feels easy to go there and give my cheerfulness and optimism and smiles to him, I see the benefits of it, that he is not a happy person and I infuse him with joy, I feel glad that I can be there for him, even if it is nothing more than watching sports games or bad tv shows together, because it is just being there for him, sitting next to him, not shirking from his wan and gaunt figure, not scared of the man he's become, a man he constantly insists is not the kind and gentle and intelligent soul I know (he would say knew) him as. It is probably one of the more difficult things in my life, that I must pretend is just fine. To do that, to constantly dull the shock and sharp point of despair, to grin and bear it, it takes up nearly all the energy I can muster. I weep when I walk home, I have to remove the clothes that reek of cigarettes and shower the smell of stale smoke out of my skin.

So there is the constant flipping of these two columns, that it is cheap and near them (and the park, I must mention the lovely park next door) and stifling and obnoxious.

Somehow, despite that, I've managed to find peace in being broke, because it means I can return to the solitary activities that bring me joy. Whether it is the finishing of the fingerless gloves for Daniel, or the necklace I started in spring, or to watch the exhilarating television series Deadwood; I have been enjoying my return to creative endeavors and see that I could spend this time of fruitless indecision productively. I might have something to show for myself. I haven't had the opportunity to revive my summer's challenge of participating in the Artist's Way, but I see that these small spurts of inclination come from the wellspring that program pointed me to, and all there is to do is remove the boarded opening and let the geyser erupt. A part of me is holding back, because it would mean that I would have to alter somehow the life I've become familiar with and used to, even though it doesn't serve me fully.

I already knew there was change coming, change was necessary, but I'm tired of change, tired of constantly turning the puzzle pieces over and fitting them into another place. I want to be done changing and being put together, but I also want to enjoy the things I have always wanted for myself, so I will do the work it takes to have the life I want. Live the life you want and want the life you live, they said.

Three years ago I began working with my writing partner and doing the bare minimum of work to develop my novel. I had hoped that I would be able to go to grad school to give me better focus and a greater discipline. Fitting my writing into my busy life is hard, harder than just about anything I spend time doing (because it is something I actually would rather do more than anything else, I try to find a large piece of time that I can really enjoy it). I come to each meeting with my inner artist bound and gagged, and I carefully release her, bathe her in reassurances and then she talks to me.

As of late, my writing partner is absorbed with her own stories, capturing them, crafting them, so in the meantime, instead of wringing my hands at the writing I cannot do alone (I could write an entire entry about the reasons why, suffice it to say, I would be easily distracted when left to my own devices), I decided to print out the entirety of what I have crafted and attempt to do a thorough edit. The distance of time will help, as each sentence is no longer imprinted in my mind, so that I can view it all objectively. I printed out one document with 179 pages (double spaced, manuscript style) and even though I knew it was 179 pages, to see them, to feel the weight of one hundred and seventy nine pages (and know that there is more of it not included and more to write), I felt the pleasure one must feel when showing off their growing infant. My how it's grown.

And then there is my quest, seen to many as arbitrary and unnecessary, but to me, reading the Snopes Trilogy by William Faulkner was my way of creating one safe haven to rest, one less decision to make, one less door to worry about whether or not to open. I have another hundred and more pages before I leave the world he made, and I have stayed in it, lingered there, loved it these many months, I think it has been more than a year; each book stretched into a cluster of pages that I mentally excavate, aware of every word, thrilling in every shift and whorl, examining the structure of the writing while being hypnotized by the words themselves. I sometimes wonder why it took me so long to find him, but realize that I would not have been prepared for him, which is why it took me so long to get through what I now see is his most deceptively simple novel, As I Lay Dying. A part of me would like to reread all of his novels I've previously blundered through with this attentive appreciation, because I know I did not give them enough careful consideration and I know that I would be a happy reader for it.

And then, there is them. It is strange. I had completely reduced the urge to be with someone, put on the mask of unloneliness, pretended that being single hasn't bothered me. I even went so far as to allow one (who is not enough) to try and make that emptiness seem a little less empty, but it only seems to shine the light on all the corners, all the openness, all that's missing. It makes me feel more alone, which I hadn't expected and now wonder what to do about them. For a long time, I was not ready for the task of dealing with them, of navigating the senseless and often difficult waters, like a ship trudging through glaciers in Antartica, trying to find a place with waters free enough to sail and weather less difficult to maneuver through. And now I see that just like everything in my life, it requires not that I be perfect, not that I know ahead of time what to do, not to be more patient and less anxious, it is a matter of being as prepared as I already am and able to choose to open the door when the knock arrives.

epilogue [pt 8]

There in Trafalgar Square; the kids in their crested jackets on one of the great lions, tourists posing in front of the other three, a world floated around me that did not bind me due to the magic spell of travel which leaves one free of the constraints of self, realizing I would never see that face again, never hold her again, I still tremble at the loss of her, hearing the song that she used to fall asleep to on my chest with the beating of my heart in her ear brings me to great horrific sobs, still, I felt it then as I feel it now; the tourists walked past me in oblivion, the sun beat faintly at my eyes, the grey hat that had been mine for years but never belonged to me until I placed it on my head in London, that there I might try to pass the hat off as part of me, but with my friends I could not reveal a new item without some serious critique; I photographed myself.

It wasn't until after I returned, after I'd spent a week in bed with a horrific flu that literally got a hold of me in the airport and was completely throwing my nervous system out of whack by the time the airplane landed at O'hare, fevers, chills, aches, headache (I never travel well on planes, having a terrible time with my ears losing pressure), the flu that triggered six days of migraines of the painful, high level on the broad scale that are my migraines, the kind that happen to me once in a great while, those six miserable days I spent lying on the couch/during which I was absolutely aware of the fucking coincidence that emotionally I was in agony; I would have to get a new job, maybe go back to the cafe again, but the chanting was endless: I was never going to see Iris again.

It wasn't until after that woman suggested we meet to discuss what happened in London, after I arrived late at the meeting, in which we exchanged pleasantries, she actually went through the rigor of pleasantries, and then I said I wanted an apology from her, for the swearing, for the outburst, to which she said no. We agreed to disagree and then she lied, meek in public, not able to fully release herself, a self I had seen biting at the surface for years before it actually emerged, so I was prepared for anything that day, but I did not expect her to leave it open, saying, maybe we just need a break. (The break continues, some two and a half years later. I have not contacted them and they have not contacted me since.)

It wasn't until after all that, I finally saw it. The burnham prepared them for me, printed off my camera, all of the treasures stored on film, processed and the product given to me, to be a film photographer is to give birth one frame at time, no twins or triplets for me, because each photo was my one opportunity to capture that vision that had arrested me, a pile of buildings mostly, ornamental additions, the lopped off trees, frozen in time, aching at the sky, the surprise of the stencil graffiti, every picture of Wales idyllic, all of it tumbling back at me, a regret, a sadness, until; there I was,

I hadn't been angry in a photograph since I was a little girl, always carefully smiling, obscuring the space in my teeth, holding myself as perfectly as I could, trying to distract everyone away from what my faults were and draw attention to my features. That day, the last day in London, I didn't care what anyone thought of me, I held the camera up to myself, no rush, in a crowded square of strangers I felt the lack of that chronic and characteristic concern that someone was watching me and waiting to point out to everyone what a fool I was (a feeling that lessens every day continuing from that day), and I took the picture. I saw that in my imperfections, in my scowl, in my defiance, even with the grief of losing her gripping me, I saw that I already was perfect, that I didn't need to fix anything about me, that I may be ugly to some, but I am beautiful when I am being myself and not hiding anything.

the crash [pt 7]

My last day in London, I walked around the city, what had once seemed like a million details I would never learn and suddenly seemed so small; it is where I lost myself, it is where I found myself; I stood in Trafalgar Square, amid a bevy of things known to me, the uniformed teenagers riding one of the great lions after school, the tourists, the easily recognizable Americans, slumbering along in their sneakers, the rest of them European, but easy to pick out with their maps, their stares upward, their gaping cow eyed indiscretion toward everything but themselves, there I was among them, scowling and cold, indignant and righteous, most of all alone.

After Wales, the rest of the trip was strained. Things were still polite, of course, but strained. So I reigned myself in and snipped off every bit of me that was too wild or unruly. It made me a little sad, but it didn't bother me, I had done it before. And yet, I was startled to see that in growing older (I was thirty one years old), I could not be anything other than myself. People are often befuddled by that, that my seemingly endless well of niceness has a bottom, and in it is me happily living my life, doing what pleases me and attempting not to be unraveled by every stare, smile, hand, hug, moment.

Thankfully his sister and her family embraced me, not understanding that I had tried their patience with my gloominess and perhaps a trickling confusion about what was going on and a growing concern that I was never going to be alone even in sleep. To say it simply, it was poorly planned and I am a person who thrives on plans.

Still, despite the strain, it was a wonderful trip and I enjoyed myself immensely when I was left to my own devices, I traveled through London and saw so many things, I had never traveled alone before and it was gorgeous, I took photographs all day, I walked until I had blisters on my feet, I went through many museums, I rode the bus and peered out the windows, I really enjoyed myself. And his sister and her family, they took me to things I preferred to see, markets, historic sites, cafes, eateries, shops, it was a pleasure to be with them and I was thankful for their cheerful company and the opportunity to be myself.

When I returned to them, things were lighter, maybe because I was lighter, or they enjoyed the separation from me, but insignificant things brought the strain back. Even then I still tried to remove my worries and concerns from our interactions but eventually I realized it was no use. Who fights the hurricane, with the precursors of its arrival stinging enough; the sleeting endless rains, the brute winds, the disappearance of the sun?

That day was the second to last day of our trip. We had exchanged pleasant enough verbal uppercuts all day, many of hers landing full on and making me pause in fury. How unfair when she had somehow managed to plant doubt in all of their interactions with me (was it my being his playpal that made them worry? or how much she loved me and I loved her? or how much I beamed at him and enjoyed him? all things that felt like pure joy to me, did she make seem bad to them?).

When we reached our destination for lunch, it was nearing three in the afternoon. I was hungry and crabby, as were the girls, who were not captivated in conversation with anyone and did not care for how many years it had been. I had a difficult time seating both of the girls and her verbal jabs set me to boiling (I recall clearly how she yelled across the table at me to lift something on the ancient high chair which she described in such unhelpful words while I was holding her screaming and thrashing child above the contraption).

The girls had finally been settled in and we were looking at the menu. I was so happy to just eat. I let the squish hold and play with the butter knife closest to her reach while I perused the menu. She was happily playing for a few minutes until that woman looked over and noticed and humorously mentioned to me (while she sat down in her chair five seats away, had she been truly worried, she could have gotten up) across the table of eight or so of her long ago friends that her baby had a knife in her hands. No one laughed. Everyone looked at me. She was trying to embarrass me, and it was not nice. She asked, across the table if I was not enjoying myself, I seemed upset. I sighed, I said something outright rude (I don't always have to smile, I'm not a clown, I'm not here to amuse you), clattered my plate and got up and walked off, shocking and surprising everyone. They had felt a brewing discontent between us and now she was free to blame the entire thing on me, but I could not stand to sit at the table any longer.

I remember him coming out and trying to talk me back in but I would not. Then he brought the kids out and we spent some time exploring that alleyway, investigating every tree and closest branch of leaves they held. When I came back in she was offering me her meal if I was that hungry, that I had an outburst at the table, and I muted my rage and sat, defiantly. The food arrived and the table shifted away from me and the children and to her, where I felt it should have rested the entire time, had she not been so focused on bullying me. As the meal ended, the tension eased up as everyone gathered their things. We walked up the block and everyone pretended not to know me, except the one who'd met me before the day laid out before us, before she set the minefield, and she alone was the only person to acknowledge me. Even him, I could feel his disappointment in me, I sensed a weariness from him that surprised me.

Our train ride home was focused on the children. The frozen sister jumped to my rescue with lots of darling things to say, and she devoured the attention she had been missing while her routine was in disarray. When we returned to the home, the children were sequestered with him while she and I found ourselves together in the kitchen. I remember things being somewhat informal, as if we just happened to be in the same room at the same time and had some things to discuss. I knew she was angry at me, and I was not going to hide from her. As she began her argument, she seemed particularly stuck on the fact that I had slammed my plate and silverware down in frustration. I tried to explain myself, defend myself, relate to her, but really there was no way we could see each other's side (she was upset that I had not been more of a lovely person and intermingled naturally with her friends as she fantasized) (I felt battered and beaten and tired and cowered in the job I had come there to do, which was no solace, she seemed to keep wanting to point out just how badly I was doing it). Then she screamed the words that scoured my soul, that underscored just how much pain and anguish I had caused her those four years, conveyed exactly how she felt about me, she said I was acting like a brat because I wasn't the fucking center of attention for once.

Imagine unweaving a braid from a basket. I was that secure, that firm, that settled with where my life was, and who I was, I had everything I thought I wanted at that point, except at night when arrived that nagging part of me that cannot be quieted, unless by chemicals or other force.

She didn't have to do much, sometimes it was just a gesture, just a look in her eyes, she was like a creature, a snake, hypnotizing me, with nothing as terrifying as the quiet frozen moment that snaps into quick sharp unexpected and yet expected movement.

For the duration of the trip, to live under that level of awareness of her feelings, having sensed her her rage repressed for four years, all the elements converged, knowing that I had outshone her, knowing that her own child had cried in her arms for me in front of her in-laws who she already felt like she hadn't proven herself to in the ten years they'd been together, even though I was just being myself and trying to do my job amidst a lot of bad planning and not enough alone time, it was really like something I would consider hell.

Then to have the man I imagined is perfection, the kind I would have liked to have married, when I now consider that perfection it looks and acts and still speaks like him, the surface of him that I knew at least, having finally accepted he would not belong to me, that he would always be hers even if she wasn't there for some reason, that his vow was that deep, that his love was that rooted. He tried to reason it out with me and even though I told him how my side of the day had gone, he would not agree with me. Maybe I knew he wouldn't be able to agree, but I still wanted to plead my case to him, fuck the rest of them, I don't care if they like me or not, or think I'm a piece of trash, but it was him that I couldn't stand to hate me. Even knowing I could never have him, I still consider him one of the finest human beings I have ever had the pleasure to encounter.

And in the face of that, of making the case for myself and having someone of his caliber dismiss me, I was ruined.

The next day, I was told I had the day off. It felt like I was exiled. The following day we were due to fly home. I struggled with the events of the day previous, finding no joy in being alone, in reliving what happened, in trying to find some way that my pride would relent and I would be able to make things right. To never speak to her again meant to never see Iris again. And that day, I knew it already, that I would never see her again, it clamored at me, as I listlessly walked through The National Gallery, seeing paintings I knew from art history, paintings that should have had the power to obscure my building dread, but not being able to see anything but the anguish I would feel from never seeing her again.

"I never thought of running, my feet just led the way..."

I am the best at disappearing. I can suffer any which way as long as I don't have to be in the same vicinity with who or what's bothering me. I have made a career out of disappearing, though not a full-on run to another city, another state, another country (oh how I envy those that have). I've left people, jobs, apartments, awkward situations, all for the hope of peace.

Lately, as I have been peeling away at the emotional build-up that's been wreaking havoc on my life (you let a little thing like that shock run your life for two years and the clean up is incredible), I've noticed that running away isn't so alluring. Sometimes I stand my ground. Sometimes I even manage to stick up for myself. Often, I speak up about something that's bothering me. And, when I've exhausted every possibility and the effort of being in the same space as the miserable thing I've endured is too much, I walk away.

And, in some cases, you have to walk away. There's nothing better to do than walk away.

I hailed this summer at its onset as The Summer of Getting Unstuck. Perhaps it would have been better named The Summer of Walking Away.

I have said goodbye to Siena, the cafe, that place that had been my constant, the one place in the world that wasn't ever going to change, no matter what crazy shit was going on in my life, no matter that I had moved twelve times since working there, it was always going to be there. And then it got sold and changed and now it is not the same place I knew, the place that literally has been the font of nearly my entire life. Losing that place was the beginning of this alteration, this transformation, this awakening.

I let go of the needless, reckless acquaintances and the worry of what they would think of my disappearance. All those barflies, of whom I was a part, don't miss me, don't worry for me, and if they do, I cannot exert effort into pleasing them any longer. They will carry on, holding court and judging all. I could and can no longer participate. They were a strange part of my life, it was a comfort at times, truly, despite their bitterness and nastiness, they helped me see I was not alone, that I wasn't the only one who wanted to kill the incessant thinking, the tireless observations, the weary and alarming ability to be so very aware of everything. I drank to try to be normal, and they were my companions.

To be rid of her, and those of her ilk, the ones who need more assurances than there are to give, who care not for a single beat of someone else's heart or mind, I am feeling both exhausted from stopping (you never notice how tiring someone can be until you are away from them) and thrilled at being free. I will try not to let them ensnare me again, despite the fact that I can be kind and giving and loving (to not be because of them would just be another kind of prison) and I am just the sort of person they latch onto and drain.

Then there is me, the physical being that walks about in the world. I have lost myself in that shock, gotten lazy with myself and my actions, let myself fade. In finding myself again, the hair is coming back, the body is coming back, the smile is coming back, I see that I have grown, changed, become something new, suddenly I am a woman and no longer a girl, no longer able to disguise myself as anything but a woman, unable to hide in the fashions of younger women and girls. I am pleased to see her, the woman I have always been, at least in my mind, a somewhat attractive, slightly sophisticated, mostly put together woman.

As I lose weight, I will lose favor among those who call me their friend. As I begin to dress up differently (no longer needing to wear the worn clothes and scruffy outfits for the cafe), I will find objections from them. As I emerge, I have a feeling there will be many other things and people that I will have to shed from my life. I can already see it, the disparity, and it hurts a little, I want to hang on mightily to all that I love and even hold the scraps of that misguided love shined in my direction, but if anything, I've learned that growing up is not about disappearing, it's about following your feet.

"if I didn't have to kill myself doing it, maybe I wouldn't think so much of you"

[Fuck you. Yeah, you. You are the voice that stops me from saying what I want to say, making me delete and repeat, so fuck you. I don't know how you became such a nemesis of mine, but I will tell you this, I don't miss you and I never really did, do you understand? I know you don't understand why (because you are the opposite of me, because you hate everything for no good reason and I just couldn't do that too). I know it burns you up and pisses you off that I not only lived my life, but I didn't miss you in the process, well, I'm sorry about that.]

As I learn to undo the bindings I imposed on myself, one of them, a big one, a difficult one is saying no to offers of friendship that just don't suit me. I said yes for so many reasons, I didn't want to say no, I didn't know how to say no, I thought, meh, why not? I didn't have a lot of friends. I didn't know what friendship was. As you get older, your tastes get more nuanced, and your hopes for complete understanding begin to fade. At least mine did.

So along the last seven or eight years, as I was learning what I liked and didn't like, what I cared for and what I didn't, I realized I had acquired friends that didn't really suit me, but I still tried to keep them on, like an ill fitting item of clothing, out of some deference to their liking me, out of some strange obligatory feeling, despite the fact that my initial reaction was one of repulsion. I suppose it is so rare that I immediately like someone and get along with them that I tend to discredit my intuition. Every so often, it does turn out that I was wrong about a person. Usually it gets muddled as it grows more intimate, so it is harder for me to really say how I feel about someone.

Lately, time is reconciling the balance of these tiresome relationships in my life; it seems every year after that initial massacre of my friendships (three close friends hacked out of my life in one summer), then came the serial killings (a calculating measure of everyone and gone were two of my good friends), and lastly, there was the perfunctory expulsion of some people who I never really understood why we had friendships in the first place (sometimes being a raft means I get boarded by desperate drowners). The pace was abruptly halted from its steadily declining maliciousness (I may have turned into an absentee friend or faded from consciousness like normal people end friendships) because of that shock, in which I have spent the last two years endeavoring not to hurt anyone the way he had hurt me.

Except in not saying no to people who have run the gamut of wasting my time, stressing me out over unnecessary things, making me feel shitty for not being whatever it is they thought I was (despite my protests and attempts to be exactly who I am), I am finding myself in the misery of not having trusted my instincts.

Some of them are huge drains (they decried my assessments of her and time has told me that I was not wrong, yet daily I am forced to be offended by her in one way or another), others are slight annoyances (she still likes me, oh praise the lord, I didn't know how I was going to get to sleep without her affections validating me; me, the woman who is ten years her senior and twice as experienced in life), while still others are tangled in intimacy and the threat of love (he claims, but never settles over me; he is here, but is vacant; he is a joy and a delight, but he scares me sometimes with his needs).

Strangely, fending them off, especially backed with a rap sheet as long as my legs (so many emotional crimes I've committed against them), they have resisted so mightily that twice I've been forced to question myself, something I haven't done in a while because I was fairly settled back then. I long for those days when I kept resolute and firm, despite the anger it provoked. With them, I cannot be so sure, because I don't know if I can trust myself about them.

Those rest who have stood with me now for years and years, they are mine and I am theirs. I see in them gladness at my arrival, pleasure in our company, a smile rests on our lips and the conversations between us are both languishing and accelerated, a magical feat I realize has more to do with who they are rather than how I view them. My eyes may be shrewd and observant. My tongue may be critical and lacking tact. They are people who can withstand me because they have no guilt, no shame, no worries. Rather than inspire queries, they inspire awe. I find that the more time I spend with them, the less I need those who confound me.

the curly mane is coming back

It's been so long since I had them that people don't even remember them. I thought they were memorable, they seemed to be so big and took up so much space. I mean, sometimes, it felt like my curls wore me.

When I cut them, they weren't too long, but I didn't want them anymore. The curls required a lot of work and get this: they still didn't look good. I had to use a smelly stupid icky hair product and my closet is full of the rejected gels and potions that never tamed my hair the way I'd hoped. I then forced myself follow an elaborate overnight scheme (suffice it to say there was a lot of thought put into those curls and the hair in general) that still resulted in what I derisively called "clown hair," "the mop," and "cousin it."

I charmed the babies with the hair. They loved playing peek a boo in that mane, in my arms, their faces buried so close to mine, but lost in my hair. Otherwise, it was a tool of defense; it cloaked me from prying eyes.

When I sat there, in front of her, she teasingly suggesting that she could do a makeover hairstyle for me, that she could give me a haircut that was drastically different, I had no hesitation in saying, yes, chop it off. No one understands except those who have reached a point of no return with their hair (she cut hers off in desperation, those long blonde locks and her shorn head a stunning sight, to learn her anew, a face, details, her body no longer the ultimate silhouette of womanhood and beauty; another had hers taken by accident and it also brought her into focus, a dazzling wit, a sparkling conversationalist, a brain of such staggering depth, intelligence and a moral compass so pure, I trust her judgment above all; and me, nothing could be worse than being shorn so short as a boy in fourth grade when I was already such a struggling wobbling mess of a person.). I was tired of it, it was too much to deal with. So I promised I wouldn't cry to assure her suddenly doubting mask and she tore into my hair, and in the end I had something even more startling, a hairstyle that did not match me even more than that big poufy hair. It wasn't a bad haircut, you see, it was just not the right haircut for my wardrobe, my job or my life.

She took all the curls, cut my hair into a bob and straightened what was left. My hair touched the edges of my cheeks and for the first time in a long time, my neck was open to the world, she cut the curls all the way to the roots and left jagged sharp bristles behind.

I don't think I went through the same sharpening upon having new hair. I had had haircuts before that didn't suit me, but this one was so well styled that no matter how easy it would have been for me to muss it up, I couldn't. It actually was easier than the curls, I learned slowly and with a yawning surprise. I didn't need any products. I ironed my hair with a flat iron to make it straight. My somewhat chiding inner environmentalist lectured, Sure the energy from the flat iron was a part of my footprint, but as least the physical by-product of using electricity compared to the "recycled" bottles was lower. It may not have suited me across the board, but it definitely looked good on me.

For the first year of the two years of pretending to have straight hair, I allowed my hair to be cut short and the curls at the nape of my neck removed. The second year I grew bored of the hair, spurned by photos of me wearing what looked like a wig but was in fact my own hair and began the tedious process of letting my hair grow out.

After a year of growing and one setback haircut in that time (she didn't listen to just a trim and took about five inches off. I had to start all over) the curls are slowly crawling out of my scalp, they wrestle each other at night and when I look in the mirror in the morning I don't see what I used to see (the bad things), I see the hair that is mine that I am scared to wear outside.

A wild tumble of big loose curls that do not allow for timidity, hiding or shielding me from the world. To wear those curls, my real hair, I would have to learn how to look past the stares again. So I began to tell them, as a warning about the curls. They scoffed and swore no memory of the mass that only two years prior had begun to feel like it was alive and growing and gaining on me and I needed to exorcise it. I told them that I was ready to have curly hair again, outside in public (I have been practicing at home with the curls, feeling them, pulling them into ponytails and shaping them into giant curls tumbled into pastries at the nape of my neck; my curls have a tendency to hold any shape under little coercion it is thick, rope like, there is a lot of it, it feels like a blanket across my arm.).

Somehow, it seems strange to say that accepting my curls, letting go of what anyone else thinks or wondering what they think behind those blank dead staring eyes, rather than getting my hair cut to remove the veil, I need to accept my hair, curly gray and wild to return to my natural womanhood, to allow the beauty I have been hiding these past two years (from that shock and so many other things); she will emerge, and then I will be truly sharpened into who I am and have always been.