Somewhere along the line, I swallowed some lies. Lies like 'I'm in the way,' or 'I'm too loud,' or 'I don't matter,' or 'I shouldn't ask for anything, I don't deserve to be.' Well originally I was going to write happy...I don't deserve to be happy. But then when I got to the word be, that might have been the lie I swallowed. 'I don't deserve to be.'
Children soak up the world in gulps and gobbles, un-discerning, unyielding, impatient to grow and become adult, eager to be treated as an equal and a whole human being. As a child we might mis-read or misinterpret the heart of a message, or maybe we get the underlying meaning more clearly than intended...who knows. The thing is that when I was young I believed the world reflecting me back to myself through how others treated me was an accurate mirror. Now that I've grown older I can see that there are many fun-house mirrors mixed in with good reflectors. The fun-house mirrors at a carnival are only fun because you know them to be distorting. But if we took them as a real and accurate reflection, they'd be truly terrifying. In life it becomes important to treat distorting mirrors differently, giving them less credence, and maybe even a little compassion, since we do not know their story of how they became their warped selves. Maybe I'll write a short story about human fun-house mirrors wandering around unable to figure out which ones are warped the least...what a wonderful children's book that would make...!
In any case, the life changing taco was an experience at dinner last night, and I must try to convey into words the magic of the moment before it slips away into the minutia of today's magical learning opportunities!
After a day of darting around town hunting for items at stores, comparison shopping, weighing options, and getting things done, we navigated through the sea of food options and I finally found myself in line looking at a menu of food options. For more context on my level of vulnerability after all the option-weighing, you can read about it in one of Malcolm Gladwell's books or find Sheena Iyengar's TEDtalk. Basically, not only was I hungry, but I was mentally exhausted from all the weighing and choosing. And I was just relieved to be done making decisions. (Or so I thought...)
I had no trouble deciding on the burrito, but as hungry as I was I wanted a taco as well, either a pork in adobo or a mushroom and onion taco. The thing is, I am avoiding four-legged foods at the moment, so as delicious as the pork in adobo is at this place, I was ordering a chicken burrito. And I was thinking a pork taco might be a nice compromise (being small), but then the mushrooms sounded really good, and since I was having them hold the yummy mozzarella from my burrito I thought maybe I could substitute mushrooms (or something at least) since I was not having the cheese. On the register I saw that my total had jumped up by $3 once I said to add mushrooms to the burrito, and in that moment I let go of ordering a side taco in addition because I wasn't interested in paying more, but she hadn't said 'by the way there is an additional charge of $3 for adding mushrooms to your burrito,' she had just assumed I wanted them at any price. Also there was someone in line behind me, and they were typing in to go orders from the phone in between taking my order and the person who had gone before me...and I felt myself shrink. I didn't want to slow things down. I didn't want to be a nuisance. I didn't want to make a fuss. I didn't want to gum up the works or ask more questions. The cost of adding those mushrooms was more than a side taco would have cost, but I couldn't bring myself in that moment to change my order, change my mind, say 'hey, that's not okay with me, you didn't give me a warning or an option!'
Flustered, hangry, irritated with myself for not standing up for what I wanted, I huffed my way to a table to wait. Swirling accusations in my mind, what's the fucking big deal, it's only three dollars, why do you care if the mushrooms are in a taco shell or on your burrito, why are you even so upset over something so insignificant, and on and on the litany in my mind, mocking, deriding, unforgiving, relentless. And then tears welled. For god's sake, am I really crying about a taco? Or three dollars? Get a grip! The inner judge and jury were having a field day.
And I let the storm roll over me, through me.
And after a little while, glassy-eyed, but clear, I rose out of my inner meltdown, walked myself back up to the counter, and bravely asked 'Is it too late to switch my order? Can I get the mushroom taco instead of the mushrooms in my burrito?' And whoever I spoke with needed to know my order number, which I knew, and she made it happen, and I walked myself back to the table feeling worthy. Feeling brave. Feeling I had gone to bat for myself. Feeling my request was totally reasonable, and knowing that my asking was all that was necessary.
Giving people credit for wanting to please me too is something I'm still working on. I have a long habit of people-pleasing, but it's sort of like learning to take a compliment rather than brush it aside. Or like allowing someone else the joy that giving generously can bring, by receiving too now and then.
It may have been the most delicious mushroom taco I have ever eaten. I earned that taco, in more ways than one.
I am so grateful to myself for weathering the storm of inner insults, and rising above, beyond, and taking care of my desires in the moment, allowing me to celebrate, and rejoice. I have a track record of not asking for what I want, and later being sad and that old pattern is (slowly but surely) dissolving!! That old pattern of swallowing my true desires in favor of not rocking the boat, not being a pain, not being the squeaky wheel. The thing is, all my life I guess I've secretly been jealous of squeaky wheels. And the external and internal rewards of not being squeaky aren't that great, to be honest.
Maybe I've been robbing other people of the opportunity to please me, all these years, by keeping my needs and wants to a whisper. Or on mute. How can anyone even try to please me if I don't share my thoughts, my dreams, my heart?
Next time, perhaps I won't even have to go back to change my order. But that too will come.
Showing posts with label Writing a Feeling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing a Feeling. Show all posts
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Sunday, November 8, 2015
Emotional Non-Judgment
I am a fan of positivity, and finding the silver lining, and the teachable moment.
I am a fan of affirmations.
Am I alone, however, in finding the constant pressure to be positive, harness the law of attraction, and in general try to manipulate my emotional state oppressive?
Since when is being positive a cure-all? Last I checked, when something shitty happens the response I have in that moment doesn't define me as a person (positive or negative)
I find a creeping counter-culture within my closest circle of true friends. In hiding, we still preface negative statements of honest emotional state with "I'm going to hell for saying this..." or "I know I should not feel this way..." or "It sucks that I feel this way..."
And I want to share this counter-culture...and demolish the inner and outer judgment walls being paraded around as superior.
It is not a superior state of mind or heart to inflict or enforce a positive spin on every shitty thing.
Nor is it superior or inferior to wallow in a negativity spiral.
Neither is better or worse.
A lot of meditation and a lot of heightened self-awareness have brought me to a realization worth sharing.
Some positive thinking exercises are worthwhile, don't get me wrong. But it is equally delicious to indulge in a fantasy of negativity, to follow the train of thought to all the worst possible conclusions. Why else is the world so in love with the entertainment in books, film, tv, binge watching or imagining a fantastic series of explosive and terrible life choices unfold?
My teacher and guide on a spiritual path, Michael Barnett, has helped me recognise the possibility in the universe of transcending the judgment, and the duality of right and wrong, better and worse, and so on. Many gifts came through to me during meditations and time spent both in Germany and in seminars here in Santa Fe sharing space and resonating with his incredible cosmic connective energy. (Perhaps I will write more about those as it feels right, for now a lot of it is still so raw and personal, and writing about it doesn't feel right for me just yet.)
I am a fan of Jeff Foster, who is also a speaker, spiritual teacher, someone I have not met, yet has taught me through his facebook posts, and youtube videos. I found him through friends also connected with Michael, and Jeff invites us to embrace the full spectrum of emotion in our lives.
If we manage to keep some perspective in the midst of the emotional roller-coaster, positive or negative, then we can begin to evolve.
So yes, we can begin by being aware of the tendencies, habits, knee-jerk responses. We can observe whether we trend toward doomsday scenarios, and whether those serve us well. We can learn to dance in and out of moods, rather than be enslaved by them unconsciously.
And I will make a renewed effort to cease my judgment of my own emotions...and those close to me.
Are you with me? Do you have a similar ambivalence toward all the Think Positive preaching surrounding us?
I am a fan of affirmations.
Am I alone, however, in finding the constant pressure to be positive, harness the law of attraction, and in general try to manipulate my emotional state oppressive?
Since when is being positive a cure-all? Last I checked, when something shitty happens the response I have in that moment doesn't define me as a person (positive or negative)
I find a creeping counter-culture within my closest circle of true friends. In hiding, we still preface negative statements of honest emotional state with "I'm going to hell for saying this..." or "I know I should not feel this way..." or "It sucks that I feel this way..."
And I want to share this counter-culture...and demolish the inner and outer judgment walls being paraded around as superior.
It is not a superior state of mind or heart to inflict or enforce a positive spin on every shitty thing.
Nor is it superior or inferior to wallow in a negativity spiral.
Neither is better or worse.
A lot of meditation and a lot of heightened self-awareness have brought me to a realization worth sharing.
Some positive thinking exercises are worthwhile, don't get me wrong. But it is equally delicious to indulge in a fantasy of negativity, to follow the train of thought to all the worst possible conclusions. Why else is the world so in love with the entertainment in books, film, tv, binge watching or imagining a fantastic series of explosive and terrible life choices unfold?
My teacher and guide on a spiritual path, Michael Barnett, has helped me recognise the possibility in the universe of transcending the judgment, and the duality of right and wrong, better and worse, and so on. Many gifts came through to me during meditations and time spent both in Germany and in seminars here in Santa Fe sharing space and resonating with his incredible cosmic connective energy. (Perhaps I will write more about those as it feels right, for now a lot of it is still so raw and personal, and writing about it doesn't feel right for me just yet.)
I am a fan of Jeff Foster, who is also a speaker, spiritual teacher, someone I have not met, yet has taught me through his facebook posts, and youtube videos. I found him through friends also connected with Michael, and Jeff invites us to embrace the full spectrum of emotion in our lives.
If we manage to keep some perspective in the midst of the emotional roller-coaster, positive or negative, then we can begin to evolve.
So yes, we can begin by being aware of the tendencies, habits, knee-jerk responses. We can observe whether we trend toward doomsday scenarios, and whether those serve us well. We can learn to dance in and out of moods, rather than be enslaved by them unconsciously.
And I will make a renewed effort to cease my judgment of my own emotions...and those close to me.
This whole topic might also be part of why I loved the movie Inside Out so much, because all of our emotions serve functions worth validating, and if we can embrace each other through the process, and accept the full complex cornucopia of our human existence, maybe we can grow beyond our known limits.
Friday, June 13, 2014
big bird
Sometimes at work I feel like a giant wandering post-it note, squawking and flapping my wings and fussing to remind everyone...did you remember to________(fill in the blank)...for a million different things as if I am big bird but instead of feathers I am covered in millions of post it notes.
My mere presence is sometimes enough to ruffle feathers and call to action, but more often it's my eyes burning like laser beams into the back of someone's head and they feel it, or my actual words, or a text or phone call or e-mail...
and it's everyone!
students, my boss, my colleagues and people I'm training...and of course myself.
once in a while I drop one and everyone can giggle because I'm human too, but boy it's a flurry and it's constant.
there are things bound to fly off and drop or get forgotten, whether I make lists or not...because I'm human too.
And I sure am tired of being the walking post it note for everyone else. Slowly but surely they will all learn to rely on someone else, or each other, and it will all be funny and fine, and then it will be someone else dropping post-it notes...someone else to pick up the pieces when someone is upset...a new big bird will be born.
I'm really amused by the image. I can giggle about it right now, instead of getting my feathers ruffled. I can't take myself so seriously when I'm big bird.
My mere presence is sometimes enough to ruffle feathers and call to action, but more often it's my eyes burning like laser beams into the back of someone's head and they feel it, or my actual words, or a text or phone call or e-mail...
and it's everyone!
students, my boss, my colleagues and people I'm training...and of course myself.
once in a while I drop one and everyone can giggle because I'm human too, but boy it's a flurry and it's constant.
there are things bound to fly off and drop or get forgotten, whether I make lists or not...because I'm human too.
And I sure am tired of being the walking post it note for everyone else. Slowly but surely they will all learn to rely on someone else, or each other, and it will all be funny and fine, and then it will be someone else dropping post-it notes...someone else to pick up the pieces when someone is upset...a new big bird will be born.
I'm really amused by the image. I can giggle about it right now, instead of getting my feathers ruffled. I can't take myself so seriously when I'm big bird.
Monday, May 26, 2014
Tripping on May-be
Whatever the mind conjures up may be. At the same time maybe lives in the in between, in the purgatory of not yet, may not, may be. It is a luxury in a way, may be. It is indulging a fantasy, may be. It is also the very seed-like beginning of many a what was. For that reason one should do one's best never to poo-poo a maybe. Do not underestimate the beauty and majesty of may be. Many decades did mankind perhaps daydream about flight, and then may be has now become common place! People thought about space for centuries, and maybe became history and fueled many more flights of fancy.
May be is sometimes also a fence-sitter, and non-committal. Sometimes may be is a procrastinator and a scaredy-cat. May be is not content, but might cling to 'the devil you know' rather than taking a risk. May be is a dreamer, a purist, and of course the dream is pristine and pure and perfect while reality is messy and uncertain.
May be - I will indulge you a while longer, but soon we must explore some messy options, and allow new may bes to surface.
May be is sometimes also a fence-sitter, and non-committal. Sometimes may be is a procrastinator and a scaredy-cat. May be is not content, but might cling to 'the devil you know' rather than taking a risk. May be is a dreamer, a purist, and of course the dream is pristine and pure and perfect while reality is messy and uncertain.
May be - I will indulge you a while longer, but soon we must explore some messy options, and allow new may bes to surface.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Imagination Runs Wild
The music is loud enough to make talking with words impossible, which suits her just fine for her purposes tonight. Talking is overrated, and words are often lies. But the body never lies. She feels the bass beat vibrating up through the floor, the air, her spine tingles and her feet itch to move in time to the insistent rhythms. Her friend passes the drink to her again, and she tastes the tang of alcohol mixed with something fruity and feels her inhibitions slip a little further away. There might be a hundred guys or there might be only two, but tonight she is going to be a different self, a self that doesn't stop the presses, a self that throws caution to the wind, a self that enjoys the moment for its own sake. Her body has begun to wave in tiny undulating ripples that express the melody while also acknowledging the driving beat. She takes another long sip from the straw before handing it back to her friend, so she can dance with her arms too. She scans the crowd and feels several pairs of eyes appreciating her movement with unabashed lust. She feels their eyes undressing her, and all it does is encourage her movement.
The dj blends a new beat in so the song moves seamlessly and her dance is uninterrupted. Her eyes move lazily to him, and the dj smiles at her and she beams back at him. She knows her dance gives him validation and appreciation. His eyes shift to the rest of the crowd, and then she feels someone in her space just behind her. Slowly she turns and locks eyes with him, daring him to show her his moves. He is devouring her with his eyes, and she starts to sync with his movement.
It doesn't matter where he is from, where he is staying, whether she'll ever see him again. She doesn't care if he's married, has kids, or is a nice guy or a jerk.
She mingles with him, tastes his lips and the beer and cigarette he's enjoyed before joining her on the dance floor. Her tongue dances with his tongue, and their bodies press together in time with the music, and in her mind the dj is making love with them too in this moment. The sweat is dripping down her spine, his shirt is also wet and she grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls back from their kiss for a moment, locks eyes with him again and drags him to a dark corner...
The dj blends a new beat in so the song moves seamlessly and her dance is uninterrupted. Her eyes move lazily to him, and the dj smiles at her and she beams back at him. She knows her dance gives him validation and appreciation. His eyes shift to the rest of the crowd, and then she feels someone in her space just behind her. Slowly she turns and locks eyes with him, daring him to show her his moves. He is devouring her with his eyes, and she starts to sync with his movement.
It doesn't matter where he is from, where he is staying, whether she'll ever see him again. She doesn't care if he's married, has kids, or is a nice guy or a jerk.
She mingles with him, tastes his lips and the beer and cigarette he's enjoyed before joining her on the dance floor. Her tongue dances with his tongue, and their bodies press together in time with the music, and in her mind the dj is making love with them too in this moment. The sweat is dripping down her spine, his shirt is also wet and she grabs him by the front of his shirt and pulls back from their kiss for a moment, locks eyes with him again and drags him to a dark corner...
Saturday, May 24, 2014
a break from thinking
the mind sparks, ideas fly, thoughts scatter, you taste or hear something and words cannot flow fast enough to capture - a mood, a feeling, an unspoken communication, a glance, the way the dog lies, the smell of heat...
fleeting moments of joy, calm, fleeting moments of boredom captured.
a hair tickles the nape of your neck, or is it a fly, no.matter.
minutes stretch into hours of not having a schedule to keep.
suspension, pension, retention...
pressures have not disappeared, but have been pulled away from the tension and the eyeball is relieved for a few days of the poking finger of indecision.
fleeting moments of joy, calm, fleeting moments of boredom captured.
a hair tickles the nape of your neck, or is it a fly, no.matter.
minutes stretch into hours of not having a schedule to keep.
suspension, pension, retention...
pressures have not disappeared, but have been pulled away from the tension and the eyeball is relieved for a few days of the poking finger of indecision.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Clarity
Somewhere buried deep in my psyche was a misunderstanding so deeply held that I began to hide (even from myself) my true desires. I am at the beginning of a journey of (or have already begun?) Uncovering, revealing to myself and the world my inner light. the fading illusion of needing to protect myself or the world from...what?
I know this is sounding fragmented, but maybe refracted is a better word, and though it seems unclear, it is actually the opposite.
The light is emerging from within.
I am ready to receive with an open heart and mind the clearest possible vision of my hopes and dreams and future self. I dedicate myself to manifesting this vision in the most productive, supportive and supported way. I am grateful in receiving clarity of mind and purpose. I will Continue to do no harm, but no longer at the expense of inflicting harm upon myself. I will see (and seek) the solution that creates positive energy for as many people as possible, without sacrificing my own energies in the process.
I am being reborn, and will find and follow my true purpose on this earth.
I know this is sounding fragmented, but maybe refracted is a better word, and though it seems unclear, it is actually the opposite.
The light is emerging from within.
I am ready to receive with an open heart and mind the clearest possible vision of my hopes and dreams and future self. I dedicate myself to manifesting this vision in the most productive, supportive and supported way. I am grateful in receiving clarity of mind and purpose. I will Continue to do no harm, but no longer at the expense of inflicting harm upon myself. I will see (and seek) the solution that creates positive energy for as many people as possible, without sacrificing my own energies in the process.
I am being reborn, and will find and follow my true purpose on this earth.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Letting Go
Holding on, the muscles cramping, all the best stuff of the sandwich seems to be slipping out the sides the harder you squeeze, your mind darting this way and that like an acrobat attempting graceful rescues and like in tetris the pieces seem to fall faster and there comes a point past which the adrenaline can sustain this circus.
Open hands, release expectations, allow whatever will be to remain and feel afloat in the flow, merging the muscles in your thighs to the horse beneath you, becoming one with the air you breathe and be in this here and now.
Open hands, release expectations, allow whatever will be to remain and feel afloat in the flow, merging the muscles in your thighs to the horse beneath you, becoming one with the air you breathe and be in this here and now.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Aphasia
Her eyes lit up, and his heart sank. Her mouth opened, and sounds came out, her face animated in the telling of her story and he did what he could. When she smiled, he smiled, when she got to a particularly funny part of her story and touched his arm he made eye contact with her and then threw his head back and joined her in a belly laugh. On the inside a part of him was tearing apart at the seams, but he didn't want to burden her with his sense of tragedy. He knew she didn't realise that she wasn't speaking English. She wasn't forming words. He couldn't lip read her incoherence.
The doctors had told him that her car accident had damaged the speech center of her brain. Inside, her mind was intact. But her verbal expression was permanently impaired. In moments like this, when she seemed so happy telling her memory, he felt the worst. The big question had haunted him now for two years. Should he tell her? Should he let her know every time she opened her mouth that no words flowed forth? Should he insist on her typing or writing her messages? Or should he allow her another day of ignorant bliss? Two years equalled well over seven hundred days of ignorant bliss, and though his heart still wrestled with the moral ambiguity, his mind knew that telling her was a selfish act. Telling her would be requesting sympathy for himself from her, and it would be a cruel act as well since there was no hope for rehabilitation.
He held her eyes with his own, a light shining in his as he forced his tears into submission in favor of shining love her way. His love for her had not diminished in these two years. If anything, he felt like they had settled into a natural rhythm even more easily than their first three years of marriage. Things were simpler now that she was so clearly dependent on him. But he felt his need for her as well. It was a symbiotic relationship, if a little one sided.
She wiped a laughter-induced tear from the corner of her eye as she came to the end of telling her story. He often found himself wondering which of her many adventures she was reliving. He wished he could connect more mentally to her. In those selfish moments, he had to steel his resolve.
(This was inspired by an old married couple I met when visiting my Grandmother about five years ago. It was the most heart-wrenching thing, as she moved her lips and touched his arm a twinkle of intelligence clear in her eye. He leaned over to me and explained that aphasia only impacts the ability to speak, not the ability to think which struck me at the time as tragic. It was unclear whether she knew of her condition or limitation, which was the next layer of tragic to me. The question of whether to depress the lady with this news, because I for one would want to know. My research is minimal, and for the sake of my story I made the case hopeless for recovery though it seems like it varies in degrees of severity and so on.)
The doctors had told him that her car accident had damaged the speech center of her brain. Inside, her mind was intact. But her verbal expression was permanently impaired. In moments like this, when she seemed so happy telling her memory, he felt the worst. The big question had haunted him now for two years. Should he tell her? Should he let her know every time she opened her mouth that no words flowed forth? Should he insist on her typing or writing her messages? Or should he allow her another day of ignorant bliss? Two years equalled well over seven hundred days of ignorant bliss, and though his heart still wrestled with the moral ambiguity, his mind knew that telling her was a selfish act. Telling her would be requesting sympathy for himself from her, and it would be a cruel act as well since there was no hope for rehabilitation.
He held her eyes with his own, a light shining in his as he forced his tears into submission in favor of shining love her way. His love for her had not diminished in these two years. If anything, he felt like they had settled into a natural rhythm even more easily than their first three years of marriage. Things were simpler now that she was so clearly dependent on him. But he felt his need for her as well. It was a symbiotic relationship, if a little one sided.
She wiped a laughter-induced tear from the corner of her eye as she came to the end of telling her story. He often found himself wondering which of her many adventures she was reliving. He wished he could connect more mentally to her. In those selfish moments, he had to steel his resolve.
(This was inspired by an old married couple I met when visiting my Grandmother about five years ago. It was the most heart-wrenching thing, as she moved her lips and touched his arm a twinkle of intelligence clear in her eye. He leaned over to me and explained that aphasia only impacts the ability to speak, not the ability to think which struck me at the time as tragic. It was unclear whether she knew of her condition or limitation, which was the next layer of tragic to me. The question of whether to depress the lady with this news, because I for one would want to know. My research is minimal, and for the sake of my story I made the case hopeless for recovery though it seems like it varies in degrees of severity and so on.)
Sunday, April 27, 2014
Shame and Flattery
She believed him when he told her they must have been soul mates in a past life. She felt important. She felt cherished. She felt loved. By a man. This man also loved her mother. She only five years old, but age doesn't matter in soul currency and she was an old soul. Everybody said so. And she felt open and connected to the universe. Why should she sort and be selective? This man was giving her love...maybe true timeless soul level love. How on earth would anyone ever try to turn away from that kind of love at any age, but especially as young as five. She didn't, because it would never have occurred to her to turn him away. Love is responded to with love in an instinctive way at that age. And anyway it was mostly words then. He treated me like an equal when he was loving. But not in a fatherly way.
So the bond was strong. My love for him and acceptance of him was thorough. And in important ways he disrespected my mental boundaries. He would surprise me by yanking back my chair unexpectedly. This was scary because it was high and backless, and after he did it the first time, or maybe it was after the fourth or fifth, but at some point I asked him never to do that to me again. But he did what he wanted. I was watchful, and scared, and didn't trust and maybe I giggled as young kids might in fearful anticipation, and somehow signaled to him that the game was ok or funny, but it was not ok and my fear was real and a nervous giggle should not make me complicit. And I loved him.
And he tickled me mercilessly, maybe because he liked to hear me laugh, which always started joyful. But then I would run out of air, and he would still be tickling me, and I was afraid I would die because I couldn't breathe in and I was begging him to stop so I could breathe and he must have stopped because I am alive but what it taught me was that my "no" was worthless. And I loved him. And I also wanted his love and approval.
When his friend came over, they smoked cigars and drank beer and I wanted to be included somehow, and he told his friend to watch while he tilted his beer and dribbled a few drops on my head. I felt like I was less than nothing, less than human, less than less than less than. And still I needed his love. This man that hurt my feelings, this man that did what he wanted, this man that offered me soul-currency lip service love. And I didn't understand his love, but I wanted it. And I loved him because my love was pure.
He tested me in a strange way once, without realizing it would be a test. Maybe we never fully know a test is a test until we go through it. We were walking up to an outdoor bank teller and a little old lady in front of us in line had dropped a hundred Deutsche Marks but being old and that it was a bill and not a coin she hadn't heard or realized it. I picked it up and he told me to run with it. I never would have, no matter what. I pity him in a way. I handed her back her money, and that is just who I am from the core of my being. He didn't make me even question it, though I suppose he tried to.
Just as I question everything, I can understand now how he hooked me and then dangled me like some fun toy for his amusement. How he could use my natural curiosity to make me an accomplice so that culpability could be blurred enough that he was never alone responsible. At that age, there were few sexual intentions, though bath time he allowed me to explore his body in ways that were...questionable...he never fondled or abused my body. I suppose I feel lucky that he waited until a much later visit when I was a highschool young lady. Do you see? I feel lucky that he waited? Not the outrage you expect, because I still love this awful man maybe even now, today, on some cosmic terrible illogical level in some timeless weird and twisted way. He did more than I wanted him to do, but never penetration or rape or even other things. My experience is so miniscule compared to some I feel shame even claiming I was abused. Shame even calling it what it was, a violation of father-hood. Because while I didn't let him do things, I couldn't stop him from talking about or maybe I'm the lucky one still because like I said, his tongue didn't make it past my teeth when he tried to french kiss me, his hand didn't make it above my knee, he only held my breast through my shirt and I'm lucky. Lucky and guilty and lost.
Because how can a lucky girl like me recognize the cosmic love again when it has paraded through my life in disguise up until now? How can I separate the love and the treatment when they were so entangled at such a young age?
This all happened to a different me, a distant me, more than 30 years ago something twisted and strange and I am healing the patchwork as I can. I came across a picture of our little family unit briefly a couple weeks ago and I was unprepared caught unawares and I felt my mother's eyes on me checking to see if I was ok.
I'm Not Okay.
So the bond was strong. My love for him and acceptance of him was thorough. And in important ways he disrespected my mental boundaries. He would surprise me by yanking back my chair unexpectedly. This was scary because it was high and backless, and after he did it the first time, or maybe it was after the fourth or fifth, but at some point I asked him never to do that to me again. But he did what he wanted. I was watchful, and scared, and didn't trust and maybe I giggled as young kids might in fearful anticipation, and somehow signaled to him that the game was ok or funny, but it was not ok and my fear was real and a nervous giggle should not make me complicit. And I loved him.
And he tickled me mercilessly, maybe because he liked to hear me laugh, which always started joyful. But then I would run out of air, and he would still be tickling me, and I was afraid I would die because I couldn't breathe in and I was begging him to stop so I could breathe and he must have stopped because I am alive but what it taught me was that my "no" was worthless. And I loved him. And I also wanted his love and approval.
When his friend came over, they smoked cigars and drank beer and I wanted to be included somehow, and he told his friend to watch while he tilted his beer and dribbled a few drops on my head. I felt like I was less than nothing, less than human, less than less than less than. And still I needed his love. This man that hurt my feelings, this man that did what he wanted, this man that offered me soul-currency lip service love. And I didn't understand his love, but I wanted it. And I loved him because my love was pure.
He tested me in a strange way once, without realizing it would be a test. Maybe we never fully know a test is a test until we go through it. We were walking up to an outdoor bank teller and a little old lady in front of us in line had dropped a hundred Deutsche Marks but being old and that it was a bill and not a coin she hadn't heard or realized it. I picked it up and he told me to run with it. I never would have, no matter what. I pity him in a way. I handed her back her money, and that is just who I am from the core of my being. He didn't make me even question it, though I suppose he tried to.
Just as I question everything, I can understand now how he hooked me and then dangled me like some fun toy for his amusement. How he could use my natural curiosity to make me an accomplice so that culpability could be blurred enough that he was never alone responsible. At that age, there were few sexual intentions, though bath time he allowed me to explore his body in ways that were...questionable...he never fondled or abused my body. I suppose I feel lucky that he waited until a much later visit when I was a highschool young lady. Do you see? I feel lucky that he waited? Not the outrage you expect, because I still love this awful man maybe even now, today, on some cosmic terrible illogical level in some timeless weird and twisted way. He did more than I wanted him to do, but never penetration or rape or even other things. My experience is so miniscule compared to some I feel shame even claiming I was abused. Shame even calling it what it was, a violation of father-hood. Because while I didn't let him do things, I couldn't stop him from talking about or maybe I'm the lucky one still because like I said, his tongue didn't make it past my teeth when he tried to french kiss me, his hand didn't make it above my knee, he only held my breast through my shirt and I'm lucky. Lucky and guilty and lost.
Because how can a lucky girl like me recognize the cosmic love again when it has paraded through my life in disguise up until now? How can I separate the love and the treatment when they were so entangled at such a young age?
This all happened to a different me, a distant me, more than 30 years ago something twisted and strange and I am healing the patchwork as I can. I came across a picture of our little family unit briefly a couple weeks ago and I was unprepared caught unawares and I felt my mother's eyes on me checking to see if I was ok.
I'm Not Okay.
Friday, April 18, 2014
Insatiable
The hole is endless, timeless--a void which can never be satisfied, only mollified and then only temporarily.
Distraction,
adrenaline,
a movie,
some candy,
a cigarette,
greasy. salty. crunchy.
chocolate
vanilla
cream
coffee
wine
any numbing agent,
another movie,
binge watch a tv series online..."just one more episode" at a time
sex
reading
writing--the newest addiction...
the void yawns, stretches, contracts, laughing at all the empty attempts to fill or satisfy
no appetite, this thing.
appetite ebbs and flows.
there is only ignoring the void for a while, not any escape that is more than just a temporary --
distraction.
Distraction,
adrenaline,
a movie,
some candy,
a cigarette,
greasy. salty. crunchy.
chocolate
vanilla
cream
coffee
wine
any numbing agent,
another movie,
binge watch a tv series online..."just one more episode" at a time
sex
reading
writing--the newest addiction...
the void yawns, stretches, contracts, laughing at all the empty attempts to fill or satisfy
no appetite, this thing.
appetite ebbs and flows.
there is only ignoring the void for a while, not any escape that is more than just a temporary --
distraction.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Melting Together
Her head rested on his chest, snuggled next to him on a comfy couch. A movie played, but it was only an excuse for closeness. Her breathing began to match his, and their bellies rose and fell at the same pace.She had discovered this ability years ago, and felt its impact many times. On airplanes with total strangers, with lovers, with friends. She could merge with others, barriers would crumple, and she knew matching breath was crucial. Even if his breath halts at the top, she will halt with him. As his breath quickens, so does hers, almost imperceptibly immediate, her breath following his, her head on his chest rising and falling with his breath as well. Where her face meets his chest, the warmth begins to build. It is almost as though there is no shirt between them, only heat. In her mind, she can almost lose track of where her face ends and his chest begins. They could be melting together on a cellular level, merging, becoming one...
Saturday, April 12, 2014
Shedding Layers
I suppose on some levels, the pseudo-anonymity of the internet (i.e. blogging) lends itself to more confident displays of inner thoughts, creative outlets, baring of deeply buried secrets, true vulnerability becomes a little less daunting.
On other levels, I find myself even more shy.
So here I go, virtual psychic strip show has begun, soundtrack could be anything from Tina Turner's Private Dancer to a pumped up volume Pour Some Sugar On Me or some throaty Jessica Rabbit singing Why Don't You Do Right.
Maybe there doesn't have to be a true virtual burlesque imagining...
But you know they really get into the act, and they seem so bold and daring, comfortable and confident in their bustiers and fishnet thigh highs.
So what is the blog equivalent? I feel like the new kid at open mic night, fumbling over her poem, oh wait, I switched imagery hang on...right, it's amateur night and some of the audience will get a kick out of seeing those nerves, and some will get a kick out of boo-ing her off stage.
So here I am.
Nearly naked, nervous as hell, sweating palms, and the hot lights making it worse and also better because I can't really see you, audience. I can't tell if you're with me, against me, bored, waiting for your drink or your friend or just killing time until the next act.
In the meantime, I might as well make it worth your while.
*ahem*
Right. Vulnerable.
So in third grade, here in the US, I was new and this one girl (we'll call her Judy) reached out to me. She was the only friendly face at all my first day. At first I was so relieved anyone wanted to make the effort, and we became friends. Sort of. By my second week, I began to get the drift that she was an outsider, and so had of course recognised a fellow outcast and made me her friend. So then I began to resent her. Perhaps if she had been less kind I would not have been lumped with another outcast. Maybe a more popular kid would have decided I was cool or something, and it would have meant a completely different social experience. I know. I'm evil. I hated myself for even thinking it, but I did. And I hated Judy for making that choice impossible for me, for eliminating the option for me or for them (the 'in' crowd). I also hated her for being too nice to hate, and for making me hate myself for thinking these things.
There. I'm a closet mean girl. How's that for vulnerable?
On other levels, I find myself even more shy.
So here I go, virtual psychic strip show has begun, soundtrack could be anything from Tina Turner's Private Dancer to a pumped up volume Pour Some Sugar On Me or some throaty Jessica Rabbit singing Why Don't You Do Right.
Maybe there doesn't have to be a true virtual burlesque imagining...
But you know they really get into the act, and they seem so bold and daring, comfortable and confident in their bustiers and fishnet thigh highs.
So what is the blog equivalent? I feel like the new kid at open mic night, fumbling over her poem, oh wait, I switched imagery hang on...right, it's amateur night and some of the audience will get a kick out of seeing those nerves, and some will get a kick out of boo-ing her off stage.
So here I am.
Nearly naked, nervous as hell, sweating palms, and the hot lights making it worse and also better because I can't really see you, audience. I can't tell if you're with me, against me, bored, waiting for your drink or your friend or just killing time until the next act.
In the meantime, I might as well make it worth your while.
*ahem*
Right. Vulnerable.
So in third grade, here in the US, I was new and this one girl (we'll call her Judy) reached out to me. She was the only friendly face at all my first day. At first I was so relieved anyone wanted to make the effort, and we became friends. Sort of. By my second week, I began to get the drift that she was an outsider, and so had of course recognised a fellow outcast and made me her friend. So then I began to resent her. Perhaps if she had been less kind I would not have been lumped with another outcast. Maybe a more popular kid would have decided I was cool or something, and it would have meant a completely different social experience. I know. I'm evil. I hated myself for even thinking it, but I did. And I hated Judy for making that choice impossible for me, for eliminating the option for me or for them (the 'in' crowd). I also hated her for being too nice to hate, and for making me hate myself for thinking these things.
There. I'm a closet mean girl. How's that for vulnerable?
Saturday, April 5, 2014
magnetism
Her body seemed to sense the moment he entered the room. Even without looking, she knew and could feel his presence.
Silently, she would find herself tuning in and even though she did not look him in the eye her body positioned itself almost without her awareness or consent in a way so she could sense him.
When he spoke, her ears perked up and she found her mind focusing more on his conversation than on her own.
Like a heat seeking missile, she found herself drawn...
By the end of dinner, she was hoping her flush could be explained merely with wine, as she pushed back her chair and started clearing dishes. Their mutual friends protested, but she felt a thrill of adrenaline rush down her spine as she reached for the same plate he did. Their fingers barely brushed, but it was electric. Luckily the whole group was lively bantering about some pop culture reference she didn't quite get so no one seemed to notice her flush even more.
He seemed just as intent on not meeting her gaze, which only made the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Does he feel this same heat, this same tension, she wondered for a moment, but then she couldn't imagine him not sensing what she sensed to the very tips of her fingers.
Together they cleared the dishes to the sink and the rest of the group started trickling into the living room to gather around the television with their drinks.
Trying to compose herself she decided to dig in and start washing, filling a bucket with warm soapy water. This might keep her busy and out of trouble for a few minutes, and then she stiffened...he was standing at the ready with a towel to dry the first dish she rinsed.
Side by side, they worked in silence, an undeniable flow of warmth existing between them.
She felt like she could sense even each follicle on her head, her whole being thrumming and aware of this man. As she neared the last few dishes, a tiny thread of regret came over her, with no clarity or promise of this proximity in the next room once they finished these dishes.
Some part of her wanted to simply drop all pretenses and wrap her arms slowly around him and tilt her face up to his, her lips tingling with anticipation of a slightly scruffy kiss.
Her breath caught, the project was done, and he had already walked halfway across the kitchen.
Her heart racing, she slowly followed, picking up her wine glass and really hoping her hand would hold steady.
Everyone was already sitting so she found herself on the floor. Alone. In fact he was no where to be seen, and his absence made the room feel colder...she turned her attention to the screen.
Thump.
A pillow landed next to her, and then a second one. She accepted the offer and readjusted.
He sat down still inches away, but she could feel heat building between their elbows.
A smile crept over her being, and reached her eyes, which though pointed at the tv screen saw none of the show at all. A tiny twitch tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she lifted her glass to hide her smile...
Silently, she would find herself tuning in and even though she did not look him in the eye her body positioned itself almost without her awareness or consent in a way so she could sense him.
When he spoke, her ears perked up and she found her mind focusing more on his conversation than on her own.
Like a heat seeking missile, she found herself drawn...
By the end of dinner, she was hoping her flush could be explained merely with wine, as she pushed back her chair and started clearing dishes. Their mutual friends protested, but she felt a thrill of adrenaline rush down her spine as she reached for the same plate he did. Their fingers barely brushed, but it was electric. Luckily the whole group was lively bantering about some pop culture reference she didn't quite get so no one seemed to notice her flush even more.
He seemed just as intent on not meeting her gaze, which only made the air between them thick with unspoken tension. Does he feel this same heat, this same tension, she wondered for a moment, but then she couldn't imagine him not sensing what she sensed to the very tips of her fingers.
Together they cleared the dishes to the sink and the rest of the group started trickling into the living room to gather around the television with their drinks.
Trying to compose herself she decided to dig in and start washing, filling a bucket with warm soapy water. This might keep her busy and out of trouble for a few minutes, and then she stiffened...he was standing at the ready with a towel to dry the first dish she rinsed.
Side by side, they worked in silence, an undeniable flow of warmth existing between them.
She felt like she could sense even each follicle on her head, her whole being thrumming and aware of this man. As she neared the last few dishes, a tiny thread of regret came over her, with no clarity or promise of this proximity in the next room once they finished these dishes.
Some part of her wanted to simply drop all pretenses and wrap her arms slowly around him and tilt her face up to his, her lips tingling with anticipation of a slightly scruffy kiss.
Her breath caught, the project was done, and he had already walked halfway across the kitchen.
Her heart racing, she slowly followed, picking up her wine glass and really hoping her hand would hold steady.
Everyone was already sitting so she found herself on the floor. Alone. In fact he was no where to be seen, and his absence made the room feel colder...she turned her attention to the screen.
Thump.
A pillow landed next to her, and then a second one. She accepted the offer and readjusted.
He sat down still inches away, but she could feel heat building between their elbows.
A smile crept over her being, and reached her eyes, which though pointed at the tv screen saw none of the show at all. A tiny twitch tugged at the corner of her mouth, and she lifted her glass to hide her smile...
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Out of Control
I'm driving and the snow begins to softly fall. My hands which usually are casually confidently relaxed find their positions at 10 and 2 and I sit up more straight in my seat.
I take a deep breath and try to relax, but the curve coming up in the road is a bit too sharp with a mountain to my left and a guard rail to my right and a sheer drop cliff on the other side of the guard rail.
I try to gently slow, and then it happens.
The tires start to slide, and I'm in a slow motion twister. I see the mountain side slide by first, and then the guard rail, and I can't remember what I learned about which way to steer the tires, into the skid but which way is that? The snow is still gently falling, mocking my panic in its calm beauty and I lift my hands entirely off the steering wheel. A tear slides down my cheek and I brace myself for the impact giving up any pretense of being in control...
and then I'm awake, safe in my bed, wondering what the symbolism might be, trying to calm my breathing and heart rate.
I take a deep breath and try to relax, but the curve coming up in the road is a bit too sharp with a mountain to my left and a guard rail to my right and a sheer drop cliff on the other side of the guard rail.
I try to gently slow, and then it happens.
The tires start to slide, and I'm in a slow motion twister. I see the mountain side slide by first, and then the guard rail, and I can't remember what I learned about which way to steer the tires, into the skid but which way is that? The snow is still gently falling, mocking my panic in its calm beauty and I lift my hands entirely off the steering wheel. A tear slides down my cheek and I brace myself for the impact giving up any pretense of being in control...
and then I'm awake, safe in my bed, wondering what the symbolism might be, trying to calm my breathing and heart rate.
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