sueeeus

lookout

I’m trying to be honest with myself.  It’s so easy to point a finger anywhere but at yourself.  Just because no relationship as yet has ever worked, doesn’t mean that I assign blame to the other party for the ultimate demise thereof.  I know I’m not easy to live with.  I’m strong and independent.  Stubborn.  Set in my ways. And not interested in somebody else dictating how I should be.  And I’m not so arrogant that I don’t acknowledge that the opposite holds true as well.  I have no right or even desire, really, to dictate how another should be.  We are who we are.  We are  how we are.  If there is any change to take place, it’s on an individual basis only, and that is if and only if said individual makes the decision to make some sort of change, to his or her self, for his or her own reasons.

People need to be able to cooperate, in order to live well with one another.   And nobody has a crystal ball.  How can one know if the shoe fits, unless one tries it on?  And what if it feels great at first, but then you develop a blister?  And what if you treat the blister, and keep wearing the shoes, but you develop more blisters, and then you sprain your ankle?  What if you try to stretch that shoe, or stretch your foot, or buy special socks that are just a bit thicker or just a bit thinner, so that you can make that shoe fit?  There comes a point where you have to just take a look at your feet and take a look at those shoes and accept the fact that they just don’t work well together.  It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the shoes.  It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with your feet.  It just means they don’t fit each other.  So you wistfully set those shoes aside, or give them away in the hopes that they will bless somebody else.  It isn’t failure.  It’s just not a good fit.

I’m not angry with Skills, or even Gadget.  I’m disappointed in the colors that have emerged at various times in this journey, but truly, I don’t and can’t hold it against anybody.  It’s just data.  It’s just another point of information that helps describe that person.  And I can’t be angry with them for not being who I need.  They are who they are.  I am who I am.   We don’t fit.  I’m okay with that.

I can take ownership and apologize for any pain that I inflicted.  I am certain that there is pain.  So I am sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.  And I have to take ownership for the pain that I have experienced, because I am no victim, and I am no martyr.  I am responsible for my own self and my own feelings.  I have, in the past, done discredit to myself by trying to make things fit that simply don’t, can’t and won’t fit.  I thought I was doing the right thing, making every effort to make things work.  But I wasn’t looking at the damage I was doing to myself.  So now I’m trying to look at things in a different light.  To flip the script.  Before, it took me years to stand up and make ways part.  This time, I recognized it much sooner, and took action.  Granted, this time around I have children, so I have to ask myself what is the ultimate impact to them for whatever choices I am making.  And that helps me focus on the bigger picture, which is caring for myself so that I can care for them.

I don’t know what next time will look like, or how long it will last, or what trouble I will make for myself.  I don’t know, absolutely, what I want.  I know some of what I want.  And some of what I don’t want.  I don’t want to be lonely.  But I’ve learned that the loneliness one feels when one is with someone is so much worse than the loneliness that one feels when one is not.  I want someone to talk to, to laugh with, to dine with, to be with.  But not necessarily every day.  And not necessarily to live with.  I don’t know that I know how to live with somebody.  Anybody.

I sure as hell could stand to get laid!  I don’t really mean that, because what I really want is to make love.  Big difference.  In a dreamy ideal world it would happen every day!  But that’s not practical or foreseeable.  I’m serially monogamous and just don’t know how to be casual about that sort of thing.  Too much emotion and stuff between the ears is wrapped up in that, for me.  It’s a good thing that I have woman-kind’s best friend, the most amazing invention of all time –the magic bullet.  And it’s not the mini- food processor of which I speak.  And it’s also not– the– same–.  But if times are tough, it’s there.

I think I’m feeling better.  I don’t feel like the blood in my veins is sludge any more, or at least not today.  I don’t feel like howling or breaking anything.  I don’t feel a deep sorrow.  I don’t feel angry at anyone, or at myself.  I don’t feel frustrated.  I don’t feel wistful.  When I see that I truly accept others for who they are, I am learning that I can just as well accept myself for who I am (indeed, not doing so is hypocritical!).  I don’t need to chastise myself for being who I am.  I am who I am.  And if I don’t like who I am, then I can change myself to become who I want to be.  I have that freedom!  I have that right!  It’s up to me.  I’m the commander of my own ship.

if a picture paints a thousand words

It’s not you, it’s me.  It’s not me, it’s you.  It’s me.  It’s you.  It’s me.  Me, me, me.  Me.

Why did we fail, he wants to know.

Maybe I should go back to Gadget, he suggests.

WTH!

It’s troubling, he says, to see how I used Gadget (to get my babies), and how I used him (as a rebound).  As if it were premeditated.  Sigh.  Oh, how I sigh.  Of course I can say in retrospect that I had an agenda when I married, and that was to have children.  I still went into the relationship with full hope of a bright and fulfilling future.  And I tried to make it work.  Lord, I tried.  But I couldn’t do it, and I sure as hell couldn’t do it alone, so I had to end it.  Likewise, I went headlong into our whirlwind with full hope of a bright and fulfilling future.  I premeditated nothing.  I had no designs.  No agendas.  I just wanted to love and be loved.  To understand and be understood.  I effervesced and thrilled in the beauty of the universe that opened up to me, to us.

The drama began to infiltrate.  I couldn’t make heads or tails of things and blamed it on hormones.  The writing on the wall was there from early on.  If not fully evident, it was written between the lines.

We don’t fit.  For many reasons.  But there was a moment where we did, and that moment was treasure for me.

Am I a user?

If that is how it played out, then that is how it is.

Premeditated?  No.  But guilty, as charged.

...my future's so bright I have to wear shades... ...see how I sparkle!

I’m in a slump!  I’m always tired and feel like the blood in my veins is more like sludge.  I have no energy.  No inspiration.  Nothing.  Zip.  Zilch.  Nada.

Gah!

It doesn’t help much that I sprained my hip.  I have good meds so I am ambulatory, and it’s feeling much better, thank you.

I tidied the boys’ toy room — it’s amazing how they can make any place look like a complete disaster, with almost no effort at all.  They hardly even have any toys remaining, since I’ve confiscated almost everything.  And they STILL manage to spread them out to cover every inch of floor space.  It’s like the way Jesus fed the thousands with only a couple loaves of bread.  That’s what they can do with their toys.  Nothing short of miraculous.  Only it doesn’t do much to benefit humankind.

It’s a cloudy day, but hopefully it will be nice enough to take the boys for a walk, once the little one wakes up from his nap.

I should plan the grocery list for the week, but did I mention that I have no inspiration?

I don’t seem to be following the normal stages of grief and loss.  The first stage is denial.  I’m excellent at that.  But I’ve moved on.  The next stage is fear and anger.  I sort of skipped that stage, I think, and went straight to grief and depression.  But I’m sort of waffling back and forth between depression and anger.  Different thoughts surface now and then, and I find myself irritated, but also thankful, because the mere presence of those thoughts helps cement the reasons for my actions in changing my life path so dramatically.  The final stage is acceptance.  I like to think that I have acceptance, in that I know that moving on was the right thing to do.  However.  Key back to the slump comment.  No energy.  No inspiration.  These are clearly marks of depression.

And I don’t want to be depressed!  I want to be thrilled!  I want to be excited!  I want to laugh!  I want to sparkle!

Gah!

Where’s my fountain of life?!

It’s been written that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the sons. I can’t say how many troubled people are the product of a troubled home environment, be it drunkenness, drugs, depression, abuse, and the like, but I can see myself, and my brothers and sisters. I see these people, who I hold most dear, and think of them, who they are, the people they’ve become. I’ve watched them grow up, raise children, marry, divorce, die. I’ve watched their children grow up, raise children, marry, and struggle.

I’ve seen what happens when a troubled person becomes a parent and tries to overcompensate the shortcomings of their youth in order to avoid raising another troubled person. And I’ve seen it backfire with tremendous force. As it would. And I’ve seen us develop those traits that we despise most in our parents. When we promise ourselves while we’re young that we will never, ever be like that. Never. Only it happens. Somehow, it sidles up and slips right in, and the next thing I know, it’s like I’m having an out of body experience in which I look at myself in shock and horror as the voice of my mother or my father is issuing forth from my own mouth.

Man with a capital M

I’m not sure what he thinks of me, at this point.  (Other than that I’m whacked, which I fully admit.)  I hope that in time he will find the warm places in his heart that we shared, and that he will be able to smile and be grateful for having had those experiences and feelings.

I’m grateful.  I’ve recently been contemplating much about the path I’ve walked thus far, and realized that he gave me something that I’d not really experienced before.  Thrill.  He is manly among men.  M.A.N.  He’s confident and carries himself with a swagger.  His arms are gloriously defined and he’s strong as can be.  M.A.N.  When he smiles, he lights up the room.  And he smells good.  He wears a variety of colognes that are completely tasteful and he has the sense to wear them with subtlety, which makes him that much more enticing.  In fact, his personal hygiene is impeccable.  He’s always clean and fresh, and while we were together, I could nibble on him for hours if he’d let me.  I can’t recall any other time in my life where I’ve wanted to do that.  The smooth feel of a freshly shaved face, and the rough feel a few hours later, both equally delicious.  And what woman wouldn’t thrill at the embrace of a strong, manly man?  Somehow, it makes a woman feel more like a woman.

Lying side by side, he would lift me, effortlessly (I could finish the sentence, but I don’t think that part is necessary).  That act, which consumed only one or two seconds in the fabric of time, is imprinted in my mind, hopefully forever.  And with each recollection, I can relive the thrill and feel the butterflies in my stomach and the goosebumps on my arms.

In one sense, it’s kind of tragic to have lived forty five years and experienced so very little intimate thrill, but in another sense, I count myself blessed to have gotten to experience it at all.

I tell him that I love him, but I can’t really explain how and why we don’t fit.  I will always have a warm place of love in my heart for Skills, the beautiful man who woke me up and made me feel alive again.  And somewhere, in his heart of hearts, beneath the oh, so very tough and manly exterior that protects him, the place where we met and stayed for a while, I think he will preserve a little love for me.

Gadget took the kids this weekend, and I have a thousand and one things I could have done, but I was at a loss without them.  Instead, I filled my days with errands and odds and ends.  I drove all the way to this fancy shopping center on the East side so that I could find a specific hand lotion that was on clearance at Anthropologie.  Success!  I actually found it.  But in the process, had a mild panic attack or two.  Something about being amidst all that over the top consumerism.  Although, the waterfall of clear butterflies suspended three stories for viewing pleasure while riding the escalator was delightful.

butterflies

I hid out at Starbucks for a while and tried to catch my breath.  The coffee was underwhelming, but people watching is always interesting.  A group of chefs sat next to me and had a meeting about what they were going to prepare that evening.  Artists at work.  It was a fun eavesdrop.  But I still couldn’t catch my breath, so I walked, and walked, and walked.  I found a Greek sandwich shop and had a gyro, which helped a little.  And I stumbled upon a farmer’s market, where I treated myself to a bouquet of fresh flowers for only $5.

fresh from the market

They’re so happy and colorful.  I just might try to find a farmer’s market closer to home, so that I can brighten my sphere with fresh flowers more often.  Once home, I tried to find some enthusiasm for anything on my to-do list, but again, couldn’t focus and couldn’t breathe.  So I went for another walk.

It was a parade of slugs.  They were out in force.  I’ve never seen so many slugs in my life, and considering where I live, I’ve seen a lot of slugs in my life.  Did you know that slugs eat s#!t?  It’s true.  They do.  I’m not sure what they’re eating in this particular photo, but they were intent.

slugfest

I spent alot of time on Facebook replaying videos of LB saying ‘Sponge Bob’ and ‘Mmmmmm’, over and over and over again.  I missed my kids.

The good thing about this kind of anxiety is that I have little interest in food and I have to keep moving so that I can try to breathe.  So I’m getting some air and exercise.  In my past life, I would escape to food and television.  I’m still trying to figure out what’s tripping me up, other than just delayed processing of all the emotional trauma from the past years.  Or something.

My sister is encouraging me to keep up with my fish oil and vitamin D.  I’ve been forgetting to take my handful of supplements for a few weeks, so who knows, maybe there’s something to that.

It’s nothing short of amazing, the way a small change like painting a room, or even a wall, can work wonders on one’s mental and emotional state.  The act of painting is itself soothing and therapeutic.

before

after

during

after

Now I have a nearly clean slate with which to work.  I can do almost anything with this room!  Currently, it’s just floor space for the kids to romp (and two fully exposed corners, perfect for time outs, mwahahaha).

So many possibilities!

I have a fantastic life.  Truly.  I recognize it.  I have a great and stable job during a tough economic climate.  I have two boisterous, happy, healthy boys.  I have a comfortable home.  I have a reliable vehicle.  I have food in the pantry.  I have a closet full of clothes.  I have loving friends.  I have incredible sisters.

And yet.  Something is all knotted up inside of me, and I find it hard to breathe.  It’s not self-pity, as far as I can tell.  I don’t want to wallow in anything.  I’m not feeling down on myself.  I don’t think I’m chastising myself.  I’m acknowledging and taking ownership of my mistakes and shortcomings in managing relationships, but not beating myself up over not being able to fit a square peg in a round hole.  I like myself.  I see good in myself.  I recognize that my existence contributes positively to this world, in that I love and give of myself to others, and I do good work for my employer.  I try not to burden anybody (Gadget, of course, doesn’t share that particular view).

And yet.  Something inside me feels like it needs to howl at the moon or run a marathon or break something big or cry my eyes out (more than I already have).  It’s like I’m stuck in this strange visceral state and I need a kick start to snap me out of it.  Only I don’t know what kind of kick is needed.

On an intellectual level, I know everything is fine.  Gadget can play his silly games, but it’s all smoke and mirrors and won’t amount to anything.  And yes, there has been a great deal of change and stress in my life this year and last, but all of that is past tense, and the here and now is full of goodness.  So why can’t I breathe?

Oi.  To begin, I had a child free day and the sun was shining brightly.  I busted out my new air compressor, read the manual, followed the instructions, let it make terrible noise for fifteen minutes in the garage while it was doing its initial thing that is supposed to be done upon first use of a new air compressor, and scratched my head trying to figure out the attachments and fittings, as they didn’t come with instructions.  Being intuitively obvious, and all.  Don’t laugh.  I’ve never done it before.  But I figured it out and successfully inflated the tires on my bike. I didn’t follow the shut down procedure, since I decided I’d take the bike for a ride to see if the tires were still good, or if they’d need re-inflating.

It’s been probably three years since I’ve ridden, because I couldn’t ride with LB when he was a baby due to his spine problem.

I was enjoying a nice ride along a nearby trail, when the helmet started giving me trouble, so I reached up to hold it while going too fast around a bend, and biff-boom-bam, this forty five year old woman skidded very unceremoniously across the pavement.  Not fun.  Not fun at all.  My jeans protected my leg for the most part, and I actually road burned and bruised my boob, all the way through the layers of my bra and t-shirt combined.  Good grief.  Who ever road burns their boobs?

...you should have seen the other guy...

...would have been worse without jeans...

Actually, part of the leg burn is from a previous encounter with the pavement when I tripped over BB while carrying LB.  Nice.  I’ve had three glorious spills in a relatively short time, after a nearly lifetime span of no spills.  It makes me wonder…   I *am* glad that I didn’t have LB with me — I’d be horrified to crash with him aboard.  But I wouldn’t have been going fast if I had him aboard.  Even so.  I need to be much more careful.

Truth be told, I *was* a bit traumatized by the wreck.  I still haven’t actually inspected my bike to see what damage it sustained.  I was sitting on the couch, trying to regain my composure, when I heard a very loud bang from the garage.

BANG!

As I ran to the garage, my first thought was OMG, I didn’t follow the shut down procedure on my air compressor and it’s blown up!  Followed shortly by, you idiot, it couldn’t possibly have blown up, for goodness’ sake.  Followed thereafter by, WTH *was* that?  So, I confirmed that the air compressor was indeed intact.  Check.  Unplugged it.  Check.  Surveyed the garage.  Tried the garage door opener.  Aha.  Something was amiss.  It would try to open, and then give up.  I pulled the dangling cord, which it turns out is a safety/quick release thingy for manual operation, but then didn’t know what to do to re-engage it.  Bah.  Don’t laugh.  I’ve never done this before.  I got the manual out, read it, and learned how to re-engage the safety, and to run the diagnostic.  Only the diagnostic didn’t diagnose anything.  And the thing wouldn’t work.  And my car was inside.  And I was supposed to collect my kids shortly.  So I pulled the cord again and tried to lift the door.  Holy CRAP, that’s a heavy door.  And it wouldn’t catch and stay open, so it was a very hazardous door.  Bah!  I got a step ladder to prop it open, but it wasn’t tall enough for my car to clear, so I had to get my whiz bang extension ladder thingy and adjust it so that it could prop open the door, and maneuver the other ladder out while maneuvering the taller ladder in, all without hurting myself.  Mission accomplished.  Remember, I’m sporting my fresh flesh wounds, so this whole endeavor was strenuous and unpleasant.

Anyhow, after getting my car out, putting the garage door back, and consulting my friend Google, I learned that there are two torsion springs and they have a limited life span and one had just expired.  So the big bang was the spring breaking.  It felt good to have an explanation.  It calmed me down considerably.  Truth be told, though, my first impulse was to call a man.  But I could only think of Gadget and Skills while in that state of mind, and the last person in the world I want to talk to is Gadget, especially after yesterday’s fine turn of events, and seeking help from Skills would have been awkward, though he might possibly have answered had I called, and he might have even helped.  I decided to man up, get over my sexist impulse and see how far I could get on my own.  And I managed.  Afterward, I thought of at least three coworkers who I’m sure would have helped right away, had I had the presence of mind to call them.  But I managed.

So.  There it is.  I would rather not have to trouble my pretty little head with figuring things like this out, and I’d rather not get my pretty little hands all dirty and greasy and grimy, and get myself all sweaty and bruised and cut.  I’d so much rather be a girly girl!

But sometimes a girl does what a girl’s got to do.

I can’t be broken.  I just wanted to say it, for the record.  I can post a picture of my boobs on the internet, in the interest of self healing and self awareness.  And my deliciously squishy belly, in the interest of self acceptance.  But I can’t be broken.  I know this, because I know from where all my intentions spring, and I mean well to all and for all, regardless of how it may play out.  I know this, as well, because in the face of direct onslaught, I still receive blessings of all forms from all sides.  The sun is shining and all is well.  There may be unpleasantness that I have to walk through, but the sun is still shining on me.  So I will continue holding my head high, and I will keep smiling.

Meanwhile, I may have to lawyer up.  But I can do that, if I have to.

And I won’t let one man’s colossal lack of testicular fortitude keep me from believing in the goodness of people in general and men in particular.

I’m not sure how well I can shield the children from their father’s lack of redeeming qualities.  I want for them to grow up with respect for him, but he leaves very little room for such things to be possible.