Whiny complaining

My father is better and has gone home, and it has left a gaping hole. Even while he was here, it was incredibly lonely, but at least I had so much to do that I wasn't aware of how lonely I was. I ended up dropping just about everything to take care of him, and now I have to reassemble my life and it is really hard.

I said, in frustration, "I hate my life." But I realized what I meant is that I am deeply disappointed by my life. And when I realized that, I sat down and started crying.

Nothing has turned out the way I hoped. I know, objectively, how lucky I am. I know how many people would kill for my job. It doesn't change the fact that my resentment and how I'm treated there is slowly turning to rage. I can't say anything when I'm mistreated, and it eats away at me.

That, of course, is nothing compared to the fact that I'm lonely to my bones.

I still miss John every single day. Isn't that pathetic? I know that I never actually knew him, because the man I thought I knew wouldn't have treated me like that. But it doesn't change the fact that I loved him. I still do.

I decided I wasn't going to write about anyone until we got to a second date, and that is why, there's been nothing about any of the men I've gone out with. Not about the only man since John I liked, who said "you're lovely. I have a lovely time" and never spoke to me again. Not about the 3 men who were very dominant and very grabby and just kind of freaked me out. I watched the way the men treated me, thinking "3 years ago I would have been turned on" and I have less and less tolerance for each one successively. By the last one I actually got to the point where I cut the date short and told him I wouldn't go out with him again. I was proud of myself for doing it, but would have been prouder if I hadn't let him kiss me, out of politeness several times. But when he got too grabby I told him to stop it (several times) and when he told me to kiss him I said no. So clearly I'm learning to not be (as) submissive with the assholes. Even if I keep wishing I'd find someone worth submitting too.

I don't know where I go from here. It is all I can do not to quit my job. This isn't sustainable. I'm going to go to some country soon (in part for vacation, but it will be one where I can buy xanax over the counter--foreigners tends to think Americans take a lot of drugs, but I can't wonder if it is because we're all waiting till we're in their countries to buy them).

I have 2 wonderful friends and several more good friends. But I clearly need something more. Much more.

Spring Forward, Fall Back

Well, dad left the rehab center to go home today. I'm exhausted and burnt out. And in a way I didn't expect, it was incredibly lonely.

This sense of being really good at taking care of him, and wanting someone to take care of that isn't my dad--a partner, a child, someone of my generation or the next, not the last.

The experience made me have all the cliched realizations about not taking life for granted.

But it also made me feel old. That and my 25th high school reunion (which I missed cause of dad's surgery).

And I have this weird, weird thing of feeling like I missed youth. I don't look back on youth with any sentimentality. But it makes me sad for what I missed.

Fall always feels like the start of a new year--maybe I didn't get over school. I want to find some way to get out of this rut. I realize that I don't necessarily want to have kids--I was sort of starting to think of my own life as a failure and that if I had kids, I could give them opportunities that I didn't have--mostly the opportunity to believe they could accomplish something great.

My brother went for a job offer and he didn't like the terms and he said "Look--I'm top shelf--I deserve better than this" and I was shocked because I've never thought of anyone in our family as top shelf. Good, yes. Top 1% of the population, probably, in terms of brains, but not the top .00001%. And I keep feeling like if I can't both get in that and also believe I'm in that, I haven't got a chance.

Venting

I'm having a hard time keeping everything together.

I think not sleeping through the night (my dad is calling me for help in the middle of the night each night, and I'm not getting back to sleep the way I thought I would, and I don't want him to know I'm not getting back to sleep), and that seems to be making me resentful. I got 3 hours of sleep last night. In desperation, I just took a xanax--we'll see if I get to sleep soon. (I'm going to have to go to some other country soon, or maybe the internet--I'm running out of xanax and my doctor wouldn't give me even 2 mg a month.)

I have to say, the thing that pisses me off, mostly, is the gender inequities. I have not complained a word to anyone about any of this. My official line is that I'm enjoying having time with my dad. My unofficial line is why the fuck do I have to wait till my dad is horribly sick and I'm the only one who can take care of him to have some time with him? He's already schedule a fun vacation with my brother. Like he does most years. My brother was great when this first happened, but after 3 days, he was cranky and resentful and exhausted.

And my brother, who everyone thinks is just a wonderful man, gets to be wonderful on 3 days of help (while my dad was in the hospital, btw, so he wasn't doing the level of care I am). My parents are appreciative of me--but the world isn't. My brother gets his pick of fabulous girlfriends and I get a cat who doesn't even seem to like me right now. I have to get her stoned for her to let me pet her.

And I'm SO lonely!!! I keep a happy face up for my dad. And then at night, going to bed alone, I cry myself to sleep. I don't know what is wrong with me.

The man I liked so much disappeared. The young-un is work. I'm bored by him. I feel like in 10 years he'll be a great guy, but how do I stay interested for 10 years?

But I ache for a partner. To curl up in bed with someone, his arms around me. I had a massage yesterday, and the masseuse moved my hair out of my face, and she was so gentle, I almost cried.

My ex--in our relationship, it was like 80/20; and the crazy thing is, if he hadn't been pushing for 100-0--I might have been able to live with it. I probably couldn't have lived with his resentment about the fact that I wanted orgasms at least half the time we had sex. But I probably could have lived with the rest, if he'd appreciate the fact that I did all the cooking, cleaning, shopping and laundry.

He actually told me after he broke up that he wanted someone who did it without being so needy about appreciation and he thought he deserved that. (Need I mention that we split expenses 50/50? It isn't like his 'job' was to support us and my 'job' was to take care of the house.) And what's more bizarre--he seems to have found it. He has been with this current gal since November, and hasn't bothered to take down his dating profile. I can't imagine a woman ever getting away with that.

Salon.com had a great piece today, reviewing new 'reality' tv shows, about fat gals dating an even fatter guy:

Obviously size is a central issue in these women's lives. But if you took a
group of medium-size single women in their 20s and asked them the same questions
about how successful they've been at finding love, you'd hear variations on the
same theme. Average-looking women would claim that their cute friends get all
the guys. Women with incredible figures would worry that men only like them for
their big racks. Women with advanced degrees would say that men reject them
because they're smart and successful. Assertive women would claim that men don't
like assertiveness while timid women would say that they're too shy to charm
good men.

The real problem is that most men in their 20s aren't all that
serious about finding love, period. They would not like it in a boat, they would
not, could not, with a goat. Sadly, though, instead of identifying the real
cause -- flinchy, commitment-phobic young men -- most women assume that there's
some fatal flaw that prevents them from finding true love.

But it doesn't seem to me like men in their 30s are any different. And I'm just so lonely.

A Traditional Housewife

I'm turning into a 1950s, Donna-Reed-style housewife.

I wake up early, make my dad breakfast, make his bed, do the dishes, make his lunch and send him off to the hospital. Then I go back to sleep. I shop, cook, clean. I plan his meals, with low-sugar and low-animal-fat treats, to try and make sure he's enjoying anything that is healthy. I even polished the friggin silver--all of it. (My dad helped, like a child would help--I put the materials out for him at a table, so he could sit, but then I washed everything and did the edges when he wasn't looking.) At night, after he goes to sleep, I clean up everything and sometimes make his breakfast if he isn't going out for the day.

Of course, we have no sex or physical contact (other than hugs, and I give him footrubs, backrubs and hand rubs), and sleep in separate rooms, but I suppose that isn't that different from a 1950s housewife either!

Of course I have my projects. I'm working from home mostly till he gets finished, but I'm only working part-time. It could be 1950s charity work--it isn't that different.

The funny thing is, I don't mind it. I like taking care of him. I like anticipating his needs and keeping him as comfortable as possible.

Everyone I know is shocked at how good care I'm taking of him--I can't really imagine who wouldn't do what I've done. Of course I'm lucky to be able to work less hours for a few months and not worry about my job, but who wouldn't do what I'm doing?

I wonder if I wouldn't have been happy as a housewife. I like taking care of people. This is, of course very different in a way because my dad is extraordinarily grateful to me. He sees this as my home, and he's a guest in my home. He goes out of his way to appreciate what I'm doing. And I'm his primary source of company, so there isn't a huge amount of loneliness. But I also feel like I would have been a good wife and mother. I spose it isn't too late, but ever since John disappeared, I've felt like I probably won't have kids, at least. Something is wrong with me. I seem to send out anti-men vibes. Or at least anti-a-woman-I'd-treat-with-respect,-lust,-and-kindness vibes.

Demented with Inferiority

Not sure why, but I had a really rough day today. There are several things that could have spawned it, but mostly I'm disappointed about Friday guy. I don't know what the hell is wrong with me that a man could think I'm lovely, have a lovely time, after what I thought was just a marvelous evening, and he does not want to see me again. And John was also perfectly content to disappear into the ether. Whatever women have that makes men fall for them, I'm lacking it. A lot of men think it would be cool to have me. John said on a number of occasions: "You would be quite a catch." But he never wanted to catch me. Maybe sometime in the future. Always some time in the future. I'm missing whatever "it" is.

Everyone says what a wonderful daughter I am. I'm quite surprised by how many people are surprised that I would organize my life for a few months to take care of my dad. I can't imagine doing otherwise. I don't understand that care-taking I have for my dad (and I'm taking really wonderful care of him) doesn't extend over into other relationships. I would take good care of a partner. I really would. I feel like Audra McDonald in 110 in the Shade: I have so much I want to give. I don't understand what is wrong with me that no one wants it.

Being a relatively minor inferiority attack (although I'm going to splurge on half a xanax--I better travel to Ecuador soon, or I won't have any left!), I can feel its contours better than the overwhelming kind.

It is primarily centered as a tightness in my chest and a more shallow breathing. I usually breathe to my abdomen, but right now I'm only breathing to about 3 inches below my chest.

Tears dwell under the surface. I haven't cried, but I could if pushed the right way.

That's it for the physical. If this were more intense, I'd be breathing heavier, tears would be closer to the surface.

I'm talking a little higher-pitched than I usually do. But other than that, I've hit it well. No one has asked me if anything is wrong.

But there's this sense of despair and inferiority. It isn't like a panic attack where I get flushed, and can feel my heart beating in my cheeks and my throat constrict. This is a more subtle depression, a hopelessness. A dementor from Harry Potter, if you will.

Where do I go?

....follow the river. Where do I go? Follow the gulls? Where is the
something? Where is the someone? That tells me why I live and die?

It really was a fabulous date on Friday. And Saturday he e-mailed me at noon to say:

I had a lovely time meeting you last night, and I think you are a lovely
person.
Thanks!

What is that? Is that a rejection letter? A very nice, very sweet one, but there is something dismissive about it. But my girlfriend said I was being crazy and so I e-mailed him back about 5 hours later, a note telling him that I had a lovely dinner and it had been a while since I'd had such good conversation. And my phone number (which he had asked me for a number of times). So of course he disappeared. Maybe he'll reappear, but given the rate of our previous correspondence, I doubt it.

Ah, well. I really don't understand men. At all.

But the evening also spoiled the young 'un for me. I'm going to keep seeing him, but I ache, crave that kind of intellectual stimulation of equals. I hadn't experienced that since "John" (who seems to have gotten his life back together, but he has not contact me. I'm glad he got his life back together. I'm glad I know. It makes it easier to close that door.)

It also helped me realize how empty that aspect of my life is, and that I don't necessarily want a kid to fill that emptiness. I need a purpose again, but it doesn't have to be a family. I need to stop treading water. The connection doesn't have to be with a sexual partner, but I crave someone that is excited by what excites me, or at least my excitement. That will explore nuances and share ideas. That is, I think, why I've stopped my writing for my career. It became so lonely without anyone who ever wanted to read what I wrote.

I don't know how that has happened. 3 of my closest friends have book contracts. Two of my other friends are writing a book and 'the great American play.' But the only thing they'll read is my light fiction. The kind of stuff I used to love writing, I don't have anyone I share it with. I need to find people who will share my intellectual life.

Intellectual Fellowship

I had SO much fun with this man tonight. We had a lot of similar interests in common, from different enough points of view that there wasn't any competition there, and it was exciting!

I realized that, at least part of the reason that I've been procrastinating so much is that I really miss having an intellectual community. In graduate school, I had a community of peers with whom I could share ideas, who would care about ideas. But I don't have that now. Writing becomes lonely when I've no one to share it with, other than random rejections from faceless strangers.

I don't know if he'll call me. Actually, I do know he won't call me because he doesn't have my phone number. But, I hope he e-mails me. I think he will--he gave me his business card and said I could google him all I like. I really felt alive with this man. And he is SO darn successful in his own field, I could just relax and not worry about being intimidating or dominating the conversation. If anything, I would hope I would bring enough to the relationship. But then I'm a decade younger--that should count for something, right? I probably talked a little too much, but there were enough things about him that I found exciting that I just felt like I came alive.

And it helped me realize how much I've missed that. The only problem is, I don't know where to find it.

Muscle Memory

This seems to be my week for dating--4 guys in 7 days. So far, the young man (Will), is the only prospect, although the one tonight has me intrigued.

Yesterday I went out with a man who picked up my submissive tendencies (back in January, and I kind of blew him off, then I forgot why I'd blown him off and agreed to go out with him before I realized it probably wasn't a good idea). He pushed for dominance, and it repelled me. I could see that 3 years ago, I would have melted into his arms. He pushed just hard enough to make me very uncomfortable, but not so hard to make me slap him. And yesterday, I was turned on (if you define that by damp panties). But that was 20% of my reaction. The rest was a screaming "This is not a safe man for you" that ran into my bones, into my muscles, into the fiber of my being. I told him I wasn't comfortable and he said "I'm not into pain--you had too much pain, that isn't me."

That was true, as far as it went, but it was an intellectual response to this emotional clutching. I wasn't strong enough to tell him to stop it, but I knew from 15 minutes in, or so, that I would not see him again.

I used to do gymnastics and we had to do something over and over and over to learn "muscle memory," so our muscles knew it was safe. The first time you do a trick on the balance beam, you are all in your head--you can't think about what you're doing--it is all about not falling. And once it is in your muscles, it is easy. Of course you can do it. It is safe, it is home. I seem to have had the opposite experience, but it is just as powerful a visceral, instinctual response of anything in gymnastics ever was.

I don't miss being submissive, but I do miss that pure eroticism, that hunger, that instinctual way of being. If I could get back in touch with that sexuality without submission, I'd love it.

I used to have a sex-drive like a teenage boy. I was insatiable. I was frankly concerned when my ex and I stopped having sex twice a day and started only having sex once a day. I wanted more.

But the only way I've known that hunger was through submission. Now I seem to be turning into a much more typical American woman in her late 30s. Cuddling, yes. Kissing, sure. Sex, when he wants it.

Maybe someday I'll find someone who can command that side of me, who can help me let go of the learned muscle memory and back to the primordial desire. John could have, but he never did. And maybe I won't. Maybe I'll be a vanilla woman who isn't all that sensual. It seems a waste, but I suppose it just makes me more like most other women.

Moving on?

I'd like to pretend I've moved on, but the angst-ridden draft in my g-mail account, which I sent 3 times and hit "undo" 3 times (google has a new feature that lets you undo any send for up to 5 seconds after you've sent it), well, I haven't moved one. I almost sent it. I wish he'd read it on my blog and reply because it feels like such a taboo to contact him. Here's what I almost sent:

They're good photos.

I hope you're doing OK.

I miss you in the marrow of my bones, and I realize I have no sense of who
you really are. The man I thought I knew wouldn't have hurt me so
casually. But I know you got clobbered--everything all at once. And I
don't think you had any clue how badly I've been hurting or you would have tried
to cauterize. It was my fault too--my fear of friendship with you was well-
grounded. I knew I might get hurt, and I thought it was worth risking
that. I shouldn't have risked what I couldn't afford.

You promised once, as we were walking, on the North-East corner of the
lake, that if you were ever clear about us not working, you would tell me and
not just disappear.

Tell me. Please. I need to hear it. Silence isn't kindness. I'm not moving on. I know you aren't holding on to me. It is all my fault, and I'm so stupid. Tell me that it will
never work, and why, and help me find a bit of peace and closure and wish you
all the best and move on.

So as I was writing this, biting on a pillow to keep from disturbing my dad in the next room, the guy I might be seeing called me, and I put on my fake happy voice and we talked for half an hour.

What the hell is wrong with me? This guy is a decade younger than me, but incredibly mature for his age. He is sweet. He wants to get married (not to me, yet--he isn't insane--but he's open and wanting that sort of commitment). We are both writing novels. He'd like to write one together--whatever my idea is--he's in. And he adores me. He calls me every night and text messages me during the day. And I had nothing to say to him. A mile wide and an inch deep.

If John and I were friends, he'd be the person I'd be talking to about my dad's cancer, and my fear about my dad's cancer, and what is going on living with my dad and all the shit that is so personal and vulnerable. The substance would be there.

Not that I can compare the 20-something (let's call him Will)--it isn't fair. I've known Will for a couple of weeks. How could I compare him to John? How could I compare anyone to John? How the hell can I move on, when I keep comparing men to John?

And maybe I am looking for a man who is emotionally unavailable. Sometimes I think John disappeared because we were getting close and it scared him. I've gone over and over what I did wrong, and I don't think I did anything wrong. It feels like he manufactured a couple of silly fights to push me away, and when it didn't work, he disappeared.

I'm trying not to repeat my pattern of getting bored with a nice man who likes me. But I certainly haven't stopped dating other men. When he said he was pulling his profile off of OKcupid, I was like "why?" I went out with another guy on Sunday and am seeing a third guy on Thursday and phoning a fourth guy tomorrow. I play hard to get so well when I'm not as interested. Why can't I let go of John and focus on Will. Who will like me? Who will show up? Who won't immediately disappear. Who will follow me around? And will hang on my words and won't challenge me or disappoint me? I want challenge, but maybe I need to let go of that. A partner who can match me may be too much to ask for.

Wishing for Closure

So, I wrote John an e-mail. Very simple:

I hope you are doing OK and life is finding some semblance of normal.
I know you got hit really hard.

I think we both realize that we wanted different things from each
other. I've tried to move on without involving you, but I seem to be
stuck. If you have any sense of what happened, why, I would appreciate
closure.

I think it is a good e-mail, but after I got a major panic attack. But here's the bizarre thing: I didn't send it. I hit "save draft" so think about sending it, and it gave me a panic attack.

I want closure, for lots of things. I want happy closure for my dad--a clean bill of health that says "you will be well--what we were worried about is not going to happen; you will be well." I want to see Cheney and Bush and Rove and John Yoo and Judge Bybee in jail. Closure. Tying up the loose ends.

But I keep yearning for closure with John in a way that feels like it is keeping me from moving fully forward. Wanting my dad to be well, that feels totally normal. My aching for closure with John, it feels neurotic. One step away from Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. I know that my behavior, outside of this blog and what I've inflicted on my girlfriends, has been somewhat normal (I may have sent a few too many e-mails at the end, but he was having a rough time and several of my friends, whom I trusted, thought I owed him more than I sent, although they've all since taken to roundly criticizing him, which I hate because it means I end up defending him, when I'm too hurt to want to take his side), but my feelings have not been normal.

I wish he would e-mail and say "It's not me; it's you. I'm sorry--you deserve bettered, but I know it could never be with me." Or even "Hey--look--you were right. I just wasn't attracted to you. And, again, you were right--I hoped I would be, because it would have been nice to be with someone a little less crazy for once, but I wasn't attracted to you. And when I realized that something elusive was missing, I should have told you instead of just disappearing. But I figured it would hurt you to confirm the insecurities that I knew you had. I didn't want to be the one to tell you that you are right--you aren't lovable, at least not to me, and I figured you'd take that to mean you aren't lovable at all" Or something. Whatever it was. Something to put a period on the end of the sentence.


The things is, I loved him. And I still do, a little. I seem to be incapable of just getting pissed off, putting an easy label on it and moving on. I'm excellent at doing that people I've never cared about, but once I've cared about someone, I always see the good as well as the bad and the extenuating circumstances.


Back in college, I took a little, cheap, non-greyhound bus, overnight, to a large city that a friend lived about an hour from. The bus stop wasn't the greyhound one, but when I had given her the address, she hadn't written it down, thinking she knew where the bus stop was. This was long before ubiquitous cell phones defined our communication, and my friend was 5 hours late. 5 hours. I was frustrated, and when she arrived, I started to take her head off, until I realized, she'd spend the last 5 and a half hours driving around looking for me. She was nearly frantic and she also felt bad, and I had just made it worse by not thinking through her side before I let my temper get the better of me. I can still see her face, her car, the 3 super-big-gulps she'd drunk in her dazed attempt to find me. And somehow, I learned that lesson too well--I instinctively come up with extenuating circumstances that explain someone else's behavior. I almost never judge people I love. I have no problem immediately judging Republican politicians. But maybe if I could be even minorly capable of judging. Of judging John. Intellectually, I think he treated me badly. Emotionally, I can't believe that he would hurt me like that, unless he had a good reason, even as my intellect laughs at the justification. None of which brings me closer to my search for closure. And I've sort of accepted that he won't help with that. I expect it will take me falling for another guy to get over him, and I fear that not being over him will prevent any other guy from being in the vicinity.

The Bitchy Swan

A minister for the church I used to attend died, and I went to the funeral yesterday. There were some people there I haven't seen for 10 years, and most I hadn't seen for a couple. With a few exceptions, most of the women had become mothers and had gained an average of maybe 40 pounds each and they had gotten definitely middle aged. We were a young congregation. At the same time, they had warm, open, joyous faces with a sense of groundness and wisdom. People, for the most part, that I would go out of my way to spend time with. Lovely people.

People were so sweet to me. I was at least a decade younger than most of them, and one of the guys came up and said "you were the baby of the group, and you've grown up SO beautifully! Look at you!" And everyone said how good I looked, and I knew it was true, compared to how I looked then.

But it felt hollow. I had lost about 40 pounds since I saw these people regularly. And I was the only person, in a room of about 100, who wore make-up. (Oddly enough, I was one of the only people wearing black, but that wasn't for fashion--I always thought you wore black to a funeral, but a lot of people were wearing red and pink--it made me feel like my black was weirdly fashionable instead of appropriately somber.) Anyway, I would not go out of my way to get to know me. Maybe once I got to know me, I'd think I was OK under the mascara, eye-liner and little black dress, but my initial reaction of me wouldn't be someone I'd want to get to know. And I think 10 years ago, I probably would have been more likely to want to get to know me.

Maybe not--my youthful enthusiasm had a tendency to talk to much, but too excited, too intense, not always leave room for the other person. Very rarely it still does, but less and less because I don't let her out to play anymore. I know that that side annoyed even John, who in some ways knew me better than anyone, and so if John didn't like her, no one would.

But there is a loss even there--I'm less spontaneous, less open. More reserved.

I think I'm turning more into what men are interested in. Or supposedly interested in. My original title for this blog was going to be "The Ugly Duckling," and even my parents would say "yeah--you were, but you aren't any more." The problem is, I don't really love whom I'm becoming. I feel fake. And I'm scared that even if this new persona does the trick, and I meet someone I like, who is also interested in me, will I be able to accept that? Will I test him to prove what I'm really like? Want him to see the tough chick who can build her own bookshelves and change her own oil? I like being a girly girl about a third of the time. But what if I get trapped as a girly girl? "The little, helpless woman." The good news is, I'd never be cute enough to be a trophy wife, and I'm true enough to myself that I can't be with someone I don't like; I'd change both those if I could, but they will also protect me a great deal.

It was just so shocking to look across this room of lovely warm people and realize I wouldn't classify me with them. They had an openness, an authenticity. Most of them were wearing Birkenstocks. Comfortable in their own skin, laid back. And there was me, trying to be aware of my posture. How funny that I never fit in growing up because I was too much in the laid-back, Birkenstocks category, and now I don't fit in with the people I like more because I'm too accepting of the mainstream.

My Heart Bleeds for Iran

A young girl in Iran writes:

I will participate in the demonstrations tomorrow. Maybe they will turn violent. Maybe I will be one of the people who is going to get killed. I'm listening to all my favorite music. I even want to dance to a few songs. I always wanted to have very narrow eyebrows. Yes, maybe I will go to the salon before I go tomorrow! There are a few great movie scenes that I also have to see. I should drop by the library, too. It's worth to read the poems of Forough and Shamloo again. All family pictures have to be reviewed, too. I have to call my friends as well to say goodbye. All I have are two bookshelves which I told my family who should receive them. I'm two units away from getting my bachelors degree but who cares about that. My mind is very chaotic. I wrote these random sentences for the next generation so they know we were not just emotional and under peer pressure. So they know that we did everything we could to create a better future for them. So they know that our ancestors urrendered to Arabs and Mongols but did not surrender to despotism. This note is dedicated to tomorrow's children... (translated at http://niacblog.wordpress.com/2009/06/19/live-blogging-fridays-events-in-iran/)

I feel so helpless, and yet a sense of great solidarity. This young lady knows what she faces tomorrow. I wish I could protect her, support her, something. I read the blogs vociferously. I open YouTube videos, more than I have time to watch, in all these windows at once. Hoping, against hope that the ayatollahs will see that millions of people are watching, know the world is watching, and not do this horrible thing they do.

And my life seems so trivial in comparison. My dad has moved in with me. I'm taking good care of him. I've been obnoxious enough (and his condition is serious enough) that things keep getting pushed up. I'm scared for him. There may be microscopic cancer in his lungs already. I watch from afar, unable to do anything constructive. As I download YouTube videos for Iran, which I know is a meaningless gesture, I make pots of tea and salads and organic brown rice and lentils for my dad, which is another meaningless gesture. I can no longer stop the possible cancer in my dad's lungs than I can stop the possible massacre in Iraq tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day for Iran. 6 months will decide for my dad. Maybe my heart is breaking for Iran so it doesn't break quite so much for my dad. I feel helpless on all fronts.

Daddy's Girl

There's this huge shift happening under my feet. I'm still dad's girl, but now, I'm the grown up. I'm the one deciding where to go for treatment, and since one of the top 6 cancer centers is miles from me, he's moving in with me. And I'm buying stuff he needs--I'm helping financially support my parents for the first time in my life.

My parents came to me yesterday and asked me to be the sort of mastermind behind this--plan everything, keep track of everything. I'm talking with the doctors, making appointments, keeping track of what we need. We now have project manager software on-line with to-do lists for everyone. I brainstorm stuff that would be useful, so everyone has something they can do when they want it so they are contributing when they need something to fill the void.

I'm scared. Really scared. And I'm totally hiding it.

The only information I can find on prognosis says 40%, but that was published in 1992, so I know things have to have gotten much better since then. Elizabeth Edwards. Elizabeth Edwards. Elizabeth Edwards, I keep telling myself and my parents. I didn't even tell my parents the 40% number until someone else did. 17 year old data, based on 27 years old medical procedures (10 year survival rates) doesn't feel relevant. But I was glad someone else did, because they were just going to go to their home-town place which doesn't even have someone who knows this stuff.

And here's the trivial thing. I'm sposed to have a date tonight. I haven't cancelled. There's nothing I can do in that three-hour chunk. Why now? But, what do I do? Do I tell him and fall into one of the "what not to do"s on the list of things gals shouldn't do? Do I not tell him, and basically, in my opinion, lie? I like this guy--the first one I've liked in a while (aside from the +15 who was just too old for me), but the timing is off.

Am I saying the timing is off because I don't want to let John go completely? I still miss John. As crazy as that is. Or am I sabotaging this because I like emotionally unavailable men? I mean, the timing really seems off. But I'll probably go, and be open, and see how he responds. Can't say, "my dad is moving in with me for the summer for chemo and surgery" is a great pick-up line. My gut feeling is that, all things considered, someone would want to get to know me before I drop that little bombshell. I value openness and authenticity, but I think it can be too much, too soon. But this is such a huge part of my mental landscape at the moment that to not share would be, in essence, to lie.

The C word...

It is amazing how quickly life can lurch from the trivial obsessions that cloud my judgement to the important, and what seemed so urgent only days ago now seems trite.

This morning, when I woke up, the worst news I could imagine came through. I knew my dad hadn't been feeling way, but it seemed something weird--I hadn't taken it seriously. And then they woke me up (they're 3 hours ahead of me) and delivered the c-word.

Cancer.

I wasn't even awake--it came through the sort of half awake, not sure what's going on, no clarity.
How can all that be contained in those 6 little letters. And perhaps worse to come--we'll know tomorrow. I always thought cancer was the worst news you could get. If it is metastasized....

And I'm the strong one. My mother is trying to be strong for me dad when she's with him, and then I'm there for her whenever my dad needs a break. And they're all the way across the country.

My dad cried on the phone with me. The only other time I remember my dad crying is when John Lennon was killed. My grandma died a year ago--how can my dad be facing this now?

And for me--I want to drop everything and run over and be with them.

And yet, my mind runs back to the trivial--I have this incredible guilt that I haven't given him a grandchild. I always thought my brother would because he was open about wanting a family, and he's incredibly good looking, but he breaks up with women when they become less perfect. He seems to be beginning to identify the pattern and maybe address it, but so far, my father has no possibilities of having a grand added to his name. It seems the least I could do, especially since I think I want to anyway. And if I do it in 10 years and he is gone--he wanted a grandchild so much--WANTS--I can't believe I just used past-tense--anyway he wants a grandchild more than just about anything. But really, there was no one I could have done that with. But if only I had been softer, thinner, less opinionated, more feminine, all the things my dad wanted me to be... Now he'd say I'm just fine the way I am, he wouldn't change me at all. But if I could only have been the things he thought, I expect he'd have grandkids by now. Not that I can live my life that way, not that I should even think that, but all the same.

I've been wearing make-up every single day since John disappeared. At first it was because it kept me from bursting into tears in public. Somehow the feel of the make-up on my face, which I've always hated, reminded me, distanced me, it actually became a mask that also seemed to protect me. Once I stopped wanting to burst into tears, I've kept it up, figuring if I want men to approach me, maybe I should give visual cues that I want men to approach me. Maybe all the stuff women do, that I've always thought of as trite and superficial, and annoying and stupid--maybe they are the human species cues that the individual member of the species is interested in mating. Today, my mascara ran down my face. And that was OK. Someone was very kind to me at work, asked what was wrong. And while I always eschew any public displays of emotion, I send something along the lines of "sorry--my dad has cancer, and I found out a couple of hours ago, but it just hit me" and the visual cue of the running mascara, as silly as it seemed, she was far kinder to me than I think she would have been otherwise, or maybe I was more vulnerable. I don't know.

I want to be able to do something, to help in some way other than having some flowers and a couple of books sent to him (first time I've ever used amazon's overnight shipping!)--something. I feel so helpless and so alone. I clutch my cats closer to me in bed tonight--they, of course, have claws. I wish I could do something other than wait and hope that I don't hear the m-word tomorrow.

Trivial Pursuit

So the funny thing is, right before I'm about to hit the official "middle-age" mark, I've sort of become a little more conventionally attractive. Not a lot. I'll never be a "10"--but let's say I'm somewhere around the 7.5 mark, so so.

All my life, I've been treated poorly because of being fat. Sometimes from just being ignored, sometimes malicious, sometimes abusive.

And now I'm still 'plump'--but I'm thinner and the rest of me is attractive enough that it makes a difference.

And now there are men who are nice to me only because they think I'm cute. I despise them. It is this visceral response that I can't believe this is so important to them, and why did the world treat me like shit for so long.

Not exactly a good start for a relationship.

It doesn't help that I figure I have maybe 5 years before the world starts to view me as middle aged. I think I'll be lucky and get 8, but I won't have 10. I know that. Although in five years I may very well try to cheat the number with Restalyne.

Do you remember in the 80s when Trivial Pursuit became the thing to do? Everywhere, people were playing this game. And I sucked at it. It was no fun because I was so bad--I tried to get it and just couldn't care. So I got left out while other people played this and I'd watch them, trying to figure out why it was fun for them--but it was like watching my dog chase her tail--I just don't get it.

That's sort of how I've always felt about beauty--why does this matter? Why should this one thing be so important? To me, it felt like it should be like being double-jointed, but it felt like it is the only way worth is defined.

Lately, I've felt like beauty is a trick--you have to be pretty enough so the guy will get to know you and not mind that you're not a vacuous pin-up, because I feel like that's what men want. Stupid, giggly, incompetent girls. But if you're beautiful, he might not mind if I'm opinionated and intellectually focused and relatively independent and all that. I don't need a man to kill a spider or change a light bulb--I crave a man to explore the world, support me when I'm scared, push me to take risks and always have my back. And I'd support him, push him to take risks and always have his back. And he'd know there were areas I was as smart (or smarter) than him, and I'd know there were areas he was smarter than me, and we'd respect those elements. And at the end of the day, he'd give me that look, and I'd fall to my knees, and he'd have his way with me.

But if you're not pretty--nothing else I ever do will make up for that. The world will disdain you. And now that I'm almost 40, I know it will only get worse from here.

And I hate that that is how the world is made.

Twenty years ago, I thought I could change the world. And I tried. And tried and tried. And I failed. (What a shock, no?)

And now I've been trying to change me enough to get what I want. Not to judge what I feel and think, but just to take it as it is.

I wish I could take a pill and become a lesbian, but I'm just not attracted to women. Or most men.

And it seems SO unfair to me. John's most recent ex--I think I'm move conventionally attractive that she was, and yet she clearly had something that I don't. I think it was that she needed to be rescued.

And that's the kicker. I don't know why John ended up not wanting me. But it wasn't my looks. Being rejected for my looks, it hurts so badly. It isn't fair. But it is easy. It is a clear little narrative that explains away the pain and leaves me relatively blameless. John clearly thought I was attractive (and he took lots of pictures of me that proved that). And yet he didn't love me. Couldn't love me. Couldn't even be attracted to me. I can't let the looks thing become a narrative that prevents me from figuring out what else is going on.

And I can't allow myself to be bitter or angry. I have to look at the issue, without judging men for how they are, or me, and let it just sort of be and try to find the best I can out of how it is, not how I wish it could be.

Picture Perfect

It's a gorgeous photo--almost iconic. And I could never have taken it before John's careful tutelage. Even though I don't have an SLR, even though I took it at night, I got a low ISO for good resolution, a low aperture and did a good job hand-holding it. Then, as I whispered "I wish there was a bit more fog" and heard a voice say in my ear "the photographer can control everything in the picture" god must have blown in a bit more fog so the top just disappears in the fog and poof. A beautiful picture.

So good, I can't quite believe what I have on my camera. And I promptly burst into tears, on the street, in public, mascara and all.

I ached to show it to John. He would have been pleased and told me my pride is well deserved. No one else will really care. Oh, sure--if I post it on facebook someone will say "nice job" -- but they won't realize that just because you can buy postcards of very similar shots, doesn't mean it is easy to do something like that.

I suppose if Jason hadn't disappeared (what the fuck is it with me and men just disappearing? I should get a job managing modern-day Houdinis! I guess I should have talked sexy more quickly after all), maybe I wouldn't have been so susceptible. I've been doing good. Clearly not good enough, though.

I feel pathetic. Why the fuck can't I get over this and move on? But move on to what? That's the real problem. I have no over-arching passions at the moment. I've been reading a great book, but when it is done, well, not much to be excited about. I'm feeling like my creative life is a failure, my political involvement is now moot, and there seems little chance of meeting someone. I feel like I should accept reality, but accepting it feels a form of defeat.

I'm trying to write a short story to submit to one of my favorite magazines, and the story is good (something that happened in real life that is a little more dramatic and less vulnerable than my typical blog entries)--but I can't find an ending for it. Same with more and more blog entries. I end up not hitting the "publish" button because artistically I want an "end," a lesson, a moral, an upbeat note--something that makes it fell complete. I want that for my life too, but the only ways to get that are nihilistic. I keep living in Checkoff, wishing for Jane Austen, but rejecting Sartre. Checkoff is better than Sartre. But only barely.

Possibilities

It is very odd. OKCupid is the only dating site I'm on right now, and as I've become less gracious, more men have been interested. They keep track as to whether you 'reply frequently,' 'reply selectively' or 'reply very selectively.' I used to send polite notes to earnest men I wasn't interested in like "Thanks for you nice note, but I'm looking for someone closer" sent to a +20 who also lived 300 miles away, that sort of thing. Anyway, I've stopped doing that and only reply to the men I'd actually want to talk to, so I'm now at 'replies very selectively' so I now get a lot more e-mails. Very odd. I guess there is something to this "playing hard to get" game. Problem is for me, it is never a game. I've been open with the men I liked and dismissive of the men I haven't.

Anyway, I'm corresponding with the first person I've been genuinely interested in a long time. We haven't met, much less accepted a second date, but I'm actually interested in someone not called John. Well, actually, this man happens to also be named "John" (not John, but he has the same name as "John," which is quite odd), but I'll call him Jason, just to keep it straight.

Anyway, "Jason's" profile has a couple of allusions to wiitwd (although nothing specifying whether he likes to lead or follow). At this point mine has none. My first inclination, of course, is to share with Jason that I did get his allusions, and while we're at it, why not mention everything else I ever shared with "John" or anything else.

And I stopped myself. We have several other things to talk about (and talking we're doing)--we're both kind of in the same field, although we've made slightly different choices, we share a hobby and several other things. So why not flirt?

I think my first view is "I want to know--if he wants to lead or follow--why waste each other's time?"

Closely under that, though, lies an insecurity that I'm too much work for a vanilla guy--only a kinky guy would want to put up with me because there are less kinky chicks around. Now, the funny thing is, I define "too much work" in this instance as being too intellectually focused, as well as my occasionally bouts of introspection. Why would he want to send me 2-page e-mails, well written and spell-checked, if he doesn't know there's a kinky chick at the end? And yet, the 2-page e-mails arrive. And they're spell-checked. ;)

I'm going to try this slowly. I want to flirt instead of blurt. We'll see how that works out.

Boring Blog: Update

Well, I seem to be blowing off a number of men.

+15 had no chemistry. His picture was probably 10 years old, and he has since gotten braces and the uncomfortablity that comes with braces. He tried to kiss me and it made my skin crawl.

+5 was an asshole. How's this for insulting (keep in mind he's 5 years older than me): "Well, if we hang out, people will think you're a cougar because I look so much younger than my age." WTF? Since when is a cougar a woman who dates men 'only' five years older than her? And, frankly, I look more younger than my age than he does. He had grey hair at his temples and wrinkles around his eyes, even when he doesn't smile.

Also, English isn't his first language, and he just wasn't fluent enough that I didn't have to work hard at understanding him.

Meanwhile, there have been several men I've been willing to chat with who all steered the conversation to sex right away. One was fine because he was upfront about it and no hard feelings when I said I didn't want that, but one really annoyed me because I felt like he was trying to play on insecurities. Maybe he wasn't, it just hit close enough to my insecurities that I felt that. I don't know.

There was a lovely man, who was 3 years younger than me, who was sending substantive e-mails, but slowly, but I thought nothing of it. Till he said he was seeing someone else and couldn't e-mail me anymore. I'm happy for him. But that made me sad. (We hadn't met yet.--It didn't feel like a rejection.)

A variety of 20-somethings who say "hey" and I ignore them.

And that's all she wrote.

Or not quite. My ex is single. He's been contacting me more, but I just found out he's single. I've thought about sleeping with him--figure it would be a quick way to get John out of my system. My sister pointed out, it would only make me want John more, for aside from the whole "emotional unavailability" thing, they are complete opposites. I think she's right. I know I don't want a relationship with the ex, but I would love to find something to take away this deep ache. Well, something that doesn't need a prescription.

Too High Standards?

When one person tells me something that doesn't feel right, I usually ignore it. When two do, I try to pay attention.

A year ago, a woman that seems to often cut me down, always from a "I'm just trying to help you" way said my standards were too high. (Or if I lost 50 pounds, they'd be OK.)

Today, my best friend said my standards are too high.

My best friend said the only thing that should matter is if he's into me. Nothing else should matter. I said that wasn't true. I told her I wanted someone who was:

• My intellectual equal--give or take. I have no intention of administering an IQ test, but if he is someone I have to constantly watch what I say so he doesn't feel (or I don't feel he might feel) like I'm smarter, it just won't work.


• Someone I share common interest with. I don't know what it would be, but I needed to have some common interest.


• Shared values. For me this means several things: not materialistic in the common sense of the word. It is totally fine if he loves some of his things, but I'd really prefer not to be with someone that has to have the latest gadgets. I think most people all judge people based on what they own. But I'd rather have someone who judges based on the word "organic" or "carbon emissions" than how much something cost or whether it is trendy.


• Someone I'm attracted to. For me, this chemistry has come either from physical surrender (which at this point would probably only be ballroom dancing, as I have no intention of going back to wiitwd) or from sharp, fast, sexy conversation, or from slower, wiser introspection and shared vulnerabilities. Those are really the only ways I have ended up being attracted to men.


• Someone who is financially independent. This doesn't mean rich. But I'd like someone who can pay his own rent and dosn't go into debt for stuff.

So my best friend thought that was an impossible list. I ended up getting really defensive after she told me I should meet someone at my gym (which has never happened and the idea sort of appals me--the gym is SUCH a meat market--I don't think I could go if I were looking at it as a pick-up joint) and then that I should move. (This seemed to come out of no where. She's right I haven't really been happy for the last few months, but I hardly think moving would solve anything.)

It made me really insecure that she thought I was asking for too much. She has an insanely handsome boyfriend (who happens to have the same name as John, so it doesn't help that she always talking about how amazingly wonderful he is and how much she loves him and how happy he's made her), and has compromised only on his height. He's the same height as she is. (I can't judge how important height is to her, because I'm 5'3" and she's 5'11", so I can totally see why that would be an issue. But there was a guy I went out with maybe 3 years ago who was my height that I would totally have dated if he wasn't so clearly looking for no strings attached.) And he works weekends. But I somehow feel like asking me to compromise on being as smart as me isn't the same thing. And, honestly, my ex probably had 20 IQ points less than me, and that really wasn't an issue--he was still as smart as me on a how it feels to be with him.

After we got off the phone, I realized I have an even longer list. What I didn't mention, but is also on my list is:

• Someone who is willing to turn the tv off. It is fine if he has shows he loves, but I can't live with tv on all the time.


• I need someone who is willing to tolerate my bouts of introspection. It would be amazing if he would share them, but toleration is a necessity.


• Someone who will, at least on occasion, be willing to see in my the parts of myself that I want him to. This means coming dancing once a year. Or maybe once. Let me sing for him at least once in a way that allows me to show off. To appreciate me when I have a sparkle in my eye.

And, of course, John is the only man I've met who lived up to all of these. Post-John, I have one more thing to add to the list:

• Interested in me.

So there's the list. But there are other things too. Lofty things about respect. Kindness. Integrity. And less lofty things about the fact that I tend to be more comfortable with people that have a somewhat similar background to mine. The fact is, I work in the housing projects a lot. And I don't date men from the housing projects. I suppose one exceptional man could appear, and I'd be open if one did, but I'm not looking in the housing projects. I'm not flirting. I'm succinct and straight to the point. And that makes it unlikely that anyone from the projects is going to be looking at me. (And I'm fine with that, but with so much of my social interaction there, it is an issue to be considered.)

My friend thought I was shallow for saying that. And I suppose I am. But she never goes near the housing projects, so she doesn't really know what it's like).

The fact of the matter is, if I could lower my standards, I would. Honestly, if I could reduce my IQ by 20 points (or more importantly, slow down my brain, so maybe I'd be a little wiser and a little slower), I really, truly would. I've tried. My ex was a compromise on many levels--mostly his unwillingness to humor my introspection, his uninterest in seeing me as I want to, at least occasionally, be seen, and our complete lack of shared values. And I was with him for almost 2 years, trying to make that work. But it was never going to work. I could compromise a little--I'd have no problem with someone who wasn't financially independent if he had a plan to become financially independent (that didn't involve my credit cards!). He doesn't have to make as much as I do, but I don't make all that much (I really don't--I'm right around median income).

I figure there are about 4 million people in my area. Figure half are women, and only maybe 20% are in my age range (35-50), and half of those are married, you're down to 200,000. Now figure that I'm interested in one out of 20--that leaves me with 10,000. But figure only one out of twenty are interested in me, that still leaves me with 500. But how to meet one of them?

Layers and Expressions of Vulnerability

It is a beautiful, hand-crafted journal, with hand-made paper that has flecks of rose petals throughout, not just the cover. Cream with pink petals. A delight. The first entry is from 1999. The second entry is from 2003. The rest is blank.

I thought I should start keeping a journal so that I have written notes of the issues I want to work on in my group therapy thing this summer. I can't bring myself to write in it. It feels so vulnerable to keep a journal. What if I left it at a job? What if I died and someone found it? Much too vulnerable to commit my feelings to paper.

Why does paper feel so much more vulnerable than a public blog? Such an odd paradox.

I have been more vulnerable here than anywhere else.

Several things, I feel, protect me here.

I believe it would be impossible for anyone to track me down from my blog to me. I have been very careful with the information I've released here.

And, frankly, there is safety in numbers (and boredom). With all the blogs, I doubt seriously than anyone would try to track me down for more than a few minutes. Once it wasn't easy, someone would get bored.

But why do it I do it? I suppose I yearn for the human connection. I yearn for someone to recognize me, as I am, warts and all, and say "yes. I feel that too." I fool myself into believing connection is possible.

If you went onto my computer and cracked the first password to log on, you still couldn't find this. You'd have to know exactly what you were looking for, as I only access blogger through a blackbox site so there is no search history, and the account name and password are not saved. (As a comparison, you can access my credit cards, checking account, 401(k) stock funds and paypal from my computer if you just go to my financial bookmarks. I trust my password for the computer to protect my finances.)

But why? Do I honestly think anyone would care? Chances are, my laptop is far more likely to be stolen than to fall into my parents' hands after an untimely accident. Thieves would care about transferring money via paypal far more than reading about my navel-gazing. Even if I died, my parents would probably respect my privacy and anyone else who found my laptop, objectively, nobody really cares. But I am so vulnerable through this. It has to be protected. With many layers of dissembling and diverting.

When I was a kid and my parents sent me to touchy feely summer camp (TFSC) (think EST-wanna-be for kids), I learned about faking vulnerability. You had to be really open about some insecurity. It just didn't have to be an insecurity that bothered you. Before camp, you'd pick what sort of revelation you could have, where you could share, and where you couldn't. And this was actually an important skill because teenagers and cruel and what happened at TFSC didn't always stay there. One time a TFSC counselor started talking about my weight in front of all the kids. A colleague from high school brought it up for the following 2 years as he 'borrowed' money from me nearly every day. Genuine vulnerability has its cost.

I think I overlearned that skill, however. I had a shrink I saw for years, with whom I never learned to be vulnerable. We would analyze my carefully recorded dreams for myths and archetypes. But I didn't believe in that shit, so it didn't really matter. Meanwhile, my carefully constructed persona grew stronger.

I think I could be vulnerable with John in part because our relationship happened as much (more) through writing as through in-person contact. Days of 50 exchanged e-mails delved far deeper than face to face, because I could write my revelations without him seeing my face that could betray the pain the words attempted to belie. Meanwhile, as I peeled away each layer of the onion, he peeled away a corresponding layer. Never with judgement. Always with kindness--with "yeah, we've been through hell--let's explore that journey together."

I don't trust easily. John appeared at a moment, after I'd done a year of therapy specifically to learn how to be more vulnerable and open, but I don't think I'd ever be that open again. There are healthy reasons to protect that side of myself. It is too vulnerable to be that raw. The layers of persona serve healthy purposes.

I'm actually doing a different, adult version of Touchy-Feely-Summer-Camp this summer, and I will force myself (with lots of preparation and plenty of determination) to be vulnerable, to try to work through the stuff I'm dealing with right now. But it is in Massachusetts--I'll never see any of those people again. Like the blog. As long as it is anonymous, it is safe. But there is a separate pain from not allowing anyone to get close enough to hurt.

Boring Blog: Finding Patterns

I want to really explore this issue about whether I "pick men who are emotionally unavailable" so I'm going to start keeping track of the men who express interest and how I react.

I'm afraid, however, that this is going to mean a series of boring blog entries. I've never liked the sorts of blogs that say "then I did this, and then I did this." I'm going to label these with a "Boring Blog" note so y'all can skip them, but I feel like I need someplace to be accountable. (After I'm done figuring this issue out, I'll start posting everything when I eat, when I eat it. Then maybe a list of my household chores. ;)

Now any man that contacts me with anything sexually explicit doesn't count. A "You'd look better with your lips around my dick" is a pretty obvious reject and I don't need to psychoanalyze why I'm not interested.

I also have a really strong bias against men who are more than 5 years younger than me (or so). I tend to cut off men who are more than 10 years older as well, but more of those get through the cracks by dint of good conversation.

So this week I have dates with 2 men, one of whom is 5 years older than me and the other is 15 years older.

The +5 I didn't really like because he kept talking about how much younger he looked than his age and how people would think I was a cougar if we went out, because he just looked so young. I kind of blew him off 2 weeks ago with a "I have a really big project at work--I'm just too busy," but he then remembered the project, e-mailed me before it was done to wish me luck, then e-mailed me again after it was done to ask how it had gone. This seemed really thoughtful and sweet, so I am going out with him--we'll see.

The +15 I think has really possibilities. He is smart, engaged and seems thoughtful. We have similar interests. On the negative, he has three kids already (all grown!) and is in the process of a messy divorce. We'll see if he says he absolutely doesn't want more kids. If he says that, I'll probably stop anything--but I'm not going to bring it up. (It seems to me men bring those things up quite quickly.)

There are other men I've blown off without the courtesy of a date, but I think there were real reasons: Colorado keeps sending sweet notes, a guy we'll call Flint and a guy I just don't trust--he claims to work as a full-time astrologist, but only has 4 clients a week, and there were several other things that seemed wrong. I got the sense he was on the make. I also wasn't attracted to him physically (shallow!). I might have tried to overlook that if the other things weren't sending warning flags. Flint lives in the West-Coast equivalent of Flint Michigan: one of those towns that is synonymous with decay and poverty. It is about 3 hours from me and is one of those towns that has been profiled on 60-Minutes type shows as 'all-that-is-wrong-with-towns-dependent-on-manufacturing.' Anyway, we spoke several years ago off e-harmony, but I didn't want to move to Flint and he wouldn't consider moving either to my town (which is not synonymous with decaying poverty) or someplace in between. He started e-mailing me again, but was very clear that a) I had to come out to his town for coffee and b) I would give up my career to move to him. Total turn-off.

I keep thinking of trying and go out at least once a week to meet people, but I don't really now how it is done in ways that I don't find uncomfortable. But I'm wearing make-up and sexier outfits, so maybe I'll meet someone someway or other. Who knows?

Hurt or Angry

"Anger is a masking emotion" intoned the EST workshops. "Anger is a masking emotion" intoned the knock-off workshops that pretended not to be EST. "Anger is a masking emotion. Immature. Not what you really feel" intoned my parents. "Anger is a masking emotion" I told my shrink.

Now I wonder. I can choose to be hurt or angry -- that is true. And if the other person will take the time to resolve it with me, hurt is easier for the other person to feel and to resolve. Hurt inspires guilt and, voila, the conflict can be resolved.

But what if the other person won't work through things? What if he just disappears? Furthermore, hurt gives the other person power.

Hurt leaves me vulnerable. It leaves me questioning myself and my validity. It leaves me insecure. It is directed inward. Hurt avoids blame, but, somehow, the blame falls on me because I know what I could have done differently. Hurt burns slowly, steadily, insidiously.

Anger burns hot, but then it is done. Anger lets the other go, because you see his flaws, and not your own. Anger is directed outward.

But when anger is directed at me, I shrink. My parents practiced what they preached, and I didn't grow up with anger. Criticism that cut at my sense of self as a lovable and worthwhile person, guilt galore, but never anger.

I experience two kinds of anger directed towards me--that which leaves me vulnerable and that which leaves me self-righteous. The former makes me frantic. There are maybe half-a-dozen people in the world who have the power to direct that kind of anger at me (and, frankly, with a few exceptions, like my writing, which leaves me very vulnerable, my weight (a cliche, I know)those are the only people that can criticize me and have me really feel it). But criticism from them doesn't make me feel as frantic as their anger. If those people are angry at me, I will do whatever I can to make their anger stop.

I swore I wouldn't right about John anymore, but I swear too much. John seemed to go straight toward anger (with me it was always more muted--frustration definitely--or he would say "disappointed" which played into my insecurities, but I never saw more than hints of his anger). I went straight for hurt. I apologized a number of times in our relationship. Even if I felt like I we could both share the blame, I'd apologize for my part in that. It was only when he hit the self-righteous side of my anger anger that I couldn't apologize and have it be true, and told him that I wouldn't drop something (I'd set it aside because he was having a very difficult time, but brought up the threat I've always hated when my parents did to me of needing to discuss it later) that he disappeared this last time.

I had also become aware that I had to have this issue, or some issue, resolved my way (not that I won, but that we talked about how we felt and both of us looked calmly at how our words affected the other). I couldn't trust him until he was willing to accept the validity of something he did hurting me. He didn't have to say "I was wrong"--but I needed him to say "I'm sorry you felt hurt."

I was going to write "John hurt me too badly" (with his comments about abstract expressionism) but actually--that isn't true. John insulted me in a place that didn't hurt me too badly, and so I chose that as a place to say "there has to be give and take here--I'm not going to be the one that is always wrong." If it hadn't been a place where I didn't feel my sense of self threatened, if he hadn't been so outrageous in in his insult, I could never have stood up. Always before with John, I'd been so frantic to get my sense of self back that I'd apologized for things that I didn't think were all my fault.

I think John and I pushed each other's buttons. With him, I fell into my need for male approval and disapproval cutting so deep it threatened the fabric of my center. And clearly, I pushed his buttons in ways I can't articulate for him.

But that is a power I really shouldn't give over anyone. And I will never learn to retain that power until I learn how to be angry sometimes and not just hurt.

After My Soul Danced with Mephistopheles

I don't really believe in personified evil. I do believe in "original sin," in that I believe we are born selfish and have to learn to be aware of others, and I believe most evil in the world comes from selfishness. Of course, Dick Cheney does make me wonder if there is pure evil personified, but a real devil would have a smile. Which brings us to Mephistopheles and his human toy, Faust.

Faust meets his match in Mephistopheles. Imagine Faust--very smart. Smarter than everyone around him, and oh, so lonely. He has no one he can confide in who really gets what is going on. He toils away, day after day, yearning for something more.

And along comes Mephistopheles. Brilliant, funny, warm. And Mephistopheles acts like he cares about Faust, and all of a sudden, Faust meets his equal, or maybe his more than equal. Faust is challenged, and Faust feels wholly alive. 'I was born to do this' exclaims Faust and he starts to see ideas in new ways, and his mental landscape starts to shift. The dance is ecstatic. But it can't be maintained.

In Marlowe's version, Faust dies unredeemed. In Goethe's Faust breaks with Mephistopheles just before death. But in my version, Mephistopheles becomes bored with Faust. Stops calling. Poof. In a puff of smoke. Gone from his life, just like that. And Faust thinks he should be relieved. But he misses Mephistopheles with a deep, deep ache.

Quotidian life, that used to seem joyous seems drab. 'My soul danced,' exclaims Faust. 'I didn't know my soul could move, much less dance, fly, become fully alive!'

'What did I do wrong,' Faust asks? 'Our souls danced--didn't Mephistopheles feel that too? Does Mephistopheles ever think about me? I wonder what he's doing now.'

And Faust goes back to his books. But it isn't the same. Not after dancing with Mephistopheles. It doesn't matter who Mephistopheles is, it brought out a side in Faust that changed him. Even if Mephistopheles got bored with the game and went to find another new shiny human to play with. Faust has a hard time wanting to let go. And even once he wants to let go, Mephistopheles haunts his dreams and taunts his tears.

And that despair, Faust realizes, is why Mephistopheles is a fallen angel. That is the dark side, and following that ecstatic communion will be a fatal end. And that's when the war happens in Faust's soul. Does Faust want to let go of Mephistopheles? How? How can Faust have that peak experience? How does Faust regain the joy of the quotidian? The wonder of being alive at a visceral and not an intellectual level? Letting go and moving on means never dancing with that angel again. And let's be honest, its the only angel Faust has known. Chances of meeting another one are bleak at best.

If Marlowe were to write this version, Faust couldn't do it. Faust would explode in rage, or overdose on drugs, attempting to find a chemical substitute for the emotional excitement. If Goethe were to write it, Faust would become a Buddhist monk, and meditate on letting go. Become wiser and more grounded. And less intense and less joyous and less vital.

Both seem unsatisfactory endings to me. But I don't know how to write a sequel.

"You pick men that are emotionally unavailable"

Well, my friend cut off the xanax. I am so touched by the care she took for me, and what a difference it made! I took the last half that was for tonight (she was only giving me half a pill a day) and I cut it in half, so I've got a quarter for tonight and a quarter for tomorrow. But I can't sleep.

I've decided to do a group-therapy class sort of thing. At the screening for the group, the leader seemed quite perceptive and asking about relationships and why things didn't work with my ex and I sort of owned up to John, even though he doesn't count as a romantic relationship, I put romantic energy into it. Anyway, after going through the men I was involved with, as well as my dad issues, especially his statement that no man would ever love me if I didn't lose weight, she just said "well, you really pick men that are emotionally unavailable."

This surprised me on several levels, first of all because it is true. That is about the only thing my ex and John had in common--emotionally unavailable. John hid it really well because he had such introspection and was willing to share with a level of vulnerability. I mistook it for intimacy. It was intimacy for me, but for him, he never clicked with me. My ex didn't even pretend.

The second level is the first part of her statement: "You pick men." That is totally contrary to my story I tell myself, which is that I don't pick men. I go out with men who are interested in me, whoever they are. That, however, is patently false. If it were true, I would have had 10 dates with 20-23 year old boys who just watched a trailer for The Cougar. I used to go out with pretty much anyone, until I couldn't stand them. But that happened pretty quick.

Now I have some pretty clear standards--generally between 5 years younger than me to 10 years older than me. Exceptions will be made if someone surprises me, but I'm not dating someone young enough to be my son or old enough to be my dad.

Then there is chemistry. How much of that is set? How much can it be changed?

What I think I'm looking for is someone who is intellectually quick, with a broad-range of interests and a willingness to explore a little introspection at times. Someone who definitely reads the NY Times. It would be nice if he read the NY Review of Books, but let's be realistic. But, most men bore me. Frankly, my ex bored me once the 2006 elections were over. Is it that surprising that we got together during the 2008 elections and the last date we had was election night? Politics was the one area that we shared interest and curiosity. Without politics, he went to his poke and pot and I went to my novels and navel-gazing.

I'm also clear that I want someone who isn't too rigid. Vegans are automatically suspect in my world.

I'm pretty wary of people who, in my opinion, are abusing substances, whether it is too much booze, pot or something else. But then, I did enjoy drinking with John--the only person for whom that's ever been true.

Finally, there's one other issue: my yearning for surrender. Maybe I'm sending really mixed signals, in part because having reluctance overcome is SUCH a turn on, but the guy who is willing to take charge isn't picking up on my reluctance, so he overcomes it because he isn't aware of it, and the guy who does pick up on it isn't willing to take charge.

To me, there is still a strong element of coincidence here. I don't think I'm bored by people who are emotionally available. Maybe men who are emotionally available are less reliant on their intellect?

More likely, I do something that turns off men who are emotionally available. There is something about me that isn't engaging. It may be that my going to the intellectual discussion as a way to get know people is a turn-off to most men, or to men who are more emotionally available. Maybe they don't want intellectual conversation from someone they might want softer things from. I don't know.

Like sucks sometimes. Maybe I can figure this out, but mostly, I'm looking out over a vast sea of isolation. And that's with a quarter of a xanax.

Xanax and Lipstick

You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe
whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and
I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes.

So all my life I've gone for the red pill. Where does it lead? While I rebelled against my father-the-shrink's required introspection, I've also explored as deeply as I could.

I was deteriorating kind of badly, and it was sort of scaring me to watch. I had enough rational side of my brain to know that this wasn't who I want to be, or frankly much relation to how I've known myself. I also noticed that as my mood started to mirror the assets of AIG, I started spending less time with my friends because I didn't want to be mean or bitchy or drive them away for later. One of my friends kept pushing me, and she meant it nice--she was like "there's no reason for you to be upset, it's not like you have MS or cancer" and I was SUCH a bitch to her. (I have apologized.)

I also have started wearing make-up all the time, and make-up has seemed to become a coping device. I don't particularly like make-up. I can feel it on when I wear it, but it keeps me from breaking down in public. I can't explain why, but I'm less vulnerable, less open. A clearly present talisman of the external persona I need to wear, and it works!

However, that was only working in public. One friend kept asking what was up, and how I was doing, and while she had no clue the full extent of it (I'll be wearing long sleeves for at least a week or so), but she picked up that things weren't good, and she came over and brought me half a Xanax. Oh my god. Wow! I cannot believe the difference it made! I slept beautifully and happily, and woke up and life is OK. And 24 hours later, life is OK. Some bad news at work today and that sucks, but it is OK. She drove over tonight to bring me another half (isn't that sweet--she didn't want me to be tempted to take too much, so she's just giving me half a one at a time)--it is SO sweet of her. I think I'm going to need a prescription for this. Or you can gt it over the counter in Brazil... It is like when your computer just won't work and nothing comes out right, and you restart it and it is OK. I'm going to be OK.

I had joked with a friend that John was heroine and I needed now to find methadone. I'd figured "methadone" would be someone I'd get involved with that might not be right, but would help me move on. Who knew it could be in the blue pill?

Panic Attacks

I should presage this post with a comment that I'm really much better off than this entry makes it seem. No one who knows me knows there's anything wrong. I can sort of keep the outside appearances up (it is so weird, but I'm finding that is much easier with make-up!), and if I still have the energy to do that, maybe everything will be ok.

I'm having a really, really rough time of it. I'm thinking about going to get anti-depressants, which I've been off for a number of years (I went on them after 9-11). It isn't as debilitating or all-encompassing as that was. I don't burst into tears in public. No, I politely ask for a restroom, without turning off my ipod, and burst into tears there. But I don't trust myself not to do anything stupid. I keep having thoughts about how one would kill oneself if one wanted to, without leaving any signs that it was suicide, nor without making it look like anyone's fault. Like 'accidentally' dropping my cell phone as a bus came and darting out in traffic to get it. Then I'd just look stupid. Except it would damage the bus driver horribly.

And even if there wasn't the poor driver, it isn't like I would. I don't want to, but I just keep thinking about the nuts and bolts of it. I've often thought about the nuts and bolts of committing crimes, and I have yet to rob a bank or sabotage a company. So I hope it is nothing more than an interest in the 'how', but it scares me a little how much I am returning to this meme.

I'm fine in the house. It is only leaving the house that the world comes crashing down around me.

Both my mother and my grandmother had psychotic breaks at different points. They weren't a huge deal--I mean they were at the moment--they were both institutionalized for about a month, but in both cases they got over it and it didn't have long-term impacts. Well, I'm sure it did, but nothing visible to me. It was a rough period, and they got on with it.

I never understood how they could do that. They both seemed so strong. How did something just break?

Today was a particularly virulent mood swing, and I clung to my iPod, singing (under my breath so no one could hear. Keeping it under my breath took work. For a few seconds, I'd see alternate universes where I was a crazy person, singing showtunes loudly on the street. But always under my breath. For now.) So I mouthed the words to all the parts of "Please Hello" from Pacific Overtures over and over and over. It is a particularly intricate song, and taking the French part in the 5-part counterpoint at the end and being able to do it somehow or other, it both distracts me from how much I hate my life right now and also gives me a minor sense of accomplishment.

But, yeah. I hate my life.

And there is no one to turn to. I can't handle it anymore. And I have to keep handling it. There is no other choice.

The world makes me be strong and all around me, I see women who people protect, who people cherish. And I'm not one of them. The world forces me to be strong and I say "I can't. I'm not as strong as I pretend, I'm exhausted, don't make me do this--the costs are too great" and the world says "I don't care. You don't get another choice. Suck it up and deal."

Also Ran

I think I'm having a midlife crisis. While it 'feels' early, and like I should wait till my 40s to hit that particular milestone, I've often been precocious. And while it feels melodramatic to claim such a thing, it is also giving me a little perspective on my dark mood.

The fact is, I am never going to accomplish anything I hoped to. I'm talented--probably in the top 1%, but I'm not in the .01%. Furthermore, I've never committed fully to my creative endeavors. In a way, I treated them as a consolation prize for the fact that I always 'knew' I'd never have a partner. That day my father said no man would ever love me if I didn't lose weight, and I didn't know how to lose weight--I tried everything. That day etched into my psyche one truth that I accepted until recently.

There are two intertwining issues and several background elements that are contributing to my foul mood.

First the background: I hated George Bush. I don't mean in a trendy "isn't he awful" sort of way. I mean in soul-defining "this is my mission to stop evil" sort of way. Much of my passion, much of my energy, much of my life-force went to stopping that man. Now we all know just how successful I was at preventing the Iraq war, the looting of the treasury, all that. But regardless of my success, it gave me a real purpose in my life.

Interestingly, I didn't get blue after Obama won. But I did start hanging out with John again the week after the election. Without realizing it, I think I transferred some of that energy and passion onto John.

Isn't it funny--I hadn't accepted that he was truly gone until he updated his flickr page. He'd invited me to hang out with some of his friends yesterday, and when he first invited, I wasn't sure I'd be in town that weekend, and then he just disappeared. I cried when I went by the restaurant they were meeting at yesterday (it was on the bus route to something else, and I forgot I'd go by it till it was too late). And then when I saw his flickr page today, I started crying like a baby. His static flickr page meant his life was sort of on hold. Clearly he has moved on. But it is good. Closure. It is the most closure I'll get from him.

Now that that is gone, I think I'm not only dealing with the crushing of that dream, but also the void of not having any real purpose to my life.

I'm reacting so poorly to John's Houdini act in part because he taught me something I didn't want to accept, which is that I can't be with a man I don't respect. God, I've tried SO hard. Intellectually, I'd rather have a partner than not, but on this visceral, gut-level, I just can't do it. I gave my ex 20 minutes earlier in the week, but only because I was doing taxes at the same time. And there are so few men out there that I genuinely respect. It seems a statistical impossibility.

Being with John was an amazing gift. Conversations that went in depth, and broad-ranging and funny and joyous. I loved him. I still do. Although I'm trying to view that the way a cocaine addict views cocaine. Our mismatched interests were just destroying me--I have to save myself.

So, of course, the intertwining issues that are making this moment so difficult are trying to let go of John and the lack of accomplishment in my life. The lack of love I've documented well enough in other places.

But the lack of accomplishment: I have enough accomplishments to brag about, but not enough to be proud of. The harsh words from the book agent hurt really badly. I realize, in a way, it is not surprising because I was trying to write a romance novel that is not easily categorizable. I wanted to change the genre and use the outer format to develop questions about gender issues and how we navigate them, not just repeat it with different clothing. But it clearly didn't work.

I am coming to the conclusion that I am an "also ran." And I really hate it. Deep down part of me still believes there must be some purpose for my time on this earth, but I can't really imagine what it is. Perhaps I need to accept that and find ways to ring joy out of the journey and not the destination. That's the philosophical part. The visceral level just wants to curl up, cry and hibernate.

The Feminist Surrenders

When I titled this blog, I thought of it as the delicious moment of surrender, when you trust someone else to lead. And I thought of accepting societal stereotypes that I've also resisted.

But there is, alas, another meaning. And I’m afraid that is far more apropos at the moment.

I give up. The Feminist Gives Up. The world wins.

I can’t change the world, and the world has no place for me in it. I'm grateful that I can have a job, support myself, vote. All that that my mothers and grandmothers fought so hard to make possible. But it isn't enough.

I hoped that pouring myself into my professional work would help mask the gaping void that undercuts everything else. John's disappearance is an aching lack. I know I shouldn't be unhappy with my professional work--I know I'm lucky, especially in this environment. But it absolutely isn't enough. I hate one of my co-workers. Hate him. With good reason; he is so clueless, he has no clue how his behaviour affects me. He has turned out the lights on me, shut off my surge protector when I was in the middle of a conversation and had numerous arguments, swearing into the phone while I'm trying to work. And he sings. Loudly. 1980s hair rock. I hate spending 8 hours a day with this man. It has made me dread work. I've lost the sense of meaning I used to feel at work.

I gave my novel to an agent and the response was professional and helpful. And oh, so cutting. What was really funny is that she, in her 60s told me, in my 30s, that that I had dated notions of how women in their 30s feel, and that it was a 1970s take on things, but not current. I guess since I was born in the 1970s, maybe that's possible. But it hurts. And, of course, the fears of the leading character, those were me. The rest of the world has moved one. I have not. Once again, I'm a bad feminist. The novel is “not without moments of talent.” But that’s it. Not without moments of talent. Kind of sums up my life. Not without moments of promise. Not without moments of talent. But nothing to speak of, really.

And what is there to move on to? A life where no one wants me. I have a volunteer gig with inner-city kids in the projects helping them with college prep and one of the kids was making farting noises at me and said I should just leave. Sorry I can't make math more exciting. I seem to fail even my volunteer work. I am not essential to any living being, other than my cats. And I know, deep down, there’s just something wrong with me. A fatal flaw. I don’t even know what it is. I used to think it was that I wasn’t pretty enough. And it is partly that. But it’s more. I'm actually kind of pretty. But not pretty enough to make up for my intellect and opinions or whatever it is this deep abiding flaw that no one can get past.

I’ve tried. I’ve put myself out there on so many fronts. And been rejected on so many. I’ve settled, at least for a few years, for a job that I don’t like. I have some good friends who don’t see me as essential parts of my life. I’m simply unlovable in my romantic life.

And the men that are there--it seems like a say litany of caricatures. The felon (I'm not making this up). The 35 year old who approached me saying he wanted an adventure with a much-older woman--I guess 4 years makes me much older but it hurt to have it said. And the Republican reappeared! The nerve! And what’s even worse is I feel guilty, like I have to be nice to him. And if anyone reads this, you’re probably saying “What? Run!” But until he is through with his tour in Iraq...yeah--see--he was in the reserves and got called up and is serving in Iraq--he claims that’s why he didn’t call--whatever--I don’t care, but I feel like I have to be polite to a soldier in harm’s way if all it costs me if a few e-mails. I’ll never see him again. But he just reminds me of what I would have to accept if I wanted a man. How men treat women these days. "I'll have to see you naked to see if you're worth the investment of any additional time" he said. And I said no. He didn't get called to Iraq the next day, I'm sure. But I feel guilty.

Part of me thinks that being kind to a soldier in Iraq, despite how he treated me, volunteering with poor kids, wanting someone to love and love me, shouldn't that work out? What did I miss? I make my own money--I want someone to share a life with, not a credit card bill.

I can't handle the level of emotional pain in my life right now. It is too deep and too overwhelming. Honestly, if my parents didn't care about me, and I didn't know it would break their hearts, I don't know what else there is that really seems worthwhile right now. I know 'this too shall pass.' I do know that. But every beautiful sign of spring just reminds me of John and breaks my heart over again.

So, to survive: I can try and deny reality. Or I can look at it and accept it. One will make me angry and the other will make me bitter. I don’t know which is worse.

I think anger is the only short-term way out of pain. (That, or drugs...) I actually listened to Sweeney Todd at work today (on headphones--I don't bother my office-mate with music) to keep from bursting into tears. When Sweeney Todd is my pick-me-up, I know which way I'm leaning.

Who Wants Their Teeth Done By the Marquis DeSade?

Warning--this is a little explicit. But not in the way you'd probably like.)

I had the worst experience I've ever had with any health care professional at the dentist today. It was awful. I kept think "Oh, this is the inspiration for the character in Little Shop of Horrors." By the end, I ended up crying and the dentist said "pull yourself together--I can't do your stitches unless you pull yourself together." So I managed to put on my iPod, and get together enough so he'd stitch me up. (And then I spoke to the supervisor and someone else will see me when I go to redo, in 3 months, what he botched today.)

It wasn't even so much the fact that he fucked up the operation, which made it much worse than it was supposed to be--he just kept mauling me. He'd catch my lips between my teeth and the drill. He used my nose for leverage to cut into my gum. Whenever he was done with an instrument, he'd just drop it on my chest, and then when he'd take it off my chest, he did it harshly, so it felt like I just kept getting hit a little bit. Not hard, but over and over. My lips aren't wide enough for him to fit his entire hand in my mouth and he kept shoving the mirror into my gums to try to make my lips wider. His assistant did the same thing, and at one point I put my hand up to pull my lower lip out of the way and he yelled at me.

Despite the fact that I had local anesthesia, I literally thought about walking out half-way through, but at that point I had a lot of blood and a large hole in my mouth, so it wasn't really an option. But for me to think about walking out gives you a sense of how bad it was. (The only time I've ever felt that way before was when I got my legs waxed in Puerto Rico and there were three women, but something wrong with the wax, and it just kept hurting. I thought it was all in my head because there were three of them, but I ended up with horrible welts for about a week. This time, again, I thought "it isn't so bad" until all of a sudden it was just much too much.)

Anyway, the thing that was interesting was the way I started numbing out. It put me into the exact same space that my ex would drive me to by the time we broke up (but not when we had our little fling last summer and fall). The Republican did the same thing to me with lots of little face slaps before one bigger one. It was something to be endured, to survive until it was over.

Today, when they told me I was going to have to go through it again in 2 months, I lost it. I started shaking all over and crying, and that was what would make my ex stop being mean and start being nicer. And at the dentist's, they both started patting me, trying to make it better. But it didn't--I finally told them not to touch me any more than they had to. Every 'pat' felt jarring and like I was being mauled.

When the denstist told me to pull myself together, it SO reminded me of the 2nd time I safeworded on my ex. The first time he was really sweet, and gentle and warm. But the second time he was just like "Pull yourself together. I'll give you 10 minutes."

I'm not sure if once I started looking for similarities, I created the similiarities. But the whole thing was eerily familiar. Just without any sense that I would ever allow myself to be in that situation again.

I also had far less stamina than I used to. I used to be "strong" and could handle shit like this. The dentist made it clear that I was a really wimp, and most people wouldn't have a problem. Now, I think he was a dick. But, I also think that most people probable have a higher tolerance for that kind of thing than I do now.

It seems like my batteries are still almost completely empty. And more than anything, I want gentleness and kindness. I was talking with a guy on the phone this week and I said "I can't handle anything extreme" and he kept saying "well, being a little extreme has it's place sometimes" and I was like "not with me it doesn't." And then we realized that what he considered 'extreme' (like nipple clamps) I considered 'par for the course' and what I considered extreme (piercing, and stuff that is about purposefully focusing on how much pain a person can endure), well he probably would have considered it insane. I ended up not wanting to go out with him for other reasons, but it was just interesting to see that difference.

I thought my lack of interest in kink was a phase. The Republican was about a year ago--you'd think I'd be over it. But if I now equate "worst day I've ever had at the dentist in my life" with "how I felt when I was doing S&M"--well, I'm pretty clearly not going back to S&M in the foreseeable future.

The problem is, however, that I haven't all of a sudden discovered an interest in vanilla sex. Having lost my interest in kink--it hasn't really been replaced with anything. I wonder if I'm just getting older, so sex isn't as big a deal. But since I know the day it happened (The Republican--but he was just the final straw--it wasn't his fault or anything) that isn't really a 'getting older' thing.

I miss that part of me. I was SO much more sexual than most women are--I'm probably about average now. But it I don't really now what that means or how to deal with it. It isn't how I understand myself and fitting my understanding to how I actually am is a continual challenge.