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.