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.