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.