To say that I am nothing like the girl I was three years
ago is an understatement.
The transformations that came about,
both physical and spiritual, rocked Stephanie to her core. The weight loss (115 pounds), the surgeries
(17.5 hours to remove the excess skin and rebuild this body), the people and
experiences, the music, the divorce... all culminated in a ridiculously
different woman than I and everyone else saw in the summer of 2010, or in the
years prior.
Okay, so maybe Bounder is right, and
the core of who you are as a person never changes. I'm still the same smart, funny, impatient,
resourceful girl I've always been. It's
like a tiny kernel of that is all that remains.
Sometimes it's pulsing from my center like a beacon; sometimes I tuck it
away in my pocket for good luck. But
there's very little of that Stephanie
still there.
Had I not met Absolem when I did, I
don't know that this metamorphosis would've come about it in the same way. I was stagnant, and it was likely going to
take an outside force to shove me into forward motion again. He was a reanimator of sorts for me, though
he has argued that those things were always there, even when I and no one else
could see them. Perhaps it would've
happened eventually or in some other profound way, but I'll never know.
Through all of that time, I had
choices to make. I could move or stand
still, stay or go, hide or reveal, be or not be. Often those choices were scary as hell, but I
made them. My conscious decisions led me
to subsequent ones that permanently altered my course, sometimes with a deep
ripple effect. I made mistakes along the
way, certainly, but all of those decisions were made with the acceptance that I
would rather regret what I did than
what I didn't do.
When it came to time to proactively
incorporate other people into my new
journey, I was shocked to find how often people will recoil from the
challenge. They become so bogged down in
fear of change, even in the name of progress, that they preferred to stay
stagnant in their trepidation. Sometimes
they would encourage me to undo the
things that I'd done, or even to pretend they'd never happened at all, in order
to make them more comfortable in my life or in their own.
Fuck
that.
I fully accept and truly believe
that everyone must come to their own changes, to their own transformations, each
in their own way and time. Just because
I can point to the things I've done and overcome, that doesn't mean that I can
expect anyone else to follow my path and do those same things. I don't and can't laud my progress over
anyone else and demand that they do the same, especially not according to my
proscribed schedule.
What I can get irate about is the ones who refuse to take up the challenge
at all, who allow their fear to determine their course, especially when they know their life isn't working. Not even that it's not what they want it to
be—though that's certainly reason enough to make those changes—but that their
lives are just dead, broken beyond
certain repair. I know from very
personal experience how that is a dangerous and saddening place to be. But to allow your fear to rule your choices
and your life is, in my opinion, the exact opposite of what life is supposed to
be about.
I don't think that everyone should
upend their entire world and begin again.
That could be equally as damaging in the end. But if there are things that aren't working,
and especially when they haven't worked in a very long time, it's on you to really examine not only what they are but why they are, and to determine how
is best to make the necessary alterations.
Otherwise you're stuck ad
infinitum in trying to learn the simple lessons that somehow you haven't yet
been able to grasp.
But when you have the tools and the support,
when you are given the unique gifts of opportunity and resource—especially when
you're granted both at the same time!—it is ludicrous
to me that anyone would choose to ignore
those blessings and turn away from the challenge, simply because they are afraid of the hurt that could come with
trying.
It's okay to be afraid; it's not
okay to be a coward.
Ultimately, I have no respect for
that course of life. I have lost respect for people about whom I
cared very much, who have chosen not
to live their life and to stay trapped
in their anguish. It's like they're
choosing Purgatory over Heaven or even Hell, and I just can't understand it.
My life is a cautionary tale in a
lot of ways, I know that. Sometimes I've
been more careless with myself than anyone else could ever be with
Stephanie. I have often been heartbreakingly
careless with others, even sometimes to the point of negligence or malice, and
I will do what I can healthily to rectify that for as long as it takes. But only until the amend is made and then I'm
moving the fuck on.
While my opinion may or may not
matter to you, if you are reading this, it's for a reason. Desperately trying not to sound arrogant, my
words have been brought into your life as a result of fate or Fate, and there
just might be something here for you to remember. And if you need help, if I can be of some
resource, feel free to reach out to me and make yourself known. If I can point you toward your own catalyst
for transformation, I'm happy to try.
Someone really remarkable did it for me, and I know sometimes we just
need that little push to head us in the right direction.
Those are the most ludicrous words
after a break-up.
It's not that I think men and women
can't be friends. I have lots of male friends, running the gamut
from casual to intimate. (Poor Hammer
knows waaaay more than he'd probably
like to know.) While I do tend to
gravitate toward women for those very close friendships, there are and have
been a few exceptions over the years.
Even within the bounds of
Stephanie-Dude friendships, sometimes the lines have become blurred by deep
emotional or spiritual connection. Sometimes
by both. If there's also a sexual
attraction, the relationship can become complicated rather quickly. Sometimes I've been able to pull back from
that and maintain the platonic relationship.
Sometimes not.)
Usually what happens, though, is
that I go through this experience with whatever man, and the relationship is
damaged by sex and love and what has most often felt like compromise that was
unevenly anchored to my side. Hot Pocket
would toss in the words "unevenly yoked" right here. Moonshine might suggest something about
unbalanced equations. My therapist would
kindly and gently advise me to determine what I'm willing to accept to maintain
a healthy relationship and where I can confidently draw my lines—with the
mindful acceptance that I must defend those boundaries if push comes to
shove.
Bounder and I went back and forth
for days that turned into weeks about how and where our relationship was
going. He says he's not an alcoholic; I
still question it openly and to his face.
Almost regardless of that, there's still the issue of my caring about
him. He is special to me. Tierney says it best, to Alex, during one of
their last conversations in Persona Non
Grata:
"Look, I don't
love a lot of people. I don't like a lot
of people, and all these people in my life have really hurt me over the
years. I have reasons to be wary of
letting people in. When I do, and
especially when I choose to let them in far enough to love them, they're
special. You are a very rare breed of
human being that I both like and love, and not just because I have to. That's why I get so mad about it all. That's why it feels so unfair. I don't want that to have been a waste of my
energy."
Part of the issue for me is this
idea of being compartmentalized, of feeling like I'm being shoved and cajoled
into a box that keeps me away from the other person. Yes, it is something men tend to do more than
women; it seems to be an innate coping mechanism for them. Again, Alex and Tierney discuss this early on
in their relationship:
[Alex Wheeler]
"That's how I am; if someone makes me mad or bothers me too much,
I'll just ignore them—won't answer their calls or texts or emails. I'll just stop."
"Are you that way with everything? Do you just ignore what you don't like?"
He thought about it for a moment. "Yeah.
I compartmentalize everything. I
have to, in some ways, being on the road all the time. It helps keep me sane. I'm really good at keeping everything in its
own neat, little box, where I can deal with it or not, as I choose. I'm probably too good at it."
"I think that's a guy thing," I
commented. He nodded in agreement. "I think it's much harder for women to
take their feelings out of the equation.
Men are much better at tucking their feelings out of the way."
When a relationship is ending for
whatever reason, what do you do after you've been through an intense period of
time with this person whom you both like and love (on whatever level), with
whom you've shared deep intimacies, and without whom you feel a little lost?
While I still occasionally have very
platonic contact with Absolem, he was always
an exception to the rule—though that was no real surprise given the nature of
our relationship. I know damn well that
I will always have that tie to him, that weird connection that brought him in
and out of my life as a catalyst to upend me and bring about my own
transformation. I owe him so much, and I
owe him nothing. But I know that even if
I weren't to hear from him for twenty years, he would know within moments of
making contact exactly how and where I was in my head and my heart and my
soul. We are, in so many ways, two sides
of the same coin.
I made the break, privately and
publicly, from Bounder, but he didn't disappear. It was confusing. It started with the careful arguing and the
constant discussing of what this relationship had meant and was supposed to
mean and how impactful it was for each of us and why, along with where and when
what went wrong—like an emotional debriefing with the only other person who
could truly understand it because
they'd lived it with me. The inner
circle was great about listening and advising and letting me cry when I needed
to do so, but ultimately the answers and solutions would only come from me and
from Bounder.
Our relationship could stop or move
forward in myriad ways. We could take
the leap of faith and delve into this and see what happened. We could agree to part ways for some period
of time and plan to meet back up, if the time was right. We could date slowly for a while and move
along at a more reasonable pace, ignoring everything that had pushed us
together in the first place. Or we could
just say our goodbyes and be done.
Eventually it was plain that we were
tired, dancing wide, serpentining lines around this place and time that wasn't
yet right for us. No matter how drawn we
were and are to each other, here and now
wasn't going be ours. Not like
this. And the seeming pressure of divine
intervention felt yet again like Fate had played a cruel trick, taunting me
with, "Oh? You want this? Too
damn bad! You can't have it!"
So, again, I told him no, that I can't do this, that I can't watch him
from some nebulous place of distant care and be flirty witness to his
life. I am worth more than that; at
least on this we agree. I told him to
find me if and when he was ready to accept the whole of my affections and to
reciprocate healthily in kind. I wished
him well.
"You haven't given me a chance
to tell you what I want out of this
right now," he patiently stated when he called.
Well,
I've given you plenty of opportunity.
It's not my fault you've refused to take it when it was offered.
"So what is that you
want?" I asked, feeling a little defiant underneath it all.
"I want you to be you, and I want to be your friend. I want to still see you and talk to you and blahblahblah."
"So you still want me in your
life and want to maintain that connection with me? But you can't commit emotionally, no matter
how badly you say you want to be able to?
And maybe you want to have sex with me, if it feels like the right thing
to do?"
"Yes."
What
the fuck?
The truth is I don't want him gone from my life. He is sweet and funny and smart. He knows me incredibly well and has seen
through my facade of bravado from the moment we met. Even though he is often willing to grant me
the freedom to maintain that glittery face, he also doesn't hesitate to call bullshit on it and on me. He's one of very few people (especially men)
who call tell me no. I want a healthy
relationship with him. I care deeply for
him, and he has impacted me in ways very few men, or people in general, have
been able to do. But I also don't want
to spiral back into the dark place of striving for attention, of flustering for
a fleeting moment of care and affection.
I don't want to be told no just
because he has the power to do so; sometimes I get to be right.
And as
Tierney sums up later:
Alex had kept me in a box, but within those
confines I could expose myself totally, free to explore the ever-expanding
boundaries of my soul without fear of judgment.
If he couldn't handle what he saw, all he had to do was close the
box. It was how he handled his own
soul.
To ask this of me, to negotiate
platonic friendship with the possibility of an eventual more, is unquestionably
an effort to compartmentalize me and our relationship. I
understand that the fragility of this cat is undercut by recent and deep
trauma, that he could very well crack at any time. It's a defense mechanism, undoubtedly, and he
has every right and reason to seek that comfort in his world in the hopes that
he can heal from what came before me.
I have every right and reason to say
no.
I'm
not going back in the box.
Having lived the life that brought
me to this version of Stephanie, I am very wary and sensitive to that kind of
one-sided consideration. I was left on
my own for years, emotionally, and
tend to gravitate toward people (again, especially men) who are selective in
their attentions. Whether their reasons
are emotional or logistical in nature serves only to explain the behavior; there
are reasons but no excuses.
Because of my sensitivity to feeling
dismissed or ignored, I will never not
respond to the boxers. I cannot ignore
their calls to attention. I know
precisely how that hurts and loathe the feeling so much that I would never wish
it on anyone I care about.
I will always be his friend, but
right now I don't know that I can be just
his friend. I want and am ready to be
special to someone else (though I am not actively seeking anyone to fill that
role), and we both thought at first that he was ready for that, as well—that we
were both ready to be special to each other.
But intention and fruition don't always fall in line with each other; no
matter how much it looked like this was supposed to be here and now, that's simply not how it's working, even though I
question his direct role in that creating and maintaining that obstacle.
The thought that I could go through
this with him, that yet again I could meet someone who could alter my own path
so dramatically, and that he won't be at the end of this leg of the journey
with me is simply terrifying. Right now, while I care about him so deeply
and want him to be healthy and content in himself, the risk of seeing him fall
for someone else when he's finally ready to crack his own facade for another
person... it's just too much. Maybe it's
not me, and it is him, as he's said so roundabout, but it's still me that faces the greatest possibility
of being hurt again. To keep me in his
web of care means that I will feel the vibrations of secondary movement. It could be him shifting slowly toward me, or
it could be him scurrying in another direction.
Either way, it leaves me stuck and slowed by his gossamer threads,
grappling at my feet.
But to turn away from him leaves my
friend in need.
I don't know where this is going any
more now than I did when it started. The
good part is that it has given me an opportunity to understand and accept that,
no matter how much influence I may or may not be able to exert on a force,
sometimes the situation simply isn't mine
to control.
So for a little while longer, he and
I are in this weird, nebulous state of... what?Friends? Not friends?
Not lovers? I don't know, and
I'm honestly tired of not thinking and thinking and overthinking. I will do what I do, be who I am, and
whatever comes from that is what will be.
While I won't attempt to unduly influence the outcome of this situation,
I'm also not sitting passively by, waiting for Bounder to take me out of the
shiny box and play with me.
This is something we all know. Hell, the mere act of being birthed is
probably painful—being squeezed and pulled and prodded into a less comfortable,
brighter, louder, more chaotic new world.
(Plus, I think gravity just has to suck
after being a relatively freefloating form for the entirety of your previous
existence.)
Pain is a natural response to
damage. It's the body's way of telling
us something is not right. We are
injured or in danger or did something outside the scope of our normal limitations. Pain is a necessary device of physical form.
But I'll skip the physical pains
associated with being human; I'm pretty sure we're all well-familiarized with
bumps and bruises and accidents—the inflictions and afflictions that become our
personal histories, filled with anecdotes of our agonies.
It's the emotional pain that is so
often the most debilitating and longest lasting. Whether it be pain from an outside source or
from inside ourselves, our souls are molded by both the nature of the damage
and the way in which we react to it.
Jealousy, anger, sorrow, grief...
all signs of emotional pain and some kind of damage. Betrayal, malice, negligence, parting,
death... all naturally occurring events in virtually everyone's lives.
But it is how we face these pains
that determines if and when and how we heal from them.
Sometimes the damage is minor—your best
friend canceled dinner plans with you, again, to see her sometimes
boyfriend. Sometimes it's more
substantial—the death of a beloved pet.
And sometimes the harm is so great—betrayal by a lover, death of a close
loved one—that we find ourselves paralyzed, both physically and emotionally, in
that injury, unable to escape the constant gnaw of harrowing discomfort.
Just like it's physical counterpart,
emotional pain is a necessary part of life.
If we are to move forward on our paths—whether individually or with
another—we must encounter
hardships. To never feel the deepest
despair means we will never feel the greatest joy when the pendulum swings back
the other way. And it will; it always
does.
If it ebbs, it will flow.
If there is no counterbalance, if we
are always in the middle of the road, we can never fully appreciate the
wonderful without fully understanding the terrible.
When emotional hurdles are tossed
onto our paths, we do have options:
Stop. Become still in your life and never get past
that place in time.
Go around it. Pretend it wasn't there and keep moving forward. Any time we look back, that hurdle will still
be there.
Destroy it. Smash it.
Bulldoze through it. Throw it
into the briars. It's still there, even in bits and pieces, but
now we're exhausted from the exertion.
Go over it. Jump, climb, crawl or step—whatever works
best. Conquer the insurmountable in the
way that suits each of us best. It can
still be tiring, but the force of energy needed to deal with the hurdle is
manageable.
Regardless of how we choose to deal
with the obstacle, it's still an obstacle. It warrants respect and reverence for being
important enough to alter our path, no matter how long or short its wielding of
influence may be.
The key to healing from the damage
that's causing such anguish is to feel it, to recognize and accept that we
cannot go up until we hit bottom. We
must let our feet touch the hard depths in order to get our footing and push
off again, bounding to the top. Floating
freely and erratically in our pain may feel comforting for a while, oddly reminiscent
of being in utero, but it will not
end until we push hard toward the light at the end of the tunnel that is still
squeezing and contracting around us as we go.
It's incredibly difficult to watch
someone you love live their
pain. We want to protect those closest
to us from harm, but it's impossible.
The acting of even trying to protect them can inflict more damage than
we can imagine. Everyone has to deal and
heal in their own way and in their own time.
Sometimes the best we can do is to offer help—a bandage, stitches, or a hand
to squeeze when the pain is too much.
Sometimes a lullaby or a soft shushing will be support enough. And sometimes all we can do is mutely watch
them fall, waiting for them to hit their bottom and come bounding back, rushing
toward their light. Our love may cushion
them, but it can never fully break their fall.
Sometimes pain leaves scars. My physical scars are like a topography map
of what I've seen and where I've been, but they are a manifestation of healing
from deep trauma and heartache that was inflicted by others but mostly by
myself. At the core of me, I am the same
person I've always been, but that old Stephanie isn't exactly the same as the
one I am now. I am grateful for the comprehension
of joy and love and truth in ways I'd never experienced before, even if it
comes from having my world and my head turned upside down. I am sometimes disgusted by the proof of my
own self-inflicted carelessness, but I also understand that it's made me better
able to pause in my journey when needed, to ask myself if the choice before me
is healthy or unhealthy. It's all proof
that I was, and still am, ready and able to move forward, no matter what
obstacles lie ahead.
Every so often, when you need it
most but expect it least, the universe gives you a gift.
Mine came three weeks ago, though it
began with the unleashing of a torrent of anger and resentment directed at me
that sent me curled into my bed for most of a day. I seriously debated just staying between my
cozy, flannel sheets for the weekend but decided at the last minute to go out,
to get out of my battered head for a while.
I was supposed to be meeting up with a friend.
That fell through at the last
minute. Instead what I got was a
lightning strike, straight to the ass at 1:34 in the morning.
Yes, it came in the form of a boy—no,
a man—who could see me for who I
really am. And I could see him. All within ten minutes.
Once again, Fate intervened and
turned my head to make me look at what it wanted me to see.
"What
the fuck?" I asked myself.
"Did that just happen?"
Why,
yes. Yes, it did.
It's like the universe looked at all
of the work I've done over the past three years, the lessons I fought so hard
to learn through my crazy time of transformation, and said, "Okay. Let's see what you do with this."
It's so plainly, painfully obvious
that I have to practice what I preach with this. I have to walk the talk. So which lessons are most important now?
Don't
hide yourself away. I am a force of
nature. Hot Pocket said recently that
even she has a hard time keeping up with me.
"It's like chasing a preschooler in the sunshine," she
said. "It's beautiful but
exhausting sometimes." I'm not
offended by that, especially coming from a sister from another mister. I know how I am. But I hid much of that from myself and others
for so long, and it almost destroyed me.
I have to be truthful to myself and let my inner disco ball shine
brilliantly. I seriously debated reining
that in, to keep some of the glittery, blinding brilliance from him at least
initially, afraid that I would overwhelm yet another man. To be less than I am would be detrimental to
me and wholly dishonest to him. And any
man who wouldn't want me to be completely Stephanie is exactly the kind of man
I don't want in my life. Turns out, he's
not intimidated and barely even fazed by my muchness.
Open
your mouth and say what you want.
I'm not a little girl; I'm a grown-ass woman. I have the right and responsibility to
express my thoughts and desires to a potential partner. No matter how in sync we may feel, he can't
read my damn mind. If I want him to know
something, it's on me to make that clear.
Again, it seems less threatening to dance around an issue or to
insinuate or imply. That's a sure-fire
way to foster the miscommunication that will eventually lead to distance and
anger. It's hard sometimes to let
someone else into the cacophonous din of my head and my heart, and I have to at
least offer to be their tour guide. He
not only understands why I am so open and forward—he appreciates it.
Stay
in the moment. Oh, being still is
the hardest for me. I like a plan; I
like to have expectations for the future.
Even if the best-laid plans go awry, I am flexible and resourceful
enough to shift quickly to a new, diverging path. But to be here,
peacefully, is very difficult for me. I
don't know where this will be in six weeks or six months or six years, and
every time my head tries to go to that place, I clamp down on those thoughts
and tell myself to shut the fuck up. He is here and now; that is where I will get
to know him and where he will really get to know me. And I find that,
historically, when I've had a serious expectation of long-term, that's exactly
the moment I begin to take my partner and that relationship for granted. Anticipation of a lifetime or longer has
often given me an excuse not to care for now,
because my missteps can always be forgiven when there's an indefinite amount of
time before me. Now, with this man, I
have to work to be present rather than projecting for a future. My frenzied head has to give up control to my
patient heart and let it lead me slowly toward whatever adventure awaits.
I realized this week that I spend so
much time reacting to emotion—mine or someone else's—that I often forget to
simply let myself feel what's
happening, good or bad. And what's
happening, right now, feels spectacular. He's amazing for reasons that would take me
days to express, not the least of which is that he is totally accepting of my
relationship with my girls. Growler both
unexpectedly met him ("That boy is dazzled, Stephanie.") and gave him
his nickname (Bounder, which I will not explain in this forum). Hot Pocket got the Tingle of Truthiness when
I told her lightning had struck again.
Even Queen Frostine has given him her stamp of approval from a
distance.
In the way he always does, Hammer
nailed me with the most honest appraisal of this point in my life: "You'll
never feel normal again because your normal has changed. This is great progress and I'm happy for
you."
When I went public in October about
my impending divorce, I got all kinds of messages (public and private) from all
kinds of people. They ran the gamut from
encouragement to congratulations to sympathy.
One in particular was very kind and gave me the most unexpected
response:
"Welcome to the best part of
divorce: the post-divorce SEX!"
Let's be honest: failing marriages
aren't typically filled with crazy nights of amazing sex. As Tiff has said to me a hundred times, great
sex can mask a lot of flaws in a relationship, but if the sex isn't there,
well, you're pretty much doomed.
This is not to say that sex with DH
was bad. Far from it. But it had ended long before we made the
announcement or told the children or the families or most of our friends that
we were separating.
(DISCLAIMER: This is not a post
about my sex life with my ex-husband.
But I've written about it before in other venues, and there's no reason
to dance around what was a natural part of a twenty-year relationship. I will not
go into lurid details of that aspect of our marriage, especially not like
this.)
When he left, I was pretty convinced
that I would never have sex again. It
seemed implausible that I would manage to meet someone in my active life as a
suburban mom, even if only to sleep with them.
Honestly, I've had this thought a lot in those months. Every time I've felt the most dejected,
that's just when someone new has come into my life, even if only for a brief
encounter. Some have captured my
attention for longer than others, but none of them has been "the one"—a
totally ridiculous notion in my mind anyway.
I've written a lot lately about what
I don't want in a relationship going
forward—addiction, distance, unavailability. Even when my marriage was crumbling, there was
a lot of talk about what either or neither of us did not want to have happen,
if we were to move forward. There was
very little discussion about what we did
want, especially what we wanted collectively.
So I've been thinking a lot over the
last few days about what I want, when the day comes. And I know it will come. I will
fall in love again—it's what I do. I
don't know with whom or when or where, but my history says I'm likely to be
struck by lightning. It's happened twice
before, though maybe it's arrogant to think that it could happen again. My gut says, very confidently, that it's just
a matter of time.
First and foremost, I want healthy
attention.
I am really very attentive
and loyal to my partners, at least until I've been battered and bruised so much
that it hurts to keep going back, and I expect the same in return. I don't need to be the constant center of
attention, but I want to be seen, regularly.
I want someone to message me in the middle of the day and ask how I am,
just because they were thinking about me.
I want the quality conversation—in person, in email, by phone—that gives
us each the other's undivided attention and lets us really connect cerebrally.
Second, I want affection. I want random, unexpected kisses in the
kitchen or while I'm putting the laundry away.
I want someone to hold my hand while we're driving to dinner. I want someone to pause on the way into the restaurant
and kiss that special spot on my neck, just because they know it will stop me blissfully
in my tracks for twenty seconds.
Third, I want to feel special. Everyone has their own hierarchy of love. Your partner, your kids, your parents, your
friends, your family, God... they all fall into some ladder of who means more
to you, though that can be relative to your point in time. I want to know that I'm at (or at least very
near) the top of that list at any given time.
Fourth, I want sex. I am a sexual being, and I am open and
willing and adventurous. My sexual partners
need to be similarly-styled. I recognize
that we all come from different places of experience and experiment and
inhibition. I'm not opposed to taking
someone else down a new road, nor am I afraid to be lead in new and exciting
directions. But there has to be
equitable balance in those couplings. Sex
with a love partner is unquestionably the most extraordinary, bringing two
people together in the most intimate of ways and as an expression of that exact
moment of love—slow and sweet, sweaty and heady, quick and angry. I need a partner who is willing to be as
exploratory as I am, whether it's physical or emotional.
Fifth, I want love. I want to feel
the other person feeling me back. I want
active expression of emotion, not passive murmurings and protestations on the
way out the door. I want love as a verb,
not as a noun. And I want to be able to
reciprocate in kind.
Maybe this is a lot to ask for. In my mind, it's completely reasonable. I've been in all kinds of relationships—DH was
by no means my first and only—and I've become very pragmatic about what I'm
willing to accept. I think, for me, it's
a combination of both my age (and the natural history of experience and
maturation that comes with that) and the demise of my longest and most-intimate
relationship. I haven't lowered my
standards; if anything, they're higher than they ever were when I was 20. I'm just ready to cut out the bullshit and
get on with my life.
I don't know when the next right
person will come along. I'm not actively
looking for them; I fully expect that it will happen when I least expect
it. I'll still be out living my life,
flexing my muchness, and having all of the meaningless and meaningful
experiences that are awaiting me. But I
am ready for those encounters, whatever they bring. If it's some random person who doesn't
interest me for more than five minutes, I'll move on. If it's someone who turns out to be nothing
more than a great friend, I'm happy to welcome a worthy person into the inner
circle. And if it's love, well, that's
when I'll be most attentive, both to me and to them. It's what we'll both deserve.
People come into our lives for all
kinds of reasons. Sometimes they're just
passers-by, on their way from one point to another, whose path just happens to
cross with ours. Other times, they're
milestones and markers on our journey from Point A to Point Me, an interesting
landmark that catches our attention and makes us pause for a moment to examine
our surroundings a little closer. And
other times, well, there's a purpose
to their entrance into our lives; we are supposed to stumble upon each other
and learn some lesson, to find some new meaning in ourselves because of
something one of us has to teach the other.
These aren't necessarily the people
who will surround us for the rest of our lives.
That's a very lofty ideal, to find our souls' mates and have them with
us ad infinitum. So often, though, that becomes ad nauseum, and the time comes when the
separation has to be made, when those people have to be culled from our
lives. That can be a painful process for
one or both sides, but it is sometimes unavoidable if we are to move healthily
forward along our path.
I strive to find the purpose in
virtually everything I do. Experience is
often mundane, and there's little hidden purpose in the activities that often
fill our days. Breakfast and transportation
and sleeping all serve a very defined and insignificant-though-necessary
intent. It's when people cross my path that I am most intrigued, my overdeveloped
curiosity piqued.
I got home about a week ago from
Glittery Girl Week. This was my first
stretch of alone time since the divorce began.
I flew to Chicago to see Tiff for a couple of days, then on to
Birmingham to hang with Hot Pocket (née Mandypants) and Growler, plus a few
other glittering beauties and glamazons-in-training. Planes, trains, and automobiles—plus buses
and a lot of cathartic walking—took me to new restaurants and bars and clubs
and shows. I took Tierney on a tour of
Chicago, where so much of her action begins.
I got my first tattoo. I watched Persona Non Grata sell at Quimby's in
Wicker Park, where so much of Tierney's action begins. Where so much of my own life began in
2010.
"Junkture is what you do. Wonder Woman is who you are." - Tiff
It was, perhaps, the craziest five
days of my life. (If you know me, or if
you've read Persona Non Grata, you
will understand why that's such a huge declaration.) And I
loved every second of it.
Sitting on Tiff's sofa on Friday
afternoon, she looked at me and said, "I've never seen you so confident in
your life, Steph. Really. Ever."
She's right. I am.
That's why I didn't shy away from the 70-year-old woman in a full-length
mink coat who told me my purple-on-blond was beautiful. I graciously thanked every man who stopped me
to tell me how beautiful I was—really feeling the sentiment for maybe the first
time in my life. And when Paul, the
40-something guy I met outside my hotel in Wrigleyville held me up for ten
minutes to tell me how and why I was special and beautiful to him,
a total stranger, I was happy to give him the coat-open, full-frontal hug that
he requested upon the parting of our ways.
With all of these new people
skittering about me, I am watchful for the ones who may mean something. There was Fragile, a beautiful, young poet
from Denver whom I met while boarding my flight from Chicago-Midway to
Birmingham. Her life was so different
than mine, but there was an immediate connection and reflection of so many of
my own hard-fought lessons in this amazing young woman. When I gave her a Junkture guitar pick from
my purse, she smiled and said, "I've started to affirm the things I'm going to do, not the things I want to do. I just affirmed that I am going to learn to
play the guitar. This is my first guitar
pick ever, and I'm going to use it to learn to play."
I gave her the copy of Persona Non Grata that had traveled with
me through Chicago.
Tierney headed out for Glittery Girl Week.
Tierney going through security at Hartsfield.
Tierney with the Blues Brothers at Midway.
Tierney and Tessa having breakfast at Whole Foods.
Tierney dancing with Mr. Stolichnaya.
Tierney at the Double Door.
Tierney looking for Liz Phair at Reckless Records.
Maybe I am meant to come into someone else's life to teach them something
as well.
There are others who've crossed my
path recently, and I'm delighted to realize this stage in my life is about
practicing the skills I've learned over the last two years, of bringing those
lessons to fruition and proving to no one but myself that the metamorphosis
really was what was supposed to happen, that there was a reason I breathed life
back into Stephanie, that I met (and left) Absolem, and that my marriage came
to its unavoidable and sad end. While I
still have things to learn, I can sense with some of these new acquaintances
what those things are—in one specific instance, it is trust in another person in the most intimate of ways— and I am
realizing with each encounter that I
have something to offer them.
Maybe it's a different kind of
trust. Maybe it's learning how to allay
their own fears in the face of certain criticism and lurid judgment. Maybe it's how to open their mouths and say what they want from me or someone
else or their lives. Maybe it's even how
to embrace the truth of their selves and to integrate those truths fully into
their daily toil. And maybe it's
something I will never know.
As I was circled by crows this
morning—an omen of being mindfully true to yourself and your opinions, of
walking your own talk—I realized that it's safe
for me to impactful on someone else, that I can do it in ways that are healthy both
to me and to them, without having to resort to the shame of keeping or being a
secret. It is refreshing.
And I'm sure the learning will be
reciprocal. I can hardly wait to
discover what new thing is waiting for me.
A couple of days ago, I blogged
about the things I don't want to take with me into 2013. I've thinking about this a lot today as I'm
packing away the Christmas decorations and cleaning out some miscellaneous stuff from the house. There was something I left off that list.
I don't want secrets.
Mine or anyone else's.
When I was writing Persona Non Grata, converting from the
non-fiction Point A to Point Me to
the substantially fictionalized story—and I can promise you that two years didn't all play out as depicted in that
book—Absolem suggested I title the work Secret
Keeper, or something similar.
"That's what you've been,
Steph. You've kept everyone else's
secrets, plus your own. That's who you
are."
But secrets just suck. They can seem alluring, shared or created in intimate
moments. They can seem seductive in
their intimacy. When someone else gives
you their deepest, darkest secrets, it can feel like there's a certain level of
trust they have with you, like you're the only person who knows them well
enough or is strong enough to help them carry this burden.
When you are the secret, though, that's perhaps the most double-edged of the
covert swords. You're special enough to
be hidden away, to be a covert truth to be shielded from prying eyes. But at the heart of that bond, at the heart
of all secrets, is someone's shame.
There are things you keep to
yourself or between you and a select number of people. The privilege of intimacy is sacred and
beautiful. Surprises are wondrous
moments sprung unexpectedly with utter delight.
But secrets are the things that
hurt, whether yourself or other people.
Secrets are the things that can only be whispered in the dark, because
they are damaging to someone. Maybe
several someones. To ask another person
to keep a secret is to request that they carry the burden of your own shame—whether
at your action or inaction or reaction.
In the process of cleaning out the
house since DH unceremoniously left, I have been blindsided by twenty years'
worth of secrets. Things were squirreled
away that should've been brought to my attention. I hid my own shameful truths from him. Sometimes we hid them from ourselves, which
meant we couldn't help but hide them from the other. And I always find the evidence of those
hidden truths in the most unexpected places, at the most inopportune
times. It never fails to knock the
breath out of me and to make me cry.
Had I known the truth of these
things in the appropriate time, I probably wouldn't have felt so hurt about
their specifics. But now, when they're
coming to light sometimes twenty years later and only through accidental
discovery, I am cut more deeply by the surreptitious nature of
non-disclosure. I am appalled in
specific and in general that somehow I wasn't worth the truth. I only know now because things have gone so
horribly wrong, and I am stumbling upon the facts of things no one else has had
the fortitude or the guts or the fucking balls to face. I am left to deal with them on my own and to
clean up the mess of revelation like so much clutter in the basement.
It's all right there, along with the
mud-caked yard shoes he left by the back door.
What it's made me believe more than
ever—looking at his secrets, the ones I kept from him, the ones I kept for
other people, and most especially the ones I became—is that secrets devalue a
relationship. They are detrimental to
esteem and the trust that is at the core of any kind of love. They make that relationship worth less than
the shame of the secret.
To him and to so many others, I have
been worth less than their shame.
I also know that I have been on the
other side of that. I have damaged trust
and love and honesty, in general and in specific, by keeping my own
secrets. One damage doesn't negate the
other, though; there's no tit-for-tat in that kind of emotional warfare. It just creates a mounting pile of broken
promises and broken hearts that block everyone's path forward.
But maybe that's the hardest part of
all of this, the trying to see around the damage and toward the future. It's hard not to get caught up in the
vulnerable moments when all I want to do is cave into the crying and the heartache
and the blame and hope to Hell that he feels it, too. Someone told me that eventually he will
realize what he's lost, that he will eventually feel the hurt and pain that I'm
feeling now. Whether or not that's even
likely is moot—it simply won't matter.
The damage is done, and I hope I will have moved past it by that time,
if it ever comes. There would be no
vindication in knowing there are more tears and screaming and sorrow
later. If I'm not worth the grieving and
the sorrow now, just like I wasn't worth it six months and a year and two years
ago, why will it matter if he feels it then?
In his world, I will never be worth more than the secrets he fought so
hard to keep from me, and that definitely makes me feel like I never, ever had
a fighting chance at the life I was told we were building.
I have worked hard to feel my own
inherent value, to feel not worthless
to the world and to myself. But it's
reeling to feel like the person who supposedly loved you the most in the world
maybe never saw the value in you at all.
I don't know what I was worth to
DH. I don't know if he even knows. I will likely never know, because he will
likely never face me to have that conversation.
That's a secret he'll keep to himself, despite both me and himself,
perpetuating the cycle of damage that's gone on for so damn long now.
So, to all of the unavailable men
who may cross my path going forward, offering me their addictions and secrets
that will passive-aggressively stall my own journey, stay the fuck out of my way.
Take your damage and your destruction elsewhere. I don't want it. I have enough of my own tears and burdens to
carry, and I just don't have the strength to carry yours, too.
I wrote a couple of weeks ago about
all the things I'd done in 2012, about what a momentous time it's been for
me. (I forgot to include both turning 40
and taping a pitch pilot for
BRAVO. Really. I've done a lot this year.)
But now the year end is approaching,
neither rapidly nor unexpectedly—it happens the same way each year. My therapist asked me to work on a list of
things I don't want to carry with me
into 2013. I've been thinking about it
for days, writing both in my head and on actual paper that was later burned in
the fire. Now, though, I thought it time
to share that here.
I
do not want unavailable men. Maybe
that seems like a no-brainer, but I have this tendency to attract such beings
into my life. Whether logistically or
emotionally, I am magnetically attracted to the men who are least likely to be
able to share their life or mine. Maybe
it's something about their being inherently broken—a fragile cat. They're soft and pretty and purr when I pet
them, but they can't give what I need or want in return. I don't want that anymore.
I
do not want stasis. I don't want to
be stuck in the past or in the present.
I'm a creature that likes movement, and I want to continually move
forward in my life. It doesn't always
have to be incredibly exciting; there just needs to be momentum. And I recognize that there are times when I
need to sit still, for just a moment, and absorb what's going on around
me. Like a stop on a commuter train, it
needs to come and go in its necessity so that I can go on to the next
place.
I
do not want addiction. Mine or
anyone else's. Absolem has always said that
I have an addictive personality. He's
right and wrong, of course, like he always is.
His point was that I can easily get wrapped up and a bit obsessive about
things—whether life or love or experience.
In my constant quest to understand my life, I do examine the details,
over and over, until I have exhausted my understanding. Sometimes that's just exhausting to the
people around me, too. But this is where
I go back to my not wanting unavailability.
I don't want to be caught up in someone else's addiction, whether
literal substance or figurative obsession.
I want to healthily carry my own burdens and not enable anyone else's.
I
do not want fear. I've written a lot
about finding the impetus to overcome my own fears, usually of myself. There will always be things that scare
me. I don't want the paralysis that
comes with being afraid to make a choice or live my life. This is probably the root of most of my
historical stasis, and I want to be strong enough to swallow it down and move
past the apprehension.
I
do not want anger. There's a lot for
me to be angry about, both with myself and with others. I don't want to hang onto that anger, finding
it to be the only fuel to move me forward.
I want to make peace with the past—with the unavailable men and the
static and the addictions and the fear—and to let it go. Not letting go keeps the pain of the past so
very present. I want to be able to look
at those things and see them clearly in perspective, from a mild distance where
they don't feel so cogent anymore.
There are also a lot of things I do
want. I want Persona Non Grata to be successful.
(Thank you to everyone who has purchased it and downloaded it so
far. Your reviews and kind comments are
incredibly important to me.) I want to
be productive writing the next book, Mantissa,
which I started this week. I want to
enjoy my life with my children and to find ways to enjoy this new life on my
own. It's not what I'd planned or
expected a year or even six months ago, but it's my life, no matter what. And
I will do everything I can to make my mark on this place in time.
Thank you to everyone who has
supported and encouraged me this year.
You have been often effervescent in your love, and I am deeply
appreciative of that. As big as 2012
was, here's to hoping 2013 is even bigger and better. I'll let you know how it goes as I live it.
I've been fighting a cold for the
better part of two weeks, plus a nasty double case of conjunctivitis that
started a week before Christmas. My hormones are a little wonky, and the full
moon doesn't help one bit.
But mostly I just don't feel okay.
My life has been hijacked by this
divorce, quite honestly. If I thought
the months of tension were bad, the last two months have been a constant
rotation of phone calls with friends and emails with my attorney and sessions
with my therapist. I haven't worked out
in almost exactly two months now because there just hasn't been time. I'm often with the boys, whom I love more
than anything, but they aren't the greatest walking or weight-lifting partners. They gripe about doing crunches with me,
before they scurry away to their own kid schemes.
I'm spending a lot of time taking
care of them and the logistics of our burgeoning life, which hasn't left a lot
of time for me. There have been a few
nights out with great friends; I've had some fun adventures. But I'm not doing a very good job of taking
care of me.
I cry a lot lately. (Again, thank you, hormones and full
moon.) I hate to be untethered like that
in front of the kids. I feel like it confuses
and upsets them. Mom's job is to take
care of them, and I would imagine it's hard to feel like she's doing that when
she's crying about whatever's bothering her.
And I'm very careful not to tell them what's upsetting me. My issues are mine and they're very adult—they
have no place on the shoulders of my sons.
Today I asked a friend, who went
through his own divorce several years ago, if I will ever feel normal
again.
"I don't know," he replied
quite honestly. "I don't know if
you'll ever feel like that Stephanie that you were before you got married, or
at the first of your relationship with DH."
"But I don't want to be her!" I
interrupted. "I don't want to be
that girl who's fat and needs to be taken care of. I'm a much better version of myself now than
I was twenty years ago, and I don't ever want to go back there. I don't want to go back, period. I'm ready to
move forward."
"Then that's what you'll
do."
"And when will that feel
normal? Will it ever?"
"I don't know."
What the hell is normal? What is normal for me? I knew three years ago and two years ago, and
it often left me feeling unhappy when I faced it, even though from the outside
it looked exactly like the life everyone wants to have. My days then were a lot like they are right
now, though I ate a lot more then. And,
honestly, my nights weren't all that different, either—it's just that there was
usually another person being quiet instead of the empty silence.
I know I'm generally in a better
place, but it's hard to see what the point to it all is. Is this time just a resting place, a chance
for me to catch my breath before I move on to something else? There's a lot going on, and I could probably
use the chance to breathe. But I've been
breathing on my own for a long time now, and I'm ready to be breathless again. I'm ready to laugh and flirt and fight and
cry with someone other than myself or the ghost of someone who used to love
me. I don't want to get married or fall
in love right now. It would be easy to
say I'll never do those things again, but I know in my head that's highly
unlikely, regardless of how often I feel unloved or unattractive or like no man
will ever want to touch me again. But I
miss the small intimacies and connections and contact. I miss feeling something other than what I've
always known.
I am grateful that I have the most
amazing friends and the most spectacular sons, and I am appreciative of their
love every single day. But there are
friends I miss, as well, whose ties to me were damaged or severed in the
process of my marriage falling apart. It
seems like there's so much damage, both direct and collateral, that the
landscape of my life is unlikely ever to be recognizable again.
It makes me sad, and yes! it makes me angry. It didn't have to be like this. DH and I could've each made other choices
that would've changed our trajectory entirely.
This wasn't what I had anticipated or expected for my life, or for my
sons. Some days it feels like it would
be really easy to just stay in bed and refused to feel the light of day. But I don't have a choice; I have to take
care of them because that's my job. I
don't begrudge them that care or love or attention—they deserve every second of
it. Finding the joy in taking care of
me, though, is a whole other story.
So what will normal be? I don't know.
I try to comfort myself with the reminder that I don't have to know
right now, that the even keel when come when the seas have calmed. But I can't let myself careen wildly until
that happens. Even if it means I have to
tether myself to the mast, I have to stay upright and centered. And maybe, just maybe, I won't crash into the rocks.
Since the night I first thought I was pregnant with my elder son—days
before I found out I was actually, finally pregnant—I have wished on each first
star I saw that night for happy, healthy babies. When I pray, which isn't often, it always for
happy, healthy babies.
On the surface, this seems to be
what every parent wants for their child, and we do everything we can to make
that happen. We carefully feed and
clothe them. We give them every
opportunity we can to find the things that bring them joy. We try to teach them right from wrong and
that right will make them happy.
But happiness is a little
overrated. Don't get me wrong: to be happy feels spectacular. And it is
wonderful to be in a state of bliss, no matter that it is often fleeting and
hard to attain.
The better goal, I think, is contentment. It's that state of being pleased with yourself
and your life and your place in it that is perhaps harder-earned but more
lasting.
And it's not learning to be content
with what you have. (While that's a
laudable way to live your life, it is often an endeavor that can lead to so
much more distress and internal conflict, especially in Western culture.) I want most for my boys—and myself and my
friends and the people I love most in the world—to have lives in which they are
surrounded by the things that make them content.
I don't mean the tangible things
that pass the time. I mean the ability
to have a job or career or life path that is rewarding to them both emotionally
and materially enough to pay for their sustenance and the exploration of their lives. I want them to be so in love with someone
other than me that they can be deeply, truly emotionally and physically vulnerable
and that their hearts can find peace each day in that love.
From these things can come great happiness,
and from these things can come great sorrow.
But if they are content in
their lives, able to journey at their own pace rather than at the speed their
circumstances demand, then they will be able to weather the storms of joy and
heartache in the healthiest way possible: by being true to themselves.
