Muchness and Light

And a place in your heart, dear, makes me feel more real.

Last week, I was walking and listening to music, as I’m prone to do. I’ve been walking again a lot lately, both to try to lose the weight I regained over the last couple of years and to clear my head a bit. The last few weeks have seen a lot of processing about everything going on in therapy. I admit to there being a lot of overthinking, as well.

I was listening to the new Mynabirds record, Be Here Now. Their first two records were especially poignant for me during and after my divorce. I hadn’t had a chance to hear this one, so it seemed a great choice for a three-mile walk on a lovely autumn evening. The record is quite good, and I added several tracks to various playlists, as I’m also prone to do. But something—and I can’t be sure what—in the song “Wild Hearts” set me off. It’s as lyrically fantastic as any other song Laura Burhenn has written, but something sent me spiraling toward epiphany.

As I’ve said before, the goal of the Internal Family Systems model of therapy is to reintegrate the subpersonalities that are formed as the result of traumatic events. No matter how dysfunctional their behavior may (or may not!) be, my subparts are trying their best to protect me from hurt and further damage. Some have very simple roles, while others are complex and nuanced in their approach to what they see as their role. They are such an integral part of me that I don’t always notice when one subpersonality is controlling in a situation. (Just think about any time you’ve ever gone off and yelled at someone, had a full-blown tantrum, maybe not even realizing how out of control you are until the moment passes and you’re able to reflect on it rationally. You were always you. You always knew you were you. You were just… not really yourself in that moment.) This part of my journey ends when each subpart is reconnected fully with my Self, which is able to make healthy choices without the need to call on the managers or the firefighters to protect the exiles, perpetually trapped by a moment of trauma.

As I was walking and listening, I had the realization that there is another subpersonality I hadn’t noticed before. In my mind, she looks like a child, though she isn’t. I tried to reach out to her and let her tell me about herself, having an internal dialogue with this deep part of myself. I realized the others had crafted her, had created her from their own bits and pieces. She knows everything each of the other subpersonalities knows, though they don’t each know everything she knows. She acts as sentry for Cissie, a strong last line of defense of the exile, able to protect her (and thus me) with the full knowledge of every other manager and firefighter subpart.

Every time a subpart experienced any kind of extreme emotion, it was transferred onto Pearl. Layer upon layer of hurt and damage, of ecstasy and deep love, grief and agony, irrepressible joy and unflagging hope—all built up slowly to create their own scapegoat, much in the way I created them.

And if I created them and they created her….

Yeah.

Pearl is, essentially, my muchness.

She is the figurative embodiment of everything I’ve lived for the last seven years. She is the angry rebellion against being shoved into a box and denied reciprocal affection. She is the wild abandon that led to not-always-healthy choices. She is the late-night drives with the windows down and the same song blaring for thirty miles. She is the trail of glitter left in my wake. She is the frustration at loving someone so much and not being able to be any more entwined with them.

She is the shame that comes from needing so badly to be loved. She is the uncontrollable, make-me-shake-with-the-sick-of-it-all fear of being emotionally abandoned. She is the overwhelming sorrow from not being able to think of one more thing, the just-the-right thing, to prove that I was worth their love.

Pearl takes those hits, because even the others aren’t always capable of doing it. So they—I—created her, coating both good and bad carefully on an amorphous form disguised as innocence. At the center of it all is the exact hurt and shame that they all fight like hell to protect Cissie from.

Even in the depths of my fucked-up psyche, I tried to make something beautiful from something ugly.

Queen Frostine and I talked at length about it all, as we are prone to do. She was surprised to realize how much of what I do is tied up with self-protection.

“All these things I think about when I think of you, I always just thought of them as personality traits. Now I’m seeing that they’re defense mechanisms, and that is so fucking weird to see.”

And it’s not just the unhealthier traits, like redrawing personal boundaries to accommodate men who refuse to do the same for me. It’s also the gregarious and seemingly-healthy ones, like my openness and willingness to put all of me out there no matter what others think.

Pearl came about as a last line of defense. She’s the general behind my own enemy lines, telling everyone else what to do. And she mimics my voice so well that I let her be in charge.

But she’s not the one who’s supposed to be in charge—I am. I’m the one who gets to make the decisions about what’s best for me, for us. I can have an internal dialogue with these persona, assigned by me as a way to catalog and contain my emotions, to make sense of it all.

The irony is that in dividing myself into these intricate parts, I have compartmentalized my own emotions, segmenting them and locking them away until I’m ready to deal with them—the very thing I hate most when others do it to me. To be ignored, to be dismissed, to be relegated to the dark and dusty recesses of someone’s heart until such time as I am convenient is enraging to me.

But I’m doing it to myself.

It’s time to let them out of their boxes, to remove the walls of compartment and allow them to wander free, talking to each other and to me. It’s time to let them out into the light and the fresh air, to experience my life fully and mindfully, able to see more than the limited view from the bottom of a box.

 

 

 

And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright.

Last October, I was recovering from thyroid surgery and pining away for a man who couldn't love me like I needed.  Pandy came to stay with me for a couple of days, to help get my head out of my ass and keep me happily entertained.  With yet another recent snipe from Bounder, we talked at length (ad nauseum) about what my heart wanted and needed. 

Watching movies in the midst of some giggly crazy that always seems to rule our world, Pandy named the next Big Cat to impact me: Rango.

Rango would come from the west.  He would rescue the princess when she freaked out and couldn't do it herself.  He would be afraid but refuse to walk out on his own story. 

Rango would also be big; my ideal was 6'4, 240 pounds, blue eyes, dark hair but balding and shaved, western-European descent.  He would be smart and a little geeky, funny and compassionate, respectful and gentle.  He would be intense and look at me like I'm precious.  He would laugh as loudly as I do and totally get my batshit. 

He would not be an alcoholic, and he would not be afraid to love me.  He would not hesitate. 

Every date I had and relationship I started, Pandy and I would debrief and debate whether or not that one might be Rango.

When she and I went to the beach in April, she continued pressing me in her Practical Magic way to name what I wanted, based on what I'd already had. 

I kept dating.

On May 30^th, I received a message on one of the dating sites I'd been trying for ages.  The guy was a decent match, very cute, 6'5, and he was asking me about my writing.  The conversation went back and forth for a couple of messages, and then I dropped it and forgot about it. 

School, kids, work, my grandmother's death.  And, as has happened so often in the last year, there was the inevitable back-and-forth with Bounder.    I had a couple of dates, but nothing that was quite what I was looking for.  I finally (yes, finally!) got Bounder out of my heart.  Queen Frostine and Peanut and their kids came to visit for a few days.  With so much hectic happening, I decided to screw dating and just focus on school and the kids. 

But then last week I received another message from this guy.

"So I've been matched with you in two different places.  Knowing that you're not into developing dialog through chat, how would you feel about meeting me for a drink sometime this week or weekend?"

Oh, hell! I thought.  I totally blew this guy off for no reason.  And I love to write-chat.  Seriously?  How rude of me!

I agreed to meet for a drink that night, but I also knew that if it didn't go well, I would be done with dating for a while again.  He told me he'd be the tall guy in the Superman baseball cap and that he'd be hard to miss.  I replied that I was an Amazon with a Wonder Woman tattoo; there was no way I would miss him.

Of course he was late.  I was a few minutes earl.  I was sitting at a pub table when I messaged the Castration Committee at 8:37.

"My 8:30 drink date is late.  You know how I feel about this."

"He better have one hell of an excuse!" Pandy commented. 

"There is no excuse!  Release the Cuisinart!" added Moonshine.

Queen Frostine is always so direct in her assessments: "Nope.  Next!"

But then came a text from him: "I'll meet you inside, assuming I made it to the right place.  It's warm out here!"

I was trying to respond to let him know I was already at a table, when I heard a server greet a customer.  I stood and turned to meet him at the door when I saw him round the corner. 

I caught my breath and watched him do a double-take. 

He had been sitting in the 90-degree heat, waiting for me because he was right on time.  Three hours later, I'd agreed to go out with him on Saturday night.  And Friday night.  By 5:30 the next afternoon—after all-day messaging with him—I'm texted Pandy:

He's Rango.

And he is.  Undoubtedly. 

He got to me by 10:45 Friday morning.  We didn't separate until very late Sunday night. 

He's from Texas, though he has lived all over.  He is 6'5, 235#, shaved head, gorgeous blue-gray eyes that flicker like a storm approaching over the ocean.  He kissed me in the park under Independence Day fireworks.  He bought two new Doctor Who shirts while he was with me at the mall, including one that is just like Max's favorite shirt.  He totally encouraged my need to Instagram the absurdities in my world.  We laughed until we couldn't breathe, and we talked for three straight days.

And while I don't like comparing men and relationships, how did he stack up against the Pandy-induced wish list?

He helped me cook dinner, and he cooked crepes for me for breakfast on Sunday.  I watched him clean up spilled cat food from the kitchen floor.  I lost my wallet on Saturday, and he drove me on Sunday to pick up the boys in South Carolina and paid for the gas and food and fireworks for the kids, because I couldn't.  He met my sons and my ex-husband at the same time. 

He saw me immediately, clearly.  He has lived amazing adventures and wants more, but nothing is so adventurous to him as the possibility of me. 

Rango listens to me intently, like my voice and words keep him alive.  He is holding nothing back.  Every emotion, deep and true, is mine to see and touch.  It was he, in fact, who looked me in the eye—not a text or a phone call—to tell me for the first time that he loves me.  To my face, with no hesitation. 

And from the very first, he bested the kiss that I thought would likely never be topped.

He brought me flowers and a CD when he came for me.  He held my hand and breath-sang to me—a country song that, for so many reasons, would have otherwise made me want to stick my fingers in my ears. 

Rango is enormous.  He has worked to overcome his own weight and health issues and understands mine intimately.  His hands and feet are bigger than mine, and I touched his feet with mine the first day, which the Castration Committee knows is a big damn deal for me.  He is loud and gregarious, patient and indulging.  He picked me up and spun me around and kissed me like no one ever has before.

More importantly, he is present and available and willing.  He holds my hand and rubs my cheek constantly.  He texts me in the pre-dawn hours while I am still sleeping to tell me he loves me.  He sends me links and pictures for things he thinks I will find interesting, and he sends similar tidbits for the boys, who both said he is awesome.  He plays my favorite game of sharing poignant songs, back and forth, trying to explain our heads and hearts through music.  He is taking me to meet his friends this weekend.  He talked to Pandy on the phone and is planning to go with me to see her in a couple of weeks. 

He looks at me like no one ever has, and he tells me I am precious to him.  I can see and feel my worth to him in every single interaction, in every touch and kiss and look and word. 

I had all but lost hope that I would ever find what I staunchly believed had to be out there.  I knew in my head that the law of averages said it was likely to happen, but my heart just couldn't connect and was losing faith.  I questioned over and over what I had done so wrong in my life that I didn't deserve to have the good I knew was looking for me just as hard as I was looking for it.  It felt like my heart was dying. 

And in walked Superman.

I am overwhelmed, and I am relieved, and I am grateful.  Yes, to know that I was right and to get something really good when I needed it, but also because it's him.  It's this man, who is so wonderful. 

I see his specialness.  I see those unique qualities that set him apart from other men, hiding behind the dork glasses and the badge on his chest.  His strength is amazing, but his heart is just as strong. 

While it might have been too much for other women, I'm an Amazon princess.  I have my own enormous strength, my own muchness that has been too much.  I have my own, invisible transportation and don't need him to fly me around, unless I've misplaced my driver's license. 

More importantly, we see the humanity in each other, the imperfections and the frailty and the damage that led us to one another.  We know we only have so much time, and we have each wasted enough having to rebuild from one destruction or another. 

Had I gone out with him in early June, before letting go of Bounder, it never would've worked.  I would've thought he was too nice.  I wouldn't have thought I deserved something this good.  I wasn't ready to accept a blessing.

But I asked for him.  I dared the universe to send me something very specific, and just when I thought it couldn't possibly happen, I got what I needed when I needed it most. 

THAT is the magic I was looking for.

 

Related articles

Blind faith, heartache, mind games, mistakes, my sweet fireball, my sweet rigmarole, I want it all.

She's super-freaky, yow.

I am deviant. 

I don't mean in the connoted sense of criminal or sexually degenerate—though there's certainly a story or two about that.  What I mean is, I violate social norms. 

What is "normal" is determined by every society, big and small, for that culture in that time.  I am generally law-abiding and productive, but my personality—the persona of Stephanie—is often camped firmly in the fringe of normal. 

Pretty much everything falls onto a bell curve.  If you classify virtually anything and rank and sort it, then graph it in that mathematical way that has eluded me for years, it makes a pretty, curvy shape, in which the majority of "stuff" is in the high center and the extremes are on the low sides. 

I'm almost always on one of those tapered ends.   

Doing my neverending homework this week, I was reading about social deviance.  My textbook was talking about different sociological viewpoints of deviance.  Emile Durkheim's structural-functional analysis says that deviance is a necessary function of society.  What is unnormal is defined by what is normal and vice versa—there can be no evil without good.  How a society responds to deviance clarifies its moral boundaries and brings people together in the process, sometimes encouraging social change. 

Robert Merton goes on to purport his strain theory, which basically says that some deviance may be necessary for society to function but that too much, especially when caused by a lack of means to help members of a society achieve cultural goals, places a strain on that society.  Conforming to cultural goals through approved means can become difficult, if not impossible, when there are no opportunities to do so.  This points to why street crime is so prevalent in poor neighborhoods, where people don't have the educational and socioeconomic means to provide for themselves or further lives outside of the poverty and circumstance they've been socialized in. 

Eventually, deviant subcultures can form: criminal, conflict, or retreatist. 

Walter B. Miller adds that subcultures have certain characteristics, no matter their underlying cause:

• trouble – frequent conflicts with authority figures
• toughness – especially value of physical size, strength, and agility
• smartness – ability to outthink others
• need for excitement
• belief in fate
• desire for freedom

I am a deviant subculture unto myself.

I've always been at odds with authority figures.  I've never been inclined to listen to someone just because they were in charge or I was supposed to do so; if they could give me a reason to respect them, I would.  If not, I would question it and fight back.  I am certainly taller and bigger and larger, both physically and mentally, than most people.  All that testing when I was a kid proved I was smarter than even the above-average bear.  I'm easily bored and constantly shifting gears to the next adventure.  I have a strong belief in both fate and Fate.  And I want nothing more than to be free to live my life as I see is best for me. 

As ridiculous as it sounds to say I rebelled and formed my own subculture, that's kind of exactly what happened over the last four years.  I was unhappy—fat, in a crumbling marriage, unfulfilled in most aspects of my life, seeing no way out—and I fought back.  I had everything everyone says they want, and I was miserable.  I bucked the norm and started to live as Stephanie, more than Wife and Mom and Daughter. 

I am finding more opportunity now, because I am making more opportunity for myself.  Working three part-time jobs and being in school full time, plus being a full-time mom, is hard as hell, but it was my choice.  More than a couple of people have suggested I should find another husband to support me and pay for my life.  Fuck that.  If I can't rely on my own talents and worth, no one else should be able to, either.  (Conflict subculture.)

There are days I want to run away and leave it all behind.  (Retreatist subculture.)  I often talk about living on Glamazon Island, where men aren't allowed to live—unless they're a Hooha and only then until they grow up.  (Hoohas are the general name for children of inhabitants of Glamazon Island, 'cause that's where they came from.)  Eventually Glamazon Island will just be me and my girls, having tea parties and craft time on the beach every afternoon, before our daily walk. 

(There are all kinds of secondary plans, involving whose daughter is in charge of defenses and ninja skills to protect us from the ousted Hooha forces that invade on giant, flying Death Chickens.)  (This is also why someone recently told me that my mind is like a playground for adults.) 

Look: I am as batshit as they come.  And it's not that I strive to be substantially different from everyone else.  I am not like other girls because I'm just made that way.  I don't live in the middle of the bell curve because I'm not happy in the medium.  My place of comfort is pretty far removed from most other people's.

And I am happy that way.  It can make for some pretty extravagant turmoil sometimes.  It can be hard, being able to understand emotional extremes so readily because I have lived them.  But I can't imagine being normal.  Maybe if I were, I wouldn't really know the difference.  What I do know is that my pretending to be normal did no damn good for anyone.   

So I embrace my differences and live them as fully as I can.  As Queen Frostine joked yesterday, "The standard deviation is not enough for a kinky statistician." 

But that gives me hope that somewhere there's a 6'4, 240-pound, dark-haired, blue-eyed, Irish statistician who might be able to keep up with me.

 

For all of us girls who don't fit in, I say go Amazonian.

One of the classes I'm taking this semester is an intro to Sociology.  In this past week's chapter on social interaction, there was an explanation of Erving Goffman's dramaturgical analysis, in which Goffman equates social interaction to theatrical performance.

From Wikipedia:

In dramaturgical sociology it is argued that the elements of human interactions are dependent upon time, place, and audience.  In other words, to Goffman, the self is a sense of who one is, a dramatic effect emerging from the immediate scene being presented.  Goffman forms a theatrical metaphor in defining the method in which one human being presents itself to another based on cultural values, norms, and expectations.  Performances can have disruptions (actors are aware of such), but most are successful.  The goal of this presentation of self is acceptance from the audience through carefully conducted performance.  If the actor succeeds, the audience will view the actor as he or she wants to be viewed.

The text for this class, Society: The Basics, goes through several pages of explaining the perspective and then addresses the ideology in terms of gender as a "central element in personal performances".

Demeanor

Demeanor... is a clue to social power.  Because women generally occupy positions of less power, demeanor is a gender issue as well.  40 percent of all working women in the United States hold secretarial or service jobs under the direct control of supervisors who are usually men.  Women, then, learn to craft their personal performances more carefully than men and defer to men more often in everyday interaction.

Use of Space

Power plays a key role here; the more power you have, the more space you use.  Men typically command more space than women, whether pacing back and forth before an audience or casually stretching out on a bench.  Our culture has traditionally measured femininity by how little space women occupy—the standard of "daintiness"—and masculinity by how much territory a man controls—the standard of "turf".

Just about everywhere, men (with their greater social power) often intrude into women's personal space.  If a woman moves into a man's personal space, however, he is likely to take it as a sign of sexual interest.

Staring, Smiling, and Touching

In conversations, women hold eye contact more than men.  When men stare at women, they are claiming social dominance and defining women as sexual objects.

Although it often shows pleasure, smiling can also be a sign of trying to please someone or of submission.  In a male-dominated world, it is not surprising that women smile more than men.

Touching suggests intimacy and caring.  Apart from close relationships, however, touching is generally something men do to women.  [several examples given]  The intent of the touching may be harmless and may bring little response, but it amounts to a subtle ritual by which men claim dominance over women.

I say all the time that I'm not like other girls.  According to this analysis, I am a man. 

In my glamazonianness, I take up far more space than most women.  Even after the weight loss, I'm still a 5'11, curvy size 10/12.  Hell, I'm larger than a lot of men I know.  Now that I'm considered a "normal" size, I'm still often uncomfortable when I see myself compared to other women, including my female friends whom I tower over and dwarf, physically.

I complain all the time that men seem intimidated by me and that it's a special breed who has the balls to actually approach me and invade my personal space—usually the ones who are letting me know all too blatantly that they want to fuck me. 

I stare at people all the time, though that has a strange connotation.  I'm not staring with the intent to ogle anyone; I am often regarding and watching them to see who and what they are.  People fascinate me—the way they move and act as souls but also the structure of different human bodies.  I tend to compare female form more than male, but I also have this theory about there being a certain number of combinations of physical attributes that work together to make people attractive, kind of like my own, screwy Beauty Ideal. 

I do smile a lot if I'm comfortable—it comes with the raucous laughter.  But in social situations, especially if I'm alone or somewhere unfamiliar, I tend to lock my jaw and look bored as I stare ahead of me.  I don't tend to give other people any noticeable attention until I decide it's time.  (That's not to say I'm not paying attention—never make that assumption.)  And when I do pay attention to people, I am a very touchy girl.  I make a lot of small contacts, in the midst of huge hand gestures, when I'm talking with someone. 

Obviously I don't really think I'm a man in ewe's clothing.  Hot Pocket and I decided ages ago that we were each men in past lives but that I didn't really enjoy it while she probably did.  I am intensely feminine, almost to the point of contradiction at times.

What I am, as I realized finally last summer, is a very alpha female.  It may present in a non-traditional way (off-off-Broadway), but it is part of my role, of the persona I constantly craft and refine as I present it to other people in my day-to-day interactions.  Interestingly, when I find myself faced by a more dominant male, I often slouch and become quieter in some subconscious attempt to take up less of their space in deference.

In some ways, especially by modern America's statistical and cultural standards, I am a perfectly normal woman—41, divorced, mother of two, middle class.  In other ways, I am larger than life, sometimes quite literally.  From my perspective, though, I am perfectly normal, which is good since this is the only way I know how to be.

 

My two cents is worth ten grand.

Childhood molestation.  Parental divorce.  Teenage date rape.  Abusive boyfriend.  Suicide attempts.  Morbid obesity and body image issues.  Marriage gone horrible awry.  Series of unhealthy romantic relationships with unavailable men. 

That's the quick and dirty laundry list of the bullshit that led me to now.  But that is not me.

Like so many other people, I fulfill a statistic.  According to the National Center for Victims of Crime, 9.2% of victimized children are sexually assaulted.  1 in 5 girls are victims of sexual abuse.  3 of 4 children who are sexually assaulted are victimized by someone they know well.  63% of women who suffer abuse by a family member also report rape or attempted rape after the age of 14. 

50% of children in America live through the divorce of their parents.  Adults whose parents were divorced are 50% more likely to divorce themselves. 

10% of high-schoolers are physically abused by their dating partner.  50% of youth who are victims of both physical and sexual assault attempt suicide.

15% of Americans are obese.  6.6% are morbidly obese. 

40% of people have maladaptive attachments in adult relationships, driven by the events of their past—with the seeds of dysfunction often beginning in early childhood. 

I am not special.

I talk very openly in public and in private about all of these things.  I didn't for a very long time.  There was certainly a sense of shame about all of it.  When I came to the understanding that keeping these things in secret only perpetuated that cycle of shame that never should've been mine, I began to attack these issues head-on and put them into a healthy perspective.  They've been analyzed and discussed and dealt with, at least until some other issue arises that is a direct or indirect result of what happened.

Muchness and Light was started, in part, as an outlet for dealing with the transformations that came from that self-scrutiny.  Hell, I wrote a book about a lot of it. 

But if you meet me in person, I will never offer you my hand and say, "Hi, I'm Stephanie.  I'm a victim."

I don't live like that.  I don't think like that.  Stephanie is not defined by her past, but she sure as hell is shaped by those events. 

Sometimes there's a reason to make parallels to something that happened with some new event in my life.  Usually it's because there's a problem.  Often the root of my problems surround how I crave and strive for intimacy and love from another person.  I do have times when I feel unloved and worthless, and that's when the self-analysis can become brutal.

I've written a few times about my sense of worth, both to myself and to the people I love.  Regardless of how it seems sometimes, I am acutely aware of my inherent value as a mother and a woman and a soul.  I get tripped up in my value to other people, especially when something has gone wrong. 

In my mind, as a combination of both head and heart, I have been worth very little to a lot of people in my life.  Other people's perceptions and mistakes and miscommunications shouldn't be a barometer of my value, but they often are.  And I know I'm not alone in this.

Even people who are in healthy, secure, romantic relationships see themselves in relation to their partner.  There's a natural loop of positive feedback—through words and touch and action, consideration and thought and care—that show you how your partner values you.  If they are attentive and thoughtful in their approach and recognition of you, if they are engaged with you, the neurotransmitters and hormones responsible for the physical emotion of love are released again and again.  You feel closer to, and more secure with, this other person, making you more willing to reciprocate in kind.  Then their body is responding similarly, and it's a wonderful cycle of love. 

You are important to each other and are showing the other their worth to you by supporting and cherishing and caring for them. 

But when words and actions don't match, or don't exist at all, it devalues the relationship.  Eventually it begins to undermine the self-worth of one or both partners.  If he loves me, he will care for me.  If he doesn't care for me, I am unimportant to him.  I am unimportant to the person I love, who is supposed to love me most in the world.  If that is all this special person thinks of me, I must not be worth very much to him. I must not be worth very much at all.  I am worthless.

One bad relationship shouldn't be able to damage your self-perceptions, but rarely is it one bad relationship.  There's is almost always a series of events—of romantic, erotic, platonic, and familial relationships—that build upon one another, piling on the sense of lessthanness. 

Look at it like an economy.  At birth, you're worth $1,000,000, just because you exist.  Your parents and family care for you and raise you and help you grow.  Eventually you're worth $2,000,000, and you set out into the world, socializing and developing your own interpersonal relationships outside of your family.  Your first boyfriend or girlfriend is pretty good; they add $250,000 to your value.  Your next one breaks your heart, and you lose $750,000.  Now you're at $1,500,000 when you meet your future spouse.  They add $500,000.  Your marriage adds $1,000,000.  Lost friendships deduct $300,000 each.  Kids add $5,000,000 each but have constant volatile flux for the first twenty years, so your value is in constant shift. 

When you find that you have trauma after trauma, especially when they've happened at the hands of the people who are supposed to love you most in the world, it eventually begins to feel like no one has ever or could ever help bring you back into positive territory.  No matter how hard you work to build your own value--$100,000 for graduating high school, $250,000 for college, $1,000,000 for the PhD, and $500,000 for the first great job—you're still constantly trying to overcome this deficit that's been in place and growing for as long as you can remember. 

What I want and will say I need (That's an entirely different discussion I'll get into later.) most is for just one person to step up and show me that I matter to them.  That I matter at all.  Because I was let down so many times, I don't believe in my heart that anyone is capable of loving me.  There are people capable of doing it, in general; I know many of them.  But of all of the people who have come through my life over its course thus far, it is with rare exception that anyone has ever shown up for me consistently and shown me that I am worth a damn to them. 

Even if I am worth $1,000,000 on paper, it means nothing unless someone is willing to barter for it.  It doesn't grow unless it's invested.  And if it's just used and depleted over time, it will eventually drop to $0.  Even the Hope Diamond is estimated to be worth $350,000,000, but it's just a shiny rock in a box until someone actually pays for it.

I recognize that it's not necessarily about me.  I am attracted to emotional unavailability, because it is what I have always known.  In my own maladaptation, in my own inherent brokenness, I search for people who are just as broken in their own, extreme way that is the polar opposite of my own damage.  Even if and when I learn new tools for handling that and making healthier choices, I will still be jaded by my past.  I can't forget that these things happened, and they will always be a constant, flashing caution signal as I move forward along my path.

If I build my house on a hill, I can build it with a level foundation.  I'm still building it on a hill.  There's a strong possibility that, given enough time, the foundation will shift and settle, needing to be jacked back up and supported from time to time.  I could always raze the damn hill, but that would require cost and energy to devastate miles of visible landscape to try to forget there ever was a hill in the first place. 

My hill is a slippery slope, but I fought my way to the top to plant my rainbow freak flag in the summit.  From here, there's a pretty damn amazing view.  But it's also sometimes lonely, and I'm tired of looking down and seeing all the people who shrugged and walked away from the clamber, who found themselves unworthy of escalation and therefore made me feel unworthy of their effort. 

So, yeah, sometimes I sit my ass down and cry, howling my lamentations into the wind.  Far too often it has seemed like a siren's call, bringing a reticent hero crashing into the rocks below; for rescue or marooned companionship, I don't know.  But maybe, just maybe, that song will be worth something to someone, someday.  And maybe someone else will be willing to fight their way to my summit and join me in surveying everything we've left behind. 

 

And if you feel, why can't you say? Give me a little demonstration.

After more issues with what I perceive to be the fickle behavior of men, I opened a discussion on my personal Facebook page, asking for the male perspective (although anyone who could see it was welcome to respond). 

I explained about my choice to be sometimes brutally honest with men (really everyone) about who and what I am, about getting past the ones who don't interest me or can't keep up with me, and how I then tend to attract guys who are generally as intense and colorful as I am.  They'll tell me how much they appreciate my energy and my honesty and my crazy, how I'm amazing and exactly what they've been looking for their whole damn lives, and then flake the fuck out approximately 4-6 weeks later.  They will puff their chests initially and tell me how they'll be the best man I've ever known and then just quit trying. 

So I asked if they were panicking suddenly or if men are generally liars by nature.  I also explained that I wasn't looking to bash men, that I really was trying to understand it.

Several friends, both male and female, chimed in.  The consensus was that these men likely believe what they're telling me but that maybe something just changes.  Maybe they find they weren't really as interested as they initially thought.  Maybe it's just not a good match.  Whatever the reason, they generally aren't lying about their intentions or their feelings. 

As the discussion evolved, La Bruja shared this:

I dated a bunch of emotionally unavailable men; they pushed all my hot buttons and presented me with a problem that resonated with me and that I wanted to fix!  A lot of things helped me quit doing that, and one particular book finally made it click:

 It's about adult attachment styles.  The hot and cold that an avoidant can (and does) create used to be exactly what sucked me in.  And now I don't even notice these guys.  I have no idea if this is something that you're experiencing-- the men you describe sound avoidant, in that they come on strong, read you well, say the right things, and then bail-- potentially to pop back up from time to time.  At any rate, it was an eye-opening read.

I looked at the book and dug a little deeper into attachment styles in adult relationships.  I found a quiz online, for whatever that was worth, but it pointed to my being in the "preoccupied/anxious attachment" camp. 

Oh yeah.

From Wikipedia:

People who are anxious or preoccupied with attachment tend to agree with the following statements: "I want to be completely emotionally intimate with others, but I often find that others are reluctant to get as close as I would like. I am uncomfortable being without close relationships, but I sometimes worry that others don't value me as much as I value them." People with this style of attachment seek high levels of intimacy, approval, and responsiveness from their partners. They sometimes value intimacy to such an extent that they become overly dependent on their partners. Compared to securely attached people, people who are anxious or preoccupied with attachment tend to have less positive views about themselves. They often doubt their worth as a partner and blame themselves for their partners' lack of responsiveness. People who are anxious or preoccupied with attachment may exhibit high levels of emotional expressiveness, worry, and impulsiveness in their relationships.

Every guy I've ever been involved with will totally confirm that this describes me all too well.

As I dug even deeper, several articles point to my childhood as the root of the problem.  Inconsistent parental attachment.  Maladaptive.  Drawn to fearful- and dismissive-avoidant partners.

Note to my exes: I can classify each of you, too.

After two years of therapy, I know the what, when, and why of my issues.  I know the ins and outs of the series of events that led to these perceptions and behaviors in me.  Truthfully, that's probably better than most people ever get.  But what I don't know is how to change it.

Changing it at all is a really scary thought.  While I am not defined by the events of my past, I am certainly shaped by them.  Sexual, physical, and emotional abuse and neglect left their impact, undoubtedly.  I have worked really, really hard to deal with all of those things and put them into healthy perspective.  That work is, in part, what led to my writing again, to my open exploration of my life, and to the deep self-awareness I possess as a part of the entire process.  That is what has given me the bravery to live my life and to even try to trust and love again when I have every logical reason to withdraw. 

If I change the behaviors that are so inherently a part of me, do I change me to the point that I am less than who I am now?  Do I somehow lose the muchness I worked so damn hard to find again? 

My biggest fear is that I won't be able to love as deeply and passionately and intensely as I do now.  I am afraid that I will temper that to the point that I become numb again—which is how I lived my life for far too long.  I am fearful that I will lose my dream of the all-encompassing, breathtaking, soul-shattering-and-purifying love that I have wanted most for my entire life. 

And now, I'm afraid that that dream is fallacious.  I'm questioning whether everything I've worked so hard to attain, what is of tantamount importance to me as a soul, is as illusory as it is elusive. 

To relinquish that belief could mean watching a dream die. 

But what I also know is that my perceptions are inherently skewed.  Right now, I don't know that I can trust them, and that means I can't trust myself.  Historically I have placed my trust in the people who least deserve or respect it, and that has shredded my heart time and again.  While I may know in my head that these patterns are unhealthy, I don't have the skill set to be able to approach it or think about it in any other way. 

Part of me feels like I'm starting all over again, going back to the beginning of this crazy journey I've been on for more than three years.  But the truth is that I am light years from where I was then; this is a new milestone on my path that just happens to look a lot like ones I've seen before.  There's a weird sense of emotional déjà vu.

So I'll work with my therapist to gain the tools I need to form more secure attachments and to stop attracting fragile cats.  As much as I love them and want to care for them, they'll never be able to love me back or care for me in the ways that I need.  They're just as maladaptive as I am.

La Bruja went on to say this:

Stephanie, take it from me-- you CAN deal with all of that, past damage does NOT have to define you forever, and once you have addresses these issues in your own life, you simply will not see these men anymore (nor will they see you), and you will start noticing an entirely different type of person, one who wants to have a good relationship with a nice, beautiful, intelligent woman.

And he'll amuse the living daylights out of you by marveling from time to time about how it is that you're still available.

I'll take your word for it, my wonderful friend.  God knows I can't trust my own. 

Recent Posts

I've volunteered you my eyes in place of facing me.

Welcome to the inner workings of my mind.

Welcome to the inner workings of my mind.

I am not perfect. 

I am smart and able and resourceful and determined.  I am exceedingly analytical, especially when it comes to relationships and my own role in them.  I spend an inordinate amount of time in my own head, breaking down the minutiae of every conversation, every encounter.  What did he mean by that?  Was there really a disjoint between his words and his expression?  What did I do to encourage or discourage him?  Why the hell am I feeling this?

Some days it's incredibly loud inside my head.  I will replay every detail over and over.  (Add obsessive and dogged to that list of qualities.)  Hiding behind every memory there is always a ghost, taunting me with the rattle of its chains and reminding me of every time I have been less than perfect. 

Truthfully (and with a bit of well-earned arrogance), I do most things I attempt very well.  When I set my sights on a specific path, I will follow it to the point of exhaustion, just to see it through.  It's the encounters along the way, the people I stumble across and sometimes joyously or painfully into, who help to shape that journey.  Because I remember the details of almost everything in my life, it's very unlikely that I will ever forget those people. 

I don't want to be forgotten. 

I wrote about this back in the summer, in the midst of the divorce and the midst of Bounder:

Sometimes it feels like competition, but you don't always know the specifics of what you're fighting, or sometimes even that you are.  This is why I try so damn hard to be bigger, better, faster, more.  If I can create something new, something unique, it is unforgettable in its own right.  If I am at the core of those memories, I only have to compete against my own ghosts.  When it comes down to it, there's only me to fuck with my own head, and I relish that hard-fought battle more than any other. 

I did have a conversation recently with Bounder about this.  I talked with him about a specific drama that had injected itself into my world—yet another fragile cat who went totally off the deep end—and how I didn't know how not to attract these fucked up men.  He argued that it's the reciprocity of attraction, that in the same way I always seem to be hunting them, they can smell me on the wind. 

"Because you are the alpha female, the lioness of lionesses.  It's built in somehow, parallel to how you're a badass mom.  Same psycho theory...."

If I care about these men, the souls they are beyond any sort of romantic relationship we have, is it wrong for me to be active in that when they are struggling?  It's right to do what you can to help the people who matter to you—that's how interpersonal relationships work.  And there are a very few whose souls have touched mine so deeply that they could get my attention and help no matter what.  Forever and always and no matter what.  I may have every reason to tell them to fuck off, but I care deeply and cannot bear the thought of not honoring that.

"You do honor it, Steph, just by trying.  You cannot do it yourself.  It will always take two."

"I don't know that I even believe that anymore, that there's another one who can be what everyone else so plainly believes I need.  So what's my option?  Be miserable alone?  If I'm gonna be miserable, I'd rather have it peppered with moments of incredible connection."

Bounder says the key is to not ever be miserable alone, to enjoy and thrive in those moments until the connections are there, intentional or not. 

"Trust," he said. 

"But that means I have to trust myself," I replied. 

While I am sometimes too free and quick with my emotions, there are a very few people in the world who I truly love.  I am fortunate that I have a list at all, but it can be very hard for me to let anyone in.  The list of people I trust is far, far shorter.  I have every historical reason for that, certainly, but the ones who have gained my confidence have been the ones who very strongly encouraged me to see something about myself that I couldn't or wouldn't face, good or bad.  That's part of why they matter to me and always will. 

If I can find people who trust me enough to let me care for them, then I hope for reciprocity.  I hope to see my own worth through their eyes, because I can only see my value, really, when it's shown to me. 

This is why I asked Bounder and DH and sometimes Absolem and others why I wasn't worth their fight.  Every time I think I am, that I have done enough and earned it from them or for them, I get the response that somehow I just wasn't enough—usually while being told I was just too much. 

"Who are you not good enough for?" Bounder asked.  "Certainly not the drunken cats or your ex or any of them and definitely not Daddy.  So who's left?  Who do you pale in comparison to?  You."

"I pale in comparison to those who've come before me, to those ghosts who can garner more attention that I can."

"Not true.  You believe it, clearly, but it's not true."

"Really?  If I never say the words I'm not her again, it will be too soon.  And, yeah, sometimes I'm not good enough for the drunken cats.  I'm not perfect, or even just right.  I get upset when I'm hurt, and I let them down.  I let you down.  I failed you, and so I failed me.  If I'd been a little quieter, a little calmer, more compartmentalized and covert with my heart.., if I'd backed down , been more pliant, less selfish, less open about my needs..., if I'd just seen you coming and been able to plan, then maybe—just maybe—you would've been willing to keep the cracks in the walls that let me and the light in, maybe I would've been good enough for you to accept that love and let yourself love me back."

But I didn't.  I trusted who I was, that persona of Stephanie that I toss at men and the world like a grenade, challenging them to disarm it or die.  I was defiant in all that I presented and felt and lived, and I lost another man that I loved.

Then I found myself alone and crying in the dark on my deck, sobbing because I am not perfect.

When you are a true perfectionist, everything takes on a gravity that most people can't understand.  They can't empathize with how consuming it is to constantly maintain the level of energy required to be not only your best but better than anything or anyone else, how the slightest of mistakes and imperfections can rock you to the core in such a way that it feels like the goddamn universe is collapsing on your head.  When it comes to love, your heart is all too likely to be crushed, sucked into the black hole of itself where not even your own light can escape. 

But to expect perfection in the realm of interpersonal relationships is a fool's quest.  It is absolutely noble to strive for the best, for better than best, but it's dependent not only on my actions but on the reactions of another flawed human.  That give and take is incomparably beautiful.  For me, it can feel deadly. 

One mistake, one minor misstep, and the person I love responds in kind.  The first, tiny ripple of incident creates waves and wake of hurt and ache, and somehow I am sucked down by the undertow, berating myself for having chosen A over B, for not having known ahead of time what would come as a result.  For being human.

No one is harder on me than I am, and I am a formidable opponent.  I am a force of nature.  Nothing wreaks havoc on Glamazon Island quite like Hurricane Sass.  Somehow I am constantly surprised when I ignore the storm warnings, ignore the windblown red flags, and dive into the choppy, churning waters.  It doesn't matter how I move, how perfectly I execute each stroke of arm and leg or each turn of the head as I gasp for breath; a storm like that will eventually exhaust me.

I'll still be berating myself for not being a better swimmer, for not being able to see through the riptide and stay parallel to the shore.  Even as I'm drowning.

 

Related articles

The chains that you break to be free, well they tear up the ground when you drag them around.

I'll love you in your dreams, but please don't try to hold me in your arms.

I'll love you in your dreams, but please don't try to hold me in your arms.

It's something of an understatement to say that I am an open book.

Everything about me, all of the stories that led me to be who I am now, have been laid bare in the pages of Persona Non Grata and on these blog posts at Muchness and Light.  There may be a few other outlets—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—that show snippets of my personality, but generally everything about my past is on public display.

When I meet people for the first time, especially men, I tend to throw all of that out there at once. 

"Hi, I'm Stephanie.  I'm a lot to handle.  You will one day say it's too much and that I overwhelm you.  They all do, and I have no reason to think you're any different.  Here I am—take it or leave it!" 

It's kind of like lobbing a grenade of muchness at them and daring them to take me on. 

For all of my talk of loathing the unavailable men whom I perpetually attract, is it really I who is unavailable?

I hate it when men I care about tell me I'm too much.  It strikes a nerve in me, both because it's true and because I warned them.  Just once, I'd like not to feel that pang of I told you so that inevitably comes.

But just because I warn someone of what to expect, and how to deal with me when it happens, does that make it okay?  Does my glittery Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here sign justify my reaction when they give up hope?

If I taunt men into letting me down, I am culpable, both in giving them reason to turn away and in delighting in being able to find those reasons when it happens.  I get a little jolt from pushing their buttons, and I probably try to do it from the onset of salutation.  It's like an experiment sometimes, just to see how much it will take before their façade of availability cracks and they scurry to close the gaps before I can get my hooks into them and force them to open deeper and wider than they'd ever imagined.

And that is exactly what I do.

I test men, looking to see who will fail me and how and why.  Sometimes I know within minutes that they aren't up to the challenge, and I dust their crumbling egos from my fingertips as I walk away.  Sometimes it takes longer, in which case I become more subtle, more unintentionally manipulative in my ministrations.  They rarely see or feel it coming, though, as I do seem to have the inexplicable power to sweet talk them into smiling submission.  (Dimples and destruction.)

I told Hot Pocket that it's one of Sassafras's superpowers, the ability to hide behind a plume of pretty, swirling smoke until they're so entranced they can't help but stare dumbfounded at the glittery chaos that bats her eyes and nods her blond ponytail as she wishes what she wants for their world. 

(This is one of the many reasons that my TARDIS would be the I Dream of Jeannie bottle.)

My girls, the Castration Committee, are the ones who can accept my muchness for exactly what it is, no matter what.  They will sometimes call me out for being too much, but they never judge me for it and they never, ever turn away from it or from me.  I constantly experience the depths of love from the people who adore me no matter what.

Is it too much to want that same connection in erotic love?

It's unimaginable to me that it won't exist for me, that given everything I have lived and done and seen and experienced, that there isn't a lover who can adore me and accept me and embrace my batshit while they kiss me breathless.  I have paid so much, done so much work, to get to the place that I have the ability to love as deeply and intensely as I do, and to do it willingly and from a place of utter awareness and selflessness.  Can it really be true that there is no one worth that price?  Is there no reward for having worked this hard? 

Even asking those questions feels arrogant and makes me think I have so much more work to do.

But I don't want my book to end now.  I don't want my stories to end at 40.  I want someone, maybe more than one if that's how my journey goes, who will make new stories with me—bigger, better, faster, more!  I want someone who reminds me to breathe when I'm so excited that I stammer over my own head, but who also smiles patiently and happily when I tell them for the hundredth time that day just how and why I love them.  And I want that to be the same someone who can sit in the quiet with me and let me cry out whatever my heart can't find the words to express.  The same someone who can make time stand still and the seas to turn to dust with just one kiss. 

It comes back to the idea of expectations, what's reasonable and what's not.  Growler and Absolem would advise me to be willing to lower those expectations.  Maurice reminded me when I needed it most that doing that will only lead to tears.  Bounder reminded me that my expectations can be met in the most painful and unexpected of ways.  But Hot Pocket says it exists for me, that there's someone out there who can and will love me like that. 

I hope she's right.  It feels like she is, like she just has to be, but maybe that's my tragically romantic heart being unreasonably optimistic. 

And maybe, just maybe, someone else will get the chance to tell me, "I told you so."

She's in a daze, without a care.

Today is Tierney Cavanaugh Johnson's 41^st birthday.  Tierney and I share a lot of things—a dimple, really great hair—including a birthday. 

I had a talk with her last night about what the last year has been like for her.  She went into 40 with a new body and utterly revised outlook on life.  There have been substantial ups and downs:

She separated from her husband of now 19 years, working her way toward divorce.

She met Greg Dulli.

The story of the first 40 years of her life was released into the world in a very public way.

She finally saw Concrete Blonde live. 

She blew a disc in her neck again and spent another few months battling that chronic pain.

She had crazy adventures with her girls.

She went back to Wicker Park, where so much of her story began to change, and got her first tattoo.

She finally realized that she's pretty.

She fell in love again, albeit with another alcoholic. 

She literally laid both new and old ghosts to rest.

She's happily raising two amazing young men. 

She finally realized she's worth far, far more than even she ever knew. 

I checked in with her to wish her a happy birthday.  I told her that I understood fully what an incredible year this has been, and that I have a few hopes for her upcoming year:

I hope she can finally get finished with this divorce process.

I hope Junkture finally gets their new record out and that she loves it as much as the others.

I hope she finds the inspiration to create both new art and a new story.

I hope she steers clear of injury and pain.

I hope she and her girls laugh their way uproariously through their next year.

I hope she both gets back to Chicago.

I hope she's able to get that new tattoo she's considering.

I hope she sees her own beauty, inside and out, every single day.

I hope the next great love of her life is sober and emotionally aware and available.

I hope her ghosts stay dead.

I hope she continues to be the best mom possible to her amazing young men. 

I hope she is comfortable in who she is and that she is able to tap her own potential fully.

Tierney thanked me, giggling and grinning as we sat on my deck and chatted.  For me, she said, she wishes the same things.  And then she thanked me for lending her my strength, even when I thought there was no way in Hell that we would get through this year. 

In all seriousness, thank you to everyone who touches my life every single day.  You may be with me for a moment or a lifetime, but you are part of me.  Just being here to read my words is enough to make you matter to me.  Many of the successes of this last year have been wholly internal and haven't been shared in detail on Muchness and Light, or anywhere else.  But know that I am grateful for each person who offers me their time and their shoulder and their smile.  Your support has brought me this far, and it will help to propel me into what I hope is another unbelievable year. 

Related articles

Getting bigger and brighter, wider and lighter.

Another life for her to put down, pick it up any time she might find enough to get her high.

I know they're watching, they're watching.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how I'm often ignored by men when I go out, perhaps because I'm a bit intimidating.  It was hard for me to understand, even fully aware of my Amazonian brashness. 

The last couple of weeks, I've had some really profound experiences, where I fell back on my grown-ass-womanness and went out, either by myself or with the girls.  It turned out that not all men (or women) were so quick to ignore me. 

It started with a weekend of intense (if private) exploration of the kind I love the most, where I'm able to really delve into whatever has attracted me and seek that deep understanding I so love.  I went out by myself and found that not only was I capable of doing it, I was readily able to find enjoyment in that selfness.  I was utterly in control of my head, my heart, my body, and my choices—and I was quite content in that. 

The Girls

The girls—Hot Pocket, Growler, and Boogie Shoes—came into town this past weekend for what we cheekily named Stripper Weekend. 

Originally, we'd planned to strip wallpaper at my house—with steamers, scrapers, scorers, and the like—though Hot Pocket jokingly suggested we hire some hot, male strippers (or Cupid37) to do it while we watched.  We also talked of going to the Clermont Lounge for disco funk dancing on Saturday night. 

In the end, we saw no actual strippers, though we did get to see a shirtless guy while another guy took his shoe off just for us.  (That was Yahtzee, who was very sweet and brave to play along with the crazy of the inner circle.)  We also laughed and squealed and danced our damn asses off all weekend.   We never stripped a piece of wallpaper, nor did we get to the Clermont.  We did, however, hit Metalsome Live Metal Karaoke, The Basement Theatre, and Johnny's Hideaway. 

I was by no means the only one, but I got a lot of attention this weekend.  Really, almost more than I could stand.  Men and women looked, smiled, talked, asked me to dance or meet their friend, and asked if they could come home with me.  (Don't stare.  Flash the dimple.  Hi, I'm Stephanie.  Dance again already?  No, thank you, I'm with my girls.  No, you may not.)  I got lots of sweet and not-so-subtle compliments, which also meant I gave out my plastic surgeon's name to about a dozen women. 

I even had the never-before-happened experience of a guy picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder, all caveman style.  He's a 30-year-old personal trainer, who I promptly named Cavey, Jr., after Captain Caveman's son. 

I didn't even let DH carry me across the threshold when we got married, because I was so self-conscious about my body and my weight.  Even now, after the weight loss and the surgeries, I am no small thing.  No man has EVER picked me up.

Sass and Cavey, Jr.

Cavey, Jr. was sweet and adorable and very, very cute.  He stayed with our loud, bawdy group all night, even though he knew I had no intention of taking him home.  He asked me repeatedly how I got to be so adorable.  He sang while he danced with me on the crowded floor, all Johnny and Baby style. 

Between the mirrors in the clubs and the pictures on my friends' phones, I could see what other people see.  I could see how my hair and face and body come together now, reflected back in someone else's eyes.  I could really see how my body moved, with its new, flat stomach and surgically-enhanced breasts and the long, strong legs so often encased in the boots I bought myself when I lost 100 pounds. 

I was told many times that I was pretty or hot or beautiful or sexy.  What I could finally understand from an outside perspective, though, was the strength and the confidence in how and where and when it all moved, even when I klutzily elbowed a guy in the jaw or tripped over my own huge feet.  (I can't even begin to explain how I accidentally kicked a guy in the side of the head.)  It didn't matter that I utterly sucked at karaoke—I totally owned what I was doing. 

 

Maybe that is what's both intriguing and intimidating to others, my ability to be me—fearlessly and unapologetically and openly.  I know where I've been and where I am now, with no real idea of where I'm going.  I know who I was and who I am now, and I know who I will continue to strive to be, understanding that it could shift and change as the circumstances of my life unfold. 

In every single mirror and photograph, what I saw looking back every single time was simply Stephanie.

Now I get it. 

At Johnny's Hideaway