Yes, I learn, every day how strong and smart and capable I am.
Every time I have to paint a room, or diagnose a funky smell or sound from my crappy minivan, or take the panel off the back of my dryer so I can figure out why the heating element isn't getting hot, or assemble a three piece bedroom set on my own I am reminded how brilliant and strong I am.
But what about when I don't want to have to be?
Me Time
I know I'm supposed to have it.
I know.
I know.
I KNOW!
Again, I don't.know.what.it.means.
I don't need drunken nights out and can't afford them anyway.
I don't get my nails done. I don't get my hair done.
I don't want to walk around nonchalantly through a library or *shudder* the mall. That is not my idea of fun. I would be bored and itchy from idleness.
I have an amazing group of friends.
And they all volunteer and say "let me watch your kids so you can – "
So I can what?
SO I can WHAT!?!?!?
Go do...what?
What is there for me to do?
Comfort
Generally, I don't miss marriage but today I do because I really need to be comforted.
The last few days have been poo.
I'll elaborate when my head is clear and I'm not full of Pinot Noir and Pecan Sandies but trust that I went on a parenting roller coaster.
Today I got poo news about a childhood friend.
And poo news about a girlfriend.
And poo news about a new friend.
And I don't feel like I can hold it all.
And it's days like this that despite the "likes," and the well-wishing, and commenting, and "I'm here for yous," I just don't feel supported. I have no place to lay all of this down. There is no human there to nod or rub my back with concern and look at me while I ramble and say "mmhmm" or "aw, babe" or "I'm sorry to hear that" and it sucks.
I have been so enveloped in love. I have been so humbled and inspired by the powerful circle of friends I have cultivated.
But none of that is a substitute for arms around you, and a chest to lean on, and the ability to exhale and melt into someone, even if it's someone you hated the previous day.
Even when my marriage was on fire I still had someone to lean into when shit got shitty.
Now I want to get it out, I feel too full. But I look around and it's just the kids who need something from me and have little to give.
It's not their fault. They're children.
But children can't listen, support and console and shouldn't have to.
So I feel things, and just sit there hurting with nowhere to put it and no one to help share it.
The Mug
When I was in 7th grade I had a crush on a friend who was a huge fan of The Doors. In typical middle-school girl fashion, I immersed myself in all things Jim Morrison in an effort to deepen the friendship. In the end, the guy didn't like me back but I'd developed an interest in music beyond the Top 40 station.
The Doors became the symbol of my middle school experience.
But all of that had been erased until my mom found the mug.
When I was 20 and found out I was pregnant with my oldest, he and I moved in together in a feeble attempt to create a family.
He'd always been a subtly possessive boyfriend. None of the typical "tell me where you're going and who you'll be with" stalker-type stuff. My ex was fond of sabotage.
When I wanted to see a play with my girlfriends, he came along and drunkenly booed and whooped so much I had to apologize to my friends and we left. When my best friend had her graduation art showing, he promised to behave but got slurry drunk and made a scene. I apologized and left again. We temporarily broke up. But when he found out I went out with another man he drove across town to crash the date.
My social circle shrank until there was no one left but him and his family.
But he didn't just erase my friends, he erased me. I remember when he came to my apartment to help me pack so we could move in together. He took one look at my stack of yearbooks and said "We are not moving that shit."
"But those are my yearbooks. I went to the same school from first grade to graduation. Those are my memories."
"You don't need those memories. You said high school sucked for you. Plus, you don't have to move those heavy books because you're pregnant. I'm the one who's gonna have to move them and I'm saying they're pointless. How often do you sit down and look at a yearbook? Never. Exactly. We're not taking them."
And just like that, a chunk of my past was gone.
Next he took out my taste in music, mocking my love of boy bands until I was too embarrassed to listen. Then my sacred New Kids on the Block blanket.
I'd had that ratty blanket since I was 9 years old. It was well-loved. It was super comfortable but,more than that, it was a little bit of me. It was a goofy, adolescent, childish giddy me but it was me.
I was erased and I had no tastes or hobbies or interests outside of him for the next 8 or 9 years because I couldn't bear to have it ripped away again.
And I developed a compulsive habit. I became the exact opposite of a hoarder. If something wasn't useful, it was purged. I purged constantly and impulsively and cleanly. I went through 6 couches in as many years, just dumping them. They would feel like they were crowding me and I hated them because I didn't pick them so I would just get rid of them. I purged my belongings every 6 months. Compulsively. Then inevitably I would wonder where that awesome blender went, or why I no longer had that cute belt and then I'd remember that I'd tossed it because it wasn't proving it's usefulness that day.
I looked at everyone else like they were a bunch of materialistic pigs. When people had clutter in their cabinets or counters I felt bad for them. I only held things that were of use. I did not have room for sentimentality.
For that reason, I only have one picture of me pregnant and I was pregnant for five years. There are almost no pictures of my youngest child as a baby. Memories were frivolous.
I didn't notice this was a problem until his sister pointed it out. Still, I felt superior.
It wasn't until I had been out on my own for a while and, realizing that I owned almost nothing, I decided that keeping things around might serve handy at some point. Again, when I left my husband I left with my kids, my clothing and little else because there was nothing else. Just a few random boxes of books and esoteric knick-knacks that meant nothing to me.
So in my fevered, desperate desire to "find myself" after my divorce it became painfully clear that I was not reflected anywhere in my life. My life was hand-me-downs. Hand-me-downs that have saved us. But still, not very much of myself.
So now, a couple of years out of my relationship, I receive a call from my mom. We gab for a while about kids and nonsense and then she says to me, "Oh, I have to bring you your Jim Morrison coffee mug!"
"My what?"
"There is this Jim Morrison coffee mug of yours I've been holding onto until you were ready."
"Ready for a mug, mom?"
"Yeah, I wanted to wait until you got yourself back. Now you're back so you can have your mug."
So now I am sitting on a bed I picked out for myself, that wasn't handed down to me or from a dumpster. There's a pair of purple Converse on the floor to my left, a stack of books about reincarnation and astrophysics to my right and I'm drinking out of a Jim Morrison coffee mug - the last remnant of my "Self" from my life before my Big Lesson.
I don't listen to The Doors anymore but it doesn't matter. Jim is a totem of myself from when I was adolescent and just putting myself together, not unlike now. Jim Mug is just a lovely reminder that I am a person outside of my marriage and my kids. I existed before all of it, and will continue to exist when I'm done.
I'm still in here.
I'm still here.
Stages of Loneliness: New Stage Discovered – February 2013
When I wrote about The Stages of Loneliness several months ago, I was frozen in what I called "Paralysis" stage and was hoping and praying for some sort of "Acceptance" stage beyond that.
Well, I am happy to report that that stage, indeed, happens.
After the less-than-successful visit from my ex in December I decided that my hyper-vigilant, over-protective, paranoia-like fear and hesitation toward introducing any male energy into my sacred lady space was probably a little counter-productive. I started opening my home to dude friends.
It seemed to me that I was doing something good by limiting my kids' exposure to mentally unstable men but was skewing their perspective by not offering any healthy and normal alternatives. So we started socializing with my dude friends, like exposure therapy.
First, the "safe" ones - the ones who are happily married with kids and cool wives. None of them hit on me or abducted my kids so I could move on to the next step. Next, it was time to move on to the scariest kind of men...single ones.
That wasn't so bad either.
They were all very helpful and it felt good to let someone else do something for me. One friend helped me paint my daughter's room and even though I would have done a better job by myself it was nice to feel backed up. It was nice to feel like I was part of a little team. I forgot about those little “couple” things.
Anywho, the painting guy and a couple other guys started to catch feelings and I was willing to entertain it. I wasn't scared. So I started "dating" in the hopes of breaking my sex drought for my 31st birthday but guess what happened?
I learned that I have a very, very short tolerance for negativity. I don't like "Debbie Downer" guys who have a lot of negative, judgmental things to say. You know the type. They are so intellectual that they are constantly cynical and sarcastic? That is something I overlooked when I married my ex that I realize I can't stomach now.
I also learned that I have a very low tolerance for neediness and dependence. I am super focused on my kids and myself right now so calling me every single day is straight up unacceptable. Trying to guilt trip me into spending more time, when I am completely upfront about my lack of availability, is childish and annoying.
And (mom and dad, don't read) not, ahem...reciprocating!
NOT COOL.
I never spoke to or saw that guy again because no.
Ultimately, as one of my friends confirmed to me, I've gone this long without sex so what's another few months? I'm not giving it up for sub-par service or for lukewarm, neutral feelings toward the other party. No thank you.
So yeah "Acceptance" happens and growing standards happens.
You push through and suffer and cry through loneliness and you come out on the other end able to deal with and be with yourself. It's a bit like how labor and childbirth becomes the compass for pain for the rest of your life. I had two kids naturally and my anesthesia wore off during the cesarean of my third. So now when I, say, slice my hand or get a migraine I can always say "meh, I felt myself being sliced open. This is no big deal."
I can say that now about me.
Some random Joe who's "nice" and "has a good job" and "sober" but is negative, needy, and doesn't give a shit about whether or not I'm enjoying myself (y'know) doesn't deserve my attention or vagina just because he's marginally better than my ex.
"Better than my ex" isn't the same as "good for me.”
Meh, I felt loneliness. I didn't run from it or try to put band-aids on it. Keep waiting for the right one? No big deal.
Oh yeah, that's something else I learned.
I do want companionship. It's pretty cool. I'm still not sold on the value of marriage for myself, personally, but yes I would like to share my life and time and bed with someone. Look at that turnaround!
In the meantime, I'll continue to date myself. If someone intriguing floats into my world, cool. If they float out, fine. I can't imagine that good sex would be enough for me to hang on to a relationship like it was before I'd allowed myself to steep in lonely and just figure myself out. Or, you know that absolutely-no-chemistry but he's "nice" so I-guess-I-should-just-date-him-for-not-being-an-asshole crap?
Been there. Done that.
Lonely is a choice. If you really work on loving yourself and surrounding yourself with people who love you for real lonely won't hurt.
But you can't teach what you don't know and for that reason, I will fail them.
I don’t know anything about healthy romantic relationships, though. Not a thing.
It hurts knowing there is definitely, absolutely something you will not teach your child.
As a parent, I feel like I am supposed to do it all. I am supposed to make them completely ready for adulthood.
Stranger danger! Unsafe touch! Don’t play with fire. Wear a rubber. Don’t drink and drive. Don’t do drugs. Clean up after yourself. Please and thank you. Make a list. Keep your word. Question authority. Fight for others. Eat your greens.
I can teach that.
But I can’t teach what I don’t know and I’ve never been in love.
Things Jack Says
"I'm going to be the President. All the women will vote for me, not because I'm handsome but because I will make sure women get paid the same much. And I will go back to '80s gas prices but not '80s clothes because that was just crazy."
Tension – March 2013
I don’t remember what sexual tension feels like and it’s starting to worry me.
About six years ago I was working at a place where there were a lot of flirty men in uniforms and suits all the time and I was very married. My life was sexual tension. It was everywhere every day. A flirt from this coworker. A wink from that business man. I had constant butterfly belly and my skin was always electrified. It was a good time. It made for a temporarily hot marriage.
Around this time I submitted two stories to an erotica website and got a good response. Both are still labeled “hot” which means they are rated above a 4.5 out of 5. Of course, I am hypercritical of my work and not really a fan of either piece but at the time I was proud. They were easy to write and I wrote dozens more for my own personal reflection or to email to friends.
Recently, I was talking to a friend who is attempting a polyamorous relationship with her husband and another man. The “another man” has ignited my friend immensely. When I talk to her I can hear sexual tension in her voice. I can hear that panting dizziness and the butterfly belly and electric skin. She says things and I can relate to her but only in my head. My body does not remember.
When a girlfriend tells me about the pain and mania of her spouse’s infidelity I can feel it all over again. It lives in my throat and in my chest.
When I hear someone talk about their alcoholic husband/brother/mother/friend I can feel that, too. It burns in my cheeks and it makes me clench my fists.
But when my friend tells me about her rendezvous with her other man I can’t feel anything. I can't remember the last man who gave me butterflies and trembly hands and tingly ears. I know it happened. But I’ve forgotten what it feels like.
I think about those of us who have gotten puffy as the years have crawled along. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve subconsciously decided that decadent food is the last real pleasure I have left.
There is little music or art – I do my best with what is available to me – but maybe that’s not enough. The sex toys sure as hell aren’t enough. And that’s less pleasure and more necessity and mood control. There is no romance or touch or whispers or deep kisses but there is cheesecake. And it’s velvety and supple and all there is left.
I’m sure it will come back. I still have a lot of work to do on myself. My self worth as an individual who can figure out and build and survive and create is strong. My belief that I am lovable and desirable and sexy is not.
So, I deleted all the dating accounts and I’m going back into the cave a bit. Clear
ly I have a lot more work to do.
A few days later...Owned
So Chris just owned me. Here's how it went down.
Me: I don't want to paint Jordis's room. I don't want to do anything really. I think I'm slightly depressed because nothing at all at all interests me. Nothing. I do nothing with any sort of enjoyment or interest. Not even cooking and you know I love to cook.
Chris: Now that's a problem. How do we get you out of this? What's going on?
Me: I'm just really glad for all the life lessons and shit of being single and really taking the time to work on myself, but I'm kind of over it. I want a partner (yes, already, after my “loneliness doesn't bother me” post). I'm sick of having to do everything and figure everything out on my own. I don't want help. I just want a companion, or something, to share some thoughts with in real time.
Chris: Are you still on dating sites?
Me: No
Chris: How long did you do that?
Me: I gave it like five months..
Chris: JESSICA! FUCKING NO! I'M GOING TO GET REALLY, REALLY MEAN, BUT WHAT THE FUCK EXCUSE DO YOU HAVE FOR NOT TRYING HARDER? SHUT THE FUCK UP! YOU GET ON EVERY FUCKING SITE AVAILABLE RIGHT NOW! THIS IS NOT A FUCKING JOKE!
Me: Lemmie explain! Lemmie explain!
Chris: You can, but I'm telling you right now it's gonna be some stupid excuse and I'm gonna tell you to shut the fuck up.
Me: Okay, well listen anyway. I look really gross right now. I feel fat. My hair has turned to cotton. Like, I don't have curly hair anymore. It's just Brillo pad or cotton mess. I have no clothes to go anywhere in anyway, so if someone asks me out it'd have to be somewhere where I can wear pajamas because that's about all I have and I look a fucking mess.
Pancakes Taste Like Poverty: And Other Post-Divorce Revelations Page 12