"What are you thinking?" He asked me from the other side of the pillow. We'd argued earlier about indecision and lack of our own place and its affects on my mood — going from fine to frustrated/angry/annoyed — and how he over compensates to bring me back, in those situations.
"Um...I don't think anything really. Why?" I lied back.
"Just want to know what's going through there. I'm a lot to handle, I know. I just don't want you to think everything through and then hear what's really going on tomorrow." I won't, I promised myself. I won't tell him what I'm really thinking, because it won't get us anywhere. It will just push me further into this place of solitude and push him to being upset, which will inevitably upset me for doing that to him. No, I won't text him tomorrow with my real concerns. I'll let someone else talk me off the ledge.
::For the rest of my life when he's texting someone at 9:30 or so, it's most likely going to be Steph and I'm going to have to just sit and wait to find out if it's something worth sharing. I'm just not ok with that. And not to the point of, Oh I want to see his phone, but more like Oh I don't want my boyfriend to have a part of life that is shared with someone else.:: She's sensible, and has parents who went through a divorce, so she gives me the tough love at times like these. ::Unfortuntately, that won't change — the shared part. The 9:30 texts, however, will.:: And this is where I start the loop.
Yes, maybe, hopefully, the texts will stop as the baby gets older. She, however, will never completely go away. She will always be there, a reminder that he's done this, all of it before. "But I've never done it with you before and I'm so excited for that!" He tells me. Often. But what he doesn't understand is that although we haven't done this together, he's done it. He's done the looking for their first apartment, the deciding to buy a ring, the going to the jeweler and finding that perfect ring, the nervous excitement waking up proposal morning, the smiles/tears/laughter/joy of having that moment with her, the calling of their friends and family and grabbing drinks to toast to their life together. He's done the wedding planning — the listening to dj's, the looking at venues, the food and cake selection, the decisions on color, the engraving of wedding bands, the finding the perfect photographer. Then he did the marriage — the house, the puppy, the parties, the decision to make love to her in order to bring another person into this world. The doctor's appointments, the cravings, the labor scares, the real labor, the delivery of the baby, the life decisions about his name and where he'll go to daycare and who will be on drop off duty, and who will pick up. No, he hasn't done any of that with me, but he did it. He did it with someone else. He looked at her the way he looks at me, he loved her the way he loves me, he cherished her the way he cherishes me, he fell asleep in her arms and woke up to her smile. He kissed her good morning at 5am when he left for work and told her to "sleep well." He texted her when he got there and reminded her that he loved her. I'm supposed to just overlook that when he's talking to her everyday? The thought of it is all is enough to make my stomach start to churn. I didn't pick her to be part of my life, but he did. He brought her here, to this place with us and sometimes that simple fact is almost too much to handle. How could he ever have ended up with her? She's such a...a...monster. Then I think about everything I just mentioned and realize that is how she ended up here with us.
He tells me that I need to let go of that part of his life. Or accept that it happened and move forward from it, which is a convenient thing to say when I'm in tears over the mentioning of their post wedding Sunday morning brunch at his family's deli. But what about the songs that I can't listen to because their part of his life? Or the places that I can't want to visit because they were part of his other life. How am I supposed to just "let go" when he has to turn the radio off because Paradise by the Dashboard Light was a song she deemed "theirs?" I want to turn and scream "Who the fuck cares?!" when we're at a wedding and everyone in the place is dancing on the floor, but he can't because she deemed it "their" song. Or when I mention wanting to visit New York and do touristy things, including the Empire State Building and I get "Steph and I did that once, the New York touristy things." Oh cool. Now I'm dying to do that. and "I'm in no rush to see the Empire State Building" oh right, because you proposed there. Well I'll just check that off of places that we will never visit. I don't want to be in a relationship with boundaries based on convenience. When he wants me to get over it, I should get over it. But when he's the one thinking back, then I need to be understanding of his past.
As we move forward, I'm finding that I can talk to him less and less about these things, because the response is always the same "What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?" Well the answer is simple. Nothing. Because there's nothing he can do, and then I get scared. Is this how I'm going to feel forever? Am I always going to dwell on the fact that we don't get to share firsts? Maybe. It stings. Sure it'll be the first time we get married and the first time we have a baby and our first anniversary, but it's not his first. So in a way, I'll be experiencing all of our firsts alone and that thought puts me in a very bad place. If I'm going to be going through them alone anyway, should I not even bother him? I find myself thinking things like When I get pregnant I won't make him go to the appointments. Why would he want to? He already knows what's going to happen on every visit, so why should he sit there through it? I'm the one who doesn't know. I'm the one who needs the infant care classes and the developmental emails, he already knows all of that. I'll just do that alone. Maybe one of my girlfriends will want to go with me. Therein lies the biggest problem of all, I'll just as soon inconvenience one of my friends to do all of those things with me, before I'd dream of expecting him to or thinking that he'd even want to. He's supposed to be my best friend, so why is it that I don't expect him to do all of the traditional best friend things that I'd just expect of anyone else? Maybe it has to do with feeling like a guest in his life. Feeling like we're not building this life together, rather I'm just fitting in to the life that he already created. That's probably why I have a hard time just making plans for us, and why I'm afraid to suggest we do things with his son, because that's his life and his time. I'll just go along and do whatever he thinks that we should do because it's not my place to make decisions. He decides bed time, diaper changes, nap time, play time, whether we stay inside or go out, do an art project or bake, what's eaten for dinner. He puts him to bed, and changes the diapers. He wakes him up and feeds him. Decides on milk or juice in the morning. All of these things he should be deciding. He's the dad and I'm not the mom. She makes those decisions along side of him. Maybe not with him anymore, but if she read some ridiculous article saying that broccoli made some children sprout growths from their ears, and she didn't want the baby eating it anymore she has that say. Or if she doesn't want him in pools because of the chlorine, she has the authority to voice those concerns too. But then, doesn't that make me a guest? Someone without authority who just goes with the flow? At which point does it become our life with his son and not their life with me? Maybe it doesn't.
Needless to say at 9:35 last night when he turned to me and said "Little man's running a fever" the loop began and is still going as he sends me texts of assurance that we're ok, we just get easily frustrated sometimes. Yeah. That's it. We're just easily frustrated.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
Cramped and Cluttered
This blog is much like my apartment: I've loved it because it's all mine. I've made it my own and have made changes over the years to make it a better, more livable, more me space. However, much like my apartment, I've outgrown this place. So... I'm moving. I'm spreading my wings and my legs and moving on. I have tons of back posts waiting to be finished here, which eventually I plan on doing, but I miss having an open forum where I'm not just talking to myself or to you, but to an imaginary audience who doesn't know anything about me and are reading because they're interested or enjoy the writing. So back to the free air it is!
You can find me enjoying my new freedom at www.williamber.wordpress.com (yeah that's right I did it). Feel free to make a guest appearance anytime.
Username: williamber
password: sept182010
Love forever-ambie
You can find me enjoying my new freedom at www.williamber.wordpress.com (yeah that's right I did it). Feel free to make a guest appearance anytime.
Username: williamber
password: sept182010
Love forever-ambie
Monday, June 6, 2011
Point and shoot
She walks into his house. A house bursting with the truest love of a family. Pictures adorn every wall and surface. Mother and sons. Father and sons. Brothers. Cousins. Babies. One baby. Their pride and joy: Grandson, godson, nephew, son. He is cherished. She used to populate those same frames. After 7 years, documenting every occasion from milestones to pebbles, of course she'd make her presence known. Even after she was gone, a few were overlooked. So common place in their lives, having resided for so many years and settling into the homes of squared wood and glass, it was easy to pass over them like the salt shakers on the counter or the fireplace tool set giving the illusion of necessity next to the gas fireplace. They belonged.
She knows, hopes perhaps is a better word, that someday their [hers and his] wedding picture will find rest next to those of the generations that came before, above the piano. Or, if she's lucky, an ordinary everyday photo will be worthy enough to join the ranks of those of boys playing in the living room, or showing off their muscles or swinging lazily on a summer day in the hot sun. You see, it's not the milestone memories that create the feeling of belonging. No, anyone could stand next to the stunning graduate and fill a space. A space that just before her was the dotted outline of a woman, just beckoning for a generic someone to fill her place. Rather it's the capture of a rare wink, or the way he collapses in a chair after a hard day at work that let you know that you are in fact, noticed. cherished.
It's too soon for that, she knows this. Although his father has already slipped and called her 'daughter' on more than one occasion, she doesn't expect to come in and replace the positions of she who came before her. She wonders though, on Monday mornings when she rolls her suitcase from her weekend stay out to the car, preparing for the commute back to work, would anyone even know that she existed in their lives? in his life? When she's there, it's known. She's loud. She forgets to hold the handles of the doors so that they close gently instead of slamming, she knocks over gates, she laughs loudly and holds nothing back. But what about when she leaves? Sure it's not his house, but he does have a room. Maybe a picture on his desk of the eyes that he loves so much? or one on his nightstand of the smile he's always begging to see? Surely there must be some small, wallet-sized something that would speak to her being long after she's gone? His office at work. Everyone takes a small token to remember their loved ones there. How else would you make it through those dreadful 40 hour weeks? Is there a black rimmed frame encasing a black and white picture of her caught off guard with her hair in her face, fighting the wind, laughing? No, she knows better.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what about the lack of one? For that she could find a million. Because, it's not that there are a lack of pictures at all, just a lack of her. "Let's make it a point to bring the camera out more," he says to her. "You have the good one," she always shoots back. "But it's so bulky and awkward," he'll say. "Well we both have our phones. Maybe we try to use them more often," she suggests, knowing that they won't. "Deal," he agrees. But they don't. Every now and then she will and they'll save one awkward close up of their faces. Blurry, definitely not frame worthy. And they certainly couldn't be troubled with carrying around the 'bulky' camera. Why even have it in the first place? Oh. To remember the first time in the snow, or blowing bubbles, or playing cars in the living room. Those everyday moments of someone a bit smaller than she is, are the ones being captured. Hundreds of nearly identical pictures, caught from barely leaving time for his finger to release the button before snapping the next unbelievably adorable shot. Not sunday wiffle ball games with her or Saturday afternoons out on the patio. No one cares to remember the bit of nothing that a few adults were doing.
She thought about putting one up for him. Reminding him that this is what you're supposed to do when you love someone. But he knows what to do. Boxes of memories from life prior to theirs sat on the floor in his room for weeks, months even. He knows.
In another life she would have discussed this with him. "You know what really gets me?" She'd say. "Is that my boyfriend refuses to make an effort to take pictures with me. Of me. Why is that do you think? Doesn't he want to look back and actually have something to remember this all by?" They were best friends for a long time, so they discussed matters such as these. He would have said something completely irrelevant to make her laugh and to take her mind off of it. "If I were your boyfriend," he'd say to himself "I'd never waste a moment NOT documenting our life together." And here they are, years later, he is her boyfriend, and yet it's not their life that he documents. She thinks on this, wipes away a tear and realizes that even still he'll think she's only talking about a stupid picture.
She knows, hopes perhaps is a better word, that someday their [hers and his] wedding picture will find rest next to those of the generations that came before, above the piano. Or, if she's lucky, an ordinary everyday photo will be worthy enough to join the ranks of those of boys playing in the living room, or showing off their muscles or swinging lazily on a summer day in the hot sun. You see, it's not the milestone memories that create the feeling of belonging. No, anyone could stand next to the stunning graduate and fill a space. A space that just before her was the dotted outline of a woman, just beckoning for a generic someone to fill her place. Rather it's the capture of a rare wink, or the way he collapses in a chair after a hard day at work that let you know that you are in fact, noticed. cherished.
It's too soon for that, she knows this. Although his father has already slipped and called her 'daughter' on more than one occasion, she doesn't expect to come in and replace the positions of she who came before her. She wonders though, on Monday mornings when she rolls her suitcase from her weekend stay out to the car, preparing for the commute back to work, would anyone even know that she existed in their lives? in his life? When she's there, it's known. She's loud. She forgets to hold the handles of the doors so that they close gently instead of slamming, she knocks over gates, she laughs loudly and holds nothing back. But what about when she leaves? Sure it's not his house, but he does have a room. Maybe a picture on his desk of the eyes that he loves so much? or one on his nightstand of the smile he's always begging to see? Surely there must be some small, wallet-sized something that would speak to her being long after she's gone? His office at work. Everyone takes a small token to remember their loved ones there. How else would you make it through those dreadful 40 hour weeks? Is there a black rimmed frame encasing a black and white picture of her caught off guard with her hair in her face, fighting the wind, laughing? No, she knows better.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but what about the lack of one? For that she could find a million. Because, it's not that there are a lack of pictures at all, just a lack of her. "Let's make it a point to bring the camera out more," he says to her. "You have the good one," she always shoots back. "But it's so bulky and awkward," he'll say. "Well we both have our phones. Maybe we try to use them more often," she suggests, knowing that they won't. "Deal," he agrees. But they don't. Every now and then she will and they'll save one awkward close up of their faces. Blurry, definitely not frame worthy. And they certainly couldn't be troubled with carrying around the 'bulky' camera. Why even have it in the first place? Oh. To remember the first time in the snow, or blowing bubbles, or playing cars in the living room. Those everyday moments of someone a bit smaller than she is, are the ones being captured. Hundreds of nearly identical pictures, caught from barely leaving time for his finger to release the button before snapping the next unbelievably adorable shot. Not sunday wiffle ball games with her or Saturday afternoons out on the patio. No one cares to remember the bit of nothing that a few adults were doing.
She thought about putting one up for him. Reminding him that this is what you're supposed to do when you love someone. But he knows what to do. Boxes of memories from life prior to theirs sat on the floor in his room for weeks, months even. He knows.
In another life she would have discussed this with him. "You know what really gets me?" She'd say. "Is that my boyfriend refuses to make an effort to take pictures with me. Of me. Why is that do you think? Doesn't he want to look back and actually have something to remember this all by?" They were best friends for a long time, so they discussed matters such as these. He would have said something completely irrelevant to make her laugh and to take her mind off of it. "If I were your boyfriend," he'd say to himself "I'd never waste a moment NOT documenting our life together." And here they are, years later, he is her boyfriend, and yet it's not their life that he documents. She thinks on this, wipes away a tear and realizes that even still he'll think she's only talking about a stupid picture.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Life or a car accident?
I like to stalk. Find out information about people. We all call it "stalking" but is it really when all of the information is publicly displayed for all to see on forums like facebook and blogsites? Maybe not, but I do [whatever it is] pretty regularly. I'd call it a hobby. It's pretty harmless. I'll dig up information about pregnancies, marriages, job changes, the yooj. Usually I just blindly search, bouncing from page to page storing up useless knowledge to bust out the next time I have a real, face-to-face encounter with someone who will care when I start the conversation with "ooOooO did you see on facebook..." Every now and then I stalk with a purpose; to find out what the ex's are up to, or the hopelessly ignorant-to-life girl from my previous place of employment, or even the perfect girl from college, desperately hoping she's not perfect anymore, although there will always be the memory of her perfection, so even if she's fat and hunch-backed, I'll remember the perfection. And I find that the ex's are still there (moving on or holding on, it doesn't matter) Ms. Ignorance is still blissfully ignorant, and the perfection lives on despite years of drinking and partying post college (how.does.she.do.it?)
Sometimes though, when I'm not actively looking, I find something. Some nugget that is too good to be true. Something that I was desperately searching for on those purposeful escapades through cyberspace. Except this time, this moment when I'm happy and content and not crazed, (which is rare. Those moments are oh-so-rare) I don't want it. I don't want to keep reading, but it's a car accident. Gruesome, torturous, setting me up for a number of sleepless nights to come and yet, I can't turn away. I can't close the window and stop reading, because even if I did, it'd still be there. It's too late, I've already seen the flashing lights and heard the sirens, and the brake lights on the cars ahead are just an indication that I'll HAVE to look as I roll past. Slowly. Taking in every gory detail.
There were so many nights when all I wanted to do was find something, anything, to prove that I'd beaten the system. That I had the upper hand. That I was the smarter one, the more insightful one. And I'd search the same topics, on the same sites with no luck, all the better really, because what's that saying, "ignorance is bliss"? I think I get it now. I don't want to care. I don't want to know. I don't need to win. Because if this is what it feels like to win, then I'd rather go back to blindly searching, reaching in the dark. If I knew 5 minutes ago what I know now, I'd stop. But I'm my own worst enemy, in every regard. I need to know, need to be in the inner circle.
Maybe this time I'll have learned my lesson. But then again, like with the car accident, it's startling and unexpected. It comes out of nowhere and blind sides you. Would I feel like this on the nights that I was actively searching? Probably not. I would have seen the headlights and made sure that my seat belt was on, and I was wearing a helmet and was ready for the force of the airbags. All guards would have been up, instead of, well non-existent. So, instead, I'll try my best to take a step back and breathe. Just breathe. Slowly, in and out. I'll remind myself, in an almost repetitive exercise form, of everything that got me to the happy/content/not crazed moment that I just saw floating around here. The one I saw at 5:30 this morning when the alarm sounded through the early morning darkness and he rolled over to say "It's so early honey." and I reminded him that I had to iron before work to which he said "That's so silly. You look great. All of the time. That's so silly." And I kissed his forehead wishing him sweet dreams until he'd have to do the same dance of the alarm clock in a little while. The one I saw follow me all the way from central Jersey, down the turnpike, off exit 4 into South Jersey, then over the Ben Franklin into West Philadelphia. The one that marched up the front steps to the museum this morning, with the feeling of pride that I get to walk through those doors everyday. The one that happily renamed files so that I can have, at least, the appearance of being organized when my intern arrives in 2 weeks. The one that, at 12:00 on the dot, had me marching down to the cafeteria to purchase a lunch that'd be sooner landing in the bottom of the garbage, than my own stomach. I will find that moment. I need that moment. Those are the moments, the breaths that make the harder ones, the right now ones, bearable. I always come back to them. I do. But I want to get there this time, with less destruction than I have in the past. Progress. I'm making progress, and I think in the wake of the nausea and chills, the rapid heart beating, the cold and clammy hands, and the fighting back tears I'm learning; learning about the one thing that I always thought I knew, and am realizing I know nothing about. I'm learning about me.
Sometimes though, when I'm not actively looking, I find something. Some nugget that is too good to be true. Something that I was desperately searching for on those purposeful escapades through cyberspace. Except this time, this moment when I'm happy and content and not crazed, (which is rare. Those moments are oh-so-rare) I don't want it. I don't want to keep reading, but it's a car accident. Gruesome, torturous, setting me up for a number of sleepless nights to come and yet, I can't turn away. I can't close the window and stop reading, because even if I did, it'd still be there. It's too late, I've already seen the flashing lights and heard the sirens, and the brake lights on the cars ahead are just an indication that I'll HAVE to look as I roll past. Slowly. Taking in every gory detail.
There were so many nights when all I wanted to do was find something, anything, to prove that I'd beaten the system. That I had the upper hand. That I was the smarter one, the more insightful one. And I'd search the same topics, on the same sites with no luck, all the better really, because what's that saying, "ignorance is bliss"? I think I get it now. I don't want to care. I don't want to know. I don't need to win. Because if this is what it feels like to win, then I'd rather go back to blindly searching, reaching in the dark. If I knew 5 minutes ago what I know now, I'd stop. But I'm my own worst enemy, in every regard. I need to know, need to be in the inner circle.
Maybe this time I'll have learned my lesson. But then again, like with the car accident, it's startling and unexpected. It comes out of nowhere and blind sides you. Would I feel like this on the nights that I was actively searching? Probably not. I would have seen the headlights and made sure that my seat belt was on, and I was wearing a helmet and was ready for the force of the airbags. All guards would have been up, instead of, well non-existent. So, instead, I'll try my best to take a step back and breathe. Just breathe. Slowly, in and out. I'll remind myself, in an almost repetitive exercise form, of everything that got me to the happy/content/not crazed moment that I just saw floating around here. The one I saw at 5:30 this morning when the alarm sounded through the early morning darkness and he rolled over to say "It's so early honey." and I reminded him that I had to iron before work to which he said "That's so silly. You look great. All of the time. That's so silly." And I kissed his forehead wishing him sweet dreams until he'd have to do the same dance of the alarm clock in a little while. The one I saw follow me all the way from central Jersey, down the turnpike, off exit 4 into South Jersey, then over the Ben Franklin into West Philadelphia. The one that marched up the front steps to the museum this morning, with the feeling of pride that I get to walk through those doors everyday. The one that happily renamed files so that I can have, at least, the appearance of being organized when my intern arrives in 2 weeks. The one that, at 12:00 on the dot, had me marching down to the cafeteria to purchase a lunch that'd be sooner landing in the bottom of the garbage, than my own stomach. I will find that moment. I need that moment. Those are the moments, the breaths that make the harder ones, the right now ones, bearable. I always come back to them. I do. But I want to get there this time, with less destruction than I have in the past. Progress. I'm making progress, and I think in the wake of the nausea and chills, the rapid heart beating, the cold and clammy hands, and the fighting back tears I'm learning; learning about the one thing that I always thought I knew, and am realizing I know nothing about. I'm learning about me.
Friday, April 1, 2011
And this one's for you.
"Let me show you how great life could be!" I've pleaded over and over, with promises of a perfect life and the ideal relationship, me as the backbone to the beautiful fairytale. Visions of family dinners and soccer games danced through my head. Laughter and smiles, bedtime stories and kisses good night, nights of passionate love-making and nights of exhaustion; falling asleep hand in hand, ridding ourselves of the days' stresses. And so you let me. You said, yes. I want you to show me all of that. I want that, with you.
Disappointment. After 6 months of trying to show you what I promised, I sit here with disappointment being my biggest take away. But not disappointment in what you'd think. I spend a lot of time evaluating and complaining about people who act as if the world revolves around them. How could they not have consideration for anyone else? How is it that their first thought is themselves and not how their actions could potentially affect anyone else?? Then I hear myself. "This is how I feel." and "This is how I'm affected by this set of actions." and "These circumstance aren't ideal for me." And I realize I'M one of those people. But I'm actually the worst kind. The kind that doesn't realize it AND the kind that tries to hide behind words and phrases like "No I understand what you're saying, but [insert part about how I'm affected]." I'm a walking disclaimer so that I don't have to hold accountability for not thinking about anyone else.
My disappointment lies with me and only me. I'm disappointed that I've spent this long picking our relationship apart and subsequently poking holes in it. I'm disappointed that every time I've asked for something and been given it, somehow I've made it seem like it's not enough. I'm disappointed that despite the innumerable conversations had to put certain topics to rest, or maybe just to alleviate concerns about them, I continue to let them be points of contention. I feel like a goldfish (yes I know that they're actually smarter than given credit for and that they can remember the solutions to underwater mazes, just let me have this example) like conversations happen, issues are resolved, and the next time something triggers that same concern, it's as if the resolving conversation never occurred. I'm disappointed that most of the memories we share of the past 6 months are in-depth conversations about my feelings, passive aggressive commentary, buckets of tears shed and not goodnight kisses and bedtime stories. Sure the memories are sprinkled with catch in the backyard, a trip to the museum and plenty of sex, but they're tainted by the negative that I've created.
So this is my plea. As much as we'd like to, we can't erase the past. I can't take away the past 6 months of strife just as you can't really take away the year that we struggled through to get here. But don't give up on me, on us just yet. Trust is earned, and I've made it seem like you're the only one who has trust to earn, but I do too. I need to prove that an accident on the turnpike won't ruin a weekend just because I'm arriving an hour later than planned, or that a request to stay in jersey due to poor weather doesn't have to be tossed back and forth 75 times before being presented because it might cause me to spiral downward questioning our relationship.
I need to prove that when I say I know that it's not Xavier over me, I mean it, and you know that I mean it. Instead of always assuming that I haven't been considered in anything, I'm going to start assuming the complete opposite. I'm your person. Naturally I'm going to hear about your considerations for everyone else in your life, mainly your son. Hearing about everyone else doesn't have to mean that I'm considered any less. I've made it beyond clear where I'd like to see our relationship go, and we've discussed it only about a bojillion times. You've assured me each and every time that you want it too. I'm going to stop assuming that's changed because Steph stopped by your house, or because your credit score took another hit, or because Xavier's reached another milestone and you couldn't possibly be thinking about children with me when you have, what could only be described as, the most adorable little boy created already, or because I get overwhelmed with my personal finances thinking i'll never have enough money to help us get anywhere. All of those things are there. Every day. But that doesn't change the part where we want to build a life together.
All I'm asking is that you don't lose hope. Not yet. I'm going to start showing you all of the great things that I begged you to let me. You've waited so patiently. Thank you. It's going to get easier and we're going to get better and when you say "she's my person" it will mean just that. I'm your person. Thick or thin, hard or easy, fb photos on your doorstep or not, I'm your person.
"That’s all [time] is: a trick. There’s no such thing as the past: it exists only in the memory. There’s no such thing as the future: it exists only in our imagination. If our watches were truly accurate, the only thing they would ever say is 'Now'.”
I want to live in the now with you. Forever.
Disappointment. After 6 months of trying to show you what I promised, I sit here with disappointment being my biggest take away. But not disappointment in what you'd think. I spend a lot of time evaluating and complaining about people who act as if the world revolves around them. How could they not have consideration for anyone else? How is it that their first thought is themselves and not how their actions could potentially affect anyone else?? Then I hear myself. "This is how I feel." and "This is how I'm affected by this set of actions." and "These circumstance aren't ideal for me." And I realize I'M one of those people. But I'm actually the worst kind. The kind that doesn't realize it AND the kind that tries to hide behind words and phrases like "No I understand what you're saying, but [insert part about how I'm affected]." I'm a walking disclaimer so that I don't have to hold accountability for not thinking about anyone else.
My disappointment lies with me and only me. I'm disappointed that I've spent this long picking our relationship apart and subsequently poking holes in it. I'm disappointed that every time I've asked for something and been given it, somehow I've made it seem like it's not enough. I'm disappointed that despite the innumerable conversations had to put certain topics to rest, or maybe just to alleviate concerns about them, I continue to let them be points of contention. I feel like a goldfish (yes I know that they're actually smarter than given credit for and that they can remember the solutions to underwater mazes, just let me have this example) like conversations happen, issues are resolved, and the next time something triggers that same concern, it's as if the resolving conversation never occurred. I'm disappointed that most of the memories we share of the past 6 months are in-depth conversations about my feelings, passive aggressive commentary, buckets of tears shed and not goodnight kisses and bedtime stories. Sure the memories are sprinkled with catch in the backyard, a trip to the museum and plenty of sex, but they're tainted by the negative that I've created.
So this is my plea. As much as we'd like to, we can't erase the past. I can't take away the past 6 months of strife just as you can't really take away the year that we struggled through to get here. But don't give up on me, on us just yet. Trust is earned, and I've made it seem like you're the only one who has trust to earn, but I do too. I need to prove that an accident on the turnpike won't ruin a weekend just because I'm arriving an hour later than planned, or that a request to stay in jersey due to poor weather doesn't have to be tossed back and forth 75 times before being presented because it might cause me to spiral downward questioning our relationship.
I need to prove that when I say I know that it's not Xavier over me, I mean it, and you know that I mean it. Instead of always assuming that I haven't been considered in anything, I'm going to start assuming the complete opposite. I'm your person. Naturally I'm going to hear about your considerations for everyone else in your life, mainly your son. Hearing about everyone else doesn't have to mean that I'm considered any less. I've made it beyond clear where I'd like to see our relationship go, and we've discussed it only about a bojillion times. You've assured me each and every time that you want it too. I'm going to stop assuming that's changed because Steph stopped by your house, or because your credit score took another hit, or because Xavier's reached another milestone and you couldn't possibly be thinking about children with me when you have, what could only be described as, the most adorable little boy created already, or because I get overwhelmed with my personal finances thinking i'll never have enough money to help us get anywhere. All of those things are there. Every day. But that doesn't change the part where we want to build a life together.
All I'm asking is that you don't lose hope. Not yet. I'm going to start showing you all of the great things that I begged you to let me. You've waited so patiently. Thank you. It's going to get easier and we're going to get better and when you say "she's my person" it will mean just that. I'm your person. Thick or thin, hard or easy, fb photos on your doorstep or not, I'm your person.
"That’s all [time] is: a trick. There’s no such thing as the past: it exists only in the memory. There’s no such thing as the future: it exists only in our imagination. If our watches were truly accurate, the only thing they would ever say is 'Now'.”
I want to live in the now with you. Forever.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
One line or two?
A wave of nausea crashes over me in the middle of a dinner rush, while my back simultaneously starts to cramp up. These long days of working 2 jobs are killing my body, I think to myself. "I suddenly don't feel very well" I decide to announce while waiting at the bar, staring at my beer order [im]patiently lying in the printer. Almost willing it to jump into the hands of some new bartender, who's name I've failed to learn since I doubt she'll still be employed here by next Monday.
"Maybe you're pregnant" I hear one of the other servers deduce as he catches the end of my whining. Such the standard answer for a woman in her 20s. "I don't think soooo" I sing-song back to him, laughing to myself at the ridiculous notion. Finally my beer's up and I can get back to the endless loop of greetings, drink orders, dinner orders, drink reorders, dropping food, mising tables, clearing plates, "Did you save room for dessert??", dropping checks, running credit cards, searching for pens, clearing tables, resetting and starting all over again. The days are long, and the nights are always longer, except for the part where I'm allowed to sleep. Those hours pass like minutes.
After an eternity my shift ends and I can retire my multicolored notepad and black apron and get some fresh air, because the nausea hasn't exactly passed, it's just become a dull nagging. Lingering just far enough away that I could get through the night, but still surface enough that if I think about it too much I have visions of running away from tables, mouth covered tightly with both hands, hoping to make it out of eye shot before losing it. Ok maybe I didn't feel THAT bad, but my imagination tends to be a bit overactive at times. Needless to say, I made it home just fine and fell asleep completely unconcerned about my aches and pains, considering the abuse this body takes from my need to be as efficient as possible at all points in time. Probably just strain from being overworked.
Fast forward a week. Nothing exciting going on, except that I still feel...off. That's the only way that I could think to describe it and now that I think about it, it's not really all that exciting. Except that I keep hearing "maybe you're pregnant?" As previously stated, I have an overactive imagination, so this definitely wasn't the first time that I've had this concern. Let the games begin! And by games I'm referring to the constant "oh no what if I actually AM pregnant? How will I tell my parents? How will I afford to take time off of work? How will we do this living in 2 different states? Where will I find the time?" But then something happened that was completely new to my standard pessimistic reaction to this potential situation. It's as if the wheels that were spinning and grinding so quickly forward, generating all of the anxiety, stopped, and slowly started cranking in the other direction. "I am 26 not 17, in high school with no degree or life experience. I'm in a committed relationship. We have jobs. His son is almost 2 making the age difference almost ideal for a planned pregnancy, never mind an unplanned one." Would it really be the worst thing in the world? I really don't think so. Is it the most ideal circumstances? Certainly not. Would it complicate life? Absolutely, but for the first time I thought, "If I am, I am." Nothing can change that now, so why focus on the complications of it all?
I sat down with a calendar and tried to count the days since my last cycle. I researched symptoms that I thought I had. Whether real or psychosomatic, I searched anyway. Finding, as always, that the symptoms of early pregnancy and the start of a menstrual cycle are almost identical. There was really only one thing to do... wait. Any crazy woman having unprotected sex knows that the best time to take a test is first thing in the morning. So I did just that. I waited, despite the fact that the only thing on my mind was running to the bathroom and taking the test right then and there. Knowing for sure, one way or the other. But I also wanted the most accurate results possible and didn't want to jeopardize the final verdict with my impatience, so I painfully watched the clock tick. Minute by minute, passing the time until I could get into bed and justify going to sleep, without question.
There's the alarm. Typical gripes danced through my pseudo conscious mind, begging me not to leave my warm cocoon of sheets, blankets and pillows. Not quite ready to succumb to the cool bedroom air, dismissing the fanciful dreams of my subconscious, I reached for my alarm, gearing up for a battle of the wills. Who will win? My alarm clock, persistently ringing every 5 minutes like some kind of machine or my need for sleep? Alas there was a 3rd factor that would inevitably tip the scales. That little twinge reminding you that sleep doesn't stop your body from processing all of the fluids that you ingested the day before. And with that thought all battles were off, because this wasn't any ordinary morning. Today, this morning, my future would be laid out in front of me...at least the next 9+ months of it.
More waiting. "Wait 3 minutes before reading results." One line or two? One line means nothing's changed, even though all of this thinking means EVERYTHING's changed, regardless of the outcome. Two lines means everything will be changing. When and how soon, I'm not sure. How will I tell everyone? Will I send him a picture message with the news? Will I plan some kind of elaborate dinner or gesture to show him? Will he be as excited as I am? Will he think this is a horrible set of circumstances and wish it wasn't so? One line or two? I can see the liquid moving across the window, filling the field, reading the results and readying itself to offer up what could be some of the most life changing information I've ever received. One line or two? I can see something starting to form. How does this work? Does it generate both lines simultaneously or one at a time? Does it always generate the first line immediately, while reading the sample to decide the necessity of a second line? There always has to be at least one line, right? One or two? One or Two?? The window fills completely and one line appears. I wait. Has it been 3 minutes? Is this the final result? One line? I think i'll brush my teeth and wash my face. When that's over, it will definitely have been 3 minutes. Trying not to steal glances, I finish rinsing the toothbrush and dry my face. Alright. This is it. I pick up the test. One line. One lonely line. And even though there was never anything there to lose, it somehow feels like I just lost someone.
"Maybe you're pregnant" I hear one of the other servers deduce as he catches the end of my whining. Such the standard answer for a woman in her 20s. "I don't think soooo" I sing-song back to him, laughing to myself at the ridiculous notion. Finally my beer's up and I can get back to the endless loop of greetings, drink orders, dinner orders, drink reorders, dropping food, mising tables, clearing plates, "Did you save room for dessert??", dropping checks, running credit cards, searching for pens, clearing tables, resetting and starting all over again. The days are long, and the nights are always longer, except for the part where I'm allowed to sleep. Those hours pass like minutes.
After an eternity my shift ends and I can retire my multicolored notepad and black apron and get some fresh air, because the nausea hasn't exactly passed, it's just become a dull nagging. Lingering just far enough away that I could get through the night, but still surface enough that if I think about it too much I have visions of running away from tables, mouth covered tightly with both hands, hoping to make it out of eye shot before losing it. Ok maybe I didn't feel THAT bad, but my imagination tends to be a bit overactive at times. Needless to say, I made it home just fine and fell asleep completely unconcerned about my aches and pains, considering the abuse this body takes from my need to be as efficient as possible at all points in time. Probably just strain from being overworked.
Fast forward a week. Nothing exciting going on, except that I still feel...off. That's the only way that I could think to describe it and now that I think about it, it's not really all that exciting. Except that I keep hearing "maybe you're pregnant?" As previously stated, I have an overactive imagination, so this definitely wasn't the first time that I've had this concern. Let the games begin! And by games I'm referring to the constant "oh no what if I actually AM pregnant? How will I tell my parents? How will I afford to take time off of work? How will we do this living in 2 different states? Where will I find the time?" But then something happened that was completely new to my standard pessimistic reaction to this potential situation. It's as if the wheels that were spinning and grinding so quickly forward, generating all of the anxiety, stopped, and slowly started cranking in the other direction. "I am 26 not 17, in high school with no degree or life experience. I'm in a committed relationship. We have jobs. His son is almost 2 making the age difference almost ideal for a planned pregnancy, never mind an unplanned one." Would it really be the worst thing in the world? I really don't think so. Is it the most ideal circumstances? Certainly not. Would it complicate life? Absolutely, but for the first time I thought, "If I am, I am." Nothing can change that now, so why focus on the complications of it all?
I sat down with a calendar and tried to count the days since my last cycle. I researched symptoms that I thought I had. Whether real or psychosomatic, I searched anyway. Finding, as always, that the symptoms of early pregnancy and the start of a menstrual cycle are almost identical. There was really only one thing to do... wait. Any crazy woman having unprotected sex knows that the best time to take a test is first thing in the morning. So I did just that. I waited, despite the fact that the only thing on my mind was running to the bathroom and taking the test right then and there. Knowing for sure, one way or the other. But I also wanted the most accurate results possible and didn't want to jeopardize the final verdict with my impatience, so I painfully watched the clock tick. Minute by minute, passing the time until I could get into bed and justify going to sleep, without question.
There's the alarm. Typical gripes danced through my pseudo conscious mind, begging me not to leave my warm cocoon of sheets, blankets and pillows. Not quite ready to succumb to the cool bedroom air, dismissing the fanciful dreams of my subconscious, I reached for my alarm, gearing up for a battle of the wills. Who will win? My alarm clock, persistently ringing every 5 minutes like some kind of machine or my need for sleep? Alas there was a 3rd factor that would inevitably tip the scales. That little twinge reminding you that sleep doesn't stop your body from processing all of the fluids that you ingested the day before. And with that thought all battles were off, because this wasn't any ordinary morning. Today, this morning, my future would be laid out in front of me...at least the next 9+ months of it.
More waiting. "Wait 3 minutes before reading results." One line or two? One line means nothing's changed, even though all of this thinking means EVERYTHING's changed, regardless of the outcome. Two lines means everything will be changing. When and how soon, I'm not sure. How will I tell everyone? Will I send him a picture message with the news? Will I plan some kind of elaborate dinner or gesture to show him? Will he be as excited as I am? Will he think this is a horrible set of circumstances and wish it wasn't so? One line or two? I can see the liquid moving across the window, filling the field, reading the results and readying itself to offer up what could be some of the most life changing information I've ever received. One line or two? I can see something starting to form. How does this work? Does it generate both lines simultaneously or one at a time? Does it always generate the first line immediately, while reading the sample to decide the necessity of a second line? There always has to be at least one line, right? One or two? One or Two?? The window fills completely and one line appears. I wait. Has it been 3 minutes? Is this the final result? One line? I think i'll brush my teeth and wash my face. When that's over, it will definitely have been 3 minutes. Trying not to steal glances, I finish rinsing the toothbrush and dry my face. Alright. This is it. I pick up the test. One line. One lonely line. And even though there was never anything there to lose, it somehow feels like I just lost someone.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Relationships are like cleaning the bathroom. Sometimes.
Cleaning. When I'm in the right mood, I love to do it. I get a sick satisfaction out of tackling the bathroom armed with bleach, a scrub brush, Clorox wipes, paper towels, Windex, whatever else you can imagine and making what is presumably the most disgusting room in the house sparkle from floor to ceiling. I know that I'm not alone in this. You don't have to admit it, but just know that I know. For me, the most gratifying part of the entire escapade is the shower after the fact. This my friends, as you all know, is no ordinary shower. No, no. This is one of those soul cleansing showers. Cleaning the bathroom is one of those tasks that you only take on when you absolutely NEED to accomplish something. Work is stressful, your mom is driving you nuts, you're having writers block, whatever the case may be you NEED to feel as if you can still accomplish something. So this shower isn't only ridding you of the grime that you can feel under your finger nails and in your hair but of whatever inner turmoil you've been struggling with. And no matter how daunting the project seemed when you began the cleansing ritual, you step out of that shower with your head high with the feeling of satisfaction.
How could this possibly relate to anyone's relationship? It's kind of like that phrase "sometimes you have to have a breakdown to have a breakthrough." Sometimes you have to really get in there and scrub the dirt out of all the nooks and crannies before you can make any progress. You've got to get out all of the insecurities, concerns, feelings, thoughts, assumptions, everything and just lay it out on the table. I recently had some experience with that, hence the post, and it was both one of the worst and one of the best days that our relationship has seen.
It was supposed to be a night of celebration. New jobs, new beginnings, the closing of chapters, the opening of new ones, etc. But somewhere between 2 beers and a tequila shot and 4 beers and 2 tequila shots something went awry. Like any relationship, we aren't immune to having issues. The problem for us is that we've got a lot of additional outside factors that we hold no control over but are affected by: an ex that will be there forever, a baby, some legal proceedings, general childishness and immaturity that when all put together can be a stressful combination. Not to mention we're both highly sensitive. I guess after 5 months of dancing around feelings, and thoughts, and "what does this mean" and "why would he say that" it all came to a head. I wish that I could remember more of the nuts and bolts of the conversation but thanks to the Belgian beer and jose cuervo everything is a little blurry. Bit of a catch 22 though, because w/out the alcohol the conversation may have never taken place. The thing about all of this that's particularly interesting is that it wasn't some big blowout that happened in the middle of the living room at 2am (trust me we've had those too) but it was a civil, public conversation that took place at a bar where we both just let go and put everything out there on the table. Feelings, questions, concerns, misunderstandings, insecurities, everything and hashed it out. Was it pretty? No. Were hurtful things said? Yes, but not in a way to try and BE hurtful but in an open and honest, "we need to work on this and it's because of you," kind of way. It's really hard to not just listen to someone tell you your character flaws, but to actually hear them and come to grips with the fact that some things are in fact, your fault. Kinda sucks.
We came to some kind of resolution and decided to head home. Both physically and mentally exhausted we got home and passed out...letting sleep wash over us and letting our subconscious sort through hours of discussions. Sleep was the equivalent to the post bathroom cleansing shower. I woke up the next morning happy, uplifted, genuinely positive about our relationship. I felt good. And so did he. We needed, more than either of us a knew, time to just spout out everything that's been on our minds for so long. We needed to clean out all of the nooks and crannies of our relationship. Life is hard and it's grimey and it piles up on us like dirty socks, used q-tips that have missed the trashcan and soap scum. It's important to recognize that it wasn't always like that. That it started clean and fresh and new, and that if you work hard enough at it, you can get back there, no matter how dirty and grimy it gets. It's worth it.
How could this possibly relate to anyone's relationship? It's kind of like that phrase "sometimes you have to have a breakdown to have a breakthrough." Sometimes you have to really get in there and scrub the dirt out of all the nooks and crannies before you can make any progress. You've got to get out all of the insecurities, concerns, feelings, thoughts, assumptions, everything and just lay it out on the table. I recently had some experience with that, hence the post, and it was both one of the worst and one of the best days that our relationship has seen.
It was supposed to be a night of celebration. New jobs, new beginnings, the closing of chapters, the opening of new ones, etc. But somewhere between 2 beers and a tequila shot and 4 beers and 2 tequila shots something went awry. Like any relationship, we aren't immune to having issues. The problem for us is that we've got a lot of additional outside factors that we hold no control over but are affected by: an ex that will be there forever, a baby, some legal proceedings, general childishness and immaturity that when all put together can be a stressful combination. Not to mention we're both highly sensitive. I guess after 5 months of dancing around feelings, and thoughts, and "what does this mean" and "why would he say that" it all came to a head. I wish that I could remember more of the nuts and bolts of the conversation but thanks to the Belgian beer and jose cuervo everything is a little blurry. Bit of a catch 22 though, because w/out the alcohol the conversation may have never taken place. The thing about all of this that's particularly interesting is that it wasn't some big blowout that happened in the middle of the living room at 2am (trust me we've had those too) but it was a civil, public conversation that took place at a bar where we both just let go and put everything out there on the table. Feelings, questions, concerns, misunderstandings, insecurities, everything and hashed it out. Was it pretty? No. Were hurtful things said? Yes, but not in a way to try and BE hurtful but in an open and honest, "we need to work on this and it's because of you," kind of way. It's really hard to not just listen to someone tell you your character flaws, but to actually hear them and come to grips with the fact that some things are in fact, your fault. Kinda sucks.
We came to some kind of resolution and decided to head home. Both physically and mentally exhausted we got home and passed out...letting sleep wash over us and letting our subconscious sort through hours of discussions. Sleep was the equivalent to the post bathroom cleansing shower. I woke up the next morning happy, uplifted, genuinely positive about our relationship. I felt good. And so did he. We needed, more than either of us a knew, time to just spout out everything that's been on our minds for so long. We needed to clean out all of the nooks and crannies of our relationship. Life is hard and it's grimey and it piles up on us like dirty socks, used q-tips that have missed the trashcan and soap scum. It's important to recognize that it wasn't always like that. That it started clean and fresh and new, and that if you work hard enough at it, you can get back there, no matter how dirty and grimy it gets. It's worth it.
Friday, February 25, 2011
A non promise
I never promised to be unemotional, easy-going, better, uplifting, worth it, easy to deal with, perfect, strong, bold, unwavering. I have faults and flaws like everyone else. I bleed when you cut me and I cry when you hurt me. I analyze everything and try to be considerate of everyone, even though I'm not always given the same respect in return and it often times puts me last. I am my own worst enemy and my biggest critic. I will never be good enough and I will always feel like a burden. I will question why my friends want to be my friends and why each of my siblings has more to offer to our family that I do. I will always play the "what-if" game and poke holes in everything because I've learned that surprise disappointment is worse than seeing it coming. I am fatalistic to a fault. But I never promised not to be.
I'm just a girl. Just one person in this whole big world trying to find my way, whatever that may be. I stumble a lot, yet I'll always tell you that I can do it myself. Actually admitting I needed help would put me back in the burdensome category. But sometimes, I do. I am loud, obnoxious and catty for a reason. I am not self-assured in any way, shape or form. I fake it well, but I'm not. I want to be like everyone else yet I want to feel important, special, loved unconditionally. Feel like my existence matters. I want to not feel like my time takes away from time better spent doing other things or with other people. I want to feel like a part of something, rather than a distraction from the more important. I want to matter. I want to be worth inviting along on a regular basis, and not an obligation from time to time just to appease me.
I never promised not to be any of the things that I am, although I never asked to be any of them either. I'm trying. Trying to work through the faults and flaws, but more often than not they win out. We've all got them. But in all fairness to me, I never promised not to have them.
I'm just a girl. Just one person in this whole big world trying to find my way, whatever that may be. I stumble a lot, yet I'll always tell you that I can do it myself. Actually admitting I needed help would put me back in the burdensome category. But sometimes, I do. I am loud, obnoxious and catty for a reason. I am not self-assured in any way, shape or form. I fake it well, but I'm not. I want to be like everyone else yet I want to feel important, special, loved unconditionally. Feel like my existence matters. I want to not feel like my time takes away from time better spent doing other things or with other people. I want to feel like a part of something, rather than a distraction from the more important. I want to matter. I want to be worth inviting along on a regular basis, and not an obligation from time to time just to appease me.
I never promised not to be any of the things that I am, although I never asked to be any of them either. I'm trying. Trying to work through the faults and flaws, but more often than not they win out. We've all got them. But in all fairness to me, I never promised not to have them.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Turn the other cheek
I'm sure that everyone has at least one memory of coming home from school, eyes brimming with tears caused by the kid sitting behind you in math class who leaned up and whispered something about your greasy hair; or the girl with the coolest clothes who you overheard telling her best friend about your hand-me-down, too short jeans; or the really cute boy, you know the one you'd been eying up since 1st grade hoping and praying that for just one day he'd chase you around the playground, referred to you as "the big girl" when picking teams for gym class; or [insert embarrassing tear worthy childhood memory here]. Remember how it felt like the world was actually going to end? How could you possibly ever go back to school? Walk through those halls knowing that they're all thinking that same horrible thing?
Somehow you make it home and your mom takes one look at your bloodshot eyes, coupled with your splotchy cheeks and knows that someone's hurt her baby. She sets you up on the counter and listens as you sob and choke your way through the horror all over again, shedding a tear with you because she remembers how cruel kids can be. And like every great mom, when you're finished she holds you close reminding you how wonderful you are, and how elementary/middle/high school doesn't matter and that someday all of those nasty little shits will grow up and realize that all of the thoughts they had and the things they said were hurtful, spiteful, nasty and completely unnecessary. You get the obligatory "just ignore them" advice, a cup of hot chocolate, your favorite movie, and the secret delight when she tells your brother and sisters "leave your sister alone tonight, she had a rough day at school. And DON'T ask her about it. It's over." And they don't ask, at least not right away, because as much as they're dying to know what happens, they'd rather not suffer the wrath of mom.
5, 10 years down the road, if you're lucky you run into one of those nasty little shits and most of the time, they have in fact, grown up and you can go on leading your lives like normal adults who realize that belittling others to make yourself feel better works in quite the opposite way actually. Maybe you grab a cup of coffee and catch up, or exchange email addresses, or swear to reconnect via facebook, either way you can file that "life ending" childhood memory away, because it was just adolescent immaturity.
What happens when the immaturity is coming from a 30 year old, and it's no longer about your greasy hair but about your character and reputation? When she's no longer just taunting you with insults, but running her mouth all over the social media world, airing untruths about you and your life, because it's easy. It paints her in the light of the victim, and she has, after all, grown up in a world where she's not required to accept responsibility for the results of her actions because how could her parents' dear, precious daughter ever be anything but perfect? How do you hold on to your integrity, how do you find the warmth of your mothers arms and the perfumey scent of the hot chocolate when you have no other defense than to just take it? You could retaliate with equally cruel insults, but that just puts you right there on her level, back on the elementary school playground and that's not how adults react.
In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter. She doesn't matter. She has an opinion. Congratulations. There are any number of people who would discount every word that has come out of her mouth, but she's like accidentally getting a drop of blue dye in your pink cake batter. Sure, there's a sea of wonderfully creamy pink, but now you've got to work to drown out that nasty spot of blue. Perhaps when all is said and done, no one will even notice the slight discoloration in your otherwise perfect batter, but in the back of your mind, you know. You'll always know.
Somehow you make it home and your mom takes one look at your bloodshot eyes, coupled with your splotchy cheeks and knows that someone's hurt her baby. She sets you up on the counter and listens as you sob and choke your way through the horror all over again, shedding a tear with you because she remembers how cruel kids can be. And like every great mom, when you're finished she holds you close reminding you how wonderful you are, and how elementary/middle/high school doesn't matter and that someday all of those nasty little shits will grow up and realize that all of the thoughts they had and the things they said were hurtful, spiteful, nasty and completely unnecessary. You get the obligatory "just ignore them" advice, a cup of hot chocolate, your favorite movie, and the secret delight when she tells your brother and sisters "leave your sister alone tonight, she had a rough day at school. And DON'T ask her about it. It's over." And they don't ask, at least not right away, because as much as they're dying to know what happens, they'd rather not suffer the wrath of mom.
5, 10 years down the road, if you're lucky you run into one of those nasty little shits and most of the time, they have in fact, grown up and you can go on leading your lives like normal adults who realize that belittling others to make yourself feel better works in quite the opposite way actually. Maybe you grab a cup of coffee and catch up, or exchange email addresses, or swear to reconnect via facebook, either way you can file that "life ending" childhood memory away, because it was just adolescent immaturity.
What happens when the immaturity is coming from a 30 year old, and it's no longer about your greasy hair but about your character and reputation? When she's no longer just taunting you with insults, but running her mouth all over the social media world, airing untruths about you and your life, because it's easy. It paints her in the light of the victim, and she has, after all, grown up in a world where she's not required to accept responsibility for the results of her actions because how could her parents' dear, precious daughter ever be anything but perfect? How do you hold on to your integrity, how do you find the warmth of your mothers arms and the perfumey scent of the hot chocolate when you have no other defense than to just take it? You could retaliate with equally cruel insults, but that just puts you right there on her level, back on the elementary school playground and that's not how adults react.
In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter. She doesn't matter. She has an opinion. Congratulations. There are any number of people who would discount every word that has come out of her mouth, but she's like accidentally getting a drop of blue dye in your pink cake batter. Sure, there's a sea of wonderfully creamy pink, but now you've got to work to drown out that nasty spot of blue. Perhaps when all is said and done, no one will even notice the slight discoloration in your otherwise perfect batter, but in the back of your mind, you know. You'll always know.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Another case of the Mondays?
There's something about opening a sealed envelope addressed to me that gives me a chilling satisfaction. Someone actually sat down and took 5? 10 minutes? out of his/her day to send me a personal greeting. Not an email "thank you" or a someecard with someone else's quick wit but their immediate thoughts and sentiments, on paper, with a non-erasable pen. Meaning they can't read, reread, tweak, spell check, over-think what they wrote and revise it until it's the "perfect draft" of what should be just a quick thought. It's heartfelt and sincere, down to the inconsistencies in characters and decorative swoosh underlining my name.
It's Monday morning. I worked from 9:30am to 11:30pm yesterday at my 2nd job (waitressing). After a 30 min phone conversation with the boy to discuss the trials and tribulations of my 14hr day and a shower, I was in bed by.....1ish? All of this is setting up the fact that I didn't get a whole lot of sleep. I was exhausted when my alarm went off at 6:45 this morning, then again at 7:15, and finally at 7:30 when I drug my ass out of bed. This left me approximately 30 minutes to take the dog out, blow dry my hair, send a bitchy text to my sister about the theft of my straightening iron, gather all my crap for the day and get to the car. Needless to say, I ended up running a little behind schedule. I also decided that stopping for coffee was a necessary must, and hit up starbucks before actually getting to the office. I used to think that arriving anytime after 8:30 was "late" but for the past few months if I get there by 9 I consider it a good day. So anyway, 9:05 I roll into the parking lot just to find that I'm one of the first in the office. Great. Glad I was so concerned about getting here on time. Gathering all my crap for the day (laptop, purse, coffee, remaining makeup to be applied), hiding behind my Lady Gaga sized white sunglasses, I marched into my own personal 5' x 5' hell, also known as, my desk. Lo and behold what do I find? a tiny, baby blue envelope with my name on it propped up against my keyboard! The handwriting is familiar, although I can't remember why but as I open it and notice that it's more than just a blue envelope, it's a blue envelope with a brown liner and an embossed logo of Crane&Co on the front, I know exactly who it's from. There aren't many people who would take the time to select such a simple yet elegant stationary with which to write such warm personal greetings on, who then go on to actually use it. And just like that, a little blue envelope and decorative swoosh have turned my typical case of the mondays, into something I've suffered from in weeks past, but for just this once, not this week.
It's Monday morning. I worked from 9:30am to 11:30pm yesterday at my 2nd job (waitressing). After a 30 min phone conversation with the boy to discuss the trials and tribulations of my 14hr day and a shower, I was in bed by.....1ish? All of this is setting up the fact that I didn't get a whole lot of sleep. I was exhausted when my alarm went off at 6:45 this morning, then again at 7:15, and finally at 7:30 when I drug my ass out of bed. This left me approximately 30 minutes to take the dog out, blow dry my hair, send a bitchy text to my sister about the theft of my straightening iron, gather all my crap for the day and get to the car. Needless to say, I ended up running a little behind schedule. I also decided that stopping for coffee was a necessary must, and hit up starbucks before actually getting to the office. I used to think that arriving anytime after 8:30 was "late" but for the past few months if I get there by 9 I consider it a good day. So anyway, 9:05 I roll into the parking lot just to find that I'm one of the first in the office. Great. Glad I was so concerned about getting here on time. Gathering all my crap for the day (laptop, purse, coffee, remaining makeup to be applied), hiding behind my Lady Gaga sized white sunglasses, I marched into my own personal 5' x 5' hell, also known as, my desk. Lo and behold what do I find? a tiny, baby blue envelope with my name on it propped up against my keyboard! The handwriting is familiar, although I can't remember why but as I open it and notice that it's more than just a blue envelope, it's a blue envelope with a brown liner and an embossed logo of Crane&Co on the front, I know exactly who it's from. There aren't many people who would take the time to select such a simple yet elegant stationary with which to write such warm personal greetings on, who then go on to actually use it. And just like that, a little blue envelope and decorative swoosh have turned my typical case of the mondays, into something I've suffered from in weeks past, but for just this once, not this week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)