Staying hot.

Um, how 'bout you do it yourself, yo?

Relationships are ridiculous. My relationship is ridiculous. How else can I possibly describe something that involves being with a whole entire complete other person, another human being, who has an entire life of their own, who thinks thoughts that are their own, who has been and done things for a lifetime that have made them them? Relationships are crazy and hard and anyone who says otherwise is wrong wrong wrong (but not really - I just like being right).

I struggle with wanting to control other people. I struggle to admit that I am wrong. I am defensive and angry when I'm scared, and other people scare me all the freakin' time with their otherness. I struggle to be myself in the presence of other people, to truly be myself and not adjust myself to be more in-line with the other person. I am weak in that way. It worries me.

All of these things are compounded exponentially in an intimate romantic relationship, in a one-on-one, no-one-else-sees-this-but-us kind of relationship. And my flaws are microphoned out on a loudspeaker with the person that I love. I am ugly when I don't get my way. Ugly ugly ugly.

I am drinking a cup of coffee from a small coffee cup, and it gets cold very quickly. It is hot for a moment, and then it is cold. I have to refill it if I want it to be hot, or have one of those constant-candle-warmer kinds of things. I need a bigger mug. It needs to be thicker and deeper so the coffee stays hot. I need my soul to be thicker and deeper so I can stay hot and grounded and steady. Some people call this an ego. It's all the same thing. It's my innermost part, my deepest me. This is the thing I am working on, this thing I carry around in my broken human body. This is the thing that matters. I have to trust that God is in control and can do all of those impossible miraculous things I've seen over and again, and sit in stillness and wait. This waiting will make me better. It will make me still. It will keep me hot.

Hey you.

If you have a dog, you will most likely outlive it; to get a dog is to open yourself to profound joy and, prospectively, to equally profound sadness.

Marjorie Garber

Forever with me.

Vintage Silhouette - Made in Austria

I've written a lot of poetry in my life, lots of terrible wonderful poems about love and loss and longing and anger with God. I'm sick today, and feeling lonely in my sickness, because being sick is always a lonely occupation, isn't it? And I'm trying to figure some stuff out, so I start looking through the last two years of poems to try to get some clarity on my feelings and how they've remained constant in some ways over the years, how my trajectory has, in spite of all obstacles, stayed straight and sure.

Vintage Liz Claiborne - Totally make me think of the early 1990s

I've figured out something really important. My love for other people, my deep unfailing commitment to what some would (and have) declared delusional, has carried me through my life like a bright shimmering string of hope, woven through the mess of my life, inextricably linked to who I was, who I am, and who I will become. These people did not earn that love, nor did they provide it to me. It was something inside of me that kept it going, kept that fire stoked through many stormy times.

Those people can never give me that love that I've created for myself with their names on it. They can never live up to the hype I've given them, because they're human, and I made that hope inside myself so I could keep living when I didn't want to. I deeply want to show these people what they have, with their mere existence, given to me, but it seems to be an impossible task. How do you really love another person? How do you give a person, in a few moments, a decade of hope that you have forever inside you because of them?

So I love them, not because of anything they did, but because at one time, they loved me. And it was everything to me.

Differentiate yourself.

I'm not exceptionally good at describing jewelry yet.

So I'm reading this book called Passionate Marriage, by David Schnarch. I guess you could say that it's a book about sex, but it's not really. It's more a book about how sex reflects our intimate relationships in both positive and negative ways. I've pretty much decided that I'm going to give it to people as a wedding gift, maybe two copies, because the book is all about differentiation, and how we can have better relationships when we don't expect the other person to define us or affirm our worth.

In most of my relationships, I don't need other people to give me worth. That's not a hard thing for me. Maybe at one time it was, but now not so much. However, that is not the case in my closest relationships. I have so much trouble saying, "This is where I end and you begin...This is you...This is me." I take on people's problems because I "love" them, but when I do that, it communicates that I don't think that they can handle their own problems, that they need me to function properly, and that's exactly what I do not wish to communicate.

Truly intimate relationships are difficult to navigate. They take constant work, and pain. Sometimes there are easier times than others, or else we wouldn't be able to cope, and we certainly wouldn't stay together. But if being human is hard, in and of itself, then being human with another human has to be exponentially difficult.

So to all y'all out there in long-term partnerships, more power to ya :) You are each a testament to the possibility of love to triumph.

Saddened silence

Vintage Mug - Bernad Creations 1950

I am super sad right now. Yesterday, I was confronted with my emotional limitations, and I don't think I've eaten in almost 24 hours. I don't know what I'm going to do to make things better, or how I'm going to do it. I had a date last night, and now in the chilly light of day, I think I'm going to choose to be single for the rest of my life, not because it's what I want, but because it's just plain easier, and any other alternative requires emotional energy I don't have, or perhaps don't have to give.

For those who know and love me, I am just wallowing in self-loathing and self-pity. I am continuing the cycle that began a very long time ago, and it doesn't appear to be ending anytime soon. I used to cry when I thought about my limitations. Now I just sit in saddened silence.

Football and NASCAR

I went to an estate sale this morning. It looked as if the organizers had set everything up the night before, and then it rained. The children were organizing the home of their mother. When I bought my stuff, the woman at the table let me know that there was just too much work to sell stuff for what it was really worth. She also said I should come back next weekend, for the good stuff, which would also be victim to the curse of estate sales, and go for less than it's worth.

On the way home, I convinced myself that I shouldn't be annoyed by the people who act like they're doing me a favor when I take their junk. "It's just the grief talking," I tell myself. But there was no talk of death this morning, so it may have just been a move to a smaller location.

There was talk about football and NASCAR. They were all happy that football season was coming to a close, so then they could hit the track. Some were especially sad for "Junior", who just can't seem to make a go of it, and then compared the different tracks they like to go to.

It was a neat crowd. There was a neighbor walking around who admitted that she didn't really know the woman, but stuck around trying to be "helpful". There were some other guys trying to be helpful by telling the children that they should ask more for the horse trailer. Again, it was quite a crowd. Sometimes, I'm one of them, and sometimes I'm on the outside. Today, it was the latter.

Sexual Zeitgeist

When a prostitute can comment on the sexual zeitgeist of an age, you know you have to listen. And since I've read this editorial/commentary/opinion piece, I've thought to myself, "I wonder if it was always thus? Have sex workers always had their fingers on the pulse of the sexual heartbeat of the nation and/or culture?" I think this might be entirely possible.

I feel lonely sometimes, though I am rarely lonely in its truest sense. I am not hungry for human affection, or love. I'm not even hungry for canine love or affection. But there is something deep inside of me that longs for touch that can only truly come in the form of a significant other, a romantic partner, not because sex is the be-all, end-all, but because that's what it's there for. It exists as an outlet for true and honest intimacy. We pervert it all the time, but at its essence, that's what it is.

So I strive towards that end. I search to express my sexuality in ways that are honest, and true to who I am as a person. I try to be honest with my words, with my tone, my body language, and my physical appearance. I may fail in any and all ways at one or more times, but I keep trying. I want connection, but I only want honest connection from someone that wants to connect with me. I don't want false intimacy. I've had enough of that for a lifetime.

Totally freakin' out!

 

So I'm graduating soon, and I am having a moment of terrifying fear. Ack! So scary! What will I do? Where will I go? How will I get there? Will I be prepared? Who will be my friends when I arrive?

There was talk at the dinner table of me going online and finding a nice Canadian gentleman to wed and give me health insurance. There are non-crazies out there who would love to get with a nice Californian girl, yeah?

Thoughts, anyone?

Bootstraps, anyone?

 

This story kills me.

People offer us love, and we deny it. People offer us help, aid, and we throw it away, saying we'd rather find it ourselves. I have an image of a toddler in my head, practicing the art of independence-"Do it myself!"

There's a TED talk on vulnerability I'd like to watch today and perhaps respond to tomorrow.

Sometimes I say "yes", when I want to say "no", not because "no" is the right answer, but because I know that I am resisting the love of another person, wanting to avoid attachment. Sometimes we need to accept the love that is offered to us, even if it comes in a form that is unpleasant (e.g. I give my neighbors meat even though I don't believe I should; I buy Hershey chocolate because the man that put up my shelves asked for it, even though I believe that they practice slavery). Sometimes I think we need to take more time to make decisions. Sometimes those decisions will end up bringing us closer together.

And we need eachother. Life is tough, remember?

Seriously, you're all amazing.

Caitlin, of "To Make Love Stay", wrote this post recently. I read it, and was inspired.

I've been really feverish today, and feeling like all the kinds of my worst self. For some strange reason, I keep thinking about sharing space with another person, and how impossible that seems in this moment. My crap is everywhere. I have one sink, in the bathroom. It is my only water source. I do the dishes in the bathroom sink. There. I said it. Be disgusted by me.

I keep thinking, "Why would another person want to live with me?" I don't know why this suddenly seems important, but there's something so amazing to me about committed relationships. You don't just put up with the other person; you expose yourself to that other person, every friggin day. You can't hide anything: your weird smells, your whining, your moods, your weird smells, all of the bizarre things you feed yourself, how often you stare at your own pores in the mirror, how often you return through the front door in the morning because you forgot something, how much stuff you actually buy at thrift stores, how many doctors appointments you actually have, and on, and on, and on...Who would subject him or herself to this?

So yes, sometimes, I marvel at the human tendency to commune with itself. Even in all of our disgustingness, we continue to befriend, love, procreate, teach, help, and endure with one another. We take care of our children. Some of us even go so far as to adore our children, tend to them, cuddle with them, and let them throw up all over us. We are all one big mess, together.

It never ceases to amaze me.

The unattainable thrifty middle-ground

My perfect rug is still sitting on the dirty cement floor of a warehouse-sized thrift store in town. I just can't see myself spending $265 on it. It's super nice and perfect for me, and huge (and yellow!), but that's a month's rent. It's food. It's an African famine, and a broken world.

On the qualifier list for Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD; not to be confused with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) are the following:

·       is overconscientious, scrupulous, and inflexible about matters of morality, ethics, or values (not accounted for by cultural or religious identification) 

·       is unable to discard worn-out or worthless objects even when they have no sentimental value 

·       is reluctant to delegate tasks or to work with others unless they submit to exactly his or her way of doing things 

·       adopts a miserly spending style toward both self and others; money is viewed as something to be hoarded for future catastrophes 

·       shows rigidity and stubbornness

American Psychiatric Association. (2000).  Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fourth Edition, Text Revision.

Where may hoarders fall? Yup. On this list. Where do I fall? Yup, on this list. Miserly? Okay, so I am poor, so maybe we could take that one out. And my ethical preoccupation is kind of religious, so maybe that one can go as well. But I am definitely unable to delegate, ridiculously stubborn, and unable to discard worn-out or worthless objects.

You may be saying to yourself "Well sure, but you're a thrifter. Those aren't worthless objects." Sure, but when I was moving last month, I came across a drawer of things I'd saved that might/could be used in some artistic endeavor in the far-off future. Well, it was not trash ( I cannot call it trash), but I threw it away, in agony. This is why I wail at the SPCA photos on my Facebook page. "Why has someone thrown this away?" My chest hurts when I think about throwing away the things from that box: old string, wire, springs, used tissue paper-nothing of value!

But sometimes I get so preoccupied with my recycling ethic that I move over into pathology. Friends don't want to tell me that their dog came from a breeder, that they own a pick-up truck, that they eat cheese. And I myself don't know where to draw the line, because it doesn't exist inside of me. I have to project it onto every situation: Will this drain me of energy? Do I really have the time to live with this?

So I don't have a personality disorder, as much as I want to believe that I do. I was sure raised to go in that direction, but by the grace of God go I. Cheers!

This is not food porn

So, Sexual Addictions. I know that I would dish, and I will, in part, but mostly I want to comment on the nature of the issue itself. The class was fine. I was of course offended by the usual injustices of lack of egalitarian language, and a sole focus on married people and all of their problems. Because who wants to even talk about single people and all of their problems ad nauseum? We all know that once you get a single person talking about themselves, it could go on forever, right? They're so darn selfish.

If I get too offended about these issues, I won't get much done. I'll become a tape that just plays the same sides back and forth, over and again. And of course, I can't start talking about the gays and all of their deviant homosexual problems either. So I will just stick to the real stuff. Get married in that normal hetero way. Attach fully to your spouse. Be honest; get therapy; don't look at porn; repeat.

Okay, so apart from all of my sarcasm, sexual addiction is real (and it's more than pornography), and the neurological factors involved are also real. The brain is deeply affected by visual sexualized stimuli, and pornography has become so accessible, affordable, and anonymous, that now pornography is reaching populations it may not have reached before. A lot of people struggle with sexual addiction. They feel controlled by it just like any addiction, and it's a hidden thing, a secret. Sex is always around us, but shame keeps us from always engaging in relationship in healthy ways. When we do something that we don't want anyone else to see, the shame sweeps us into a terrible cycle of secrets and hiding and unreality.

This is where I come in. If there's a huge percentage of men and women out there dealing with this, how can we allow it to remain a hidden, shameful issue? It's normal is what it is. Sex is normal. Arousal is normal. Attraction is normal. Our bodies do it without our permission. What fucks everything up is our belief that sex is dirty, that our humanness is dirty.

You are not dirty! There is nothing wrong with you! Say what you want. Say who you are.

There is no shame in being you. Start there. Accept yourself as you are, and when you feel completely okay with that, you can look into the parts of your life that aren't working so well, that are hurting your relationships, and hurting you. But don't start by hating yourself. That will never work.

2. Rhodesian Memoirs

How I got hooked on Rhodesian memoirs:

1. Don't Let's Go to the Dogs Tonight: I could never stop looking at the author's photo on the back of the book. She's looking out in the distance and her hair is blowing in the wind, and she looks so African.

Until I read this book, I never really understood that White Africans were a significant part of African society and culture (I know; I recently figured out what apartheid means too). Blame it on my conservative background, or on my American education. I just say, there's only so much room in a mind;  and African history isn't exactly a NCLB priority.

So Fuller, the author, is Rhodesian, and the book is about her childhood and growing up in Rhodesia. Her unstable mother serves as the perfect background for Rhodesia itself, with an uncertain path and an uncertain future. Growing up in the midst of a racially-charged civil war is enough to form a person for life, and the book follows Fuller as she navigates her challenging familial relationships and her challenge to live as a white African in a country that now does not exist. The Rhodesian civil war made orphans out of all Rhodesians, and that's why I love reading their books, I think.

2. Out of the Dark: Caine is another woman writer who grew up in Rhodesia. Both she and Fuller lived in Zambia if I recall correctly. They at least both had significant moves in their childhoods, usually because of the war. Caine also has an unstable mother, and an even more unstable childhood. Her life is shaped by her Rhodesian past, and by her gaps in memory from that time.

This can be a difficult read, especially for survivors of childhood abuse, so I recommend it cautiously. Reading this book made me begin to develop an understanding of what Rhodesia was like, and what it means to be Rhodesian, and got me hooked on finding more memoirs. The picture in my head when I think of Linda is her horse, who she loved. I think that would make her smile to hear that.

3. Casting with a Fragile Thread: What does it mean to love a place with your whole heart? This book is by another woman, with another drunk mother, and another broken family. But Wendy Kann's story is more than the sum of her trials. It's about how one can be Rhodesian without Rhodesia, how it feels to be always alone in a world with few others who can even comprehend what your childhood was like, and what it means to be you, all in the midst of terrible loss.

4. When a Crocodile Eats the Sun: Godwin has another book, which is probably a better fit for this list. This book is more about Zimbabwe than it is about Rhodesia, but it's interesting to see how Godwin responds to Zimbabwe, having grown up Rhodesian. His commitment to his parents comes together with his uncertainty about this new country's identity and future, and one begins to wonder when reading about the day-to-day existence of a Zimbabwean, how this is better than what they fought to throw away.

5. Rainbow's End: This is probably the freshest in my mind because I read it most recently, even though that isn't even that recent (maybe last summer, or two summers ago?). St. John, the author, tries to live a normal childhood within a very chaotic and dangerous situation. Her father runs a farm during a time when all farms were under almost constant attack, because most if all the farmers were white and landowners. St. John is also able to paint a picture of how the farmers responded to the violence, and how they survived.

The mere mention of Rhodesia makes me smile. If you have any book suggestions, send them my way. I had a fleeting thought last night that perhaps a year from today, I will be reading piles of books in my free time. It was a very, very nice thought. Maybe a hammock could be involved, or a porch swing; a dog by my side, or some other warm-blooded creature would also be nice.

Attachment issues up the yang

Beth Orton has a song called "Feral Children". I can hardly listen to it, and I love her stuff. I also can't read books about abused children or watch documentaries about them, even though they fascinate me. It hits my sensitive soul too close.

People who have been abused as children are all around us in the world, living normal lives, doing normal things. But their souls bear scars that are unseen by the world. Sometimes these are the people who successfully suicide. The pain is too great to bear. Or these are the people who turn inside themselves, or turn on other people. These are the people we love to hate, the crazies of the world. Then there are the more resilient types, who for one reason or another are able to withstand the the soul-beatings and live to tell about it. But they still suffer.

Have you ever had a friend abandon you for seemingly no reason? Have you ever known someone with such strong commitment issues that one intense conversation might set them back into themselves for a week or more? Part of this is attachment, that thing borne inside of us when we are born, that thing we create with our parents, that thing that tells us how to orient to the world. Is the world a safe place? Should I be afraid, or alert? This often looks like paranoia.

When a person is scared to be loved, they will do everything in their power to avoid that love. They will self-sabotage in every way they can imagine, and they may not even realize that they're doing it. Perhaps it is our job, those of us who are able to trust and hope, to love these people unconditionally, to commit to them unconditionally, to see them for who they are at their very best, even when their very best is hard to see.

Throwing people away because they are imperfect does nothing for the status quo. It only perpetuates a belief that a person can be thrown away, that a person is worthy of being thrown away. This is never true.