Untying the Knot

Dear Blog,

4 weeks ago, I left my husband after only one year of marriage. 

This decision was not made lightly and it was a decision I arrived at with the support of my family, my closest friends, and, of course, my therapist. :)

About a month ago, after coming home in a bad mood and after months of verbal abuse, my husband threw the equivalent of a 4lb weight at my head in anger. When he missed, he picked it up, threw it again, just missing my head. It smashed through a double paned window instead. He then proceeded to say “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you” and “I’m going to punch you in the f*ing face.” Nice guy, right?

This outburst came after months of verbal abuse that started on our honeymoon. Calling me stupid, incompetent, unable to be a good wife, unlikely to be a good mother, the b-word, the c-word, among other things. Words that would, I fear, make even the most self-assured person begin to question their self-worth, their competence and even their sanity. 

There was additional physical abuse including, having objects thrown in my direction, sometimes hitting me and leaving bruises. I've been thrown against walls, shoved out of and across rooms, have had doors kicked in when I locked them to try and get away. 

After this most recent outburst I realized that if our 130 lb. Rottweiler runs and hides on a daily basis when he starts yelling at me, what will our children do when their father starts smashing windows. 

The morning after this happened, I very calmly went to church. I wanted to get away for a few days, I don't know if I was ready at that precise point to leave for good. I called my brother in NYC asking if I could crash on his couch. He asked why and I told him. His words to me were "if you don't tell mom and dad...I will". 

So threw a lot of RANDOM stuff in a suitcase, grabbed my two cats, and hauled ass home to Michigan where I curled up in an emotionally paralyzed fetal position for the better part of the week. 

This story is to be continued, however, rest assured that I am fine – physically speaking. And I am safe.

Oh, Blog, how I’ve missed you. This past year has been misery. This past year I was prohibited from being myself. I was led to believe that who I am, is fundamentally flawed. That I am neither funny, nor self sufficient, nor talented nor beautiful. That I am uninteresting, socially awkward, boorish and emotionally stunted.

So many times I have wanted to confide in you. To chart my thoughts, as I once did, in your pages in order to make sense of my sadness or my perceived inability to make my husband happy and my marriage a success.

I know now that this is what narcissists and abusers do – systematically beat down your spirit until you have no choice but to believe their lies.

Do not feel as though it was you, dear Blog I could not confide in. My family, my closest friends had no idea that I was being called stupid on a nightly basis, was ducking objects as well as insults being hurled in my direction. Because I knew, if I owned my reality, if I gave voice to actions I knew in my soul were wrong, they would tell me what I could not tell myself. That I should leave. That it was wrong. That my marriage, such as it was, had to end.

When thoughts are given form either through the stroke of a keyboard, or pinot noir stained lips, they take on a breath of life all their own. They are given a weight and a voice that you henceforth unable to keep at bay no matter how many “positive attitude” mantras you recite, prayers you pray or self-help marriage gurus you quote.

And so now, after three years of the walls of explanations, rationalizations and excuses keeping my thoughts at bay, I now type these words with the loudest and weightiest of keyboard strokes – giving life and conviction to the following thoughts:

My husband, who I loved and hoped to build and spend a life with, verbally, emotionally and physically abused me. It was…it IS Not my Fault. I am a brave person for leaving. This was the right decision. I am proud of myself for making it. 

Frankly,

Dear Blog, Remember Me?

Dear Blog,

I’ve been away. Probably because I see the darkness of my last post as a hole I need to crawl out from – but I figure I’ll just post and most on and I will eventually be burry it in the archives.

Quick update.

I got married. Three months ago.

So far marriage hasn’t been all champagne, roses and unprotected sex. But it hasn’t been all terrible either. I guess that’s what happens when you tend to have a black and white view of the world. You end up in a purgatory of grey fog. It’s a danger swinging high and low. Keeping up the momentum alone leaves one emotionally parched and hard…like a brittle sponge.

I moved to the suburbs. With a house. A husband. And a dog. Idyllic. Lovely. Check that box.

I love them. But I miss the city. Getting lost in it. The anonymity.

My best friend moved away. I’m lonely.

It’s easy to blame my husband or my marriage for my loneliness. He moved me away. If I could be in Dupont right now, walk out my door, feel the city swirling around me, perhaps I wouldn’t feel so stuck. Maybe I’d see more prospects for my future than having babies , mopping the kitchen floor or whatever other monotonous domestic cliché comes to mind. Even though I WANT kids and an nice home, etc.

And, as ever, I’m being dramatic because if I Were single, I’d be bemoaning my last date, the hopelessness of romantic prospects, and the inevitability of growing old alone.

There’s no pleasing me it seems.  

There never is.

And so I turn back to you, old friend. Dear, Blog. With your blank pages yet to be written ready to catch whatever nonsense my fingers punch out into the ether. Please have patience with me if my words lack eloquence. If I don't check back as often as I should. Relationships of any kind take work and time and I can't make any promises as to my level of committment or enthusiasm. Writing is hard. Writing the truth is even harder.  

Frankly,

The Shame Spiral: Please Don't Judge

How do you know when a relationship isn't working?


Apparently it isn't when your boyfriend packs everything you have at his place into a suitcase and two laundry baskets and throws it out of his house into the rain.


I guess its not when you've cried so hard the night before Valentine's day that you burst multiple blood vessels in your eyes.


But when you, granted, in a fit of blacked out drunkenness, get into an argument about God knows what stupid bullshit, and it leads to you swallow 15 little white pills of Ambien....with the sick, twisted theory that maybe if you try to kill yourself he'll be nice to you for a little while....you get clued in.


And once you regain consciousness roughly 36 hours later and you realize what your little stunt put your friends and said boyfriend through (not to mention being incredibly lucky you did not, in fact, die) - the shame sets in. The utter shame, self loathing, personal disappointment that you, a beautiful, successful, 31 year old woman could do something so pathetic and so fucking stupid - is almost more that you can take. Let alone the fact that the man who was taking you ring shopping the week before is seriously reconsidering some major factors in his potential choice of future wife. Namely: sanity and stability.


And you are reconsidering...everything.


Neck deep in the shame spiral, trying not to mentally ass-rape myself, knowing that because I made a bad choice, doesn't mean I am a bad person, doesn't mean (necessarily) that i've undone everything healthy I gained in therapy (although Dr. B did get a call and I have an appointment on Friday), it doesn't mean I'm a mentally ill nutcase incapable of having a long term, meaningful relationship. Does it?


And the scary thing is that I know that none of these are the questions I should be asking. That I SHOULD be asking "why did I do it in the first place"? And the answer is...because...the thought of living without him is....not an appealing one.


That sentence is filled with all sorts of wrong. I know this. The only thing is that the idea of living in a war zone doesn't exactly leave me with warm and fuzzy, furry bunny feelings either.


The truth is that I want to stay. I want us to work. I want to be a sane, calm, normal girl that he can love. Not this crazy, codependent, clingy, pathetic shell of a woman I used to be. Frankly, I'd like to see that girl in the mirror again. I don't know when she disappeared. What's even scarier is that I don't know what to do to get her back.

Conversations with My Father (Part Deux)

  
I think sometimes I over think things when it comes to my life - the romantic aspects of it. Clearly, finding yourself rolling head first down a hill in the rain with your best friend, doesn't exactly paint a picture of the "well examined life". Then again, judging on your viewpoint, perhaps it does. But I digress.

I blame it on my parents. They have given me such high standards both in the example they themselves set and the way they raised me to never to settle, to strive for excellence and whatever you do....don't marry the wrong person. As such, I put such weight into these issues that many times i find myself staggering beneath it. It’s a hard realization to know that there's no book I can read, no test I can take, no instruction manual to follow step by step in order to arrive at a good and happy life.  

My heart has been hurt so much over the years that I have learned to instinctively distrust it, working hard training my brain the dominant & more trustworthy of the two organs. But, in the end, I don't believe there's any perfect answer. No silver bullet. No cheat sheet. I'll just have to take the best information I have and use it to make the best decisions possible. And when I still feel that information lacking, I ask my father for his advice.

My latest query was to ask if it "bothers him that he and my mother don't share a lot of the same interests" (stoic history PhD marries bubbly elementary school teacher) and whether or not he's found that an obstacle to be overcome in their marriage. 

Ever the thoughtful professor, he penned a reply which I have included below. Frankly, I believe the sentiments are universal and everyone loves a bit of fatherly wisdom. 

Thank you, dad.

Hi Sweets.  I've been a bit bothered by your question the other day, inasmuch as I do not think I answered it very well.  So I will try, briefly, to expand a little.

We like to think that we should have long-range plans for our lives, and while we are encouraged to do so and need to do so, the reality is mostly aspirational.  The reason for this is simple: we change as we grow older.  And as we change, our likes and dislikes change, goals change, financial circumstances change and so those plans must change as well. 

The future is a mystery with respect to many things, but especially with this abstraction called 'happiness'.  Most people in this world have never experienced it, I am convinced, and have made their lives commensurately miserable in the pursuit of it.  For 'it' itself is myriad in its forms and seems as fleeting as gossamer.  Yet it doesn't so much 'flee' as 'evolve' as we grow older.  The happiness of youthful passion inexorably gives way to the warmth of familiarity and sentimental attachment.  The happiness of watching a child grow, will give way in time to the stark reality of anxious nights, emotional conflict and a life-long uncertainly over the fate of that child.  The initial paternal giddiness gives way to celebration, dread, satisfaction and second-guessing, as life gives and takes its rewards and its tolls. But that's the whole point of living isn't it? 

You asked me whether I wished Mom knew more history, and the answer is: of course I do.  But I knew that history was not her strong suit when I married her.  Instead, I looked to her character, her maternal instinct, her loving nature, her eternal innocence about many things.  Where is the guarantee that a history degree would have come with all those?  Does that mean that, perhaps, I am not as happy as I could be?  Probably.  But then who is, outside the silly movies which have distorted our perspective on such things?  The familial detritus which litters the twenty-first century social landscape provides ample evidence that most people never find their ideal.  And while that may rule out attainment of the will-o-the-wisp we call 'happiness', it hardly makes impossible the more achievable, stable and nurturing objective: contentment.  And if, in the end, I can say that I am content with the way I've lived my life; that will be compensation enough. 

I hope this helps.  Didn't mean to go on.  And I certainly don't mean to tell you what to do, or what decisions you should make.  I said my piece enough as I was raising you.  It's up to you now.

It's Like I'm Losing My Mind

I'm driving myself crazy.

I want to be skinny. Pass me that cookie. I love him. I love him not. I want to be married. I want to be single. I'm going to be alone forever. Leave me the fuck alone.

But  isn't that what people do? Make choices, choose this instead of that? A downtown studio for suburban single family? Trading autonomous whirlwinds of one's twenties for security in one's thirties? Metro cards for car keys? Friday night cocktail flirtations for Sunday morning coffee?

The bottom line, Eli is great. He CAN be great. But our entire relationship, I feel like he's dragging me along while I play catch up learning how to communicate, how to incorporate someone into my life, how to strike a balance, how to not hate existence when I'm out in suburban Maryland and wanting so desperately to disolve into the anonymous, bustling sidewalks of Dupont. How do I not feel like something is missing?

And then ten minutes after I wrote this, he called and I couldn't wait to be back by his side.Thus resetting the spin cycle of my indecision.

So THIS is how it feels to be losing your mind.

True Love: A Letter

I have things to say, I have people/men/A man to bitch about, but I'm taking the high road (until next week anyway). 


I'm ending Valentine's week, 2012, sharing a letter I've had memorized since childhood (the product of having an historian for a father coupled with a love of Ken Burns soundtracks should suffice for an explanation as to why).  And so I share this letter with you, my Dear Reader, because I've always found its undoubtedly poetic prose and hauntingly romantic sentiment have the ability to help me transcend my own petty existence.  I hope whatever discomforts the week brought for you, it may do the same. 

It is a letter of love and farewell, written in 1861 at the beginning of the Civil War, by Sullivan Ballou, a 32 year old lawyer serving in the Union Army. A week after he wrote this letter, he was killed in the Battle of Bull Run. The letter was delivered, posthumously, to his widow, Sarah, who was then 24. 

She never remarried. 

Frankly,

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington


My very dear Sarah,


The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days – perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more. Our movements may be of a few days’ duration and full of pleasure – and it may be of some conflict and death to me. "Not my will, but thine, O God be done." If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my Country, I am ready.


I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing – perfectly willing – to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt.


Sarah, my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and burns unresistibly on with all these chains to the battlefield.


The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me – perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar – that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortunes of this world to shield you and your children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the Spirit-land and hover near you, while you buffet the storm, with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.


But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights, advised to your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours, always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.


As for my little boys – they will grow up as I have done, and never know a father's love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the deep memories of childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their character, and feel that God will bless you in your holy work.


Tell my two Mothers I call God's blessing upon them. O! Sarah. I wait for you there; come to me and lead thither my children.


Sullivan

The Good, The Bad, the Fucked up & the Frustrated

The Good

Putting clean sheets on my bed and realizing I didn’t go over my weight watcher points yesterday.

The Bad

The feeling that I’ve lost myself and can’t get it back with the person I’m supposed to love. Did he suck it out of me? Did I give myself away willingly? Was it a combination f the two? All I know is that I can’t be myself, I don’t feel loved and I don’t feel whole enough to stand on my own right now. Which leaves me a bit…nowhere.

The Fucked Up

Walking out abruptly on my friends at a restaurant because I didn’t want Eli* to know I was out with friends eating and drinking. I am not going to pretend that this wasn’t fucked up on a great many levels.

The Frustrating

I am currently my own worst enemy. I don’t want to lay down, I don’t want to stand up, I don’t want to talk about my feelings, I don’t want to FEEL my feelings, I don’t want to work, I don’t want to take care of myself, I don’t want to do the things I KNOW will make me feel better. I’m not acting like myself. I’m not treating myself or those around me with respect. I want to feel loved in my relationship, but I don’t feel safety, acceptance or support – so how can I open myself to love? But how can I bear I start all over? I just want to curl up in my mother’s arms and cry. I want my dad to tell me what to do. I want someone to give me some answers. Because frankly, at this moment I have nothing but doubt and dread. 

*My boyfriend of 9 months

Dear Phantom, A Letter

Dear Phantom,

I was 10 years old when I first heard it, the auction echoing in an empty opera house interrupted by the dissenting melodies of dueling organs. The comedic theatrics of an operatic ingénue yielding to a story of mystery, intrigue, delicious evil, forbidden desires and tragic loss, all set to the tunes and lyrics of geniuses Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice.

It was my first CD, in fact a double CD box set which I begged my father to purchase after hearing a rendition of Music of the Night sung by José Carreras. Of course its inclusion of a complete libretto felt to me like the prize inside of a cereal box. As an all too imaginative tween living on a Midwestern dirt road adrift on a sea of yellow cornfields, the world of Broadway, Sarah Brightman and Manhattan seemed as distant and fantastical as that of a Disney princess.

And while I did, in fact, memorize the libretto, cajole my voice teacher into coaching an ill-fated alto to eke out the aria,  “Think of Me”, and spent my nights dreaming of a mysteriously masked tenor whisking me away to subterranean dungeons filled with red velvet lounges and the echoes of Music of the Night, (the origin of my love of bad boys the world over, perhaps? I prefer not to speculate), nothing could quite have prepared me for the spectacle when, at last, at the age of 19, I saw it on stage.

The at-once illuminated chandelier sweeping above my head, the rolling fog engulfing the Orchestra pit during Phantom of the Opera, the fact that, while handsome, I still found the character of Raul as simpering and insufferable on stage as his disembodied audio counterpart; the spectacle of the Masquerade, the tears rolling down my cheeks as as Christine bids farewell to her Angel of Music.  All are memories I’ll cherish forever.

This same enthusiasm translated to the 2004 cinematic version, which I unapologetically love. Many mistakenly assume my slight obsession with Gerard Butler came from his digitally enhanced abs in the horrifically historically inaccurate 300. Oh contraire, it is a direct result of his portrayal of Phantom with emphasis on his the No Return sequence that I still maintain is the sexiest piece of film making ever projected upon a screen.

And so it is with an enthusiastic smile, a heart full of sentimentality and the goose bumps that never cease to appear during the opening sequence of dueling organs and reawakened chandeliers – that I wish a happy 24^th birthday to the Phantom of the Opera. May you be delighting theatergoers and 10 year old farm girls for generations to come.

Frankly,

Conversations with My Father (Part One)

I received the below email from my father last week following the aforementioned break up. It made me think. 

While somewhat hard to hear, I thought it was worth considerable reflection and I wanted to post it here, lest it fade into archived obscurity within the bottomless hole that is currently my gmail in-box. 

Frankly, after your wonderful comments on the last bit of fatherly advice, I just couldn't resist the urge to share this honest and heartfelt bit of paternal correspondence.
 

 

It's late and I'm worried about you getting home, so I thought I'd "scratch off a few lines", as they used to say. 

Sorry about your last minute email from [The Chef], but that in itself was revealing enough to know it was for the best.  In that context, I offer these thoughts for whatever they are worth.

Women like you, Scarlett (transparently needful of romantic love), are particularly at risk I think, because there are two ways most men will respond: (1) with reciprocal endearment and love or (2) as an invitation to exploitation.  It's just the way men are.  And, sadly, there are far more of the latter than the former.  Therefore, I think that you should try to be a little more guarded in your interactions with, and reactions to, men.  You have so much to offer the right man, but you cannot sell it too cheaply or offer it too readily.  There is an old saying I heard a long time ago and never forgot: that people tend to disdain what is thrown at them.  And that is all too true.  Moreover, by being too eager you sell yourself short.  The descriptions you have given me of your recent interactions did not convey much respect on his part, nor self-assuredness on yours.  I guess my sense is (and I don't mean to sound cliched) that you need to take ownership of your own 'personhood', for lack of a better word, in such a way as to demand that requisite respect before offering love--not after.  Real respect and love are mutually reinforcing and mutually sustaining. 

You have been through so much for one so young, but you must resist the temptation to think of yourself  as a victim.  Down that road lies immense vulnerability, not to mention cynicism.  You are in need of neither one just now.  You must take stock of your incredible assets and value them commensurately.  The question in your mind should always be whether or not a man measures up to your (preferably astronomical) specifications, not whether you measure up to his.  Meanwhile, concentrate on the requisite self-improvement we all seek.

I'm not so old that I don't understand the need for intimacy with someone, honey.  But this lurching from "candidate to candidate" in this fashion can't be good for you can it?  I mean you are so much more than that.  The mental toll, for one thing, must be considerable.  And disappointment and despair tend to reinforce each other in a cyclic, toxic emotional cocktail.  You really need to rethink your perspective, Scarlett, along with your own self regard, in order to concoct an antidote for it.  And if you do, I think you'll find that the more you redirect that energy and emotional commitment toward self-improvement and self-fulfillment, the sooner fate will take a hand with the romance.  I'm certain of it.

I actually wrote this several days ago but wanted to wait until after New Years eve to send it. 

Our trip home to the 'Promised Land' [Texas] (that really ticks Mom off when I say it) was very enjoyable and uneventful.

Love you.

A Fresh Start

2011 greeted me on the tail end of five bottles of bubbly and found me wearing a sparkly crown, tooting a noise maker and embracing two of the best friends I'll ever have. No cliched kisses for me but only the briefest of pangs for my recently severed relationship.

While it would, be typically Scarlett to bitch about the fact that I did not have someone of my very own to kiss at midnight; rant about my endless frustration with the opposite sex; or bemoan the parade of failed relationships steadily lengthening from year to year; its a new year and thus should strive to be a new outlook.

In that newness of spirit, I will simply say that endings, while often sad, are not all together negative. Rather, I suppose they could be seen as opportunities for growth. For the first time in a long while I can truthfully say that looking back at this relationship, I have no regrets. No self flagellating "what was I thinking" monologues play ad nauseum in a tortured psyche through a red wine haze. Quite the opposite.

He helped open my mind and my heart to the unknown, he challenged me intellectually, he awakened me emotionally. I am a better person for it. And there's nothing sad about that. I am not broken. Any wounds will, in fact, heal. And while I will miss his smile and his amazingly kind eyes, it is useless to wage a war on what is simply ill-fated timing. It does no good to curse that which you are unable to change.* 

And so I will put one foot, however reluctantly, in front of the other, wading into the still serene waters of 2011.

I will continue to make (and most likely break) my resolutions which include making more time for the things that make me happy, have better posture, pay off credit cards, splurge more on nice lingerie, loose weight, be a better friend, make my bed, learn to like dark chocolate, make time for Yoga and, of course, marry Russell Crowe.

Frankly,

*This new and less indignant approach to life feels a bit unnatural....but good. Kind of like walking in a new pair of Gucci platform wedges.

My Greatest Fans

Recently I had a bad day. A fight with the new guy, shall call him The Chef, left my eyes swollen and sore with the salty remnants of tears and face so blotchty and so red that they seemed to blend seamlessly with my hair.

After calming both the physical and mental effects of the argument with a frozen ice pack for my face, and a bottle of Zin for my soul, I went to bed. Two days later I was on the phone with my father when he detected something in my voice. Whether a hint of sadness or a slight tone of frustration managed to seep through my masque of perhaps overly compensatory cheerfulness, I'm not sure. But my father, never one to be fooled by any false sentiment I may utter or deterred with a deflecting "I don't want to talk about it", finally wore me down. I gave him a brief outline of my recent romantic turmoil, bemoaned general frustration with dating, men, and relationships. Expressed frustration and in a state of emotional exhaustion, I think I even touted the virtues of an arranged marriage system.

The next morning I woke to the following email which I thought both caring, thoughtful and poignant. Frankly, I believe its underlying thesis to be an emotionally stinging truth but one that bears consideration

Hi Sweets.  Just want to say how sorry I am that you feeling low.  Life is tough in more ways than one, but that's not going to assuage you much I'm afraid.  I don't know what the answer is, Scarlett.  Your Mom and I tried to raise you to be successful and independent--and we succeeded spectacularly. 

If we made a mistake by not just marrying you off at eighteen, then I apologize.  But the older I get, the more I am convinced that happiness in life is about maximizing one's choices, and you have more choices than most women have. The flip-side of that, of course, is that you have to make some tough ones. 

It seems to me as if you are waiting for lightning to strike in an ecstatically transformative way--as with Cinderella or Snow White.  Since you are an incurable romantic (and you may not know this, but  you get that from me), you are sort of caught in a vise, waiting for that optimal situation to transpire.  But the truth is, honey, that it may or may not.  And you need to be prepared for either contingency.  And if, in the end, a very good alternative presents itself, rather the one of your dreams, it will be left to you to choose.  

My advise is simply to not  allow the perfect to be the enemy of the good.

I'm nearing old age, and long distanced from the dating scene.  Yet I can't believe there are no good men out there with whom you could be happy.  Then again, remaining unattached and unencumbered has its own advantages.  Just know that your specifications as to what you deem acceptable may change with time, and that's not necessarily a bad thing.  It isn't 'selling out' so much as it is an adaptation.  Just know that however you choose to configure your priorities, it is your life and your decision.  All I can offer is the father's hope--that if you do find someone, that discovery is impelled by much more than the mirage of transient attraction--such as the revelation of deep character, mutual respect and long-term goals.  That's my take, for what it's worth.

I know that I often sound churlish in trying to discipline you financially.  But don't ever forget that Mom and I can only be as happy as you are.  We are your greatest fans.

Love,

Papa

Landscape Architecture

I’ve never been one for jigsaw puzzles. My mother can’t get enough of them and will stare at microscopic pieces for hours, days, in fact, until she manages inexplicably to find the order amidst chaos. 

I’m not a visual person. I don’t work well within the confines of compartmentalized thought. Edge pieces, blue pieces, round, square, etc. I'd much prefer to admire a finished work of art and drill down into its individual, interesting elements of texture, style, medium rather than working from the ground up.

My very right brained style of thinking is rather limiting in that sense - needing to be sure of the forest before taking notice of the role of the individual trees, leaves and branches. I like the big picture. 

So it is with life. I like to make the pieces fit neatly together to form a seamless mosaic of complementary tiles, structured form and interesting texture. 
 

However, I'm finding it to be increasingly true that there are moments painted within the overarching canvas of life which don't quite fit in with the whole creating a jarring effect akin perhaps to embroidering Van Gogh's "Starry Night" upon the narrative of the Bayeux Tapestry* in place of Haley's Comet. Such an insertion would, if not alter the overall narrative, certainly change the setting so abrupt would be the effect.
 

So it is with the impact one might experience upon and unexpected and intentioned meeting. An unexpected connection felt for someone with whom you might never pictured yourself and were completely prepared to dismiss as nothing more than a passing flirtation. And even thought you don't quite yet know what to make of this ill fitting piece of the puzzle, you find it makes you feel alive intellectually and physically in a ways you'd forgotten. 
 

And when that happens, suddenly none of the pieces fit because you find the landscape to be fundamentally altered.

*For those of you who snoozed your way through medieval history class, the Bayeux Tapestry is an embroidered cloth (dating roughly around 1077) depicting the events prior to and concurrent with the Norman conquest of England.

Break Up Letter

Dear eHarmony:

We need to talk.

I’m not ready for a commitment of this magnitude.

Six months ago, not entirely certain of the degree to which I was ready to submerge myself once again into the DC dating pool, I timidly dipped my toes back into the pond to test the waters. The time and consideration with which you professed to offer a “deep and more meaningful” online dating experience, seemed the best way to better ease myself back into the life of a single Washingtonian.

Unsure of my readiness for significant emotional involvement, I thought it best to, at the very least, stretch my dating legs lest all romantic muscles become atrophied with disuse.

I want to see other people.

You have set me up with not one, but THREE ex boyfriends. Well done, swifty. Well done.

While this detour down “Poor Decision Lane” followed by jaunt along “Regret Blvd” was diverting, I could have had a V8. 

Add to this your consistent and seemingly unrelenting parade of men who reach an average and unimpressive vertical limit at 5’9. This stature, or lack thereof, leaves them at an inconvenient eye level with my rather substantial bust line. Standing at 5’10 in my shortest pair of heels, any way you solve this equation is sure to equal distracted disaster.

I need some space.

You attract immature men boys who throw hissy fits and pouting tantrums worthy of a 2 year old deprived of his [insert popular toddler toy] on my front doorstep when I fail to invite them in at the end of an evening. My neighbors thank you for the entertaining spectacle, but I am not amused.

I’m not saying its you…but its DEFINITELY not me. 

 

You’ve served as a beacon to boys apparently still residing if not physically, then definitely mentally, in the frat house. In what universe did you think that the way to win this Irish girl’s heart is to pound back Guinness after Guiness until you're about as articulate as Obama without his teleprompter. In fact I can concoct no rational scenario in which I should worry about the means by which my date will get home safely. 

Please note, if a man is drinking in an attempt to get to girl drunk and trying to take advantage of her, he better make damned sure that he'll be able to drink her under the table without breaking a sweat. A drunk man is physically useless and frankly, nothing sobers me up faster or turns me off more than I man who is more intoxicated than I. Call me crazy but I like my men IN control as opposed to slurring and staggering. 

In addition, spare me the “I’m too drunk to drive, can I stay at your place until I sober up”, sob story. I'm not unsympathetic, I promise. In fact, I have two very helpful suggestions for you. Option #1: “grab a cab." Connecticut Avenue is one block that-a-way. Make like an urbanite, stick out your arm and hope for the best. Option #2: I’ll be happy to point you in the direction of the Starbucks around the corner where you can caffeinate your way back to sober.

I need to concentrate on ME.

Let’s face it, doll, I don’t think we’re compatible. I'm sure am partly to blame. After all, It takes two to tango. I have been described as too sassy, too outspoken, too sarcastic, too cynical – many qualities which might turn off a romantic suitor. 

However, I just feel that at this point in my life, I’d rather take the $29.95 I’m throwing at you every month to be fixed up with the aforementioned, sulky, vertically challenged, future AA leaders of the greater DC metropolitan area and shove it at a new pair of suede, Kelsi Dagger over-the-knee boots.

Perhaps I’ll turn to your bastard fraternity brother, Match.com for other options? Perhaps we’ll meet again someday? Perhaps fate will intervene and drop Russell Crowe on the pub stool opposite me? Who knows?

I think we’re better off being friends.

Frankly,

Why Men Love Bitches (Part Deux)

Circa 2006, I started this story and it’s a story that deserves to be finished.
After a day of being an irresistible bitchvia text and rendering all of his attempts at flirting unsuccessful on his part, the Professor proceeded to keep in contact that evening. I was out with friends and was having a good enough time though nothing was distracting me quite enough to keep me from occasionally glancing at my phone. Not wishing to seem impolite I had, of course, invited him to the ever dimly lit, smoke filled and badly serviced Biddy Mulligans of yesteryear for an opportunity to socialize with my friends, buy me a drink and perhaps attempt to seduce me in a real world setting. 

However, harboring hopes for nothing beyond purely physical, up against a wall, talking optional sexual encounters for the evening, as all commitment phobic assholes worthy of bitch-like treatment do, he rebuffed the idea of all such communal interaction invitation and instead gallantly offered to come pick me up and take me back to his place for a night cap.
 
I was growing rather bored with the exchange already, but when it became clear that he wasn’t even going to make the effort to come out and persuade me in person to come home with him, I went from bored to mildly offended. This man clearly had no interest in conversation or any interaction involving a greater amount mental or emotional exhaustion than one might have with a chocolate éclair. 

Knowing that I was uncategorically worthy of seduction more mentally strenuous and than text message regardless of how attractive or tenured the man might be, I grew ever more resolutely obstinate, irritated and hostile with every click of the send button until I just decided to ignore him completely. 

Guess who ate it up with a spoon and couldn’t get enough?

That guy.

Why followed next is perhaps the greatest “why men love bitches” exchange of all time.
Professor: Good morning sunshine
Scarlett: (2 hours later) Good morning.
Professor: So, you were being quite to cocktease last night
Scarlett: Well seeing as how I had absolutely NO interest whatsoever in you OR your cock, I don’t see how that’s possible.

Thus was the unceremonious and immediate ending of our voluntary interaction. Apparently men, even the gluttons for punishment, don’t love bitches THAT much.



Frankly,





*Side note: The image recorded is that of my favorite author, Elizabeth Wurtzel, on the cover of my favorite book, entitled none other than BITCH: In Praise of Difficult Women. I Highly recommend you check it out not only will the social commentary make you laugh, but as always, Ms. Wurtzel's prose feed the soul.

Sagacity in Seattle

Ever have a conversation with someone so…epically unexpected and surprising that it makes your head spin? 

When someone without knowing you all that well has so much insight into your head without invitation or suggestion that it derails your train of thought? 

An interaction that makes you reevaluate the way in which you connect with the world. Reassessing whether or not you spend you time wading in the shallow end of the conversation pool rather than treading in the more uncertain, fluid territory. I’m not speaking of the TOPIC of conversation per say, but the texture of the interaction.

We met casually on the Friday before last. He was there from Seattle to play in a band. I was there presumably to hear the music while keeping my own emotional tone from derailing into a dissonant, chaotic key. His band mate, our mutual friend, mentioned to him offhandedly about the situation underlying that evening merely in passing. 

He friended me the next week, sent me a nice note and added.

PS I know you may disagree and I totally respect that, but I think you're prettier without make-up. I'm sure you get this all the time, but you have two of the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen on anyone. ;)

Very sweet.We talked at length this past Friday. He inquired after the Friday night situation, I filled him in on some very vague details and the fact that he never showed. His response:

“Wow! You looked like you were having a great time! I had no idea that you were running on a double track that night.”

“Double track?”

“I mean you must have had so much anxiety - waiting for him to walk through that door all evening and so frustrated when he didn’t show after putting yourself through all of that emotional expectation”

Crickets.

“Scarlett?”

“Yes? I mean - Yes.”

I was just a bit stunned. Yes. Yes, Seattle. That is Exactly what was going through my head.

“That must have been incredibly draining”

Yes - yes it was - but who has the emotional radar to pinpoint that?

“Uh huh”

Keep in mind this man has NO background knowledge of who this ‘ex” is - could have been 5 years ago? 5 days? But….damn.

What gets me, or rather disturbs me the most is that it was a passing conversation. It wasn’t some dark, soul searching dialogue over hours of chatter and the hazy enlightenment which comes only after several bottles of Zin. It was instead, a passing tone of conversation that may, standing alone, be left unworthy of mention or afterthought. The ease with which he saw through the layers of emotion and bullshit sans gravitas or occasion - only passing brilliance. 

I suppose at the end of the day its really a difference between judging or responding to someone else’s story and really attempting to understand their experience. A difference, in short, between black, white and the spectrum of hues of which we may only note a fraction. 

Its amazing, isn’t it, the way in which a person makes us see ourselves, not by pointing out flaws, or even by painting the must beautiful portrait, believable or not; but by their own pure motivations and actions.

Its amazing how one person can make your see yourself, and particularly your flaws as starkly as if they were holding a mirror to your soul. Not through verbal admonishments but purely through their own selfless actions that, without intention, can highlight the distance by which one, and I in particular, routinely fall incredibly short. Knowing that I should listen more, judge less and once in awhile put myself into another girl’s Manolos just to see how really uncomfortable that last block might have been to walk.

Seattle consistently thinks in ways which seem so foreign and yet so dead on balls accurate that his statements routinely take my breath away. He relates to the world a completely purpose filled way that it leaves an immediate and meaningful resonance in, if not the soul, then surely the heart.

Frankly,

Just Walked Away

I was prepared for the encounter on Friday.

I met w/ my therapist to discuss strategies to avoid an inadvertent slip and fall down the crazy staircase. I had my makeup professionally applied at MAC for some intense smokey eye/glowy skin action. I gathered a posse and I DO mean a posse of fabulously beautiful women that I knew I can count on for ANYTHING, to accompany me and serve as emotional linebackers. Donned a casual yet uber sexy dress, borrowed from Goldie giving me curves worthy of a Christina Hendricks Esquire photo shoot. 

I compiled a survival kit of prescription strength uppers, a bottle of Prosecco, and pout enhancing lip gloss in my purple patent leather clutch, and away I went: ready to face the monster in my closet and prove its non existence. Assuage fears and see the ex for the first time since he left me with a tear stained face, shivering in the middle of a Philadelphia train station platform over two years ago. 

And he didn’t show. The fucker didn’t even have the decency to show up long enough for me to torture him with aloofness coated in sexy and casual indifference dripping fabulousness.

Perhaps he simply was too much of a coward to face me. Perhaps he simply found a more enticing offer for the evening. 

Ironically though, while I was worried about this man walking back into my reality and giving myself a near ulcer over what this unsuccessful, unmotivated Peter Pan might think of my outfit, my waste line, my boobs, my hair, my smile, my eyes, my words - I saw three amazing bands, including my favorite, Atomic Shotgun - experienced the Red & the Black, a bar to which I had never been, and managed to make some new friends who found yours truly to be rather charming. 

Life truly happens when you’re making other plans. I’ll try to remember that when I’m spending time and emotional currency worrying about something and someone that truly means nothing and adds no value whatsoever to my world.

With that, I finally walked away.

Frankly,

Scream, Shout, Let it Out

I was having drinks, sitting in someone’s quiet living room, in a circle of laid back, care free conversation with friends. The room was light and airy close to the ocean, but I wasn't quite sure. A safer place could not be imagined nor could a more comfortable way to spend, what seemed like a lovely afternoon.

Eventually the tone shifted and a nagging, pressing feeling emerged and refused to be shook off. The mood of everyone present was unnervingly altered from casual and light to secretive and knowing. Worried glances exchanged from face to face communicating something I wasn’t meant to see or information no one wanted to share.

Gradual, vague recognition crept up and a realization set in. He was here. A seeming impossibility but it made sense - he knew these people. His family was here. After all this time, silence and separation the possibility propelled my stomach into my throat and then plunged it back into place leaving a painful lump of anticipation temporarily disabling speech. The comprehension that he could, at any minute, enter the room and become a part of my line of vision set my eyes darting about, searching for some kind of warning sign or herald that would somehow assuage an unanticipated appearance.

Panic then set in. Utter terror at the thought that in this safest of places, he could suddenly be thrust into my reality unannounced and uninvited. Disjointed thoughts about everything I had left unsaid and the rage I had yet to unleash face-to-face whirled around the growing confusion of my mind.

Alarms worthy of of a DCFD station clamored in my ears as the room spun before my eyes. The previously airy space seemed to be loosing oxygen with every passing second. I couldn't understand why someone, anyone wouldn't smash one of these wall sized windows before we all lost consciousness. I had to sit down.
I fixated on the beach below, staring intently on the point at which the surf rhythmically and calmly met the shore. Taking all the effort I had to stay grounded and present before the panic overtook me completely. It was too late. I could sense him walking into the room behind me. Even though I could barely see through the distortion of the moving room, there was no mistaking him even beyond the chaos pounding behind my eyes and blurring my vision.

It wasn’t rational. I didn’t think. Fight or flight they call it? I had been fleeing this moment and these feelings and this fear for so long that the fight, the savage, overwhelming fight was the only response my swirling brain could conjure. Even so, my body seemed at once too small to contain it. The tidal wave of grief, passion and rage crashed upon me a thousand times more fiercely than I could have imagined washing away all cohesion or sense. Nothing but an echo of screams, incomprehensible noise, filled the space.

Unaware of words, unaware of thoughts, unaware of anything but the explosion of exhausting emotion and a newly discovered capacity for rage erupting from within. Hurling every remnant of sanity, feeling and self control at him one decibel at a time. Yet, he stood there placid. He seemed infuriatingly unphased at to the emotional explosion of atomic proportions to which he was seemingly immune and I longed to return to the flight strategy of before.

As I sobbed myself awake and realized that I had been screaming to the darkness of my apartment only and that this encounter had not, in fact, been real. The rage, exhaustion, and grief, however, truly did exist in an organic, almost tangible way.

It wasn't the first such dream I had had that had managed to break through the numbing effects of the tranquilizers, the Ambien and the Merlot all meant to keep my subconscious at bay. It was, however, the last such nightmare.

Nine months ago, I realized that you can only dam up a river so long before that dam collapses and the river swallows you whole. Since then I’ve let the water out, released the pressure, taken more than several deep breaths, put on my big girl panties, dug deeper, realized more and faced my fears. All but one.

Frankly, it is for that reason I feel I’m strong enough after two and a half years for Friday night. Because Friday night, I know I will not be dreaming when I see HIM standing in the room.

Objects in the Rear View Mirror

I thought I loved him. I was excited. To meet his parents, to go shopping with his mom, to be immersed in the family activities. More acutely enjoyed, I expect, since my own family was so far away. It was nice, it felt real.

But there were problems, just like any relationship. There was the criticism for one. The constant comments about my diet, the nagging to eat better, the reminders to not order that second glass of wine, the disapproving looks if I were to partake in any form of carbohydrate. After all, HE was the professional athlete. He knew best.

Then came the fights. The temper. They were my fault, of course. Everything was always my fault. It was exhausting, living on the edge, not knowing what would set him off, doing my best not to make him mad. But these problems were, in my mind, no different from any other relationship. He told me he loved me, so he must. And when it ended after nine months, I was sad. And I was hurt when he told me the reason: because I wasn’t “motivated”. Because I wasn’t 12% body fat. Because I wasn't working hard enough to get there. Because I spent too much time with my friends.

I cried. I cried for not being enough. I cried for not trying harder. I cried for loneliness, for yet another failed relationship. For being 25 and still single! But alas, after the tears had stopped falling I did what so many women who have found themselves tossed and tumbled on the side of the relationship highway have done and will continue to do. I dusted myself off, touched up my makeup and moved on with life.

He wasn’t one of those ex’s with whom we stay in contact. A casual text, a brief phone call, a drunken hook up. No – this relationship was deader than a morgue resident with a toe tag accessory. Never to be heard from again. Fast forward 5 years to last month when eHarmony and their 27 degrees of crazy…er, compatibility – posted none other than Footballer up on my “New Matches” list! What’s more, he “requested communication”. I was confuse. Slightly amused. Contemplating only two possible scenarios for this sudden outreach from a man I now considered to be of little more significance than a well learned lesson in controlling relationship behavior.

Douchebag Scenario #1: He had no idea who I was. Didn’t remember us dating. Just saw the red hair (a weakness) and put no more thought into the communications request. This would just make him an idiot.

Douchebag Scenario #2: He knew exactly who I was. In which case he was playing a game. Instead of just sending me an email to say, “Hi, Scarlett, it’s been a long time, how are you? Etc. etc.” he’s playing a warped, immature game of “getting to know you”.

It turned out we had encountered Douchebag Scenario #2. I don’t know why I decided to meet him for lunch. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? He looked the same. Still cute. Still built. But he was flattering. He was amorous. Complimentary even. It was absolution, pure and simple.

If any bit of my psyche still remained scarred, if any shred of my self-esteem was still bruised, if there was any hint of uncertainty left over from the misfortune of dating a man who dumped me because of my weight…it was now vindicated and then some. Because, unlike the woman who dusted herself off, moved on and continued to excel at life, this man had definitely stalled along life’s highway and was forever staring into the rear view mirror.

Forced into the ranks of the NFL-injured, he had early retirement thrust upon him and had little to no desire to move forward. And after the waitress screwed up his lunch order, I realized, he was still the poster boy for anger management, entitlement issues. Still annoyingly particular about everything. Still the ever suffering hypochondriac. Still the “my way or the highway”, “take me or leave me”, “its obviously your problem and not mine”, “my mother thinks I’m perfect so everyone else should fall in line”, “by the way, let me tell you how to live YOUR life” touting prima donna has been that he was circa 2005!

The only thing different at that lunch table was me. Not a change in weight that tipped the scales, but a massive shift in both self confidence, self worth and self awareness that I found so dramatic.

Frankly, it was so incredibly satisfying.