A first, and four years gone

I am currently sitting in a Starborks, sipping a salty caramel choco extra shot drink, typing on my metallic blue laptop adorned with a homemade Banksy stencil sticker.

I am so cool it hurts.

This is actually the first time I’ve ever done this.  Not only in a Starborks, but in any coffee shop.  I’ve always sort of thought that people that sit in coffee shops sipping fancy overpriced drinks and typing on their fancy overpriced portable computer boxes are kind of ridiculous.  Which is in and of itself a ridiculous stereotype, especially since here I am.  Oh god.  A stranger has just seated himself across from me with his maroon laptop.  He is eating a cookie very messily and keeps clearing his throat.  Aaawkwaaard.

Anyway, this morning I packed up my stuff to head into town to spend Halloween with the bestie.  She was supposed to be coming in from camp last night but was delayed due to weather, so she was going to be in this morning at 10:30.  I was working in the morning, so it was going to be perfect as I would be done just as she was getting settled back at home.  She messaged me at 10 and told me the flight was delayed again.  And then again.  And then she wasn’t sure if she was even going to get out of there.  I was heartbroken.  I’ve been looking forward to this night for weeks, mostly for her, partly for Halloween, and a little for just getting the fuck out of my mom’s place.  It’s the end of the month so tomorrow I get possession of the cottage again, but for tonight I was going to stay in town so everything had been packed into my car last night.  My sister and her bf were headed to the mainland to look for a place, and my mom was clearly looking forward to a night by herself.  I did not want to appear back on her doorstep.  (PS, bestie will be returning home tonight!)

So as I trudged around in the rain (for work), my heart as heavy as my rain soaked jeans, I considered again how unsettling it is being so unsettled.  A little while ago I’d had a conversation with my mom where I’d said that I felt homeless.  She got really offended and assured me that “this is our house,” and while I really do appreciate the sentiment, the fact is it’s her house.  I am merely an extended guest.  And even when I’m on my own in the cottage, it’s still not my place.  It is in the manner that I’m there alone, but it’s still not my place.  I don’t have my books out, I don’t have my art up, I don’t have my own furniture arranged the way I want.  It’s still our place, although now there isn’t really an our or us to speak of.  It’s just kind of sad.

It’s not the first time I’ve been “homeless.”  I mean, I’ve never been homeless like a street kid, thank the gods.  And in that manner I’ve been very fortunate.  So here comes the post about the fire.

Four years ago we were at a Halloween party at a friend’s house.  We were living in the boonies at the time, and had headed into town for the night, leaving the house in the capable hands of the dog and 2 cats.  A little while in I got a phone call from the neighbour; specifically, the sister of my friend that lived next door.  “I have terrible news.”  I thought that something had happened to my friend, as she was supposed to be coming to the party but hadn’t appeared yet.  Then the little sister said

“I have the worst news a neighbour could ever have to give.  You guys have to come back now.  Your house is gone.”

“What?  What do you mean gone?”

“It’s burned down.  It’s gone.  It’s a shell.  You need to get here now.”

We had been drinking, but my brother, his girlfriend, and their friend were there with us and the friend was sober.  We packed into his truck and sped to the house, in shock, drunk, uncertain of what to expect.

We pulled up to the end of the street and realized we would have to park and walk.  Our driveway was blocked off with fire trucks and cop cars.  I had been dressed as a ladybug that year, and it only hit me this year how incredibly ironic it truly was (think of the children’s poem.  “Ladybird ladybird fly away home, your house is on fire your kids are alone.”).  We stumbled down the road.  I remember it was dark, I remember walking towards the flashing lights, I remember pieces of my costume dropping around me as I staggered towards my house.

I don’t know how many of you have experienced anything like that, but that night I discovered that glass windows explode.  There was glass across the street in the ditch.  The house really was a shell.  A burned out shell.  I remembered the pets and panicked, frantically begging the firemen to please find the animals, please, we have pets, please find them.  They gently herded us to the end of the driveway.  At this point my mom and her boyfriend arrived, as my brother had called them to let them know.  And as I stood there looking at where I had spent the last 4 years of my life, it hit me.  It was gone.  I remember sobbing, heart wrenching gut breaking sobs from my toes all the way to my soul.  My brother’s girlfriend pulled me towards her and I cried, I cried and screamed and cried.  It’s all gone.  My bestie called me from the party and I somehow managed to answer the phone.  I didn’t even know who it was, I didn’t even listen to what they said, all I could do was sob.  It’s all gone.  It’s all gone.

That night we went back to my mom’s house.  She fed me glasses of warm sugar water, a comfort throwback from our childhood.  She fed us sleeping pills, and that night was a doped up blur of tears and heartache.  The next day my mom and I went walking through the wreckage to see what we could salvage.  The firefighter that night had mentioned that he thought the fire had started in the bedroom, which was where I had left the lamp on that night for the dog.  Because you know, dogs appreciate that kind of shit.  So of course, I was convinced it had been my fault.  I had left on the lamp, it had fallen onto the bed, and that had started the fire.  After walking through we realized that the fire had probably started in the living room as that was the only place where the floor had burned through.

It stank.  Everything was waterlogged, warped, burned.  My sewing machine sat on my piano bench, both of them skeletons.  My bookshelf, home to 26 years of books I had collected, bloated and wrecked.  All the art on the wall had melted off.  The tv that we had just bought and had made two payments on lay in a plastic pile on the floor.  The couch, nothing but frames and springs.  The whole time, all I could do was scan.  Where’s the dog.  Where are the cats.  What’s left.  We went into the bedroom and I went to the crate next to the bed, but couldn’t.  I couldn’t reach in there to see if she was there.  My mom found a stick and tried poking around in the blankets in there, and said she couldn’t feel anything.  I opened the dresser drawer which was where my tabby loved to hide, terrified of what I would find, but found nothing.

We salvaged my bike, the bbq, a pair of incredibly smoke damaged boots, a smoke damaged travelling backpack, and my cast iron dutch oven.  That was all that was left.

Two days later the ex and I went back to see if we could find the dog.  In my heart I knew she was there, she was somewhere, she had gotten out and we would be walking around the area yelling her name and then she would come up over the horizon and run into our arms.  Because no matter what had happened, if we still had her, we could go on.

He found her in the crate.  She hadn’t been burned, besides where the wires had touched her.  Her tongue was hanging a little out of her mouth, which she did when she slept, so we were pretty sure she had probably died from smoke inhalation first.  The blankets had protected her from burning.  My friend from next door was with us, and she sat with me on the grass and cried as the ex dug a hole to bury the dog.  We all wailed together, and he put her in the ground and my god, I have never felt heartbreak like that.

We never found my tabby.  But a week and a half later the other neighbour called and said she’d seen our little black and white cat running around.  I went back and found him sitting in the driveway, in the rain, eyes huge.  I collected him and took him back to my mom’s, and the ex and I sat with him and cried, our tears soaking his matted fur.  He was a survivor.  He was the only living link left to our past life.

One good thing that did come from the tragedy was the realization of how gigantic our support network is.  Our friends and family were phenomenal, and there was no way we would have been able to pull through without them.  And the fact of the matter is, everything you go through turns you into the person that you are.  It was a horrible experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone, but I would not be where I am, who I am, if I had not been through it.

It’ll be four years tomorrow.  I still think about it sometimes, but it’s not something that consumes me.  It took a year to get over the shock, and even longer to get living again, but here I am.  Living, struggling, but knowing that I will get through it.  I will survive.

desserts for one: kindness of strangers: single tragedy: mrs o

Last night I was googling desserts for one, and the fact that I am single (or soon to be) sort of hit me.  Right in the face.  And then right in the feelings.

It’s almost 3 weeks now.  It will be on Wednesday.  Or Thursday, I suppose, if you want to get technical.  I was dog-sitting for the Other and got to spend the week alone in the cottage.  On one hand it was good timing because my sister and her boyfriend and their dog are all at my mom’s right now.  On the other hand, it was far too easy to stay in bed until 1, eat a handful of almonds, and then retire to the couch for the rest of the day.  I’m not sure if it’s a coping mechanism, or if it’s depression, or if it’s maybe just laziness.  It’s truly hard to say at this time.

On Friday night I drove out to have dinner with the sis, bf, and ma.  It was a far drive, but I didn’t mind.  It’s nice to get out.  I didn’t stay for too long, and on the way back encountered a large line of traffic.  My first thought was road block, and while I hadn’t been drinking, I wasn’t able to find my purse.  I launched into a bit of a tizzy, messaged the sister, searched everywhere.  After a few minutes I discovered it just beneath the front of the passenger seat.  The dog was with  me so I’d rolled the window down because he was fogging the place up.  After it was clear we weren’t moving, I put on the emergency break and promptly took my foot off the clutch.  While still in gear.  The car stalled, naturally.  The thing is, my car is a hunk of shit, so after it stalled it refused to start.  Then it started raining.

So I’m sitting there in this huge line of traffic.  Emergency vehicles are tearing up and down the shoulder of the highway.  No sirens, just lights, so something weird’s happening.  At this point my battery is so fucked that I can’t even start the car enough to roll up my windows. Because of course, they’re electric.  After having a mild panic attack, I got out of the car and knocked on the window of the vehicle ahead of me.  It was a couple, maybe a little older than me, and she was very much pregnant.  I explained my situation and he said “I was wondering what was going on with your lights back there.”

Holding back every iota of stress coursing through my veins, I asked if he would be able to give me a jump.  He turned his car around and got me started, and was very nice about it considering I had no idea what to do and was essentially asking him to stand in the rain to help out a stranger.  After the car started he suggested that I idle the engine at about 15 for ten minutes, to make sure it got a good charge.  So I did.  With the lights off because that’s a good way to conserve energy, right?  Sure.  Know what else it’s good for?  Not lighting up the dashboard doohickeys in the dark.  So I revved away for 10 minutes, praying that this line gets moving before the car dies again.

It had been about 20 minutes now.  Did I mention I had to pee?  For about 10 minutes before I’d even hit the line.  No?  Well.

The line started moving, slowly, and I turned my lights on.  Oh look!  The car’s overheated.  Oh even better, there’s smoke billowing from beneath my hood.

Wonderful.

I blasted the heat and kept an eye on the dial, now praying that the line would get moving before the car explodes.  I started picking up a little speed and it started cooling down.  All the meanwhile, not even wondering what the deal was with this insane line up.  Until I passed the first cop that was directing traffic, and saw the look on her face.  And then two more.  And then the car.  Flipped upside down in the middle of the highway.  Mangled.  No glass, frame bent to shit.  There was something on the street next to it, it looked like a leg but I couldn’t bring myself to turn my head while I was driving past.  I heard the sound of a fire hose turning on and water hitting the street.  Passed two more cops, one looked ready to vomit, one looked ready to cry.

The car had cooled.

I made it home.

But someone that night didn’t.

And it’s funny, because stuff like that puts things in perspective, right?  I mean, suddenly my panic about getting a ticket for not having my licence with me, or about being embarrassed because my car won’t start and I have to sit in 40 minutes worth of traffic flowing past me while everyone curses at me, suddenly not such a huge deal.  I still don’t know exactly what happened.

So yesterday I spent the day hunched over my keyboard and laptop learning this song.  I’ve fallen head over heels for it, and I’ve already memorized the words so as soon as I memorize the piano I should be able to put it together.  I’m very excited about it.

I was in the midst of the first bridge when the Other popped in.  It was the first time I’d seen him in a week.  It was awkward.  The dog was very upset when he left.  So I kept playing.

He came back a night early, so tonight I headed back to my mom’s place.  She has this somewhat obsessive nature which she takes out on the furniture.  And the walls.  And the floors.  It’s a rare occurrence to have the furniture in one place for longer than 2 weeks.  If she can go a month it’s a damn miracle.  Usually it’s about once a week that a major change is made.  So of course when I got “home” she started discussing moving the dining room table.  And then the curtains.  And then the couches.  At that point I got up, packed up my laptop, and went upstairs.  I’m stressed enough as it is.  Having these constant changes, and listening to these constant plans, yeah, not helping.  Being asked what I think about the inane and unnecessary ideas?  Also not helping.  And I don’t think she realizes that it’s really making it that much worse for me, because she lives in her own little world.

But I do too.  I realized tonight that lately all I’ve been doing is complaining.  How fucking boring that must be for everyone I’m forcing to listen to it.  I think for now I can say it’s justified, but pretty soon I’m going to have to just start sucking it up and dealing with it and moving on.  Which will definitely not be a bad thing.

So silver linings to end it on a positive note.  My sister as an adult is pretty cool, and the interactions thus far have been enjoyable.  Her boyfriend is quite charming and funny, and useful around the house (my mom has already claimed him as a second son).  The dog is a bit of a shithead, but is tiny, so by nature is kind of cute.  And today I bought new jeans that were two sizes smaller than the last time I bought new jeans.

I’d like to have more positive things in my life, and I think the first start to that is positive thoughts.  Obvious but easy to forget.

Also, I would like to suggest you listen to the lyrics of this song, because the story they tell is absolutely lovely.

 

*note, this is a cover of carol king covering maurice sendak’s story.  

I can stand the rain

Missy Elliot says she can’t stand the rain against her window.  I don’t mind it so much.

Last night my mom came home.  She’s been staying with her on again/off again ex for the last few days.  Usually I would welcome the chance to be alone but this week I’d rather be with anyone but myself.  She blustered in with bags of food and groceries, and a box of beer and a box of hard lemonade (instant flashback to high school).  Even though she had worked with the Other on Thursday (he will still be the Other until the divorce.  Then he will be the Ex), she wasn’t aware that the final decision had been made.  She steamed about her ex a bit, ranted about the house, and then asked me why the Other had been so quiet and upset at work.  I explained the situation, briefly, because it seems that when I talk about it I start to cry.  She was understandably upset (she loves him like a son, obviously) and proceeded to get drunk.  But she didn’t push anything.  She didn’t tell me I was making a mistake.  She didn’t ask me any questions.  She was just there, and it was what I needed.

Later that night we were talking about my next steps.  I still have my name on a lease until the end of February, but once that’s done I really have no place I need to be, so I was thinking I can start looking for work anywhere in the area that I want.  I mentioned that, and she brought up the fact that we have family in New Zealand.  And Australia.  And Africa.  And Italy.  That’s a little more adventurous than I was thinking, but she also started talking about Kenya.  I’ve never considered myself selfless enough to be one of those people that hike off to a third world country and help rebuild (or just build) lives for those less fortunate, and I think that heading off to Kenya might be a little ambitious but there are things around here I can do.  I want to start volunteering, maybe to teach cooking at a community kitchen, or to tutor people on reading.  I’d like to make a difference somewhere to someone.  I’m young and healthy and while I may be piss poor, I do have a lot to offer.

Everything I’ve been reading on divorce says not to make any major decisions in the first while, which makes sense, because otherwise I would have three more tattoos, a maxed out credit card, and a plane ticket to Spain by now.  But now I wonder, when do I start making major decisions?  I’m still in shock, that much I know.  When our house burned down in 2008, I spent a year in shock.  A full year.  And everyday I would ask myself (and anyone who could stand to be around me) how much longer it would hurt for.  How much longer until I’m just feeling sorry for myself.  How much longer until I’m over it.  And no one would know.

I’m seeing the Other today to take the dog for the night.  He called this morning and sounded pretty reasonable, he’s getting more sleep and is eating now, which is wonderful to hear.  He sounded strong until the end, when he started talking about the divorce party (we had decided a long time ago that if we ever got divorced we would throw a divorce party a la Jack White).  I said I didn’t want to even think about it yet, and he said he wanted to still be my friend forever, and then I started crying and then he started crying and I couldn’t wait to hang up the phone.  Too hard.  Even right now as I’m thinking about it my thumb is rubbing my finger where my ring used to be.  What a strange feeling.

Anyway, last night my mom gave me a delicious little pain pill that was so much more effective than Robaxacrap, and it sent me to a lovely stoned place that finally muted my mind and let me listen to the rain as I fell asleep.  And it was the same sound I awoke to this morning.  Autumn has arrived, and I don’t mind.  It’s cliched and trite, but there’s something cleansing and refreshing about the rain.  Sure it’s grey and it can be depressing, but it washes things away.  It waters things that are dying.  It signals a new start.

Today I’m dopey.  My heart is still broken.  My stomach is still anxious.  My back is still sore.  But  given time, some day I will be supa fly.  Maybe even supa dupa fly.

Some day.

The Other Other Eff Word

I was just lying in bed next to the Other doing some thinking.  It seems that I tend to do my best thinking when I’m in bed trying to fall asleep.  My little mind just won’t stop swirling.  I go through scenarios and do some day dreaming, map out dialogues and rehash over conversations past.  The usual.  Anyway, I was lying there thinking about something or other and I started in on the self-deprecation, and then the phrase “fat girl mentality” came screaming through my head.

“Fat” is not a word I like to use.  I’ve lost about 50 pounds since February, and I have at least 20 or 25 to go.  I’ve always been heavy, except for a two-year period about 11 years ago.  And when I say always, I mean the only time I wasn’t, besides those two years, was as a baby.  When I was just exceptionally cute.

oh so adorable

Anyway, the first time I lost the weight I used the tried and true method of going to the gym two hours a day and subsisting on protein shakes and cigarettes.  It worked well enough and for once in my life I was a little person.  I had just graduated from high school and broken up with my first boyfriend of three years, and had no idea what to do with myself.  I had a new body and a new freedom and was absolutely useless with it.  I remember standing outside of the bar one night while waiting for a friend.  It was winter so I was wearing my trench coat and toque, and there was a circle of people standing around smoking a joint.  I was just 19 and they were probably in their early 30s, and one of the women waved me over.  I walked up to them and they stood apart to let me in.  The woman who waved me in told me I was such a pretty girl, why was I hiding behind so many big clothes.  And then one of the men agreed.  And then the other woman.  And I had no idea what to say, or how to react.

See, when you’re big, people don’t look at you.  I mean they do, to see how big you are, but that’s really all they see.  And they tend to look  past you.  It seems paradoxical but it’s easier to be invisible when you’re fat.  You may take up more space, but people turn away from what makes them uncomfortable.  It’s the same way your eyes glaze over and you stare into the horizon when you pass a homeless person.  Not you in particular, and not every time I’m sure, but you know.  People in general.  And when you’re used to people looking past you, it’s hard to know what to do when they start paying attention to you.

As I’m sure you can guess, once I started doing normal things like not working out two hours a day and you know, eating food more than once a day, the weight came back.  And because I hadn’t learned a thing about proper nutrition or how to eat like a normal person it came back with a vengeance.  First slowly, pants started feeling a little snugger, shirts started fitting a little smaller.  Then suddenly whammo!  Hello 70 pounds.  After a few years of not looking in any mirrors or allowing any pictures being taken of myself, I decided it was time to get back at it.  I joined a gym and hired a trainer for 6 weeks of personal sessions, including nutritional training.  Through a lot of perseverance, discipline, and hard work, I managed to get my body fat down to near athlete numbers.  I was strong.  Still heavy, but strong and healthy.  I ran, I did weights, I did pilates, I danced, I boxed.  I did it all, and I loved it, and I vowed that I would always maintain this because why wouldn’t you want to feel that good about yourself?  And I did maintain it, for a while.  Then it started slipping a little.  Not much, but enough.  And then in 2008 we lost everything in a house fire (the other eff word).  That was enough to send me right back to where I had started.

At the end of last year I decided that I wasn’t interested in spending my 30s the same way I had spent the majority of my life.  I wasn’t interested in being uncomfortable every time I’d get dressed, or being out of breath every time I’d walk up the hill from work to the parking lot, or knowing that every time I go somewhere with my friends I would be the fat quiet one in the corner too self conscious to look anyone in the eye.  So February came and I changed the way I was eating.  Nothing drastic.  More veggies, more protein, breakfast, no sugar, no refined foods.  Clean.  Not easy, but it made sense.  The weight started coming off.  And then I started exercising, and then more came off.  It’s plateaued over the last couple of months, but I haven’t exactly been diligent about the whole diet/exercise thing.  But I have been diligent enough that it hasn’t gone back up, which is something that tends to happen within the first two weeks for me.

So the funny thing about it is 50 pounds is a lot.  It’s like two small kids.  It’s like 50 bricks of butter.  It’s a noticeable amount, and when I look at pictures of myself last Christmas compared to pictures of myself now, there’s a big difference.  I get a lot of comments, and compliments, and it’s lovely to hear.  But when I look in the mirror I don’t see what I’ve done.  I see what I still have to do.  I see the lumps and bumps and rolls and jiggles, the flab and bulges and all the rest of those nasty sounding onomatopoeia-like words.  And when I see pictures of myself now, my eyes automatically go to those exact same elements.  It’s not enough to send me into an obsessive spiral of self-doubt or whatever, but it is enough to surprise me whenever a good-looking person pays attention to me in any way that isn’t tinged with either pity or that douchebag deluxe combo of disgust/contempt.

I went out on the weekend with a girlfriend of mine and was blatantly eye molested by a man outside in the smoking area.  I would have expected it if I had been wearing a dress, or even a cleavage shirt, but I wasn’t.  And that’s what I had been thinking about when I was lying in bed hours ago.  And then I started questioning what it was that he had been looking at.  He didn’t seem that drunk.  I was there with a tiny blonde chick that’s a total babe.  He couldn’t even see my tits.  What was the deal?

Enter the voice screaming at me.  FAT GIRL MENTALITY.  Old habits die hard.

On a side note, I got my bike back from the shop yesterday and went for my first long(ish) ride today.  I took a wrong turn as I thought I would, seeing as I’m geographically challenged, and ended up going longer than expected, but I made it back in one piece.  Burning legs and burning lungs but man oh man, what a way to spend a Sunday morning.

Uh, just a lil bit lucky I live here

Hippies and Drum Circles and Bonfires, oh my

This past weekend I discovered something that kind of bummed me out.  Actually no, it fully bummed me out.  This weekend I discovered that I no longer have fun when I’m out with the Other in a social setting, especially when he’s drinking and I’m not.  In fact, I’m generally uncomfortable around him when with others.  And it bums me out because it wasn’t always like that.

It’s not that he’s out of control.  He’s not.  He used to be, but it’s changed.  There was a long period where we’d go out to a party or to the bar for a show, and I would spend days after apologizing to random people for things he’d said or done.  He can get quite snippy when drunk, and a little obnoxious (or a lot obnoxious), and sometimes very mean.  But it’s in a weird way, because the thing is, he thinks he’s being funny when he does it (a la Tony Clifton).  Even when no one is laughing.  There was also a time where he fancied himself a purveyor of truth, so long as he had a six-pack and half a bottle of Sambuca in him.  He was once instrumental in starting a brawl that involved four different people directly and two more indirectly, that ended with half of the birthday party crying in various areas of the house.  That’s right, at a birthday party.  Of his best friend’s girlfriend.

Anyway, he’s calmed down quite a bit in his older age.  Now he slams his six-pack, says things that are sometimes insightful and sometimes absolutely nonsensical leaving other people either laughing or backing off slowly in confusion, and will then usually pass out quietly in a corner somewhere.  Gone are the days of him puking in parking lots, or yelling at cop cars because he thinks it’s hilarious.  And it’s a good thing too, because I would have packed my bags and said goodbye a long time ago if they weren’t (or at least I like to think I would have).  What it ultimately comes down to is, he has a problem with alcohol.  He’s always had it, as long as we’ve been together.  He goes through a six-pack (or a bottle of booze) the way I go through a jar of Nutella;  elbows up, breathe through your nose, keep going til it’s done.  And I guess that’s why I don’t keep Nutella in my house.  But also, I guess that’s why I get so uncomfortable when we’re out.  Usually if we’re both out then one of us is driving, which often ends up being me because the Other has this trick where he’ll start to drink before we leave, rendering him incapable of driving.  Smart, no?  So we’re out, he’s drinking, I’m sober and irritated that I’m driving again, and on the lookout.  Even though I know I don’t really have to be, my guard is up and I’m watching.  And it stresses me out.

And it stresses me out that I know I don’t need to stress out about it.  Someone once told me I act like I’m repulsed by him when we’re out with friends, and that really upset me.  I don’t do it intentionally, and what a horrible way to act towards someone who you love and you’re supposed to be spending the rest of your life with.  But it’s true.  And it’s not that he repulses me, it’s that he makes me uncomfortable. I’m always worried that he’s going to say something insulting or something stupid or embarrassing, because he likes to do that too.  And even when my friends say “don’t worry about it, just have fun and ignore him” I still fucking worry about it.  Because apparently I looove to worry.

I think what it comes down to is for the better part of our 10 years together, I’ve been begging him to curb his drinking.  There was a point in time when it was absolutely unbearable.  He never got physical (except for one time he threw his shoe at me as I was walking away, but it was because he thought it would be funny.  It wasn’t.), but he has said some pretty disrespectful things before, to me and to others.  And like I said, it has changed as he’s gotten older.  But I still don’t like him when he’s drinking.  My stomach starts to turn when his words start to slur.  Maybe it comes from having to watch my mom when she was going through her alcoholic phase (which involved a lot of incredibly frustrating and pointless drunken phone calls).  It doesn’t stop me from going out and getting my drink on, but it does stop be from getting my drink on with him.  And he’s my partner, so isn’t he the one I should want to be going out with?  My friends all like going out to party with their significant others.  It feels like I’m the only one who doesn’t.

And what’s really heartbreaking is all he wants to do is go out and have fun with me.  He tells me that all the time.  He’s been telling me that since this whole separation thing started coming to a head.  But I just can’t.  We went to a friend’s birthday party on Saturday, they had an awesome potluck and a bonfire by the beach and a drum circle and other hippie things.  And of course, I was driving because he had downed four out of six of his ciders by the time we were ready to leave.  And he sat there socializing, even though we didn’t know most of the people there, and I sat in the corner quietly watching.  Waiting.  Wincing every time he’d say something and the person he was speaking to would raise their eyebrows or ask him to repeat himself.  I barely said anything to any of the people I did know there.  And then 3 hours later, when the hallucinogens came out (I mentioned it was a hippie party, right?) I stood the fuck up and said it was time to get out, because if he put those party goods in his mouth things would get messy.  Because that’s like booze times a hundred million, and he LOVES that shit.  And then the next day he kept telling me how much fun he’d had, and how he was so glad we’d gone.  And I had to lie.  “Yeah, I had fun too.  It was a good time.”  But I didn’t have fun.  I didn’t have fun at all.  I rather would’ve stayed home.  Actually, I rather would’ve gone alone so that I could have done mushrooms and danced around a bonfire to a drum circle.  But it didn’t matter, because I couldn’t.  Because he was there and he’d gotten to drinking first, so I had to take care of it.

And that’s something that really bothers me.  I’m the primary care giver.  That was a big reason for this separation.  I’m 31 and I’m taking care of a man who is 7 years older than me.  There were times it felt like I was taking care of a child.  And I’m not saying that I want to be the one taken care of, but I think that there should be give and take.  One person shouldn’t have to make ALL of the dinners, or do ALL of the groceries, or drive ALL of the time, or make ALL of the plans, so on and so forth.  It’s fucking exhausting.  And how’re you supposed to take care of yourself when you’re spending all of your time constantly taking care of someone else?

But this ends on a somewhat positive note.  Last night I found my pencils, and I have time now (because I have time to myself now, which is fucking amazing) to start drawing again.  A work in progress, much like my life.

 

 

Sometimes Your Bangs Look Like A Mullet

It’s interesting how a little bit of time can really change your perspective on things.  Some of you may remember from a little while back I had made an attempt to separate myself from my media.  it hasn’t exactly worked, but I have noticed that it’s less important.  It’s not such a big deal if I don’t get an immediate response.  The anxiety seems to be subsiding, and while it seems counter-intuitive that I may be less stressed right now, I really think that’s what it is.  Separation isn’t an easy thing to deal with, but in all honesty the whole time leading up to (and the making of) the decision was more stressful.  Now that I don’t have it looming over my head, my mind is more peaceful.

I’ve moved back into the cottage for the month.  This means I’m now out of my mom’s space and into my own.  I spent the long weekend cleaning and organizing, which isn’t something I usually enjoy doing.  But I’ve come to the realization that when my surroundings are chaotic my thoughts are chaotic, and when my thoughts are chaotic I get anxious.  So cleaning and organizing seems like a fairly obvious way to combat this.

I’ve also noticed I seem to be putting less expectations on things, and people.  I’ve always considered myself a go with the flow type of person but now I’m putting it into practice.  I think it’s because I understand that shit happens and things come up.  I mean, I always knew that, but now I understand.  Sometimes the things are out of your control and sometimes they’re not, and even if that’s the case, you have your reasons for making your decisions.  I may not understand them, but chances are you wouldn’t understand the reasons I have for making my decisions either.  I’m also starting to understand that you can’t push people to do anything they’re not ready to do.  Yeah, there are circumstances where you do need to push someone because they’re not ready, but these aren’t common, and for the most part you have to let people make their own decisions and come to their own conclusions because this is what lets them take responsibility, and this is what holds them accountable for their own actions.  And everyone needs that or else they turn into douchebags.

But what really sucks is when someone holds you accountable for something they decided, because for some reason they feel that it’s your fault they didn’t get the results they were expecting.  I strongly feel this ties right in with never having to take responsibility and never being held accountable.  If I do something that upsets you and you make the decision not to say anything about it, you can’t be mad at me about how it made you feel.  You have the choice to either suck it up or speak your mind.  If I make a decision based on the fact that you didn’t say anything, you can’t blame me solely for the miscommunication. 

It’s easy to lay blame elsewhere, and it’s easy to expect other people to fix things for us.  It’s not easy to turn that critical eye inwards and figure out what you did wrong and what you can do to fix it, and what you can do to make yourself feel better about it.  And so when the Other left the cottage in a less than desirable state of cleanliness, I decided to say something about it.  And then I decided that rather than say well stuff him and leave the place an absolute sty, I will lead by example.  I will clean and organize for my own mental wellbeing.  I will maintain the state of my home because this is something I need to work on.  I need to work on standing by what I say, and I need to work on getting out of my head and off of my couch and actually putting effort into things.  And at the end of this month I know that the decision I made last weekend will put me one step closer to becoming who I’m meant to be.

Because everything happens for a reason.

It’s about the small victories

Right?

On Monday afternoon I got an email from a fellow coworker who parks next to me in the lot informing me that I had a flat tire.  I went up on my lunch break to sort it out with the idea in my head that this was my chance to prove my independence. 

I am not a car person.  I have driven two of them literally to death (Literally.  The first died as I pulled into my driveway, the second died as I pulled off of the highway).  I invested a little and bought a newer car for my third, but I probably shouldn’t have, as I am, well, not a car person.  Anyway, with this separation I’ve decided that I need to know a few things about vehicles:

How to change a tire
How to change my oil
How to change my windshield wipers

It’s a little embarrassing looking at that list.  These are all things an adult woman should probably have a vague idea of how to do.  But no time like the present to learn, right?

So there I stood looking at my spare tire, my flat tire, and the handy little tools I found in the back of my trunk.  I took one look at the jack and realized I had no idea how it worked.  For some reason I was certain it was an instrument that was worked with some sort of foot pump.  But no.  No, it’s not.  So I called down to the office and asked the safety guy in my nicest voice possible if he could please come and help me change my tire.  Being the gallant gentleman that he is, Safety Hero said absolutely and then whipped up to the parking lot.  I stood there watching him change it, making notes of where he put the jack, how he used it (my god, it has to be turned by hand??), and thinking man he got really sweaty doing that.  Which I had thought was kind of funny considering how easy it always looked on TV or movies or when being done by the tow truck dude. 

So after a very painfully slow trip home on the spare that day and an equally painfully slow trip to work yesterday morning, I dropped the tire off to be fixed.  In the afternoon I went to pick it up and the mechanic offered to put it back on my car, to which I replied “No thanks!  I can do it myself.”  He cocked his head and squinted his eye a little and said “Are you sure?”

Yes, I am sure.  I can do it myself.

So I drove down to an empty parking lot, unpacked all the tools, and proceeded to stumble through changing the tire myself.  Because dammit, I’m an independent woman, and I can do it.  After 40 minutes and two declined offers for help, I had changed that tire.  My hands were ripped and throbbing, my shoulder was stiff, I was sweaty, my arms were filthy, and my shirt had gone from white to grey but I had changed that fucking tire and I had done it myself.  And I was pumped.

And then I drove home (praying that the tire wouldn’t fall off as I flew down the highway) just in time to receive a shitty phone call from the husband.

Not shitty like an argument.  It was quite reasonable, or at least, reasonably presented.  But what it had essentially come down to was a miscommunication and a decision that he had made about something, which didn’t have the end results he had expected, and so it was my fault.  So he expressed his disappointment in me for that, and I expressed my disappointment in the fact that I was making an extra commute twice a week to see him and he was going to bed at 8pm every time, and we expressed a little more and then that was the end of it.  After I hung up I sat there being pretty irritated.   And the more I sat there, the more irritated I got.  But then it hit me.  These sorts of conversations are inevitable in situations like this, and the fact that it got communicated fairly close to when it happened (rather than getting bottled up for three weeks resulting in an explosive fight) was good.  It was good, and it was different.  And while I do admit there was about 5 minutes I was sitting there thinking divorce divorce divorce, I did get over it.  Mostly.

We’ve been winging this first month apart.  Our marriage counselor has been on vacation through the month of August.  We’ll start seeing her again when she’s back and I think she’ll be pretty pleased with how we’ve been handling it.  But I think we do need her insight.  It really helps having an objective third eye to mediate and guide you through something like this.  I haven’t been able to focus on what I’ve supposed to be focusing on.  I can say it’s because of work stress, which there is.  I can say it’s the stress of not knowing what I’m going to do after next week when my work assignment ends.  I can say it’s from having to focus on my mom in the time I’ve been spending there.  I can say it’s from being in a different state from this drastic change in my life.  But I don’t know if that’s it.  My self-reflection has been lacking, and I think it might be because I just don’t give a damn right now.  So that’s something I should probably be working on.

And as lame as the end of last night turned out to be, there were silver linings.  Communication is key, and it seems to be getting better between the husband and me.  And I changed my first tire by myself. 

It’s all about the small victories, right?

I look at all the lonely people

Yesterday was the first day since the separation began that I actually felt lonely.  It was painful and pitiful all at the same time.  I realized that while I was going to be seeing the hubby tonight (Friday), I had zero plans for Saturday.  And last weekend was exactly the same.  Last weekend I remember thinking, as I tucked myself in for bed at 8pm, this is what you wanted.  You desperately wanted time and space to yourself.  This is something you need to get used to.  Deal with it.  Suck it up princess.  And I did suck it up, and I did deal with it, and it was fine.  But for some reason the idea of having nothing to do again on a second Saturday in a row was just too much for me to handle.  I’d contacted a few of my friends to see what they were doing, and they were busy with other things.  I asked my coworker if she was free but alas, she is dogsitting.  And so the end of the day came and I walked into the bathroom stall and let my eyes water a little.  But just a little.

As I sat in my mom’s yard downing my third bottle of Rock Creek cider, I texted with another friend of mine.  We were both imbibing and I said to her “I didn’t think I would be so goddam lonely from this separation.”  My eyes started welling up again and then she responded “It’s because you’re accustomed to having him around.”  And she’s right.  And strangely enough, I hadn’t considered that before.

9.5 years spent with someone there full time, always around, always together (save for a few nights apart here and there when out with friends) is something that I’m used to.  And suddenly, I’m spending Saturday nights alone with my laptop and the one fly that has camped out in the corner of my window screen.  I don’t know if I thought my “single” nights would be filled with friends and laughter and debauchery and escapades, but I definitely didn’t think it would be like this.

But it is something that I need to get used to.  I want to be comfortable being alone.  As strange as it might sound, I want to be able to revel in loneliness.  I want to get angsty again and write dark poetry about how I would give my kingdom for a hug, a stroke on the cheek, any form of human contact.  But I didn’t think it would be so.  damn.  lonely.

I think a big part of it is also that my bestie’s packed up and gone to Alberta, a week ago now.  Her timing really is quite poor.  I should probably mention it to her, now that I think about it.  So really, it’s like two separations at once.  And I didn’t sign up for that.  I thought about it and I felt betrayed.  I felt abandoned.  I felt drunk. 

And so I put it out to the universe (re:  the FaceBook) and said “Universe, Give Me Some Company”

And the universe responded.  And now I have plans on the mainland for Saturday with a new friend I made last month.  So I’m a little less lonely.

And things feel a little more like I belong.

I’m not one for love songs

but this one’s pretty good

I was trying to pinpoint exactly what it is about love songs that I’m so indifferent to, and I as I pondered if it was the language or the context or maybe even just the music, the voice of the marriage counselor chimed in the back of my head.

Intimacy issues.

Well sweet mother of god.  Can that really be it?  Then I started thinking about my aversion to the dreaded Public Displays of Affection.  Do I have an aversion?  Yes, a slight one.  I don’t get sicked out by seeing happy couples with their arms draped around each other, but I have muttered “get a room” a few million times, and my gag reflex does get tickled when I see too much tongue action.  But it’s not so much a gross out for me, it’s something that actually makes me pretty uncomfortable.  Like when you watch a movie and you know that something bad is coming up, and you get that squirmy feeling in your stomach and you kind of turn away but not really, and your legs curl up a little and you wrinkle your nose and anyway.  Uncomfortable.  And I do get a little like that with displaying Public Displays of Affection too.  I’m perfectly fine with hand holding and being close, and maybe a quick peck here and there but that’s about it.  And even with Private Displays of Affection, I like being close, but not too close.  Personal space is a big deal to me.

And then that got me thinking about how uncomfortable I get when I see Parental Displays of Affection as well.  Not anything inappropriate (which is super gross, obviously), but just regular normal things like (my god) kissing on the mouth.  Things that I know are normal and appropriate still make me squint my eyes and turn my head slightly.  Not from disgust.  From being uncomfortable.  Which, of course, led to my counselor chiming in again.

Father issues.

I’ve always thought that blaming your issues on your parents is a bit of a cop out.  Not in all circumstances, but a lot of the times they’re really not the only ones to blame for the fact that you’re a dickbag with zero self control and you can’t keep your emotions in check.  But then I tried to remember how often I received Parental Displays of Affection.  Not too often.  Not because of neglect or a case of abuse, but just because it wasn’t done very often in my house when I was growing up.  And as dysfunctional as many times in my childhood was, I turned out the way I am which isn’t too bad in my opinion.  Both of my parents have become different people than they were, and it’s pretty inspiring, really.

Not as inspiring as this, but pretty close.

Once Upon A Time

In my past life, I used to be interested.  I used to be a writer, and a media studies student.  I used to want to create, and dream, and rebel.  I wanted to learn the system, take it down, and fuck it up.  I analyzed and theorized and argued passionately.  Apathy was not a word in my vocabulary. 

It seems so long ago now.  The writings of McLuhan and Innis are faded, memories that dance on the tip of my tongue but never seem to shape into anything tangible enough for me to recall.  But one thing I do remember from the classes is always being asked to question my relationship with media, and technology in turn.

Sometimes I worry that I’ve become addicted.  I was constantly checking and re-checking my in-boxes; now I have a phone that notifies me when new messages come in.  I still check and re-check though.  I’m co-dependent with my technology.  It cannot exist without me, and I cannot exist without it.  I’m in communication with a small handful of people that I’ve known between 1.5 years and 1.5 months.  I’m obsessed with each of them.  I want to know everything about them.  I want to know if they’ve read the messages I’ve sent, and why they haven’t written yet.  I’m greedy for instant gratification, and I get frustrated when the response isn’t instantaneous.  There is no room for patience in my life anymore when it comes to this, and that adds to the already impressive anxiety rummaging around the back of my head.  I’ve become far more comfortable expressing myself through words.  No surprise, considering that I am a writer, or at least, have been writing for as long as I can remember.  But the reliance on the technology, on the emails and messages and texts, has absolutely affected my comfort level in face-to-face interactions. 

We’re becoming a society where over-the-computer interactions are far more prevalent.  We can order food online, we have to apply for jobs online, we shop and bank online and deal with customer service agents through chat rooms.  We have self check out counters now.  We can text rather than dial the numbers and speak to someone.  We can even run our symptoms through Google and self-diagnose.  Is it any wonder that anxiety rates are rising?  It makes sense that when I know I have to approach someone and actually speak without being able to type and edit my words, I get nervous.  It makes sense that there are times when I will just sit and stare at the Gmail in-box tab on my browser.

And so, I’m bringing forward a challenge to myself.  For the whole of this week I will not.  I will not obsessively check and re-check my in-box.  I will not turn my phone’s idle screen off unless I hear the notification buzz.  Any non work related emails will not be answered immediately; there will be a period of at least 1 day between.  If I can distance myself, then perhaps I can distance my obsession, and in turn, distance my anxiety.

And maybe, just maybe I will find enough time not wasted from these media compulsions to actually pick up a book and read a few chapters.