I haven't seen her in a long time, but I remember still, "my therapist says" that sometimes you have to accept that some people in your life that are very important to you are never going to have the relationship with you that you expect, or need. That you either accept that they are flawed, just like you, and love them anyway, or you cut them loose. Either option seems to take a colossal amount of strength. When you're sitting across the table from this person that you love, will always love with your whole being, and are faced with this excruciating dillema, it's all too easy to try your very best to hold on; to eat all the garbage they dish out despite the health warnings; to declare that unconditional love means loving through the hurt and unfairness. Because, afterall, you aren't without your flaws, too, right? And aren't they showinging you the same measure of unconditional love?
What are they showing you when they use slurs to your face, and make you feel inadequate as a person capable of caring for another living being, and less than, and doomed? Is that what unconditional love is? "You are all of these really horrible things, and I want you to feel every second of loathing, but I love you, too." Is that the gist of it? Is there some primer to the varying levels of unconditional love that I perhaps missed the day they handed them out? Yes; no?
Because, as a mother, I have a very different idea of what that all is supposed to mean. Things like: you may choose a path that is completely unexpected, but I am absolutely going to be there to cheer you on, to pull you up when you fall, to be the ear you need to listen, to be the arms you need to hug, to tell you how amazing you are, to learn from you the things you want to teach me, to share with you the things I think are important, and to understand that you are not an extension of me. You are your own person. That to help you grow to be confident in yourself, I am confident in myself enough to know that when you don't agree with me, it isn't a rejection of ME, but a step toward your own independence and happiness and truth. That I won't fixate on our differences, and instead celebrate them as much as our similarities, for you are my love letter to life, and I hope to be a part of yours. Rather than some abstract eternity, the stories you tell of me to your children, to your grandchildren, to your great-grandchildren, are how I plan to live on, and so those stories must be exceptional and full of love, and heartfelt, for how else will they know of the great love that they have descended from and are a part of? There is no one else's opinion that matters to me more than yours, no matter who you love, or what career has chosen you, or what clothes you wear, or what shade your skin is, or what your tattoos look like, or what music you listen to, or what your favorite movie is. You are forever my love letter to the universe. Unconditionally.
So I don't understand love labled as "unconditional" if that isn't it.
Because, as I mentioned an entry or two ago, I still very much feel like a kid. My not so average Joe had to go before I was ready to loosen my grip, and I still need as much unconditional love from the rest of my family as I can get, regardless of who, where, what, when, and why my life takes me; I, too, am deserving of truly unconditional love. It has taken my whole life up to this point, a therapist or two, amazing friends and my best friend slash heroic husband, and exactly two glasses of wine, to realize that I deserve it, too. I have an entire lifetime of memories to remind me of what I don't deserve, or want, or need in my life. I don't want to be "a good girl," and I don't need to go pick a switch off the orange tree, or ask you if you're done yet after I feel the welts rise on my legs from a metal coat hanger, or wonder why there is no one on God's entire green earth that I can talk to when I am hurt. I need someone to tell me that I don't have to try to keep the peace, to hold all of the grown up relationships together at the expense of my own safety and sanity. That I don't have to get in the car with my drunk biological father and scream at the oncoming lights as he swerves into the other lane of traffic, or be the one to make all the phone calls to try to get him to interact with me, or anyone else in my family that leaves it up to me, to hear them say they just don't have time for me, or to have to hear about how much you still find them handsome, or fun, or that I should give them a call, yet again. I don't need to hear that I have to try to shove myself into the door of one more church after years of hearing that no matter what I do, and even though Jesus made me too, I'm going to burn in hell because I love one too many genders.
I am enough. I am my own person, and I matter, and I have written my love letters across the ethos of the world, and they will carry me through an eternity of unconditional love. And. It feels. Pretty. Damned. Good. I hope you wake up in time to scawl your post script.
Love, Me.
Love me.
Love=Me.
(Yeah, it's all the same.)
Saturday, October 25, 2014
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Love is blind, and other illusions.
Sometimes I find myself in this place that feels like a total rejection of who I know myself to be; it's opposite day on Planet Em, and I am the sole occupant and player. The words run out, and I don't see the pictures my camera is supposed to make, and all I can do is try to distract myself with music and ...hang on. Put on a helmet, even. Perhaps a seat belt. As a creature of routine and optimism, it is hard for me to let go and settle in for the ride. It seems that fighting it makes the whole journey all the more difficult, though; I am ill-prepared for the self reflection and intimate examinations of my life that are sure to precede the self loathing, anger, cynicism, and hopelessness.
It starts like this: one day, I quietly realize I'm happy; dare I even say, content, with my life. Sure, there is room for improvement, but overall, the complaints are few and far between. I bask in the warm fuzzy glow of this comfortable life I have made, much like a cat lazing in the shaft of sunlight stretching across the floor on a summer afternoon. That is also the exact moment that I have come to dread, because without fail, I wake up and find myself in this place. It's like my subconscious pipes up with, "oh, feeling good, eh? Perhaps you can finally deal with this pile of bullshit you've been sweeping over into this corner? No? Just thought I'd ask; you don't have to get all hysterical."
Into the hysteria of it all, I descend, however; an unwilling participant to the whim of my id. The man behind the curtain is me, and he has been dazzling me with illusions long enough that I have momentarily forgotten that some of the reasons I sought out those illusions to begin with were pretty unbearable to live with out in the open every day. Facing them for even a few moments is still painful beyond comprehension. They seem insurmountable. So I make busy work until I'm too busy to remember what all the fuss was about, and pretty soon I have pulled the rabbit of happiness up out of the hat once more, and on with the show. Pomp and circumstance; smoke and mirrors.
When "it is what it is" describes the hobble-hop from one distraction to another, ever searching for the IT that my life is supposed to BE, and I still come up with an armload of nothing, it's hard to not imagine that somewhere along the way, things have gone horribly wrong at some point. That the common denominator is ME, and obviously I am the thing that has gone horribly wrong. After all, I am the architect of my own happiness and build my own future through the decisions I have made... right? So there is simply no one else to blame. Clearly I have forgotten to go along to get along until I march my tired ass to the slaughter house of old age.
Today I have been reading science-based studies on love, and what happens to our brains when we step in it, and if love is blind, why, and then what happens. How our brains do this thing where we can no longer make objective decisions regarding the subject of our affections because the reward for living in La La Land is supposed to outweigh the risk, and how the longer you get to know someone, the more you fall out of love, most of the time. Boredom, complacency, repetition, disillusionment; all of these things come crawling out of the woodwork to gnaw away at this thing that you thought was pretty darn great when you first stumbled upon it. How, without our genetically inclined need to procreate, or the endorphin rush of the shiny penny newness of lust, we probably wouldn't make it as a species. That seems to be all that holds us together; the search for immortality, and pleasure. I think much of this can also be applied to the way we view ourselves, too. We reach a point where we can no longer be objective about our own feelings, because there is too much at risk, like trading one happiness for another. You can have your cake, or you can eat it. We make trades on our comfort, while trying to walk the tightrope of commitment, or contentment. There is no fucking net.
And sometimes it all just. Seems. So. Dumb.
It starts like this: one day, I quietly realize I'm happy; dare I even say, content, with my life. Sure, there is room for improvement, but overall, the complaints are few and far between. I bask in the warm fuzzy glow of this comfortable life I have made, much like a cat lazing in the shaft of sunlight stretching across the floor on a summer afternoon. That is also the exact moment that I have come to dread, because without fail, I wake up and find myself in this place. It's like my subconscious pipes up with, "oh, feeling good, eh? Perhaps you can finally deal with this pile of bullshit you've been sweeping over into this corner? No? Just thought I'd ask; you don't have to get all hysterical."
Into the hysteria of it all, I descend, however; an unwilling participant to the whim of my id. The man behind the curtain is me, and he has been dazzling me with illusions long enough that I have momentarily forgotten that some of the reasons I sought out those illusions to begin with were pretty unbearable to live with out in the open every day. Facing them for even a few moments is still painful beyond comprehension. They seem insurmountable. So I make busy work until I'm too busy to remember what all the fuss was about, and pretty soon I have pulled the rabbit of happiness up out of the hat once more, and on with the show. Pomp and circumstance; smoke and mirrors.
When "it is what it is" describes the hobble-hop from one distraction to another, ever searching for the IT that my life is supposed to BE, and I still come up with an armload of nothing, it's hard to not imagine that somewhere along the way, things have gone horribly wrong at some point. That the common denominator is ME, and obviously I am the thing that has gone horribly wrong. After all, I am the architect of my own happiness and build my own future through the decisions I have made... right? So there is simply no one else to blame. Clearly I have forgotten to go along to get along until I march my tired ass to the slaughter house of old age.
Today I have been reading science-based studies on love, and what happens to our brains when we step in it, and if love is blind, why, and then what happens. How our brains do this thing where we can no longer make objective decisions regarding the subject of our affections because the reward for living in La La Land is supposed to outweigh the risk, and how the longer you get to know someone, the more you fall out of love, most of the time. Boredom, complacency, repetition, disillusionment; all of these things come crawling out of the woodwork to gnaw away at this thing that you thought was pretty darn great when you first stumbled upon it. How, without our genetically inclined need to procreate, or the endorphin rush of the shiny penny newness of lust, we probably wouldn't make it as a species. That seems to be all that holds us together; the search for immortality, and pleasure. I think much of this can also be applied to the way we view ourselves, too. We reach a point where we can no longer be objective about our own feelings, because there is too much at risk, like trading one happiness for another. You can have your cake, or you can eat it. We make trades on our comfort, while trying to walk the tightrope of commitment, or contentment. There is no fucking net.
And sometimes it all just. Seems. So. Dumb.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Venus and Mars, and a sky full of stars
You know, I'm just about 100% sick of hearing about the whole feminism thing. I just want the opportunity to get on with the business of being a human female while enjoying the ability to make every single last decision of my own accord without some guy standing there judging or giving his unsolicited opinion. Or even some other woman, for that matter. What works for my life may not work for anyone else's, and I'm okay with that... so why do they insist we try to jam ourselves into whatever mold they fancy at the time?
I'm sick of the term "mansplain," and I'm sick of the men trying to explain who, when, why, how, and what a woman should do with her vagina, her wardrobe, her hair and makeup, her attitude, her life. I'm sick of the ridiculous disrespect that has made women literally fear walking down the street alone at night, or in broad daylight, because of what some man may do, which of course, she will be blamed for due to the length of her skirt or the tightness of her shirt, or no reason at all. I'm sick of the school dress code restrictions that grow ever increasingly tighter as the staff lose their grip on their responsibilities to actually educate their students, placing the blame on a girl in skinny jeans when a boy refuses to keep his eyes or hands to himself. I'm sick of the phrase "boys will be boys," and the wink and nod and dismissal that follows. I'm sick of the way women are viewed as the weaker sex, yet blamed for men "giving in to temptation," or however they wish to phrase the stupidity they have just indulged in.
I'm sick of being from Venus, while men reside on Mars. Because all of this means that women and men will never have whatever conversation that needs to occur in order for this to all stop happening. We will never understand each other, and we will never stop the blame game. We will never stop being victims, or victimised, or feel comfortable in our own skin, or proud of who we are, or proud of our partners. How can we, when we are making each other feel judged at every turn and assumed to be a person who utterly lacks control of their own actions, thoughts, behavior, and feelings?
Women can be just as brutally stupid as men in all of the above aspects, too, so don't think I am giving my own gender a get out of jail free card. I am also very grateful that almost all of the people I know and love don't fall under any of this crap. I am just sick of all of us having to deal with the fallout every single day.
Don't we all have anything better, more important, to do?
I know I sure do.
I'm sick of the term "mansplain," and I'm sick of the men trying to explain who, when, why, how, and what a woman should do with her vagina, her wardrobe, her hair and makeup, her attitude, her life. I'm sick of the ridiculous disrespect that has made women literally fear walking down the street alone at night, or in broad daylight, because of what some man may do, which of course, she will be blamed for due to the length of her skirt or the tightness of her shirt, or no reason at all. I'm sick of the school dress code restrictions that grow ever increasingly tighter as the staff lose their grip on their responsibilities to actually educate their students, placing the blame on a girl in skinny jeans when a boy refuses to keep his eyes or hands to himself. I'm sick of the phrase "boys will be boys," and the wink and nod and dismissal that follows. I'm sick of the way women are viewed as the weaker sex, yet blamed for men "giving in to temptation," or however they wish to phrase the stupidity they have just indulged in.
I'm sick of being from Venus, while men reside on Mars. Because all of this means that women and men will never have whatever conversation that needs to occur in order for this to all stop happening. We will never understand each other, and we will never stop the blame game. We will never stop being victims, or victimised, or feel comfortable in our own skin, or proud of who we are, or proud of our partners. How can we, when we are making each other feel judged at every turn and assumed to be a person who utterly lacks control of their own actions, thoughts, behavior, and feelings?
Women can be just as brutally stupid as men in all of the above aspects, too, so don't think I am giving my own gender a get out of jail free card. I am also very grateful that almost all of the people I know and love don't fall under any of this crap. I am just sick of all of us having to deal with the fallout every single day.
Don't we all have anything better, more important, to do?
I know I sure do.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
Crazy little thing called Age.
I like to think that age is just some number; an indication of the number of years one has traversed the human condition, and precious little else of significance is weighted within. It would explain why I seldom feel like a bone fide "grown up" despite that I'm nearing the {holy shit} 39th year since my birth, or that I have a child that just last week reached the {holy shit x 2} 20th year since his own. I have a friend that is in her 60s, and was just today flirted with by someone not much older than my 20 year old. And it's exactly at that point where my brain puts on the screeching halt of the brakes and calls me a hypocrite.
It's not because I have any interest in being flirted with by anyone other than my spouse, (I don't), but because my first thought is immediately "he's just a baby." It's some weird part flattery and a whole lot of feeling like a pedophile. And I didn't even do anything wrong! Was so oblivious to the whole affair that it wasn't until I got home with my goods and receipt that I realized that there was a phone number scrawled across a scrap of paper. It made me laugh. Out loud. And it also makes me genuinely feel like a great big jerk that I can't take a compliment without dissecting it and trying to find the ulterior motive waiting to jump out and bite me.
Dismissing age as just a number, though, erases the actual experience of all of that living that has happened in that span of time. Things both big and small that conclude into the amalgamation of the person that we are becoming. Certainly, I would be offended if someone dismissed me as "just a baby" because I am arbitrarily younger than they are. That they would be moved to laughter because I found them attractive? Wow. That sucks. I have lived a lot in my not-quite-(gulp)-forty years; I have a lot to offer, damn it! That said, I often wonder if I will always feel like a kid. Am I the only grown up that feels like a kid tossed unceremoniously out into the world, just trying to keep my head above the rising tide of numbers gathering below me? And do I even *want* to feel every second of those numbers? [No. No, I don't.]
Here's the thing, though: when it comes to matters of more-than-friends, I think that's where the water starts getting murky for me, and I guess lots of other folks. My mom once freaked out, just a couple of years ago, in fact, that I find some guys her own age attractive. "He's an old man!" I volleyed back, " Who cares. LOOK AT HIM." (Rob Lowe, you still have it; I have thought so since I was a pre-teen.) But speaking of pre-teens, do I want my own daughter to ever entertain thoughts about guys her mother's age at any point in her life? Oh Hell No! I'm totally fine with riding the hypocrisy train where that's concerned.
Oh well, it is all what it is. The human condition is equal parts hilarious and horrifying. I guess most of the time I'm just glad to be along for the ride.
It's not because I have any interest in being flirted with by anyone other than my spouse, (I don't), but because my first thought is immediately "he's just a baby." It's some weird part flattery and a whole lot of feeling like a pedophile. And I didn't even do anything wrong! Was so oblivious to the whole affair that it wasn't until I got home with my goods and receipt that I realized that there was a phone number scrawled across a scrap of paper. It made me laugh. Out loud. And it also makes me genuinely feel like a great big jerk that I can't take a compliment without dissecting it and trying to find the ulterior motive waiting to jump out and bite me.
Dismissing age as just a number, though, erases the actual experience of all of that living that has happened in that span of time. Things both big and small that conclude into the amalgamation of the person that we are becoming. Certainly, I would be offended if someone dismissed me as "just a baby" because I am arbitrarily younger than they are. That they would be moved to laughter because I found them attractive? Wow. That sucks. I have lived a lot in my not-quite-(gulp)-forty years; I have a lot to offer, damn it! That said, I often wonder if I will always feel like a kid. Am I the only grown up that feels like a kid tossed unceremoniously out into the world, just trying to keep my head above the rising tide of numbers gathering below me? And do I even *want* to feel every second of those numbers? [No. No, I don't.]
Here's the thing, though: when it comes to matters of more-than-friends, I think that's where the water starts getting murky for me, and I guess lots of other folks. My mom once freaked out, just a couple of years ago, in fact, that I find some guys her own age attractive. "He's an old man!" I volleyed back, " Who cares. LOOK AT HIM." (Rob Lowe, you still have it; I have thought so since I was a pre-teen.) But speaking of pre-teens, do I want my own daughter to ever entertain thoughts about guys her mother's age at any point in her life? Oh Hell No! I'm totally fine with riding the hypocrisy train where that's concerned.
Oh well, it is all what it is. The human condition is equal parts hilarious and horrifying. I guess most of the time I'm just glad to be along for the ride.
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