"Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything impossibly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic." - Herman Melville
I wondered if you could feel my eyes burning your face as I looked at you. It wasn't so much that I was staring at you, it was a learning moment - a largely scientific attempt to memorize every inch of you - knowing that soon, a sensory overload would force thought out of my mind faster than the speed of sound.
Your sunglasses obscured your eyes, but I knew they were twinkling with that amused gleam that they always carried. Moreover, I knew that when you looked at me, the impish sparkle would transform into something different, the boyishness giving way to a singular sort of intenisty - a pinpoint of pure focus. It was this look that I had come to crave, and longed to learn how to elicit it at my own whim.
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat of your car, trying to see what aspects of you I could recall blindly. Instantly, your distinct dimple popped into my mind and made me giggle out loud. You squeezed my knee then, asking what was so funny. I smiled at you as your tongue slid out of your mouth and out at me slightly, a gesture I had already become quite familiar with. That knowledge made me smile more broadly, and I wondered if you realized you were doing it.
I closed my eyes again to continue the mental recollection, but was distracted by the trail of your hand from my knee, further down my thigh. I felt myself sigh deeply, relishing the pressure of your hand, the warmth followed by coolness left behind at each point as your hand continued to explore.
You said something then that made me laugh and my mind drifted back to our meeting. Initially, it was your wit that charmed me. Only those that are keenly observant and healthily skeptical can manage to be sharply acerbic - but never cruel. I remembered too saying goodnight to you on that first date; standing embarassingly close, hoping against hope for a kiss that never came. It mattered not; your kisses were always given freely now.
Your hands slid further still down my thigh and I leaned in to your arm, wrapping as much of my body around you as I could manage. I wanted you to stop the car, to drag me into the fields that peppered the route, to lay with you in the grass and feel you fill me. Instead, I parted my legs slightly to allow your hand better access and felt myself moisten from your touch. I looked again at your face and saw the dimple, content in the knowledge that you were happy.
As we neared our destination, I felt the intensity of your touch increase, matching my own need for you. Yes, we'd be at our destination in no time.
I can't recall who began to undress the other first, but I suspect it was you - your impatience
typically resulting in my clothes being removed long before my conscious mind realized it was time. Quite naturally, my body reacted to you long before my brain caught up - well-prepared to accept you from your first touch, as your tongue brushed against mine. As you carried me to bed, I relaxed onto your body, each time you lifted me onto you aroused me tremendously - a testament to your fortitude - the strength of your very being.
I vividly recall the sensations of our mouths exploring every inch of each other intimately, of pressing my body closer and closer to yours, overwhelmed by sensation and longing to feel you deep inside of me, to feel even closer still. I moved on top of you eager to bring you into my core, my soul. You took control of the situation then, rolling me off of you, onto my back, and plunging deeply inside my desperate need. I came hard and fast around you, feeling your warmth escape into me, reveling in sensation.
As you sat up on the bed and pulled me into you, I pretended to stare at the city below through the window. In reality, I was watching us in the expansive glass, reflected in the late afternoon sun, trying to decide whether our images looked as right as time with you felt. Moments later, you escorted me to the bathroom and leaning my nude body over the bathroom counter, began your own critique of our reflections.
You must have thought it odd that I chose not to join you in the shower, but instead excused myself to dress for dinner. Later, when we returned to bed, I would whisper the reason to you - going out with the reminder of our passion still on, still in my body aroused me - a special little secret that only the two of us shared.
As you waited for me to finish dressing, the sounds of you making your final preparations amused me. You poured drinks for us both, made phone calls, read email and finished dressing. I smiled and thought, "Always so busy, always doing." It was one of the things that I liked best about you. As I emerged, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of you dressed for dinner; I was proud to be in the company of my very handsome man.
I was nervous about climbing into bed with you that night, our first night to actually sleep together. I worried that my contortions would disturb you, or that you'd snore and disturb me. My apprehensions were for naught - I fell asleep instantly, a rare treat. It was easy with you - your hands stroking my body relaxed me into a dreamless sleep.
The sleep would be short-lived, however. I woke only a few hours later to feel your breath on my neck, your arms securely around me. I turned to face you. I wanted to watch you sleep, to learn more about this secret part of your life. My movement disturbed your sleep, and we stole sleepy kisses as you slid effortlessly into me, gently rocking me to another orgasm and gently rocking me back to sleep, your cock still nestled into me.
Waking in the morning, I felt treasured and secured nestled into your chest, your arm still wrapped gently around me. I rested my head on your stomach waking you with gentle kisses, wanting to arouse you gently, to bring you magic, to make you feel as prized.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Afflicted
"The prevailing attunement is at any given time the condition of our openness for perceiving and dealing with what we encounter; the pitch at which our existence is vibrating. What we call moods, feelings, affects, emotions, and states are the concrete modes in which the possibilities for being open are fulfilled. They are at the same time the modes in which this perceptive openness can be narrowed, distorted, or closed off." - Medard Boss
I can't shake the badness. I'm wallowing knee-deep in my own misery and I just can't shake it. Maybe I'm just hormonal. Maybe my biorhythms are off. Maybe it is just that I'm pissed off at being overworked and underpaid (substantially). Maybe it's that I'm super stressed about this house and this move - the financial implications, moving my children to new schools, having to relearn a neighborhood, and the simultaneous blessing and curse of having my parents nearby. Maybe the overwhelming apathy I feel is due to the fact that I'm overwhelmed - with all of it. Maybe I feel guilty for forcing my ex-husband into moving too. Maybe I'm genuinely saddened at the thought of leaving the coworkers and doctors that I genuinely love. Maybe it's a combination of all of those things.
The facts, however, remain the facts. I'm temporarily forced into a state of inertia. I can't change jobs until my son's school year is complete. I can't begin to move utilities, belongings or myself until the house is complete. I cannot plan (devestating for a planner like me) for much of anything because I'm in a holding pattern. I've said it 100 times and it remains true - inactivity is a dangerous place for me. Perhaps that's why I've changed my hair color three times in three weeks.
Once the changes begin, the momentum will propel me forward at lightning speed - until then, there's only ever been one way for me to channel this sort of energy - and so I run, and run, and run. Mile after mile after mile. Until every inch of my body is screaming, until my lungs burn.
At the moment, I'm so sore I can barely walk and I'm headed for a super hot Epsom Salt bath. The truth is that I love the pain - it reminds me that my body was designed to be used and in some instances, even abused. It reminds me that despite the stillness outside and the torrents inside, I'm very much alive.
I can't shake the badness. I'm wallowing knee-deep in my own misery and I just can't shake it. Maybe I'm just hormonal. Maybe my biorhythms are off. Maybe it is just that I'm pissed off at being overworked and underpaid (substantially). Maybe it's that I'm super stressed about this house and this move - the financial implications, moving my children to new schools, having to relearn a neighborhood, and the simultaneous blessing and curse of having my parents nearby. Maybe the overwhelming apathy I feel is due to the fact that I'm overwhelmed - with all of it. Maybe I feel guilty for forcing my ex-husband into moving too. Maybe I'm genuinely saddened at the thought of leaving the coworkers and doctors that I genuinely love. Maybe it's a combination of all of those things.
The facts, however, remain the facts. I'm temporarily forced into a state of inertia. I can't change jobs until my son's school year is complete. I can't begin to move utilities, belongings or myself until the house is complete. I cannot plan (devestating for a planner like me) for much of anything because I'm in a holding pattern. I've said it 100 times and it remains true - inactivity is a dangerous place for me. Perhaps that's why I've changed my hair color three times in three weeks.
Once the changes begin, the momentum will propel me forward at lightning speed - until then, there's only ever been one way for me to channel this sort of energy - and so I run, and run, and run. Mile after mile after mile. Until every inch of my body is screaming, until my lungs burn.
At the moment, I'm so sore I can barely walk and I'm headed for a super hot Epsom Salt bath. The truth is that I love the pain - it reminds me that my body was designed to be used and in some instances, even abused. It reminds me that despite the stillness outside and the torrents inside, I'm very much alive.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Spent
This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. - George Bernard Shaw
I'm whipped. Completely and utterly beaten-up from my job. The purpose of this post is to vent, to clear my head and also to serve as a gentle reminder that I love what I do. I spend far too much time at work angry now, so I need to reflect and sort it out. But first, a glass of wine to temper the fact that my computer does not serve my needs at all, and to even write on it is beyond frustrating. But it works. So does wine.
Monday and Tuesday were great days. Nothing to complain about. Business as usual. Wednesday, I was on call and my call schedule has been frustrating lately. I've been clustering my monthly call into one week - it makes for a fairly miserable week, but then the rest of the month is quite pleasant. However, I clustered January's week at the end and February's week at the beginning, so I'm wiped out. I'm not blaming anyone but myself for the stroke of genius that organized it, I'm just whining.
Wednesday began with a spine case, so I know going in that I'm going into a room with 6 men who think terrorizing me is the world's greatest sport. Don't get me wrong, I love the banter - for the first hour. Four hours into it and it's pretty exhausting to hold your own when the barrage is constant and coming at you from six different directions. No worries, I got through it just fine - a couple of them may have suffered irreversible damage to their psyches, but hey - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Survival.
I had a couple of cases after that one that I don't even remember, then I got called in to a lung case. I hate lung cases for two reasons. First, I'm pretty sure it's going to be me laying all funky on my side like that one day, and two - they stress out my anesthesia person a lot. I mean, when you can only ventilate one lung for a good part of the surgery, things can get really ugly really fast. At any rate, this one went pretty well, all things considered (how well can removing an entire lobe of a lung for cancer really go?). After the case, I'm transporting the patient to the ICU, helping getting him all tucked in and the same surgeon is checking in on a patient that he had operated on a couple days prior.
He decides that he needs to intervene immediately, so I get stuck in the ICU basically doing bedside surgery. The ICU nurse couldn't handle the surgical aspects - I'm not knocking her, she was doing a great job managing the 10 or so vasoactive drips this guy was on, and I couldn't manage that. So, we're all working together and it's going well, except this guy is breaking my heart. His significant other has maintained a constant bedside vigil since the assault began (which to date has included 3 open heart surgeries, two full codes and no real hope barring a heart transplant that he can't get at our hospital) and looking at this scene breaks my heart. But, we do good work for good people and I can say with 100% certainty that everyone is rallying for this man and doing absolutely everything they can. I'm curious as to why the surgeon has so much invested in this guy - I can also tell you that many others would have walked away a long time ago. He is very young, and I think that must be the reason. Either that, or the surgeon is just a really good guy. Maybe both are true.
So, I'm in the ICU dealing with this mess (and it's a horrendously bloody and murderous scene) and my cell starts ringing. Guess who? The front desk of surgery, a nurse is tired, wants to go home, wants to know if I can come finish her case. By some miracle, I do not kill her. Probably because I was three floors away. I didn't really want to kill her, but I would have maimed her. Happily. Anyway, I get home super late, with no food in the house and just sort of feeling sorry for myself because I'm so tired - but I can't sleep, I can't write and I can't take a sleeping pill because I'm on call.
Thursday morning, my first case is another lung. Are you kidding me? We rarely do lungs at all, to have two back-to-back is unusual. Good news with this one though - it's thoracoscopic (through cameras) so it won't be nearly as messy, and it's a younger patient who does not have cancer, just an intractable infection. Phew.
Nope. First of all, she's a whiner. I go to get her into the room and she's bitching at me about everything. Now, I'm pretty tolerant. I know that anxiety makes people behave differently and I always do everything I can to make my patients feel as good as possible going into a scary situation, but this chick is making it really hard. So is her very inquisitive husband who asked ina his little squeaky voice why he couldn't come in to watch the surgery. It was almost painful to inform him that couldn't because I said so, but in retrospect, perhaps he should have.
Nonetheless, I smile at her and heave her 300 pounds of flesh onto the OR table since she won't move herself, then hold her grubby little paw as she's drifting off to sleep promising her that she'll be fine and that we'll all take very good care of her. Oops. I sort of lied. You see, the floor nurse "sort of forgot" to hold the blood thinners that she's been on. Then "sort of forgot" to mention it. So, the surgeon makes this tiny little incision...and the bleeding starts.
Our nice little lung scope quickly became a very major lung surgery. With lots of blood loss. And lots of blood replacement. And another trip to the ICU. Damn, she's going to hate me when she wakes up. She's also going to hurt. But, ultimately, the diabesity will kill her long before her lung problems do.
After that, I get another cardiothoracic case. I take a minute between cases to get my game face back. I go to get my next patient...and instantly fall in love. My little 70 year old dude is going to have major surgery on his carotid artery (one of the big ones going to your brain) and he's so stinking adorable I can't stand it. This is good. So, I take Mr. Cutie to the OR, and he's laughing and joking with me (just the way I like my patients preoperatively) and we get him all set and ready to go when he looks at me and says, "Sweetie, will you hold my hand, I'm a little scared."
There's something about this level of vulnerability that really appeals to me. Perhaps, it's just because it's so fucking honest. I mean, of course you're scared. It's natural and normal to be scared in that situation - but no one admits it and they just stoic-it-up. Perhaps it's because it's so hard for me personally to be that vulnerable, and I'm one of the ones that would just lay there stoically. It matters not - the bottom line is that by one simple sentence, I've now taken ownership of this man - he is my responsibility, his very being is now something that I take very personally. It happens, but not as much as you'd like to think.
So, I squeeze his hand tightly and lean in really close to him and tell him that he is going to be OK. I tell him how great the surgeon is. I tell him how great the anesthesiologist is. I tell him that I'll be watching over him the entire time and that he has my word that nothing bad will happen. Then, I ask him what he wants to dream about. He looks at me blankly. I tell him to pretend he's just laying on a beach and that the warm blankets I'm piling on him are the sun and the hard surface under him is soft white sand. He's looking straight into my eyes as the sleepy drugs begin to transport him to my beach and I tell him that it's OK to take a nap in the warm sun, that he won't have a sunburn when he wakes up. He mouths a sleepy "thanks sweetie" as he drifts off.
Things are going along swimmingly until...the electricity goes out. Now, I don't want to sound all melodramatic or anything, it's not like the power was out for very long. But, when you've got someone's carotid artery dissected seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours and time sort of stops. You're in a pitch black room chock full of alpha personalities and for that brief moment, everyone is utterly helpless and there is quite literally a life on the line. Like I said, it's just a moment, but it's a powerful moment.
We finish that case and my dear man is just fine. I leave a little early, exhausted again. Today was challenging as well - another patient that I know well and care about who is quite sick and has lived a lifetime avoiding that situation, a miserable case with one seriously whiny surgeon who I'd love to see get hit by a city bus (yes, literally) and another big back case. Everything went well, I'm just tired.
I'm tired of the politics in the hospital. I'm tired of my crazy boss who just keeps getting crazier. I'm tired of being pushed and pushed and pushed without even an ounce of respect for the rest of my life. I'm tired of having to sweet talk orderlies into doing their jobs, I'm tired of stupid nurses that make my life much harder than it needs to be, I'm tired of primadonna surgeons that think I should kiss their ass.
On the flip side, I'm thankful for the lives I do get to touch. I'm thankful for the coworkers I have that care and that are truly exceptional men and women that I respect tremendously. I'm thankful for the good surgeons that go far above and beyond just to try and give someone a chance. I'm thankful for the laughter that I share robustly every single day with some genuinely brilliant people.
But at the moment, I just want to cry. And I've still got tomorrow to conquer.
I'm whipped. Completely and utterly beaten-up from my job. The purpose of this post is to vent, to clear my head and also to serve as a gentle reminder that I love what I do. I spend far too much time at work angry now, so I need to reflect and sort it out. But first, a glass of wine to temper the fact that my computer does not serve my needs at all, and to even write on it is beyond frustrating. But it works. So does wine.
Monday and Tuesday were great days. Nothing to complain about. Business as usual. Wednesday, I was on call and my call schedule has been frustrating lately. I've been clustering my monthly call into one week - it makes for a fairly miserable week, but then the rest of the month is quite pleasant. However, I clustered January's week at the end and February's week at the beginning, so I'm wiped out. I'm not blaming anyone but myself for the stroke of genius that organized it, I'm just whining.
Wednesday began with a spine case, so I know going in that I'm going into a room with 6 men who think terrorizing me is the world's greatest sport. Don't get me wrong, I love the banter - for the first hour. Four hours into it and it's pretty exhausting to hold your own when the barrage is constant and coming at you from six different directions. No worries, I got through it just fine - a couple of them may have suffered irreversible damage to their psyches, but hey - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Survival.
I had a couple of cases after that one that I don't even remember, then I got called in to a lung case. I hate lung cases for two reasons. First, I'm pretty sure it's going to be me laying all funky on my side like that one day, and two - they stress out my anesthesia person a lot. I mean, when you can only ventilate one lung for a good part of the surgery, things can get really ugly really fast. At any rate, this one went pretty well, all things considered (how well can removing an entire lobe of a lung for cancer really go?). After the case, I'm transporting the patient to the ICU, helping getting him all tucked in and the same surgeon is checking in on a patient that he had operated on a couple days prior.
He decides that he needs to intervene immediately, so I get stuck in the ICU basically doing bedside surgery. The ICU nurse couldn't handle the surgical aspects - I'm not knocking her, she was doing a great job managing the 10 or so vasoactive drips this guy was on, and I couldn't manage that. So, we're all working together and it's going well, except this guy is breaking my heart. His significant other has maintained a constant bedside vigil since the assault began (which to date has included 3 open heart surgeries, two full codes and no real hope barring a heart transplant that he can't get at our hospital) and looking at this scene breaks my heart. But, we do good work for good people and I can say with 100% certainty that everyone is rallying for this man and doing absolutely everything they can. I'm curious as to why the surgeon has so much invested in this guy - I can also tell you that many others would have walked away a long time ago. He is very young, and I think that must be the reason. Either that, or the surgeon is just a really good guy. Maybe both are true.
So, I'm in the ICU dealing with this mess (and it's a horrendously bloody and murderous scene) and my cell starts ringing. Guess who? The front desk of surgery, a nurse is tired, wants to go home, wants to know if I can come finish her case. By some miracle, I do not kill her. Probably because I was three floors away. I didn't really want to kill her, but I would have maimed her. Happily. Anyway, I get home super late, with no food in the house and just sort of feeling sorry for myself because I'm so tired - but I can't sleep, I can't write and I can't take a sleeping pill because I'm on call.
Thursday morning, my first case is another lung. Are you kidding me? We rarely do lungs at all, to have two back-to-back is unusual. Good news with this one though - it's thoracoscopic (through cameras) so it won't be nearly as messy, and it's a younger patient who does not have cancer, just an intractable infection. Phew.
Nope. First of all, she's a whiner. I go to get her into the room and she's bitching at me about everything. Now, I'm pretty tolerant. I know that anxiety makes people behave differently and I always do everything I can to make my patients feel as good as possible going into a scary situation, but this chick is making it really hard. So is her very inquisitive husband who asked ina his little squeaky voice why he couldn't come in to watch the surgery. It was almost painful to inform him that couldn't because I said so, but in retrospect, perhaps he should have.
Nonetheless, I smile at her and heave her 300 pounds of flesh onto the OR table since she won't move herself, then hold her grubby little paw as she's drifting off to sleep promising her that she'll be fine and that we'll all take very good care of her. Oops. I sort of lied. You see, the floor nurse "sort of forgot" to hold the blood thinners that she's been on. Then "sort of forgot" to mention it. So, the surgeon makes this tiny little incision...and the bleeding starts.
Our nice little lung scope quickly became a very major lung surgery. With lots of blood loss. And lots of blood replacement. And another trip to the ICU. Damn, she's going to hate me when she wakes up. She's also going to hurt. But, ultimately, the diabesity will kill her long before her lung problems do.
After that, I get another cardiothoracic case. I take a minute between cases to get my game face back. I go to get my next patient...and instantly fall in love. My little 70 year old dude is going to have major surgery on his carotid artery (one of the big ones going to your brain) and he's so stinking adorable I can't stand it. This is good. So, I take Mr. Cutie to the OR, and he's laughing and joking with me (just the way I like my patients preoperatively) and we get him all set and ready to go when he looks at me and says, "Sweetie, will you hold my hand, I'm a little scared."
There's something about this level of vulnerability that really appeals to me. Perhaps, it's just because it's so fucking honest. I mean, of course you're scared. It's natural and normal to be scared in that situation - but no one admits it and they just stoic-it-up. Perhaps it's because it's so hard for me personally to be that vulnerable, and I'm one of the ones that would just lay there stoically. It matters not - the bottom line is that by one simple sentence, I've now taken ownership of this man - he is my responsibility, his very being is now something that I take very personally. It happens, but not as much as you'd like to think.
So, I squeeze his hand tightly and lean in really close to him and tell him that he is going to be OK. I tell him how great the surgeon is. I tell him how great the anesthesiologist is. I tell him that I'll be watching over him the entire time and that he has my word that nothing bad will happen. Then, I ask him what he wants to dream about. He looks at me blankly. I tell him to pretend he's just laying on a beach and that the warm blankets I'm piling on him are the sun and the hard surface under him is soft white sand. He's looking straight into my eyes as the sleepy drugs begin to transport him to my beach and I tell him that it's OK to take a nap in the warm sun, that he won't have a sunburn when he wakes up. He mouths a sleepy "thanks sweetie" as he drifts off.
Things are going along swimmingly until...the electricity goes out. Now, I don't want to sound all melodramatic or anything, it's not like the power was out for very long. But, when you've got someone's carotid artery dissected seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours and time sort of stops. You're in a pitch black room chock full of alpha personalities and for that brief moment, everyone is utterly helpless and there is quite literally a life on the line. Like I said, it's just a moment, but it's a powerful moment.
We finish that case and my dear man is just fine. I leave a little early, exhausted again. Today was challenging as well - another patient that I know well and care about who is quite sick and has lived a lifetime avoiding that situation, a miserable case with one seriously whiny surgeon who I'd love to see get hit by a city bus (yes, literally) and another big back case. Everything went well, I'm just tired.
I'm tired of the politics in the hospital. I'm tired of my crazy boss who just keeps getting crazier. I'm tired of being pushed and pushed and pushed without even an ounce of respect for the rest of my life. I'm tired of having to sweet talk orderlies into doing their jobs, I'm tired of stupid nurses that make my life much harder than it needs to be, I'm tired of primadonna surgeons that think I should kiss their ass.
On the flip side, I'm thankful for the lives I do get to touch. I'm thankful for the coworkers I have that care and that are truly exceptional men and women that I respect tremendously. I'm thankful for the good surgeons that go far above and beyond just to try and give someone a chance. I'm thankful for the laughter that I share robustly every single day with some genuinely brilliant people.
But at the moment, I just want to cry. And I've still got tomorrow to conquer.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Revolution
"Our defects, our dangerous depths, our surpressed hatreds, our moments of weakness and desperation - all are unimportant. If what we want to do is heal ourselves first, so that we can go in search of our dreams, we will never reach paradise. If, on the other hand, we accept all that is wrong about us - and despite it, believe that we are deserving of a happy life - then we will have thrown open an immense window that will allow Love to enter. Little by little, our defects will disappear, because one who is happy can look at the world only with love - the force that regenerates everything that exists in the Universe." - Paulo Coehlo
For several days now, I've been trying to express what has been swirling around in my brain to no avail. It is difficult to express what truly represents a colossal shift in my own thinking - which in itself is an admission of my own shortcomings.
It's time: I acknowledge long-held fallacies and fantasies. More importantly, I forgive myself for my misguided thinking.
It shames me to admit that secretly and not-so, I've long expected what most women expect, consciously or not - the strong yet nurturing man to come riding up on his noble steed, sweep me off my feet and live happily ever after. Shhh...don't tell anyone. My reputation as ultimate alpha-chick will be ruined.
Of course, this isn't a logical thought process, and it's highly oversimplified, but at the core, it's true. That's what I want. Or rather, that's what I thought I wanted. But over the last week, a lightbulb that lay dormant in my psyche sort of crackled back on: I began to realize that it's completely ridiculous.
I wanted it because I was so very alone, so left to my own devices for so long that it was a sort of natural desire. Natural in the way that you still want your mother to pat your head and spoon feed you chicken noodle soup when you're unwell. Alas, Mommy no longer comes running at the first sniffle - it's completely unrealistic. Idealistic. Pathetic.
One person can't possibly be expected to fulfill all the needs of another. It's shameful to expect, or even hope, for that to be true. No, we are a social species and as such, we need multiple avenues for support, fulfillment, pleasure and delight in our lives. I'm sure you're laughing at this. I understand why. My logical brain would have been able to spout this out to you a month ago. My emotional (functional?) brain is finally onboard.
The good news is that we can have it all - we just have to broaden the net and let those willing to support us into our lives enough to do so. My New Year's resolution was to let people in. To be vulnerable, to take more chances emotionally. Much to my surprise and delight, it's been working - and well at that!
I no longer look at every man for his "forever" potential, I'm content to see them in the here and now. I no longer expect every woman I encounter to "get me" - I see them as people that I might actually enjoy getting to know a bit.
The result - I've met some really wonderful people (and a couple of douchebags, but they are easy enough to eradicate). I've made friends with some women that I thought I'd not like at all - and it turns out that they are intelligent and charming - and great fun to be around. No, I'll never relate to them on the level of my closest friends, but that isn't their role. Their role is to enjoy, and in the process, maybe learn a bit about myself.
A lover can't fulfill the needs that a best friend can. A best friend can't fulfill the needs that a parent can. A parent can't fulfill the needs that a child can. A child can't fulfill the needs that a lover can. They all have immeasurable worth and necessity in life.
When I left my husband, one of the things I complained about was how isolated we had become, how we had created a life where it was, largely, just the two of us. How stupid was I to sort of seek that same sort of (unhealthy) unity. Again, it certainly wasn't a conscious seeking, it was just a subconscious clinging to familiarity. Wow.
Someone recently said to me, "You know, Amanda, you've got such simple desires but they are burdened by a complex mind." Of course, I laughed. I was laughing because this person has spent a great deal of time psychoanalyzing me (unbeknowst to me) but also because he was correct.
The desires, well, they are simple, even banal. But they are complicated by my mind - which is at times overly critical, at times too logical, at times too emotional and at other times - too adrift. But it doesn't matter, because it is what it is.
I wanted to tell him that I was simply happy to be in the presence of a man that wasn't afraid to speak his mind, but I failed to take the opportunity.
Today, I had breakfast with one of our docs. He and I share a close mutual friend and we also share a similar personal history. He asked if I was dating and I told him that I was, but only casually. I told him that it was difficult for me. Without being asked, he offered me the following:
Amanda, it's going to be hard for you, just like it's hard for me. You come across as unapproachable, but that's not who you are, it's who you have been forced into being. Nonetheless, many men won't be able to handle that. Every day, you have to make split second decisions that alter the course of a life forever. And you have to be right. People expect it and it comes across as arrogance. It's not arrogance, it's the burden of what we do. You have to be right. One day, you'll find the man that can accept you and when you do, he's going to realize instantly just how special you are. He'll fight for you and he won't dare let you go. Just don't settle for some dumb fuck before you meet him. I promise you don't have a thing in the world to worry about.
For several days now, I've been trying to express what has been swirling around in my brain to no avail. It is difficult to express what truly represents a colossal shift in my own thinking - which in itself is an admission of my own shortcomings.
It's time: I acknowledge long-held fallacies and fantasies. More importantly, I forgive myself for my misguided thinking.
It shames me to admit that secretly and not-so, I've long expected what most women expect, consciously or not - the strong yet nurturing man to come riding up on his noble steed, sweep me off my feet and live happily ever after. Shhh...don't tell anyone. My reputation as ultimate alpha-chick will be ruined.
Of course, this isn't a logical thought process, and it's highly oversimplified, but at the core, it's true. That's what I want. Or rather, that's what I thought I wanted. But over the last week, a lightbulb that lay dormant in my psyche sort of crackled back on: I began to realize that it's completely ridiculous.
I wanted it because I was so very alone, so left to my own devices for so long that it was a sort of natural desire. Natural in the way that you still want your mother to pat your head and spoon feed you chicken noodle soup when you're unwell. Alas, Mommy no longer comes running at the first sniffle - it's completely unrealistic. Idealistic. Pathetic.
One person can't possibly be expected to fulfill all the needs of another. It's shameful to expect, or even hope, for that to be true. No, we are a social species and as such, we need multiple avenues for support, fulfillment, pleasure and delight in our lives. I'm sure you're laughing at this. I understand why. My logical brain would have been able to spout this out to you a month ago. My emotional (functional?) brain is finally onboard.
The good news is that we can have it all - we just have to broaden the net and let those willing to support us into our lives enough to do so. My New Year's resolution was to let people in. To be vulnerable, to take more chances emotionally. Much to my surprise and delight, it's been working - and well at that!
I no longer look at every man for his "forever" potential, I'm content to see them in the here and now. I no longer expect every woman I encounter to "get me" - I see them as people that I might actually enjoy getting to know a bit.
The result - I've met some really wonderful people (and a couple of douchebags, but they are easy enough to eradicate). I've made friends with some women that I thought I'd not like at all - and it turns out that they are intelligent and charming - and great fun to be around. No, I'll never relate to them on the level of my closest friends, but that isn't their role. Their role is to enjoy, and in the process, maybe learn a bit about myself.
A lover can't fulfill the needs that a best friend can. A best friend can't fulfill the needs that a parent can. A parent can't fulfill the needs that a child can. A child can't fulfill the needs that a lover can. They all have immeasurable worth and necessity in life.
When I left my husband, one of the things I complained about was how isolated we had become, how we had created a life where it was, largely, just the two of us. How stupid was I to sort of seek that same sort of (unhealthy) unity. Again, it certainly wasn't a conscious seeking, it was just a subconscious clinging to familiarity. Wow.
Someone recently said to me, "You know, Amanda, you've got such simple desires but they are burdened by a complex mind." Of course, I laughed. I was laughing because this person has spent a great deal of time psychoanalyzing me (unbeknowst to me) but also because he was correct.
The desires, well, they are simple, even banal. But they are complicated by my mind - which is at times overly critical, at times too logical, at times too emotional and at other times - too adrift. But it doesn't matter, because it is what it is.
I wanted to tell him that I was simply happy to be in the presence of a man that wasn't afraid to speak his mind, but I failed to take the opportunity.
Today, I had breakfast with one of our docs. He and I share a close mutual friend and we also share a similar personal history. He asked if I was dating and I told him that I was, but only casually. I told him that it was difficult for me. Without being asked, he offered me the following:
Amanda, it's going to be hard for you, just like it's hard for me. You come across as unapproachable, but that's not who you are, it's who you have been forced into being. Nonetheless, many men won't be able to handle that. Every day, you have to make split second decisions that alter the course of a life forever. And you have to be right. People expect it and it comes across as arrogance. It's not arrogance, it's the burden of what we do. You have to be right. One day, you'll find the man that can accept you and when you do, he's going to realize instantly just how special you are. He'll fight for you and he won't dare let you go. Just don't settle for some dumb fuck before you meet him. I promise you don't have a thing in the world to worry about.
The awesome thing about both of the conversations that I've just shared is that they wouldn't have happened were it not for my "open" resolution, and through both of them, I learned much about myself, and about both people. It's wonderful, this openness, having conversations like this with people that are, essentially, strangers. Now, it's still a challenge for me and it's not going to be an overnight process.
Was it a resolution, or a revolution? Yes, I know the answer.
And it delights me.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Crapper
"If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite."
-Alduous Huxley
If I were having any more fun, it would be illegal. God, I've been laughing almost non-stop for two days now. The details are largely irrelevant, but I am seriously having big fun, I'm happy, life is easy.
Saturday, I went over to Shiraz's house for one of our little photo shoots. For months, we've been talking about doing something in my old wedding dress. When I pulled it out of the box, it was stained down the front from a little incident with red-wine.
Putting on the dress did not bring back the wonderous memories of a joyous day that you might expect, nor did it bring a deep sadness. It brought nothing. There was no emotion tied to the gown at all. We ripped it apart for the art of it, and after the photo shoot, I threw it in the trash unceremoniously. The fact that I was able to do that without any strong feelings either way was pretty refreshing.
Today, I sent my ex-husband an email telling him how much I appreciate him as an ex-husband, and a father. He has had to take the high-road here quite a bit, especially with me basically strong-arming him into moving across town, and he's done it largely without complaint. I do appreciate that, and I do appreciate the father that he is.
After the photo shoot, Shiraz and I sat around talking, as we usually do. Expectedly, our conversation turned to the philosophical (after "Topic: Boy"). It was fun, but the day exhausted me. I came home to nap - a nap that never happened. I was a little wired.
I am currently reading "The Valkyries" by Paulo Coehlo, so I curled up in bed and read. There's a portion where one of the characters talks about listening to the voice. I'm paraphrasing (and not well) but he says that when he forgets something and goes back to get it, he stops and counts to 30 before continuing on the journey, the theory being that the delay is his guardian angel forcing him to stop - perhaps the brief interruption will cause the avoidance of an accident, or catching an important call, or whatever. There's a reason for it.
I thought then of how many times I ignore the voice, neglect the cues and clues. I told myself that I'd try to become more attentive.
I meet Shiraz and Po later at a bar for drinks. We're having a nice time - the night is warmer than it's been, so we're sitting outside just chatting. It's casual. I'm on call. I never carry a pager. My phone is my only contact.
I get up to go to the restroom and my phone is on the table. I actually think to myself, "I should just leave that here." But I don't. I grab the phone. I put in in my purse. Then, I think to myself, "I should zip my purse." But, I don't. I get into the bathroom and I think to myself, "Don't put your purse on the back of the toilet." But I do it anyway, only to watch my phone slip out of my purse right into the toilet.
I grab the phone and turn it off, dry it off and I'm sort of speechless. Instantly I realized that I neglected that little voice THREE times with potentially disastrous results. We dry off the phone, and it ends up working. So, that was my little wake-up call - listen to the voice.
I realize that dropping a phone in a toilet is one hell of a funny way to learn that lesson, but the lesson was clear - and you'd have to figure that my guardian angel would have one hell of a sense of humor, right?
-Alduous Huxley
If I were having any more fun, it would be illegal. God, I've been laughing almost non-stop for two days now. The details are largely irrelevant, but I am seriously having big fun, I'm happy, life is easy.
Saturday, I went over to Shiraz's house for one of our little photo shoots. For months, we've been talking about doing something in my old wedding dress. When I pulled it out of the box, it was stained down the front from a little incident with red-wine.
Putting on the dress did not bring back the wonderous memories of a joyous day that you might expect, nor did it bring a deep sadness. It brought nothing. There was no emotion tied to the gown at all. We ripped it apart for the art of it, and after the photo shoot, I threw it in the trash unceremoniously. The fact that I was able to do that without any strong feelings either way was pretty refreshing.
Today, I sent my ex-husband an email telling him how much I appreciate him as an ex-husband, and a father. He has had to take the high-road here quite a bit, especially with me basically strong-arming him into moving across town, and he's done it largely without complaint. I do appreciate that, and I do appreciate the father that he is.
After the photo shoot, Shiraz and I sat around talking, as we usually do. Expectedly, our conversation turned to the philosophical (after "Topic: Boy"). It was fun, but the day exhausted me. I came home to nap - a nap that never happened. I was a little wired.
I am currently reading "The Valkyries" by Paulo Coehlo, so I curled up in bed and read. There's a portion where one of the characters talks about listening to the voice. I'm paraphrasing (and not well) but he says that when he forgets something and goes back to get it, he stops and counts to 30 before continuing on the journey, the theory being that the delay is his guardian angel forcing him to stop - perhaps the brief interruption will cause the avoidance of an accident, or catching an important call, or whatever. There's a reason for it.
I thought then of how many times I ignore the voice, neglect the cues and clues. I told myself that I'd try to become more attentive.
I meet Shiraz and Po later at a bar for drinks. We're having a nice time - the night is warmer than it's been, so we're sitting outside just chatting. It's casual. I'm on call. I never carry a pager. My phone is my only contact.
I get up to go to the restroom and my phone is on the table. I actually think to myself, "I should just leave that here." But I don't. I grab the phone. I put in in my purse. Then, I think to myself, "I should zip my purse." But, I don't. I get into the bathroom and I think to myself, "Don't put your purse on the back of the toilet." But I do it anyway, only to watch my phone slip out of my purse right into the toilet.
I grab the phone and turn it off, dry it off and I'm sort of speechless. Instantly I realized that I neglected that little voice THREE times with potentially disastrous results. We dry off the phone, and it ends up working. So, that was my little wake-up call - listen to the voice.
I realize that dropping a phone in a toilet is one hell of a funny way to learn that lesson, but the lesson was clear - and you'd have to figure that my guardian angel would have one hell of a sense of humor, right?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
