I can't help but allow the holidays to make me a little bit maudlin this year. It was inevitable. I had a rough year, and I knew it would only get worse around this time, when not only are the days colder, darker, and shorter, but also there is all of this forced sincerity in the air, the idea that we are supposed to be thankful. I am thankful, of course, but I don't need to be reminded to be thankful. I have a slightly harder time being thankful, however, when I feel like I am trying harder than someone else is. This Christmas is the hardest one I have been through since I was thirteen, eight months after my mother died. The difference between that one and this one is, of course, I can still call my ex-husband to wish him Merry Christmas, which I could not do with my mother, and also when I was thirteen, my parents overcompensated for all of that grief by giving my sister and I far too many presents to open with our sad little hands. This year, my parents got me a really weird-looking nutcracker/Santa Claus and a book on how to knit fruit.
I have this feeling, every once in a while, that my parents are spread too thin. There are seven children between them, counting my two half-siblings and my three step-siblings, my sister and I, and sometimes, I just don't feel like they have enough time, love, and energy to go around. Someone always gets pushed to the front, in terms of who they are thinking about and trying to help, and so someone inevitably gets pushed to the back. Right now, even though I am having a hard time and going through a divorce, I feel like I am getting pushed to the back. I don't depend on my parents for anything, because even though I do need help, I know it is wrong to ask it of them. My father offered to help me out with some bills I was having trouble paying, but they ended up not being financially able right now, and I felt guilty even accepting it when he offered. My sister needs a little more than me, and has a hard time making everything work for herself at all times, that they sometimes just don't have it in them. The heart is not capable of producing that much love, because my sister seems to need more no matter how much they give. I have lost my temper with my sister a number of times over this, because even with all they have done for her, she still finds a way to demonize my stepmother, imply that Debbie has not done enough for her. On Thanksgiving, I lost my shit on her for saying something immature about one of our other siblings, and pretended my anger was solely about that, but what I really wanted to say was, "They have spent every ounce of their energy on you, and you still want more? Give me a fucking break!"
Anyone with a sibling who is constantly in peril, or has severe medical or mental issues, or suffers from addiction knows what I am getting at. You care, you worry for them, and sometimes you get frustrated with them for not being able to just fucking take care of their own self. The anger can also extend to your parents, for their constant devotion to them. It is a form of jealousy that is ingrained into most of us, and it doesn't end when we become grown-ups. I wish I was above it, that I did not need my parents for anything and could just give them a break for once, but I am not that solitary of a person. I don't need their support financially, as I have found a way to make it work, but I do need their support emotionally. I have found myself almost having to remind my father that everything I have been through this year, with breaking up with Gino and starting over on my own, is really hard. He has been through two divorces, both of them far more acrimonious than mine, but he has moved past them, and occasionally, he just doesn't seem to get why I am sad, not angry. Explaining to your father that you miss someone he never really thought of as anything special, or good enough for his daughter, is a fool's errand. He was stupid in love with my mother and was devastated over their divorce, but he doesn't remember that now, because it probably hurts too much. He has Debbie now, and that is all that matters to him, so the pain of the past doesn't make sense in his mind.
I love my parents, but every once in a while, I have a hard time thinking like them. There are things from the past, that they did, that I try not to ever think about, because I just end up getting pissed off and thinking that now would be a really great time to demand an apology from them. It's a stupid thought, not to mention hypocritical, because I am always preaching about how important it is to let go of grudges and not suffer the past, but when I am in just the right frame of mind, my parent's past behavior can really get under my skin. There was the time, when I was fourteen, that my therapist called them in for a family meeting to tell them how much it would help me to get a companion animal as a therapeutic device, because I was so depressed and anxious. My parents were opposed to the idea, naturally, and they called my therapist later that night to scream at her for ganging up on them. They also accused me of engineering the meeting, of conning my therapist into making the argument that I couldn't make myself. I try not to bring things like that up with them because to this day, I cannot argue with my parents. It is best to just move on, carry the fact that they have been jerks a few times with me and never try to get an apology from them because they can justify doing just about anything.
I realize, of course, in my ruminations about the past, that I have been even more of a jerk to both of them. The difference is, I have apologized a million times over for, say, being a cutter, or just for being so depressed as a teenager. I still feel guilty for this, for being such a hard child to raise, and I let them know how sorry I still am just about every time I think about it. They never demanded an apology, but I thought they could use one, plus an additional expression of my gratitude just to make it stick. The years of terror I put them through because of my emotional problems when I was younger will never go away for them, no matter how much they tell me they don't even think about it.
My parents love me, and they did a fine job of raising me, but being the youngest out of so many children I did feel like I was made to pay the price for the mistakes my older siblings made. I was certainly treated with more caution, with more limitations on what I could and could not do in direct relation to how much my sister acted out. My sister drank and smoked and was kind of promiscuous- all of her rebelling was big and showy. My rebelling was quiet, barely detectable. I took out all of my anger on myself. I did feel, due to how much trouble my sister, and my stepsister, got into before I even had the inclination to do so, that there was a general atmosphere of mistrust permeating my entire home. I only remember telling one big lie, when I was maybe thirteen or fourteen, and once I realized I was caught I told the truth. My sister snuck out to be with her boyfriend and told me to lie to our parents about where she was, and when my dad figured it out, I told them the truth, even though I was getting myself and Sarah into trouble. I remember Debbie's response, even after I told her everything, as, "I still don't believe you."
My stepmother had been through so much abuse, first from her own daughter and then from my sister, that her response to anything I told her was that she didn't believe me. She raised one wild girl, who snuck out in the middle of the night and ended up getting into a terrible car accident, and then got stuck with another wild girl who hid vodka in her room. It was a learned pattern of behavior, but it had nothing to do with me, and I can't say it was easy to live with.There has really only been one time that I have confronted my father about this as an adult, and it went nowhere. He was visiting for my parent's annual summertime breeze-though, where they see as much family as they can cram into a week, plus go to Tanglewood. We were having an iced coffee at Dunkin' Donuts (hazelnut-flavored iced coffee being something my father only enjoyed up North because down south, they have no flavored coffee, only flavor shots). I was trying to explain something to him, about how hard it was being raised in a home where it was assumed, before I had even done anything, that I was always lying. "But when you have had that experience," my father said, "Of getting a phone call from the police in the middle of the night that your daughter is near death, you want to prevent it from happening again."
"But, Daddy," I said, trying to be as gentle and casual about it as I could, "Jenny's actions had nothing to do with me. Neither did Sarah's, but I somehow ended up paying for both of them."
"Yeah, because when you have had that experience," he said, putting even more emphasis on the word, "You learn that you can't trust, you can't leave it up to chance."
"Yes, and I understand where she was coming from, but couldn't she, or you even, have given me the benefit of the doubt?" I asked.
My dad started doing that Italian-American thing where his hands just fly all over the place because he is not making his point clear. "No, no, there was no benefit of the doubt to give, for her," he said, "And when you have lived through that experience of getting a call in the middle of the night that your daughter-"
"Okay, okay, I get it," I said, cutting him off, because I knew I would never get him to see things from my perspective.
Even if you really love someone, the way I love my parents, you occasionally want to give them the finger. I know my parents have also wanted to tell me to fuck off plenty of times, even if they deny it, because I have too much self-awareness to think I was a perfect child. I did the best I could, though, given the circumstances. They also did the best they could, and none of us are perfect. I am thankful, and I appreciate everything they do for me, but I wish I didn't feel like I have to work so hard to remind them that I am here, and that sometimes, I need them. I am glad that Christmas is over, and that my aunt and uncle actually got me gifts I can use, like a memory foam pad for my mattress because I mentioned that my bedsprings were poking me. They have limitless amounts of love, because they have no children. They can remember a tiny thing like that, which means so much to me because I know it means they paid attention to something I said. My parents can't remember half of what I tell them, because they have to keep track of the comings and goings of six other people in our immediate, blended family. I kind of haven't gotten over the murdery-looking nutcracker that they sent me, though.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
How Am I Not Myself
I met up with my dear friend Kit on Saturday, just to catch up, and I realized I had not told her about any of the high drama that went on from September through October. Last time I saw her, she fed me crepes at her apartment and I told her I was just a little worried about why my cycle was running so far behind. That was October. She told me she had assumed nothing happened because I never mentioned it again, and I told her that was mostly right. "I had a false positive on a pee test," I told her, "And I can't say Mike was really nice about it when I told him."
"What did he say?" she asked.
I outlined it for her, not in explicit detail, just the broadstrokes about how he had so indelicately implied that I was lying to get him to talk to me again. "I think," I said to Kit, "He gets me confused with my sister sometimes, because that is something she might do."
Kit looked aghast. "I'm sorry, but how dare he?" she asked.
I was surprised by how strong her reaction was, mostly because even though I had brought it up, I'm really kind of over being offended about anything Mike said. There is no point. I'll never get an apology from him for that because he doesn't think he did anything wrong, and that is his right. Plus, I still have not convinced myself that I am not getting exactly what I deserve when someone treats me that way. One side of my brain is telling me to stand up for myself and the other side is telling me to just accept my punishment because I don't deserve to be loved or treated well anyway. "He's just a boy," I said, "And I did catch him off-guard. It was my fault. I panicked."
"No," Kit said, "How dare he get you confused with your sister? I love her, but you are nothing like her. I can't believe he did that."
I thought about that for a minute, and I remembered just how many times Mike brought Sarah into the conversation, made me answer for dumb shit she did when she was harboring a weird crush on him. Moreover, the way he was with me, how he chased me like I was the Beatles and then, as soon as I was actually available, he couldn't be bothered with me, made me think even harder about how large my sister had loomed over that whole time. My appeal came from how off-limits he thought I was, as Sarah's sister, and as a wounded divorcee, and as somebody who made out with his friend in parking lots. Once he realized that those limitations didn't exist, and that I was just a girl who wanted to spend time with him and there was nothing forbidden about it, he was done. His response after that had to be that here was something wrong with me, and to treat me as such. He made me into just another crazy bitch who went all crazy on him. I will take a lot of shit, but I just refuse to swallow that any longer, because I am many things, but I am not crazy.
I love my sister, and I admire her, and I also know that she has emotional issues that run deep, that I cannot just reach in and fix. I have my own issues, of course, and I deal with them and know what I need to do to stay in control. I am not entirely confident, however, that what I see in her won't one day present in me. When most of your first cousins have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, you start to lose faith in your own mental stability and wonder if it doesn't just run in the family. One of Sarah's problems, and this is something I have said to her directly, is that she loves too much. She becomes convinced that she will die if this person, who she loves more than anyone has ever loved anyone, disappears or leaves her. The problem with that is, she becomes attached on this level with everyone, even to men who are already in relationships or that she barely knows or who clearly tell her that they are not interested. In her mind, she had a claim on Mike, and part of him still belonged to her just because she said so. She feels this way because she believes it, and I am always afraid that her delusions are contagious, that I will lose what little perspective I have and start looking at the world the same way.
I am always afraid of letting go of the restraint I have developed, that I will lose myself in another person exactly the way Sarah has lost herself in any number of men. I don't look down on her for this, but I see how much it hurts, every time she gets her heart broken, and I don't want any part in it. That is what made so much of this, with Mike, so humiliating: I got suckered in by one of Sarah's "guys", a man she had idealized, and convinced herself she loved, and who maybe strung her along and messed with her head a little. I have always thought that I was smarter than her when it came to men, but I guess we all turn into idiots for the wrong person.
I did turn into a mush-brained idiot for Gino when I met him, but that was not something that made me worry for my mental health. He was just as stupid for me as I was for him, so neither one of us looked foolish, standing there while the other person turned away. I just told Gino the other day, "This is hard. Things were never this hard with you because you always told me exactly what you were thinking and it wasn't this big guessing game."
The fact that everything feels forced and confusing and not at all like the dependable, reassuring love I had for years with Gino makes me point the finger of blame at myself, try to figure out what is wrong with me and wonder if maybe I have the same problem I see in Sarah. I keep telling myself that thinking that way is unfair, both to me and to my sister, because all she really did to him was like him a little too much. If dude can't handle women liking him, he should just not talk to them and stop queening out if one of them likes him back. He was full of charm with me, and then tried to make me feel guilty for responding to it. I still feel that way. I was thinking about this last night, wondering what, exactly, he wanted to happen, since apparently I fucked it all up by responding the way I did. He must have wanted me to reject him, make it into a game for him, but that's not something I even know how to do.
I will always romanticize the period where I met and fell in love with Gino because it was so simple, and there was no push-and-pull to it. A relationship that starts out as a negotiation, with so much complicating it, just doesn't feel worth having. Even if I had played it exactly the way The Rules or whatever book women are reading now says I should have, I have a feeling I would have ended up in exactly the same place. What bothers me is how much I still think about it at all. This thing with Mike is turning into my borg, the sentient automaton that I can't kill because I don't know where it draws its power from. If I can figure out what is still feeding it, why I can't just let it go, I can move on. People tell me to stop thinking about it, but that is the least helpful advice ever because it is not a possibility for me. I don't really believe that it is possible for anyone, actually. I can go about my day and pretend something isn't bothering me, or focus on something else when I start to think about the forbidden topic, but I can't just stop thinking about it. I think what people actually mean when they say, "Don't think about it," is, "Don't talk to me about it".
I understand why someone would want me to shut up about this big bag of bullshit, and in fact, I said it myself when I was out with Kit. We were talking about another friend of ours, who kept going back to the same worthless dude, and I said, "I just look at girls like her and want to tell them that they can do so much better, and that this just isn't worth their time."
I said it, hearing myself, and realized that Kit was smirking at me because I was saying exactly what she was thinking about me. I can see these things about other people, but not myself. Still, who wants to talk to someone who is totally pleased with theirself, and never doubts their own decisions or actions? Too much confidence can be just as dangerous as too little can be. My confidence has definitely taken a hit, but I am trying to listen to my friends who are trying to rebuild it, and remind me that though she is a lovely person, my sister and I are nothing alike.
"What did he say?" she asked.
I outlined it for her, not in explicit detail, just the broadstrokes about how he had so indelicately implied that I was lying to get him to talk to me again. "I think," I said to Kit, "He gets me confused with my sister sometimes, because that is something she might do."
Kit looked aghast. "I'm sorry, but how dare he?" she asked.
I was surprised by how strong her reaction was, mostly because even though I had brought it up, I'm really kind of over being offended about anything Mike said. There is no point. I'll never get an apology from him for that because he doesn't think he did anything wrong, and that is his right. Plus, I still have not convinced myself that I am not getting exactly what I deserve when someone treats me that way. One side of my brain is telling me to stand up for myself and the other side is telling me to just accept my punishment because I don't deserve to be loved or treated well anyway. "He's just a boy," I said, "And I did catch him off-guard. It was my fault. I panicked."
"No," Kit said, "How dare he get you confused with your sister? I love her, but you are nothing like her. I can't believe he did that."
I thought about that for a minute, and I remembered just how many times Mike brought Sarah into the conversation, made me answer for dumb shit she did when she was harboring a weird crush on him. Moreover, the way he was with me, how he chased me like I was the Beatles and then, as soon as I was actually available, he couldn't be bothered with me, made me think even harder about how large my sister had loomed over that whole time. My appeal came from how off-limits he thought I was, as Sarah's sister, and as a wounded divorcee, and as somebody who made out with his friend in parking lots. Once he realized that those limitations didn't exist, and that I was just a girl who wanted to spend time with him and there was nothing forbidden about it, he was done. His response after that had to be that here was something wrong with me, and to treat me as such. He made me into just another crazy bitch who went all crazy on him. I will take a lot of shit, but I just refuse to swallow that any longer, because I am many things, but I am not crazy.
I love my sister, and I admire her, and I also know that she has emotional issues that run deep, that I cannot just reach in and fix. I have my own issues, of course, and I deal with them and know what I need to do to stay in control. I am not entirely confident, however, that what I see in her won't one day present in me. When most of your first cousins have been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, you start to lose faith in your own mental stability and wonder if it doesn't just run in the family. One of Sarah's problems, and this is something I have said to her directly, is that she loves too much. She becomes convinced that she will die if this person, who she loves more than anyone has ever loved anyone, disappears or leaves her. The problem with that is, she becomes attached on this level with everyone, even to men who are already in relationships or that she barely knows or who clearly tell her that they are not interested. In her mind, she had a claim on Mike, and part of him still belonged to her just because she said so. She feels this way because she believes it, and I am always afraid that her delusions are contagious, that I will lose what little perspective I have and start looking at the world the same way.
I am always afraid of letting go of the restraint I have developed, that I will lose myself in another person exactly the way Sarah has lost herself in any number of men. I don't look down on her for this, but I see how much it hurts, every time she gets her heart broken, and I don't want any part in it. That is what made so much of this, with Mike, so humiliating: I got suckered in by one of Sarah's "guys", a man she had idealized, and convinced herself she loved, and who maybe strung her along and messed with her head a little. I have always thought that I was smarter than her when it came to men, but I guess we all turn into idiots for the wrong person.
I did turn into a mush-brained idiot for Gino when I met him, but that was not something that made me worry for my mental health. He was just as stupid for me as I was for him, so neither one of us looked foolish, standing there while the other person turned away. I just told Gino the other day, "This is hard. Things were never this hard with you because you always told me exactly what you were thinking and it wasn't this big guessing game."
The fact that everything feels forced and confusing and not at all like the dependable, reassuring love I had for years with Gino makes me point the finger of blame at myself, try to figure out what is wrong with me and wonder if maybe I have the same problem I see in Sarah. I keep telling myself that thinking that way is unfair, both to me and to my sister, because all she really did to him was like him a little too much. If dude can't handle women liking him, he should just not talk to them and stop queening out if one of them likes him back. He was full of charm with me, and then tried to make me feel guilty for responding to it. I still feel that way. I was thinking about this last night, wondering what, exactly, he wanted to happen, since apparently I fucked it all up by responding the way I did. He must have wanted me to reject him, make it into a game for him, but that's not something I even know how to do.
I will always romanticize the period where I met and fell in love with Gino because it was so simple, and there was no push-and-pull to it. A relationship that starts out as a negotiation, with so much complicating it, just doesn't feel worth having. Even if I had played it exactly the way The Rules or whatever book women are reading now says I should have, I have a feeling I would have ended up in exactly the same place. What bothers me is how much I still think about it at all. This thing with Mike is turning into my borg, the sentient automaton that I can't kill because I don't know where it draws its power from. If I can figure out what is still feeding it, why I can't just let it go, I can move on. People tell me to stop thinking about it, but that is the least helpful advice ever because it is not a possibility for me. I don't really believe that it is possible for anyone, actually. I can go about my day and pretend something isn't bothering me, or focus on something else when I start to think about the forbidden topic, but I can't just stop thinking about it. I think what people actually mean when they say, "Don't think about it," is, "Don't talk to me about it".
I understand why someone would want me to shut up about this big bag of bullshit, and in fact, I said it myself when I was out with Kit. We were talking about another friend of ours, who kept going back to the same worthless dude, and I said, "I just look at girls like her and want to tell them that they can do so much better, and that this just isn't worth their time."
I said it, hearing myself, and realized that Kit was smirking at me because I was saying exactly what she was thinking about me. I can see these things about other people, but not myself. Still, who wants to talk to someone who is totally pleased with theirself, and never doubts their own decisions or actions? Too much confidence can be just as dangerous as too little can be. My confidence has definitely taken a hit, but I am trying to listen to my friends who are trying to rebuild it, and remind me that though she is a lovely person, my sister and I are nothing alike.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
When I Grow Up
I held off on posting for a few days, and was actually about to publish this post on Friday, but then I read about the school shooting and thought that it was kind of inapporopriate to publish another one of my dum-dum stories on the same day as something so immeasurably terrible. I'm alive, I am healthy, and that is all that matters. I went out to dinner with my favorite aunt and uncle, and I hate to sound cliched, but I felt truly thankful, and not just because they paid. I have so much, and even though I give myself a lot of shit, I didn't start this blog to complain about how terrible this divorce is. I started it, and continue it, as a tool for figuring things out. I don't have many things to complain about, really, but I still have a few things to figure out, so I decided to publish this post, held over from Friday, and I hope it is free of whininess. Enjoy another one of my dum-dum stories.
Another week, and another "meaningful" conversation with Gino has taken place. This has become the thing that we do in place of having weird, unmarried sex with each other. I go to the house, bust his balls about one thing or another, we watch American Horror Story and then at some point, he asks me if I'm okay. I always tell him that I am doing alright, but I am really tempted to throw him off one of these times and wail, "Noooooo! I'm not! And it's your fault! And I had sex with a guy who doesn't like me anymore! And that's your fault, too!", but I don't, because that would be stupid.
I am fine, most of the time, so that's not a lie, and I can't even find it in me to blame Gino for the times when I am decidedly not fine. I definitely cannot hold him accountable for anything that happens with my personal life. Screaming at him would be, at this point, nonsensical. It would be funny, but I would much rather just have a conversation with him. The conversations we have are all kind of similar to each other, in terms of content and the reassurances we lay on for one another. It's a bit like therapy, because I usually leave feeling better, but not like I have really made any real progress. We both say the same things, to and for and about each other, and resolve nothing, but it feels comforting. The one big change from the way we are with each other is, we actually listen when the other person is speaking. We stopped listening to each other when we were still enduring this dead end street of a marriage, waiting for the other person to finish just so we would get our turn. Now that we only see each other, at most, once a week, we give each other more room to talk and it is pretty nice. We're not just talking at each other, although Gino does still have the attention span of a poodle, but only when he is on his computer. I could be juggling flaming batons and I wouldn't be able to tear his focus away from a story on the CNN website or Star Trek Online.
Gino told me he is thinking of asking someone out, and I told him that I thought it was a fine idea, he should start dating because I am tired of hearing about how horny he is. I wasn't surprised to learn that the girl he has been thinking of approaching is the same girl he told me he liked, weeks ago when we nearly got into a huge argument about his preference for brunettes over blondes. I'm a blonde, this girl is a blonde, but Gino claims he doesn't like blondes. Whatever. I had checked out her picture, in the employee database, just to see what she looked like, and I was a little surprised with myself, that I didn't immediately start picking her apart, the way that I had with other women Gino had pointed out. I told Gino that I had seen her picture, that I agreed that she was cute, then went into a story about showing it to two of my co-workers and how they instantly turned into drag queens about it and proceeded to read the shit out of her photo. I didn't agree with them at all, and, exasperated, asked them, "Can't we just be nice to this girl? I'm sure she is a lovely person."
"She looks like she's crazy," Peg said.
"No, she doesn't," I answered back, "Isn't it a good sign that I want my ex-husband to get laid?"
Apparently, it's not a good sign. I feel like my lack of anger and pettiness are not what people want to hear from me. Everyone wants me to wish pain and suffering upon Gino, but I'm kind of over that. I just want the motherfucker to be happy and stop moping around, and the only way that will happen is if he has sex with someone he was never married to. Peg, and my aunts, and my parents, and anyone else who has ever been divorced, cannot wrap their heads around my lack of malice. Still, I already went through the daydreaming about dismembering Gino's corpse thing, and now I'm just happy to see him, and I am also happy that he's interested in someone who is not eleven years younger than him.
He did, of course, nearly fuck it all up by casting aspersions on Mike, AGAIN. Something seems to stick in his craw about that whole situation, and though I kind of understand it, I don't appreciate it. He told me that I can do better, that Mike isn't that good-looking, and I had to change the subject because it was getting on my nerves. I was tempted to point out to him that Mike has a body like the Lord Christ Himself, and that I found him plenty attractive, and that no, actually, I can't do better. I can't even do that well. Of course, if I had gone there, I would have had to assure Gino that even though Mike has a good body, his body is even better, and that he is probably also taller, and funnier, just so he didn't get upset that I was talking about another man favorably. I changed the conversation because even though I am capable of telling Gino these things, I don't feel that I should. I need to let him know that it isn't my job anymore, although I do appreciate him trying to build up my confidence some. I just wish he could do so without talking smack about the guys I get involved with. I also could have said that it's none of his business, but when you've invested a significant amount of time in someone, you do feel that who they associate with is your business. I understand the inclination and I have indulged in it myself. I totally gave the 20-year-old Gino was interested in the full Paris Is Burning treatment because I thought she was ridiculous and didn't understand why he thought she was so great. The difference between that and Gino continuously pointing out that I can do better is that Gino had a hard-on for this bitch while we were still married, and I know that because he told me about it all the time. We aren't together anymore, I am free to do whatever (and whomever) I want, but he still feels the need to pick apart the only man I've had sex with since our separation. What he seems to be saying, to me, is, "You are bad at this and you must do better."
I am bad at this. I am bad at meeting new people, I am bad at putting myself out there, I am bad at not sharing every single thing that enters my mind. I am bad at letting go, especially. One good thing that came out of my heart-to-heart with Gino was that I got down to what I can't let go of about Mike. It's not that I think we could have had this big, significant love for each other or that he would have made a really stellar boyfriend, or that I even wanted a boyfriend right at the moment. What it comes down to is that my feelings are hurt. My feelings are hurt that I didn't get picked, the same way they used to be hurt when I didn't get invited to someone's birthday party in second grade, and I am obsessing over it the same way I would have in second grade. Knowing what I am doing doesn't make it easy to not do it. I just have to wait it out, like a bad stomach flu or a sinus infection. It's a sickness, and it will pass, and I can wait it out like a grown-up. I just can't promise that I will act like a grown-up the entire time I am waiting it out.
Another week, and another "meaningful" conversation with Gino has taken place. This has become the thing that we do in place of having weird, unmarried sex with each other. I go to the house, bust his balls about one thing or another, we watch American Horror Story and then at some point, he asks me if I'm okay. I always tell him that I am doing alright, but I am really tempted to throw him off one of these times and wail, "Noooooo! I'm not! And it's your fault! And I had sex with a guy who doesn't like me anymore! And that's your fault, too!", but I don't, because that would be stupid.
I am fine, most of the time, so that's not a lie, and I can't even find it in me to blame Gino for the times when I am decidedly not fine. I definitely cannot hold him accountable for anything that happens with my personal life. Screaming at him would be, at this point, nonsensical. It would be funny, but I would much rather just have a conversation with him. The conversations we have are all kind of similar to each other, in terms of content and the reassurances we lay on for one another. It's a bit like therapy, because I usually leave feeling better, but not like I have really made any real progress. We both say the same things, to and for and about each other, and resolve nothing, but it feels comforting. The one big change from the way we are with each other is, we actually listen when the other person is speaking. We stopped listening to each other when we were still enduring this dead end street of a marriage, waiting for the other person to finish just so we would get our turn. Now that we only see each other, at most, once a week, we give each other more room to talk and it is pretty nice. We're not just talking at each other, although Gino does still have the attention span of a poodle, but only when he is on his computer. I could be juggling flaming batons and I wouldn't be able to tear his focus away from a story on the CNN website or Star Trek Online.
Gino told me he is thinking of asking someone out, and I told him that I thought it was a fine idea, he should start dating because I am tired of hearing about how horny he is. I wasn't surprised to learn that the girl he has been thinking of approaching is the same girl he told me he liked, weeks ago when we nearly got into a huge argument about his preference for brunettes over blondes. I'm a blonde, this girl is a blonde, but Gino claims he doesn't like blondes. Whatever. I had checked out her picture, in the employee database, just to see what she looked like, and I was a little surprised with myself, that I didn't immediately start picking her apart, the way that I had with other women Gino had pointed out. I told Gino that I had seen her picture, that I agreed that she was cute, then went into a story about showing it to two of my co-workers and how they instantly turned into drag queens about it and proceeded to read the shit out of her photo. I didn't agree with them at all, and, exasperated, asked them, "Can't we just be nice to this girl? I'm sure she is a lovely person."
"She looks like she's crazy," Peg said.
"No, she doesn't," I answered back, "Isn't it a good sign that I want my ex-husband to get laid?"
Apparently, it's not a good sign. I feel like my lack of anger and pettiness are not what people want to hear from me. Everyone wants me to wish pain and suffering upon Gino, but I'm kind of over that. I just want the motherfucker to be happy and stop moping around, and the only way that will happen is if he has sex with someone he was never married to. Peg, and my aunts, and my parents, and anyone else who has ever been divorced, cannot wrap their heads around my lack of malice. Still, I already went through the daydreaming about dismembering Gino's corpse thing, and now I'm just happy to see him, and I am also happy that he's interested in someone who is not eleven years younger than him.
He did, of course, nearly fuck it all up by casting aspersions on Mike, AGAIN. Something seems to stick in his craw about that whole situation, and though I kind of understand it, I don't appreciate it. He told me that I can do better, that Mike isn't that good-looking, and I had to change the subject because it was getting on my nerves. I was tempted to point out to him that Mike has a body like the Lord Christ Himself, and that I found him plenty attractive, and that no, actually, I can't do better. I can't even do that well. Of course, if I had gone there, I would have had to assure Gino that even though Mike has a good body, his body is even better, and that he is probably also taller, and funnier, just so he didn't get upset that I was talking about another man favorably. I changed the conversation because even though I am capable of telling Gino these things, I don't feel that I should. I need to let him know that it isn't my job anymore, although I do appreciate him trying to build up my confidence some. I just wish he could do so without talking smack about the guys I get involved with. I also could have said that it's none of his business, but when you've invested a significant amount of time in someone, you do feel that who they associate with is your business. I understand the inclination and I have indulged in it myself. I totally gave the 20-year-old Gino was interested in the full Paris Is Burning treatment because I thought she was ridiculous and didn't understand why he thought she was so great. The difference between that and Gino continuously pointing out that I can do better is that Gino had a hard-on for this bitch while we were still married, and I know that because he told me about it all the time. We aren't together anymore, I am free to do whatever (and whomever) I want, but he still feels the need to pick apart the only man I've had sex with since our separation. What he seems to be saying, to me, is, "You are bad at this and you must do better."
I am bad at this. I am bad at meeting new people, I am bad at putting myself out there, I am bad at not sharing every single thing that enters my mind. I am bad at letting go, especially. One good thing that came out of my heart-to-heart with Gino was that I got down to what I can't let go of about Mike. It's not that I think we could have had this big, significant love for each other or that he would have made a really stellar boyfriend, or that I even wanted a boyfriend right at the moment. What it comes down to is that my feelings are hurt. My feelings are hurt that I didn't get picked, the same way they used to be hurt when I didn't get invited to someone's birthday party in second grade, and I am obsessing over it the same way I would have in second grade. Knowing what I am doing doesn't make it easy to not do it. I just have to wait it out, like a bad stomach flu or a sinus infection. It's a sickness, and it will pass, and I can wait it out like a grown-up. I just can't promise that I will act like a grown-up the entire time I am waiting it out.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
The Ben Franklin Effect
Najwa was joking with me yesterday, at her house, about what made Gino break up our marriage, and it clued me in to something. "I guess it was terrible for him," she said, "I guess having a wife who cooks all the time and always wants to have sex is super hard."
I laughed along with her, but it made me think. I was always trying to make Gino happy, and not only doing the majority of the household tasks but bringing home the bulk of our income, and all it got me, in the end, was a lot of exhaustion. He thanked me, I guess, every now and then, but, as he told me recently, he never got why I was always working my ass off to make him feel special. I did so much, for so little need, because that was what I thought I was supposed to do. I never figured out that doing nice things for someone is not how you get them to like you. People tend to forget the favors you do for them, but not the favors they do for other people.
There is something called the Ben Franklin effect, a small phenomenon that occurs when someone asks another person to do a favor for them. It is called the Ben Franklin effect because Ben Franklin once made a remark about what happens between a favorer and a favoree, that convincing someone who doesn't think much of you to help you can make them suddenly think that they value you more highly as a person. The effect can actually cause the person doing the favor to believe that they really, really like the person they are doing the favor for. It's a remarkable bit of brain trickery, and, I believe, one of the reasons why I might never be happy and will get my heart broken over and over. I don't even mean just by men. I will get my heart broken by nearly everyone I meet because I will never learn.
I am always the favorer, that much is obvious from my history. I use favors and compliments and being nice and surprising everyone with a bunch of bullshit they don't need as my in, my way of showing them that I have value, that I am worth spending time with. It's pathetic and unnecessary and no one cares. I did it with Gino throughout our entire relationship, layering a thick coat of flattery on him whenever I could and spending far too much time worrying about how to make him happy. His assessment of this behaviour in me, when he told me that he could never figure out why I bothered, why I was always trying so hard, is something that still hurts. I do it for my friends, as well, and they usually appreciate it, but probably wonder the same thing, wonder why I am so fucking eager all the time. I did the same thing with Mike, and wondered the entire time why my constant efforts had no effect on him. I couldn't keep him interested because I was always too available, and too nice to him.
This will always be my biggest problem. I am too available. I always say yes, and I will show up to anything that I am invited to, and that is why no one cares if I am there or not. I wondered aloud once why it was that when I showed up to anything, everyone always asked me when my friend Tony was going to get there. I was a little resentful of it, after a while, because I wanted to ask why it wasn't enough that I was there. After enough times, I finally got it. No one cared if I was at their party or their gallery show or their birthday dinner, because I would always show up. They wanted Tony there because he was never there, and if he showed up, he showed up two hours late and ducked out before they could get bored with him. I did the opposite, showing up early and staying until nearly everyone else had left and telling too many stories and exhausting everyone. It's the fundamental difference between us- I am always available, and Tony is never available. Even though he was my best friend, I never stopped being jealous of the fact that he had this effect on people and they loved him for it. Me, they could take or leave.
Keeping a man interested for longer than a few years seems to be difficult for me. I make the guys I have been involved with think that I am a lot tougher and less prone to get attached than I really am. I break their balls a few times, and they must think that I will be like that all the time, that I will be bossy and hard-to-land. When it turns out that I just want to make them happy, that nothing will please me more than to cook them lasagna with six different cheeses and watch The Big Lebowski and then leave them the fuck alone until they want to have sex, they must just get bored. I keep circling around what my big problem is, but I don't think it's me. I think I just choose the wrong dudes, because how could any normal person get bored with that? Gino would not have gotten bored if I had brought home a different girl every night to blow him while he played Star Trek online, but that is the only way, I think, that I could have stepped up my game. I have no idea what could have kept Mike from getting bored with me, but I don't really know him all that well. I do know that showing up with homemade pie the week after he told me he couldn't make out with me anymore was just another example of me trying way too hard, and that I could have saved myself some embarrassment by not doing that. It would have been less embarrassing to show up with pie all over my face after eating the entire thing myself.
I can't help the fact that I am a giver, that I get more fulfillment out of making someone else happy and occasionally being thanked for it. It makes me love the person more, to the point where, apparently, I gross them out. Gino was, without even realizing it, working the Ben Franklin effect long con on me. The years of doing so much for him made me believe that I was constantly trying because I loved him so, so much. I did love him, that will never be called into question, but the fact that he never did favors for me as readily says something. The only time, really, that he had to do anything for me was when I had a broken leg, just last winter, and he had to do everything for me because I couldn't do anything, including drive. In six years, I had never asked him to go to the store for anything for me, but then the time came that I had to send him out for tampons. He whined, and told me he had just gotten home and wanted to sit down, but I told him that there were no two ways about it. "My period stops for no man," I said, "Please go get them?"
He went, of course, and came back with a box of some kind of ultra-slim, ultra-light flow tampons that were of no use to me, so I had to ask him to please go back and get different ones. I wasn't the nicest I have ever been about it, but I had my period, and a broken leg on top of that, and I was just annoyed with him. He bitched, but he went, and came back with a box of normal ones, and I made a point to thank him multiple times until I was out of the cast and could take care of myself again. I felt so guilty for the fact that I needed him to do anything for me that I knew I would never ask him for a favor again. Turns out, that was actually true.
I laughed along with her, but it made me think. I was always trying to make Gino happy, and not only doing the majority of the household tasks but bringing home the bulk of our income, and all it got me, in the end, was a lot of exhaustion. He thanked me, I guess, every now and then, but, as he told me recently, he never got why I was always working my ass off to make him feel special. I did so much, for so little need, because that was what I thought I was supposed to do. I never figured out that doing nice things for someone is not how you get them to like you. People tend to forget the favors you do for them, but not the favors they do for other people.
There is something called the Ben Franklin effect, a small phenomenon that occurs when someone asks another person to do a favor for them. It is called the Ben Franklin effect because Ben Franklin once made a remark about what happens between a favorer and a favoree, that convincing someone who doesn't think much of you to help you can make them suddenly think that they value you more highly as a person. The effect can actually cause the person doing the favor to believe that they really, really like the person they are doing the favor for. It's a remarkable bit of brain trickery, and, I believe, one of the reasons why I might never be happy and will get my heart broken over and over. I don't even mean just by men. I will get my heart broken by nearly everyone I meet because I will never learn.
I am always the favorer, that much is obvious from my history. I use favors and compliments and being nice and surprising everyone with a bunch of bullshit they don't need as my in, my way of showing them that I have value, that I am worth spending time with. It's pathetic and unnecessary and no one cares. I did it with Gino throughout our entire relationship, layering a thick coat of flattery on him whenever I could and spending far too much time worrying about how to make him happy. His assessment of this behaviour in me, when he told me that he could never figure out why I bothered, why I was always trying so hard, is something that still hurts. I do it for my friends, as well, and they usually appreciate it, but probably wonder the same thing, wonder why I am so fucking eager all the time. I did the same thing with Mike, and wondered the entire time why my constant efforts had no effect on him. I couldn't keep him interested because I was always too available, and too nice to him.
This will always be my biggest problem. I am too available. I always say yes, and I will show up to anything that I am invited to, and that is why no one cares if I am there or not. I wondered aloud once why it was that when I showed up to anything, everyone always asked me when my friend Tony was going to get there. I was a little resentful of it, after a while, because I wanted to ask why it wasn't enough that I was there. After enough times, I finally got it. No one cared if I was at their party or their gallery show or their birthday dinner, because I would always show up. They wanted Tony there because he was never there, and if he showed up, he showed up two hours late and ducked out before they could get bored with him. I did the opposite, showing up early and staying until nearly everyone else had left and telling too many stories and exhausting everyone. It's the fundamental difference between us- I am always available, and Tony is never available. Even though he was my best friend, I never stopped being jealous of the fact that he had this effect on people and they loved him for it. Me, they could take or leave.
Keeping a man interested for longer than a few years seems to be difficult for me. I make the guys I have been involved with think that I am a lot tougher and less prone to get attached than I really am. I break their balls a few times, and they must think that I will be like that all the time, that I will be bossy and hard-to-land. When it turns out that I just want to make them happy, that nothing will please me more than to cook them lasagna with six different cheeses and watch The Big Lebowski and then leave them the fuck alone until they want to have sex, they must just get bored. I keep circling around what my big problem is, but I don't think it's me. I think I just choose the wrong dudes, because how could any normal person get bored with that? Gino would not have gotten bored if I had brought home a different girl every night to blow him while he played Star Trek online, but that is the only way, I think, that I could have stepped up my game. I have no idea what could have kept Mike from getting bored with me, but I don't really know him all that well. I do know that showing up with homemade pie the week after he told me he couldn't make out with me anymore was just another example of me trying way too hard, and that I could have saved myself some embarrassment by not doing that. It would have been less embarrassing to show up with pie all over my face after eating the entire thing myself.
I can't help the fact that I am a giver, that I get more fulfillment out of making someone else happy and occasionally being thanked for it. It makes me love the person more, to the point where, apparently, I gross them out. Gino was, without even realizing it, working the Ben Franklin effect long con on me. The years of doing so much for him made me believe that I was constantly trying because I loved him so, so much. I did love him, that will never be called into question, but the fact that he never did favors for me as readily says something. The only time, really, that he had to do anything for me was when I had a broken leg, just last winter, and he had to do everything for me because I couldn't do anything, including drive. In six years, I had never asked him to go to the store for anything for me, but then the time came that I had to send him out for tampons. He whined, and told me he had just gotten home and wanted to sit down, but I told him that there were no two ways about it. "My period stops for no man," I said, "Please go get them?"
He went, of course, and came back with a box of some kind of ultra-slim, ultra-light flow tampons that were of no use to me, so I had to ask him to please go back and get different ones. I wasn't the nicest I have ever been about it, but I had my period, and a broken leg on top of that, and I was just annoyed with him. He bitched, but he went, and came back with a box of normal ones, and I made a point to thank him multiple times until I was out of the cast and could take care of myself again. I felt so guilty for the fact that I needed him to do anything for me that I knew I would never ask him for a favor again. Turns out, that was actually true.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Pretty On The Inside
I had another interesting moment with my ex-husband, that gave me a little bit of insight into what our future might look like if we can actually manage to stay friends. I was talking about what sort of dudes I tend to go for, and how my friend Shauna told me, in her slightly bossy way, that I need to stop liking weirdos. "Two weirdos," she said, "Do not make a right."
I was talking to Gino about this, in my usual way, just painting myself into a corner with words and not making much sense, comparing him with Mike and both of them with my big high school crush (another total weirdo) when Gino interrupted me, saying, "He's not that attractive, you know."
I wasn't sure where he was going with this, or where it came from. "Who isn't?" I asked him.
"You know, that Mike guy," he said.
I wasn't even aware that Gino knew what Mike looked like, or how he would know. "Okay, did you Facebook stalk him or something?" I asked.
"No, I met him at a party or something," Gino said, being decidedly vague enough to let me know that he probably did indulge in some innocent Facebook stalking.
I let that go, trying not to laugh at the fact that my ex-husband was throwing some serious shade at a guy I had sex with a fistful of times. "Okay, what exactly are you saying?" I asked.
"I don't know. You are too pretty for him," Gino said, recalling a joke I made months ago.
He was looking away, like the sentiment embarrassed him. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to make me feel better, in his convaluted way. It will always be this way, I thought. Someday, if I get remarried, I want Gino to be there, but I know he will probably be sitting in the audience, trying to figure out if he is taller than my new groom. I can't say I don't understand this inclination, either. I talked a lot of smack about the girl Gino had a crush on towards the end of our marriage, and if he ever gets remarried, I will probably be throwing just as much shade and trying to find a flaw on her to zero in on. I can't, however, say I agreed with his assessment of Mike, and I told him as much. "You don't have to find him attractive," I said, "But it's not even about how good-looking he is, really. There's something else about him. He's, I don't know, magnetic. He'll probably be 60 years old and still able to bring home 24-year-old girls."
Gino frowned at me. "Oh, and I guess I'm not magnetic?" he asked.
I tried to tell him that while he didn't have the exact same quality that Mike does, he has other bits and pieces. When he pressed me on what those are, precisely, I froze up. I tried to come up with something, some example of what he is working with that women respond to, but I drew a complete blank. I felt so guilty for not being able to assuage his fears and build him up like I used to. This is when I knew I would never be able to escape Gino's insecurity. Any compliment I give to another man, even though we are not a couple anymore, is just a compliment I am not giving him. I couldn't think of what made Gino attractive in the first place, what quality he might have that was superior to whatever mix of hoodoo and pheromones Mike is working with. I couldn't even make something up, and I still can't quite figure out if it is because I am still kind of under Mike's spell, or because I don't really see those things in Gino anymore. To me, he is someone I used to love romantically, used to find irresistable, but don't anymore. It's too hard to still love him that way, so I've cut it out of me completely. The irony is not lost on me, of course, that now that we are apart, Gino can find it in him to compliment me the way I wanted him to when we were married, but that I find it so much harder to do. We've been away from each other long enough to lose our old habits, but not all of them. He still expects me to love him the most, it seems, to not find anyone more handsome or interesting than him. I still leap to reassure him of his worth, but the well that held my reserve of nice, loving things to say to him has run dry because I went there too often. I gave him enough votes of confidence for a lifetime, I believe, but he still owes me some. So, I will take the fact that he told me I'm pretty, even if it came wrapped up in a harsh assessment of my choice of man. I'll take what I can get.
I was talking to Gino about this, in my usual way, just painting myself into a corner with words and not making much sense, comparing him with Mike and both of them with my big high school crush (another total weirdo) when Gino interrupted me, saying, "He's not that attractive, you know."
I wasn't sure where he was going with this, or where it came from. "Who isn't?" I asked him.
"You know, that Mike guy," he said.
I wasn't even aware that Gino knew what Mike looked like, or how he would know. "Okay, did you Facebook stalk him or something?" I asked.
"No, I met him at a party or something," Gino said, being decidedly vague enough to let me know that he probably did indulge in some innocent Facebook stalking.
I let that go, trying not to laugh at the fact that my ex-husband was throwing some serious shade at a guy I had sex with a fistful of times. "Okay, what exactly are you saying?" I asked.
"I don't know. You are too pretty for him," Gino said, recalling a joke I made months ago.
He was looking away, like the sentiment embarrassed him. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to make me feel better, in his convaluted way. It will always be this way, I thought. Someday, if I get remarried, I want Gino to be there, but I know he will probably be sitting in the audience, trying to figure out if he is taller than my new groom. I can't say I don't understand this inclination, either. I talked a lot of smack about the girl Gino had a crush on towards the end of our marriage, and if he ever gets remarried, I will probably be throwing just as much shade and trying to find a flaw on her to zero in on. I can't, however, say I agreed with his assessment of Mike, and I told him as much. "You don't have to find him attractive," I said, "But it's not even about how good-looking he is, really. There's something else about him. He's, I don't know, magnetic. He'll probably be 60 years old and still able to bring home 24-year-old girls."
Gino frowned at me. "Oh, and I guess I'm not magnetic?" he asked.
I tried to tell him that while he didn't have the exact same quality that Mike does, he has other bits and pieces. When he pressed me on what those are, precisely, I froze up. I tried to come up with something, some example of what he is working with that women respond to, but I drew a complete blank. I felt so guilty for not being able to assuage his fears and build him up like I used to. This is when I knew I would never be able to escape Gino's insecurity. Any compliment I give to another man, even though we are not a couple anymore, is just a compliment I am not giving him. I couldn't think of what made Gino attractive in the first place, what quality he might have that was superior to whatever mix of hoodoo and pheromones Mike is working with. I couldn't even make something up, and I still can't quite figure out if it is because I am still kind of under Mike's spell, or because I don't really see those things in Gino anymore. To me, he is someone I used to love romantically, used to find irresistable, but don't anymore. It's too hard to still love him that way, so I've cut it out of me completely. The irony is not lost on me, of course, that now that we are apart, Gino can find it in him to compliment me the way I wanted him to when we were married, but that I find it so much harder to do. We've been away from each other long enough to lose our old habits, but not all of them. He still expects me to love him the most, it seems, to not find anyone more handsome or interesting than him. I still leap to reassure him of his worth, but the well that held my reserve of nice, loving things to say to him has run dry because I went there too often. I gave him enough votes of confidence for a lifetime, I believe, but he still owes me some. So, I will take the fact that he told me I'm pretty, even if it came wrapped up in a harsh assessment of my choice of man. I'll take what I can get.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Say You Will
Tonight is the wrap party for NaNoWriMo, where all of the participants are supposed to get together and read an excerpt from our (probably) half-formed novel fragments and congratulate each other on making it through November with anything on paper to show for it. I think I am the only person who is actually excited about it, save Gabriel. I am a total ham, of course, so getting up on a stage to do anything is something I usually need to be held back from, not something I am afraid of. I'm really just looking forward to reading some of my writing out loud, in front of people, because so far, this thing I am working on has felt like this weird little secret. My sister has read it, my niece has read it, and I sent it to two other friends, but they are relatively safe people to show it to. I haven't shown it to anyone who will give me criticism that will really hurt. My niece told me she thought it would be longer, which made me laugh, but that other than that, she liked it. I told her it is just a piece of a larger thing, and that it was written in one month. My sister gave me surprisingly useful feedback, suggested that I tighten up some sections and use certain characters more, and I was really appreciative of her input. I have not heard anything from the other two friends, but they probably haven't read any of it yet.
I told Gino about the reading last week, after our weekly AHS viewing party. We have kept the TV watching component of our relationship going, but removed the part where we have soundless mutual orgasms after the show ends. He told me it is because he doesn't feel right about it anymore, seeing as we are currently waiting for a court date to finalize this divorce, but I think he actually might just be a little bored with it. Even without living together or seeing each other more than twice a week, we have fallen into another routine. I'm not angry with him for getting bored. I'm bored with it, too. Trying to leave out all of the emotions and make this just about satisfying our urges has made it feel completely dispassionate, to the point where I don't even feel like I am having sex with someone that I know. Anything that feels too intimate gets left out of it, and the end product just doesn't feel satisfying. It's worse than a one-night stand- it is a one-night stand that happens every week at the same time for twenty minutes. I can honestly take it or leave it.
I was on my way out the door after watching Asylum (and not having sex) and I did let slip, off-hand, that I would be reading from my micro-novel at yBar the following Tuesday and that he could come if he felt so inclined. He hemmed and hawed, as usual, and said he didn't have a way to get there. "Borrow your dad's car," I told him.
"He won't let me," he said, pulling at his sideburns the way he does when he has to think about anything.
"Tell him it's important to me," I said, knowing what was probably coming, "Maybe he'll make an exception."
He kept tugging on those short little hairs near his earlobe, looking down at the floor. I turned heel to leave, and he called me back, suggesting that he could go if I could pick him up from the house. I knew he was going to ask this, and I knew I was going to say yes, because even though I didn't want to be his chauffeur on that night, I did kind of want him to be there. Gino has been, historically, unsupportive of my creative endeavors. I understand that coming to see me emcee a panel discussion on zombies or taking the time to read a short story I wrote is not the most fun thing in the whole world, but isn't that what you do for someone you love? Support their silly dreams and clap for them over even their dumbest achievements? The fact that he would be willing to even sit through me reading my own work is a step forward, even though I know he is really only looking to get out and socialize and doesn't care what he has to sit through.
I told him I would, but last night I sent him a message telling him that I am too busy and won't have time to come and get him, but that if he can get there, I will be happy to see him. It might not be the best thing for me, however, to know that he is listening to the story of our breakup from my perspective. This is why I do not want him to read the novel once it is actually finished.
If he does read it, he will want to argue with me about my opinion of everything that happened, and he will make me think that my emotions, and how I processed my grief, are not valid. He is entitled to have his own opinion, just like I am entitled to mine, but I do not want his opinion bleeding into my opinion. What I like about what I have written is that it is honest, even down to the parts that cast my main character in an unforgiving light. It is fiction, but there is a lot of me in there, and a lot of Gino, and a lot of our divorce. It was not easy to write, to look at the parts of my breakup that were just as much my fault as they were Gino's, and not use literary trickery to make it seem like I am the innocent in all of this. Still, I know that Gino would make me rethink all of it, and make his character more sympathetic, and make me shoulder all of the responsibility for the the dissolution of our marriage. I told him as much, and that I don't think he can handle reading it because he is too sensitive. That is not a judgement, that is just a fact. He will admit that he is sensitive, and emotional, but he is also kind of selfish, and he would not be able to accept blame for how much he hurt me during the immediate aftermath of our separation. I know that letting him read it, if he had any interest in reading it, would hurt him too much, and that he can't handle that kind of reality. I've gone easy on him, downplayed my own hurt over this for his sake, and letting him see what it was really like would be too much for him. I know that it might be kind of unhealthy to still be protecting him after what he did, but I will never stop caring about him. I don't need him in my life the way that I once did, but I do still want him in my life, and I don't think that will ever change.
I told Gino about the reading last week, after our weekly AHS viewing party. We have kept the TV watching component of our relationship going, but removed the part where we have soundless mutual orgasms after the show ends. He told me it is because he doesn't feel right about it anymore, seeing as we are currently waiting for a court date to finalize this divorce, but I think he actually might just be a little bored with it. Even without living together or seeing each other more than twice a week, we have fallen into another routine. I'm not angry with him for getting bored. I'm bored with it, too. Trying to leave out all of the emotions and make this just about satisfying our urges has made it feel completely dispassionate, to the point where I don't even feel like I am having sex with someone that I know. Anything that feels too intimate gets left out of it, and the end product just doesn't feel satisfying. It's worse than a one-night stand- it is a one-night stand that happens every week at the same time for twenty minutes. I can honestly take it or leave it.
I was on my way out the door after watching Asylum (and not having sex) and I did let slip, off-hand, that I would be reading from my micro-novel at yBar the following Tuesday and that he could come if he felt so inclined. He hemmed and hawed, as usual, and said he didn't have a way to get there. "Borrow your dad's car," I told him.
"He won't let me," he said, pulling at his sideburns the way he does when he has to think about anything.
"Tell him it's important to me," I said, knowing what was probably coming, "Maybe he'll make an exception."
He kept tugging on those short little hairs near his earlobe, looking down at the floor. I turned heel to leave, and he called me back, suggesting that he could go if I could pick him up from the house. I knew he was going to ask this, and I knew I was going to say yes, because even though I didn't want to be his chauffeur on that night, I did kind of want him to be there. Gino has been, historically, unsupportive of my creative endeavors. I understand that coming to see me emcee a panel discussion on zombies or taking the time to read a short story I wrote is not the most fun thing in the whole world, but isn't that what you do for someone you love? Support their silly dreams and clap for them over even their dumbest achievements? The fact that he would be willing to even sit through me reading my own work is a step forward, even though I know he is really only looking to get out and socialize and doesn't care what he has to sit through.
I told him I would, but last night I sent him a message telling him that I am too busy and won't have time to come and get him, but that if he can get there, I will be happy to see him. It might not be the best thing for me, however, to know that he is listening to the story of our breakup from my perspective. This is why I do not want him to read the novel once it is actually finished.
If he does read it, he will want to argue with me about my opinion of everything that happened, and he will make me think that my emotions, and how I processed my grief, are not valid. He is entitled to have his own opinion, just like I am entitled to mine, but I do not want his opinion bleeding into my opinion. What I like about what I have written is that it is honest, even down to the parts that cast my main character in an unforgiving light. It is fiction, but there is a lot of me in there, and a lot of Gino, and a lot of our divorce. It was not easy to write, to look at the parts of my breakup that were just as much my fault as they were Gino's, and not use literary trickery to make it seem like I am the innocent in all of this. Still, I know that Gino would make me rethink all of it, and make his character more sympathetic, and make me shoulder all of the responsibility for the the dissolution of our marriage. I told him as much, and that I don't think he can handle reading it because he is too sensitive. That is not a judgement, that is just a fact. He will admit that he is sensitive, and emotional, but he is also kind of selfish, and he would not be able to accept blame for how much he hurt me during the immediate aftermath of our separation. I know that letting him read it, if he had any interest in reading it, would hurt him too much, and that he can't handle that kind of reality. I've gone easy on him, downplayed my own hurt over this for his sake, and letting him see what it was really like would be too much for him. I know that it might be kind of unhealthy to still be protecting him after what he did, but I will never stop caring about him. I don't need him in my life the way that I once did, but I do still want him in my life, and I don't think that will ever change.
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Tattoo You
I e-mailed the artist at Redemption Tattoo who will be giving me my squid and whale tattoo this coming January, sending him the cover of They Might Be Giants Apollo 18 because I like the way it is drawn. While I am excited to do this after waiting for months since I made the appointment, I am starting to get apprehensive, because I haven't gotten any new ink since I was 19 and also because I just factored in that I will have to make the drive to Cambridge and back by myself. I didn't really think of that when I made the appointment. I was with Mike when I went out there, and while I'm not scared of driving in Boston, I just don't really like it, especially in winter, and especially if I am alone. He was doing me a favor by letting me tag along, but now I have to drive all the way out there, get drilled for probably two or three hours, and drive back. Whoopee flipping ding.
I can't help but feel the tiniest bit miffed over it. He was, as I said, doing me a favor by bringing me with him, because appointments need to be made in person with a deposit, but I sat there and waited around for three hours while he got his (albeit, really awesome) tattoo, feeling awkward and uncool. I have a complex surrounding body mod artists. I grew up around them, since my sister worked as a body piercer for years, so you would think I would be able to look at these dudes and just think that they are my people, but no, I don't. I go back to being 17, not knowing where to put my hands while sitting on a bench and waiting for time to pass. I get flustered, and unnecessarily apologetic, and I always feel like I'm wearing the wrong clothes. I sat there and waited for him, but he never had any intention of waiting around for me while I got artwork stitched into my skin. He was over me already when we went to Boston to do this, in fact, I just didn't know it yet.
Despite my annoyance and my reservations, I am excited about what my tattoo is going to look like and what it signifies. In my mind, I am that squid, and this past year is the whale, and I am fighting it with everything I have. I have wrapped all of my tentacles around the hurt I have been handed and I am not going to let it win. I was just swimming along, minding my own business, and this year, this divorce, this heartbreak decided to attack me. I feel like I have fought off letting this huge animal of negativity take me down, even if I have felt miserable and like I'm not even close to winning while fighting it.
It is a little bit juvenile to use a tattoo as my declaration of strength and independance. I can just see myself, years from now, still explaining why I got it and trying to justify going through the pain of getting such an obscure picture branded onto my arm. Just the other day, I heard a table full of my co-workers talking about and/or showing off their tattoos in the employee cafeteria, and it took everything I had not to roll my eyes. The tattoos I have, I never show, simply because I've gotten tired of explaining what they mean. They are still important to me, and carry a great deal of significance, but watching someone I barely know struggle to understand what the pair of goldfish tattoos on my belly, or the broadsword on my back signify is just plain annoying. So, I don't show them. I added the tattoos to the list of things that only people I really trust will ever get to see, along with what is on my iPod and my weird big toenail.
I know I am going to end up making the drive alone, probably drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee and listening to a never ending Spotify playlist on my Kindle, while trying to understand the Google Maps app as I navigate outer Boston in January. Then I will drive back, again, by myself, with my arm feeling like just the upper part is sunburned, and I will feel triumphant, and changed, and, unavoidably, a little lonely. This is one thing I can do now without having to consult anyone else, and I like this part of being single. My decisions are mine, good or bad or irresponsible or what-have-you. I own them, just like I will own my awesome tattoo once I get it.
I can't help but feel the tiniest bit miffed over it. He was, as I said, doing me a favor by bringing me with him, because appointments need to be made in person with a deposit, but I sat there and waited around for three hours while he got his (albeit, really awesome) tattoo, feeling awkward and uncool. I have a complex surrounding body mod artists. I grew up around them, since my sister worked as a body piercer for years, so you would think I would be able to look at these dudes and just think that they are my people, but no, I don't. I go back to being 17, not knowing where to put my hands while sitting on a bench and waiting for time to pass. I get flustered, and unnecessarily apologetic, and I always feel like I'm wearing the wrong clothes. I sat there and waited for him, but he never had any intention of waiting around for me while I got artwork stitched into my skin. He was over me already when we went to Boston to do this, in fact, I just didn't know it yet.
Despite my annoyance and my reservations, I am excited about what my tattoo is going to look like and what it signifies. In my mind, I am that squid, and this past year is the whale, and I am fighting it with everything I have. I have wrapped all of my tentacles around the hurt I have been handed and I am not going to let it win. I was just swimming along, minding my own business, and this year, this divorce, this heartbreak decided to attack me. I feel like I have fought off letting this huge animal of negativity take me down, even if I have felt miserable and like I'm not even close to winning while fighting it.
It is a little bit juvenile to use a tattoo as my declaration of strength and independance. I can just see myself, years from now, still explaining why I got it and trying to justify going through the pain of getting such an obscure picture branded onto my arm. Just the other day, I heard a table full of my co-workers talking about and/or showing off their tattoos in the employee cafeteria, and it took everything I had not to roll my eyes. The tattoos I have, I never show, simply because I've gotten tired of explaining what they mean. They are still important to me, and carry a great deal of significance, but watching someone I barely know struggle to understand what the pair of goldfish tattoos on my belly, or the broadsword on my back signify is just plain annoying. So, I don't show them. I added the tattoos to the list of things that only people I really trust will ever get to see, along with what is on my iPod and my weird big toenail.
I know I am going to end up making the drive alone, probably drinking Dunkin Donuts coffee and listening to a never ending Spotify playlist on my Kindle, while trying to understand the Google Maps app as I navigate outer Boston in January. Then I will drive back, again, by myself, with my arm feeling like just the upper part is sunburned, and I will feel triumphant, and changed, and, unavoidably, a little lonely. This is one thing I can do now without having to consult anyone else, and I like this part of being single. My decisions are mine, good or bad or irresponsible or what-have-you. I own them, just like I will own my awesome tattoo once I get it.
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