I have written and rewritten this piece several times now, and it continues to come up in conversation, and I am constantly urged to post it. So, although I'm a little nervous, here goes...
2010 has been coined as the year of the "Plague of the Penis," affectionately referred to as P.O.P. What does this mean?
Well, several things actually. (Now, bear in mind that I am trying to articulate to the best of my abilities what I have experienced on a personal level, as well as what I hear from other women in my circle and surrounding circles.)
Let's begin with me, on a personal level. The Plague began like this:
I became a single woman for the first time in decades this year. I am, for the most part, in excellent shape, doing incredible things in my life, self-sufficient, enjoying a great deal of camaraderie and entertainment, etc etc. The goal for this new found single-hood was to, in a manner of speaking, play it like a man. I am NOT AT ALL interested in a relationship at this time, and have expressed this clearly with friends and potential lovers. I thought it best to find a few good lovers to keep abuzz in my hive, keeping it varied and interesting, and to keep me enlivened and appreciated in different ways. Let's just say, after all I'd been through in the Department of Love/Hell, I felt ready to just be lavished in affection from several directions.
The outcome thus far has been as such: a complete and utter disappointment. Had I been spoiled my entire life with choice lovers and am now paying the price? It would appear so, as the fumblings and bumblings of potentials have been seriously underwhelming, in the worst way. Do I need to start teaching a course? Should I have been a sex therapist instead of a singer? Or is THIS what other women have been enduring and dealing with over the years? I am shocked, men, and extremely let down. One of the phrases I have coined this year is "Just shut up and listen to a woman!" We're trying to tell you what to do, because you obviously are headed in the wrong direction. P.O.P.!!!
So, that's my first plague. Here comes the second:
So, at long last, after several failed attempts, I find a man who knows EXACTLY what to do. I mean, it's as if he read the handbook to my body, my skin, my loins and heart and knew every right word to say, every correct way to touch, to kiss - ah! kill me now for the goddamn kiss of perfection on my lips! - and so on and so forth. It was my hallelujah moment of the year! I mean, I reconsidered my whole plan: maybe a small bevvy of lovers just wasn't meant to be, but one GOOD one was freaking fantastic!
We spent a solid month hanging. Chatting online almost daily, sending texts, calling, meeting up - even with friends. Bringing me into his world, stepping into mine. He was fresh out of a relationship- PERFECT! Figured he wouldn't be pushing that card, which still remains an uninteresting option for my life. Everything was ON, hot, feelin' it, there... until, he decides to hang out with some other chick! Okay, all right, that's cool. I mean, I originally wanted a few to juggle myself, but no - he comes out of one relationship, and jumps into another, leaving me stranded with no reserves! WTF?
In so many of the relationships I've endured, and my friends have endured, the commonality had often been these men that want to have their cake and eat it too. So, after endless heartbreaks and being cheated on and hanging with dudes that will never commit, many of us women thought we had finally gotten smart: cool, we'll just play by those rules instead, and enjoy the freedom and (try to) avoid the bullshit that we'd been swallowing by the shovelful. But now, what's THIS bulllshit? Are you telling me that you could choose to have passionate, unbridled, unattached sex with a goddess and you're saying NO? P.O.P.!!!
Yet, there's more, and here's where I'm paraphrasing for others, so hope I express it well.
Third plague is this: you know, guys, women like to get off too. We have needs, we like sex... and on a somewhat regular basis is preferred. So, I'm hearing from many women this summer about lovers they have, whom they enjoy, with whom they have also clearly expressed no desire for relationship status, but want to be able to make booty-calls, much in the same way men have been doing to us since we gave them our "apples" to begin with.
Yet, these men seem so overly confident in their prowess, their personality, whatever "gifts" they think they have, that they simply cannot BELIEVE a woman would want them only for their penis. So, they call it off, playing the "Well, we've been hangin' out a couple times a week, and it just seems like you want more" card. Uh, NO. More DICK maybe, but nothing more, be assured. To no avail... dude man just cannot comprehend that he is in the best situation possible, where he gets to come over, get his rocks off, go home and not have to worry about a thing. P.O.P.!!!
The list goes on... I have a few friends who have been single for quite some time, and are seriously going on MONTHS sans action. This is not acceptable. I love how guys will often remark, "Well, it's so easy for girls to get laid - all they have to do is go out and they've got options galore waiting for them." No, no, no, my little friends. This is not true. I mean, I suppose it is in the sense that there typically ARE those guys that are hanging around, expressing interest, and you know you COULD fuck them if you wanted... but you already know you don't want them, or would have bedded them already!
I'm talking about the same thrill that you guys get off on: meeting that person that's fresh and new and interesting, even if they're not exactly your type, but still.... someone you could get off on just making the rounds to third base even. I've been saying all summer, I need to make some t-shirts quoting one of my poems: "If I want you, just shut up and fuck me." Would that make it easier? Would you men out there at the clubs and bars, going around the lakes, walking your dogs, standing in line at whatever checkout, etc etc, even appreciate such a direct approach? You act like you would, but in the end, I think most of you would wimp out. P.O.P.!!!
I held counsel with a few women last night about these issues, and more. We're getting real serious over here. Talks of a Federation to end all this confusing sexual melodrama are being discussed. I am a busy person, I have other work and items requiring my attention and energies. But how am I supposed to stay focused when I am so hard up? I can't even believe I'm writing this, or that this is an actual issue in my life. Let's blame it on my vanity, totally, but I don't think I'm the kind of girl that should be so completely unsatisfied. And as for my fellow sisters, they deserve to be equally serviced as well!
Men of the world, we must sit down, if need be. Maybe you just don't get it. Maybe your machismo will forever need to have control over these things. I don't know. But you all are missing out BIG TIME. And if you think we women are scary during our moontime, just wait til we've all gone months without sex. It's about to get f*ing craaaazzzaaaaayyyy up in here.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Houses on Memory Lane
34 years old. Been living between Minneapolis and St. Paul now for fifteen years. I keep moving back and forth over the river. Every move, I end up in a new neighborhood, and there have been so many homes at this point that driving around this town has become somewhat of a constant turn down Memory Lane.
My very first apartment wasn't actually mine: straight after graduation from the Arts High School, I shacked up with my guitarist-friend-turned-boyfriend in the Stevens Square neighborhood, in the old building on the corner of 3rd and Franklin. When I drive by, I can see the windows to our first-floor studio. I remember long, hot days, listening to the Cocteau Twins "Four Calendar Cafe," and drinking Jack Daniels Tennessee Teas on ice. I can hear a faint echo of his beautiful strumming and unique tunings on that beat-up guitar. I muse how, back then, at 18 years old, I had such a pure, high, clear voice and all I wanted was some grit and depth. Now, after twenty years of living and smoking and drinking and occassionally screaming, I wish I could hit those notes as clearly as they came to me back then. I drive by, and miss my old friend,who chose to walk a hard road in this life. I kept my eyes on him, kept tabs on him, for so many years, until all the tears shed for him blinded me at last. I miss his tunes. I mourn his talent. I'm angry at his choices. But, I miss those easy days back then... days when my imaginings of the future were far from what was on its way, and destined to be.
Years later (after my nearly 4-year stint living abroad in Mexico), I came back home and got my very own first apartment, on Ridgeway -that hilly street that winds up behind Rudolph's on Lyndale. It was a small one-bedroom, very long and oddly laid out. It was there I brought home my kitten, Lilly, who celebrates ten years with me next month. It was also there and in that time when I met the love of my life, the one who got away, the one I'll always wonder most about. He was a waiter at the Loring (the REAL Loring, that those in the know are forever bound to by nostalgia and grief), and the day came when I gave him my number. He called at 3am, awakening me, and asked if I'd like to come over for some vegetable juice. Pleased that he called, and charmed by the unique request (points for creativity), I declined. We made a more appropriate date later that week, and when I went to pick him up, we never made it out of the house. Unknowing, we had begun a relationship that would span nearly four years as lovers, and last a lifetime as family.
I moved next to a 2nd floor unit on the corner of 26th and Harriet. A beautiful apartment that I really made into my first HOME. Still dating the love of my life, he lived a convenient three blocks away. I loved that apartment, and when I drive by now, I always say "Hello," and smile. I was in my mid-20s living there, right in the center of Uptown and all kinds of movement and entertainment. I learned to really cook in that home. I held down my first teaching jobs in that home. I started to sing for bands and dance companies, entering into the Minneapolis scene in that home. It was good to me. It was a happy place, for the most part... except for one night, in particular.
It was the night when I was awakened by a night hawk, and found the power had gone out. It was the night I had walked over to my love's house, and found him in bed, pleasuring another. It was the first time I had been so betrayed (but wouldn't be the last). It was the first time my heart had truly been broken. I recall the tears, the sickness, the wild bewilderment that occurred in that home. I sing in my head the many songs born from that pain. I gave birth to an album of hurt in that home. I guess you could say, it was in that place I finally found my deeper voice, and some real, true grit.
After some time and distance apart, my love and I reunited, and chose to establish a more committed relationship together. At that time, his mother offered us a house to rent in Frogtown, in St. Paul. I knew nothing about St. Paul, and could see by driving through that Frogtown was a far cry from Uptown. Yet, to have a whole house for a screaming $520/mo, well, we took her up on the offer. We spent close to three years living in that house together, I think. I'd painted all the walls in varied, intense colors. We gardened. We cooked beautiful food together. Osho came into our lives, little fluffball of a Chow pup that he was. I embraced a new side of my being, the Martha Stewart within, and fell in love with our domestication. Yet, after all those years, as my passion for a life of love and marriage and children intensified, my love's dwindled.
At one point in that home we had an entirely civilized conversation, and decided it best we no longer be in a committed relationship. It was a mutual decision, as plain as, "So, we're not together anymore?" "No, I guess not." "Okay... I'm off to work. Dinner later?" We continued to live in that house, and even sleep in the same bed for many months or years later, I can't keep it straight. Our partnership had remained as a familial friendship. People thought we were crazy, and maybe it was odd, after all. Yet, to this day, our love and commitment to each other remains in tact. We will forever be in each other's lives, loving and caring for one another... being there in times of need. He shares that home now with his new love, and has for several years. When I've driven by, I am mindful that it is their home now, and not ours. But I relish each Spring when he calls to tell me that the Bleeding Hearts I'd planted are in bloom. Symbolic, I guess, of those years, and our enduring love.
Back to Uptown it was, to a house on 34th Street, I then rented with my new husband. He had immigrated from Israel in the dead of winter, and while we were house hunting, I knew the Uptown area would be the best - urban, busy, easy to get around. Piled in snow, his undeveloped imagination refused to believe that this neighborhood was any better than Frogtown. He resisted as I insisted. We were 5 blocks from Lake Calhoun, on a peaceful street with kind neighbors, and got a great deal on an entire 2-bedroom house for $800/mo.
This would be the house of my marriage. The house of so much sacrifice and struggle. The house of hard work, hard times, hard love. We had so many hopes, such wonderful intentions, such amazing natural gifts bestowed upon us as individuals, that it seemed (early on) we would be a dream team. Nothing was farther from the truth. Our differences, which we originally thought would serve to balance our lives, kept us ever at an ocean's length of sympathy or understanding for the other. We tried. We tried SO hard. We loved each other, of course, but in our case, love just wasn't enough.
This was also the house I lived in when my father died. This house heard the death cries, the banshee screams. This house battled my own wishes for death, contained my grief and rage, swallowed my desperation. This house was fed on tears, shouting, abuse, lonliness, and abandonment. It was a pretty little house, a nice house, and yet when I see it now, I am ever reminded of the pain that lived there, the failures. My failures and grief. I feel sad when I drive by that one... regretting so much... wishing it had been so different.
Back to St. Paul, on my own again. To the "other side" this time: the beautiful and quiet Mac/Groveland college and single-family home dwelling area, which provided me with a sense of safety and security for the first time in years. I was making a new beginning... entering my mid-30s, freshly divorced, my life in my own hands again. It felt good to make this house my home, just as I wanted it, with no one to argue about the colors I chose or the art on the walls. I was able to infuse this home with my own energy - ALL my own - and know there would be no repercussions, no disturbances. It took time to get used to that, to accept it. Of course, I battled lonliness and fear, sadness and longing for what felt comfortable (even if it was unhealthy for me).
Here, in this home, I met myself again, for the first time since that apartment on 26th and Harriet, years and years before. This house allowed me to be me, reflected my spirit back to me in its shape and comfort. This place uncovered my inner confidence and strength, where I proved to myself that I didn't need anyone to help make my life work - that I was doing it, and enjoying life more than ever! I was inspired, and began to dream again - dream of the life that I tuly wanted for myself, and took steps I had never been brave enough to take in the past towards seeing those dreams come true. In this house, I returned to my true path and began to step into my full potential. I can honestly say... this is the house where I met my grown woman self.
Two weeks ago, I moved into my new house, my current house: an upper-level duplex in the Linden Hills areas of Minneapolis (yes, back over the river AGAIN). I moved in, sight unseen, as I was bedridden, and pre-spinal surgery before the move. My friends facilitated everything: from packing to moving to post-surgery care and unpacking. I've been here all of three weeks now, and thus far, it has been the house of healing. Healing my back, healing my heart, healing hurt relationships of the past, healing the child within. The neighborhood is an upgrade: even more beautiful and more peaceful than the last. I also am trying on a non-boyfriend/husband roommate for the first time ever, which is a change that so far has been great. I am enjoying exploring this new 'hood, just 2 blocks from Lake Harriet. I muse, wondering how long I'll be here, what stories of life will unfold, and what will the memories be this time? The wondering fills me with excitement, hope and just a little fear.
These twin cities get smaller and smaller to me with each passing year. I see so many ghosts running around, it can be plaguing at times: seeing the hidden path I would walk my dog after Dad died; passing by restaurants that have changed names countless times, yet still harbor old meetings wth friends, some who are no longer with us today; new construction wiping out old buildings where I have kissed, danced, fought, and run into faces unseen for years. Clubs where I sang my heart out. Lakes, around which my feet have pounded pavement. Streets I would take to get to this job or that. Old routines I remember as if they'd never changed or been broken.
After all these years, I am finally willing to say that I love Minnesota. There's simply just no more denying that it is, and has been, home. And as I keep moving from place to place, hard to keep up with as usual, you will always most surely find me strolling down Memory Lane. The home of all my homes.
My very first apartment wasn't actually mine: straight after graduation from the Arts High School, I shacked up with my guitarist-friend-turned-boyfriend in the Stevens Square neighborhood, in the old building on the corner of 3rd and Franklin. When I drive by, I can see the windows to our first-floor studio. I remember long, hot days, listening to the Cocteau Twins "Four Calendar Cafe," and drinking Jack Daniels Tennessee Teas on ice. I can hear a faint echo of his beautiful strumming and unique tunings on that beat-up guitar. I muse how, back then, at 18 years old, I had such a pure, high, clear voice and all I wanted was some grit and depth. Now, after twenty years of living and smoking and drinking and occassionally screaming, I wish I could hit those notes as clearly as they came to me back then. I drive by, and miss my old friend,who chose to walk a hard road in this life. I kept my eyes on him, kept tabs on him, for so many years, until all the tears shed for him blinded me at last. I miss his tunes. I mourn his talent. I'm angry at his choices. But, I miss those easy days back then... days when my imaginings of the future were far from what was on its way, and destined to be.
Years later (after my nearly 4-year stint living abroad in Mexico), I came back home and got my very own first apartment, on Ridgeway -that hilly street that winds up behind Rudolph's on Lyndale. It was a small one-bedroom, very long and oddly laid out. It was there I brought home my kitten, Lilly, who celebrates ten years with me next month. It was also there and in that time when I met the love of my life, the one who got away, the one I'll always wonder most about. He was a waiter at the Loring (the REAL Loring, that those in the know are forever bound to by nostalgia and grief), and the day came when I gave him my number. He called at 3am, awakening me, and asked if I'd like to come over for some vegetable juice. Pleased that he called, and charmed by the unique request (points for creativity), I declined. We made a more appropriate date later that week, and when I went to pick him up, we never made it out of the house. Unknowing, we had begun a relationship that would span nearly four years as lovers, and last a lifetime as family.
I moved next to a 2nd floor unit on the corner of 26th and Harriet. A beautiful apartment that I really made into my first HOME. Still dating the love of my life, he lived a convenient three blocks away. I loved that apartment, and when I drive by now, I always say "Hello," and smile. I was in my mid-20s living there, right in the center of Uptown and all kinds of movement and entertainment. I learned to really cook in that home. I held down my first teaching jobs in that home. I started to sing for bands and dance companies, entering into the Minneapolis scene in that home. It was good to me. It was a happy place, for the most part... except for one night, in particular.
It was the night when I was awakened by a night hawk, and found the power had gone out. It was the night I had walked over to my love's house, and found him in bed, pleasuring another. It was the first time I had been so betrayed (but wouldn't be the last). It was the first time my heart had truly been broken. I recall the tears, the sickness, the wild bewilderment that occurred in that home. I sing in my head the many songs born from that pain. I gave birth to an album of hurt in that home. I guess you could say, it was in that place I finally found my deeper voice, and some real, true grit.
After some time and distance apart, my love and I reunited, and chose to establish a more committed relationship together. At that time, his mother offered us a house to rent in Frogtown, in St. Paul. I knew nothing about St. Paul, and could see by driving through that Frogtown was a far cry from Uptown. Yet, to have a whole house for a screaming $520/mo, well, we took her up on the offer. We spent close to three years living in that house together, I think. I'd painted all the walls in varied, intense colors. We gardened. We cooked beautiful food together. Osho came into our lives, little fluffball of a Chow pup that he was. I embraced a new side of my being, the Martha Stewart within, and fell in love with our domestication. Yet, after all those years, as my passion for a life of love and marriage and children intensified, my love's dwindled.
At one point in that home we had an entirely civilized conversation, and decided it best we no longer be in a committed relationship. It was a mutual decision, as plain as, "So, we're not together anymore?" "No, I guess not." "Okay... I'm off to work. Dinner later?" We continued to live in that house, and even sleep in the same bed for many months or years later, I can't keep it straight. Our partnership had remained as a familial friendship. People thought we were crazy, and maybe it was odd, after all. Yet, to this day, our love and commitment to each other remains in tact. We will forever be in each other's lives, loving and caring for one another... being there in times of need. He shares that home now with his new love, and has for several years. When I've driven by, I am mindful that it is their home now, and not ours. But I relish each Spring when he calls to tell me that the Bleeding Hearts I'd planted are in bloom. Symbolic, I guess, of those years, and our enduring love.
Back to Uptown it was, to a house on 34th Street, I then rented with my new husband. He had immigrated from Israel in the dead of winter, and while we were house hunting, I knew the Uptown area would be the best - urban, busy, easy to get around. Piled in snow, his undeveloped imagination refused to believe that this neighborhood was any better than Frogtown. He resisted as I insisted. We were 5 blocks from Lake Calhoun, on a peaceful street with kind neighbors, and got a great deal on an entire 2-bedroom house for $800/mo.
This would be the house of my marriage. The house of so much sacrifice and struggle. The house of hard work, hard times, hard love. We had so many hopes, such wonderful intentions, such amazing natural gifts bestowed upon us as individuals, that it seemed (early on) we would be a dream team. Nothing was farther from the truth. Our differences, which we originally thought would serve to balance our lives, kept us ever at an ocean's length of sympathy or understanding for the other. We tried. We tried SO hard. We loved each other, of course, but in our case, love just wasn't enough.
This was also the house I lived in when my father died. This house heard the death cries, the banshee screams. This house battled my own wishes for death, contained my grief and rage, swallowed my desperation. This house was fed on tears, shouting, abuse, lonliness, and abandonment. It was a pretty little house, a nice house, and yet when I see it now, I am ever reminded of the pain that lived there, the failures. My failures and grief. I feel sad when I drive by that one... regretting so much... wishing it had been so different.
Back to St. Paul, on my own again. To the "other side" this time: the beautiful and quiet Mac/Groveland college and single-family home dwelling area, which provided me with a sense of safety and security for the first time in years. I was making a new beginning... entering my mid-30s, freshly divorced, my life in my own hands again. It felt good to make this house my home, just as I wanted it, with no one to argue about the colors I chose or the art on the walls. I was able to infuse this home with my own energy - ALL my own - and know there would be no repercussions, no disturbances. It took time to get used to that, to accept it. Of course, I battled lonliness and fear, sadness and longing for what felt comfortable (even if it was unhealthy for me).
Here, in this home, I met myself again, for the first time since that apartment on 26th and Harriet, years and years before. This house allowed me to be me, reflected my spirit back to me in its shape and comfort. This place uncovered my inner confidence and strength, where I proved to myself that I didn't need anyone to help make my life work - that I was doing it, and enjoying life more than ever! I was inspired, and began to dream again - dream of the life that I tuly wanted for myself, and took steps I had never been brave enough to take in the past towards seeing those dreams come true. In this house, I returned to my true path and began to step into my full potential. I can honestly say... this is the house where I met my grown woman self.
Two weeks ago, I moved into my new house, my current house: an upper-level duplex in the Linden Hills areas of Minneapolis (yes, back over the river AGAIN). I moved in, sight unseen, as I was bedridden, and pre-spinal surgery before the move. My friends facilitated everything: from packing to moving to post-surgery care and unpacking. I've been here all of three weeks now, and thus far, it has been the house of healing. Healing my back, healing my heart, healing hurt relationships of the past, healing the child within. The neighborhood is an upgrade: even more beautiful and more peaceful than the last. I also am trying on a non-boyfriend/husband roommate for the first time ever, which is a change that so far has been great. I am enjoying exploring this new 'hood, just 2 blocks from Lake Harriet. I muse, wondering how long I'll be here, what stories of life will unfold, and what will the memories be this time? The wondering fills me with excitement, hope and just a little fear.
These twin cities get smaller and smaller to me with each passing year. I see so many ghosts running around, it can be plaguing at times: seeing the hidden path I would walk my dog after Dad died; passing by restaurants that have changed names countless times, yet still harbor old meetings wth friends, some who are no longer with us today; new construction wiping out old buildings where I have kissed, danced, fought, and run into faces unseen for years. Clubs where I sang my heart out. Lakes, around which my feet have pounded pavement. Streets I would take to get to this job or that. Old routines I remember as if they'd never changed or been broken.
After all these years, I am finally willing to say that I love Minnesota. There's simply just no more denying that it is, and has been, home. And as I keep moving from place to place, hard to keep up with as usual, you will always most surely find me strolling down Memory Lane. The home of all my homes.
Friday, August 20, 2010
This is Getting Ridiculous
I'm going to blame it all on being cooped up for too long... now I REALLY know why the caged bird sings: what the hell else is she to do?
I have understood, and continue to understand, that this downtime has been predestined, and that as my body heals from all this trauma, so am I supposed to focus inward, and heal the traumas still living there.
Been doing it. So much god damned reflection over the past two months, I'm sick of myself! I've made steps forward, and steps back. I have written, and discussed. I have read, and pondered and questioned. I have found some answers, while others remain elusive. I have released pain, and confronted rage. I have re-connected with friends and family, just as I've slashed and burned more toxic people from my life. Blah, blah, blah... I'm bored now.
The good news is that I am mobile, and am slowly re-entering the world again. Looking forward to going out tonight, to see all my friends, hear their music, have a drink (or three or four). Feel "normal" again. Get back to my work: my album, my choir, my students soon enough. I know it's all coming, and I'm on my way. More patience is required day after day after day.
Everyone has been telling me: "You have to slow down. You can't keep running at this pace. Your body is telling you something." Shit, I even wrote a song about it yesterday, "Slow down, girl you gotta hold down, you don't wanna go down kicking both feet up off of the ground." It's just so hard. Not my style.
I've been thinking it would behoove me to get into some Buddhist practice of meditation, to do a cleanse, to make some significant lifestyle changes which might help me channel all this energy I'm blessed with into a healthier, steadier fashion. I'm thinking about it...
There's just so much I look forward to in my life, so much I want to accomplish. I have so many dreams and plans and projects... and want it all NOW! Again,"Patience, little grasshopper."
In the meantime, as I slowly emerge from this chrysalis, one delicate wing at a time, I'm forced to accept that there are limitations - physical limitations - and will be, for a while yet. I have no choice but to move slowly, to rest often, to be delicate... an Aries ram being delicate. That's some hooey if I do say so myself.
I'm just whining now. I'll stop. Let's be grateful instead that this has been and will be a temporary experience in my life. Many songs and poems have been born of it. Many friendships have been forged and cemented. My back is fixed, and likely for good. And for all the years I worked so hard, and desperately craved time to rest, well, I finally got it.
'Nuff said.
I have understood, and continue to understand, that this downtime has been predestined, and that as my body heals from all this trauma, so am I supposed to focus inward, and heal the traumas still living there.
Been doing it. So much god damned reflection over the past two months, I'm sick of myself! I've made steps forward, and steps back. I have written, and discussed. I have read, and pondered and questioned. I have found some answers, while others remain elusive. I have released pain, and confronted rage. I have re-connected with friends and family, just as I've slashed and burned more toxic people from my life. Blah, blah, blah... I'm bored now.
The good news is that I am mobile, and am slowly re-entering the world again. Looking forward to going out tonight, to see all my friends, hear their music, have a drink (or three or four). Feel "normal" again. Get back to my work: my album, my choir, my students soon enough. I know it's all coming, and I'm on my way. More patience is required day after day after day.
Everyone has been telling me: "You have to slow down. You can't keep running at this pace. Your body is telling you something." Shit, I even wrote a song about it yesterday, "Slow down, girl you gotta hold down, you don't wanna go down kicking both feet up off of the ground." It's just so hard. Not my style.
I've been thinking it would behoove me to get into some Buddhist practice of meditation, to do a cleanse, to make some significant lifestyle changes which might help me channel all this energy I'm blessed with into a healthier, steadier fashion. I'm thinking about it...
There's just so much I look forward to in my life, so much I want to accomplish. I have so many dreams and plans and projects... and want it all NOW! Again,"Patience, little grasshopper."
In the meantime, as I slowly emerge from this chrysalis, one delicate wing at a time, I'm forced to accept that there are limitations - physical limitations - and will be, for a while yet. I have no choice but to move slowly, to rest often, to be delicate... an Aries ram being delicate. That's some hooey if I do say so myself.
I'm just whining now. I'll stop. Let's be grateful instead that this has been and will be a temporary experience in my life. Many songs and poems have been born of it. Many friendships have been forged and cemented. My back is fixed, and likely for good. And for all the years I worked so hard, and desperately craved time to rest, well, I finally got it.
'Nuff said.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Family You're Born With, The Family You Create
For the past five years, I had been suffering an occasional trauma to my back, which I would always refer to as "my crookedness," - the muscles on the lower left side of my spine would completely seize up, causing my pelvis to tilt and making my hips look crooked. It was so ghastly and unbelievably painful, and always seemed to occur during stressful times in life - particularly during transitions, when feelings of being alone, ungrounded, unstable and unsupported were most intense (which makes great sense, as those lumbar muscles are those which "support" the body).
I was completely convinced that this pain was, indeed, brought on by stress. My method, then, for curing the pain was to tend to the body with bedrest, massage and chiropractic, and to endeavor to identify the source of the stress which initially caused the pain, and work through it by writing and loads of talk therapy. For years, it went on this way, and while the situations incurring the pain varied greatly, the pain itself and the internal dilemmas were almost always the same: very much centered around my childhood, family, and the way I was raised.
I didn't have very much support growing up. My parents were not present. There was very litle guidance. There was a lot of hostility. I floated between my mom's house, my dad's house, the babysitter's, the cousins and grandparents and friends' houses with no real sense of "home." My mom's house would have been declared as the official "home," but there was seldom anyone there, and when my mom wasn't working and my sisters were around, it was a house filled with much sadness and anger. When I think back to that first home, I don't find many happy memories there at all. Yet, I can recall many memories of feeling alone and afraid. When my back would later give out on me as an adult, each and every time, the feelings attached to it were also of feeling alone and afraid - and, I should mention, both anger and sadness, too, that I was/am so alone and so afraid.
This summer, as noted in previous posts, my back not only "acted up" again, but went the full distance, and just up and quit on me. For the month of July, I was in more pain than I had ever experienced in my life. I had gone crooked again, shortly after an old friend had come into town and signed a lease with me on an apartment, and then backed out. BOOM! Crooked. Alone, unsupported, not knowing where I'd go or where home would be, afraid, angry, sad.... the usual gamut. I went back to my tried and true methods of healing: bedrest, massage, chiropractic - even added acupuncture into the mix. While I was laid up, I spent time reflecting and examining the situation, and the old memories connected to it. I wrote poetry, spoke with friends and my shrink. But something was different this time... I wasn't getting better.
I soon began to experience intense sciatic pain shooting down my left leg. Now, I wasn't only crooked, but I was losing feeling and all strength from the leg, and could barely walk without excruciating and blinding pain. Having no medical insurance, I stuck with the homepathic healing and healers I knew and were offering their services - I added in shiatsu, reiki, myofascial release, herbs, supplements, arnica creams and biofreeze. While some would give me temporary relief, the pain continued to increase and journey further and further down my leg, to my ankle and foot.
In the meantime, my current apartment had been rented out for the month of August - I had to move! I had to find a place to move to, pack all my things, clear out by the end of the month, and have the place cleaned to get my deposit back - and I could barely even move from bed to bathroom! The stress, the crisis, feeling so overwhelmed and not even being physically able to get to my computer to look online for apartments, let alone get in the car to go see them, was.... well, I don't know a word for it. What's more scary than utter fear? That's what I felt.
I hadn't been in contact with my family for well over a year at this point. My father, who ever protected and came to the rescue, had passed away. It was all on me. I felt like I was eight years-old, hiding in the closet in the house of my youth, crying alone, wishing and praying that someone would come to help me.
And they did.
It started with my friend Nicole (as it always does) who sent her husband over to bring food, ice for my back, biofreeze, a backbrace, and other supplies to keep at my bedside for convenience while we figured it all out. Next, my ex-boyfriend Scott (who has always been dubbed "Mr.Mean," due to a song I wrote about our awful break-up) called and said he had a place for me to live. Then, the team came, one by one, day by day... Beth, Jeannie, Brant, Alyssa, Serena all came with boxes, with food, starting to pack me up as I either lied in bed immobile, or made trips to the ER and clinics.
It was a harrowing, emotional time for me. Not only was I in such great physical pain, but now was cycling through feelings of guilt, shame, helplessness, frustration, etc, that I was lying in bed while my house was being packed up around me. It was humiliating and humbling. I would stare out the window or at the water-stained ceiling with tears rolling down my face. Someone would come in to ask a question and catch me like this, would sit at the end of my bed and tell me, "Emily, you have been a great friend to me in this way or that way. You helped me in my life at this time or that time. You are so loved, and it's time for you to sit back, focus on your healing, and let us do this for you. Stop feeling guilty. There is no shame. You need our help, and we are your family, here to give it to you."
The day of the move was horrendous. Despite hiring actual movers, I still had Nicole and Brent and Todd over to help load and unload box after box, heavy furniture, pets, you name it. It took the entire day and over $500, and there were still a few loads left behind. The next day, Alyssa and Lloyd showed up. We made two trips and managed to get the place cleaned. It was over - at least, the move was over. My back was another story.
In the midst of it all, we discovered that I would need a spinal surgery to remove a disc that had left its place between my vertebrae, and had shacked up in my spinal canal, pressing against my spinal cord. I had a matter of days to organize my new home, which was piled in with boxes and furniture, so that when I came out of the hospital, I'd at least be able to get around and have the things I needed most at hand. Again, Todd came over one night, this time with Rich, and they moved furniture and other heavy items to set in places out of the way of my walking paths. I saw so much sweat dripping from my friends' bodies over these few days. More drops of sweat than tears I'd cried over it, I think.
While I was in the hospital having surgery, Krissa organized a schedule for my return home - a schedule of friends who had each chosen a day of the week when they would swing by and bring food, do chores, take the dog out, etc. There were peopleon this list that I had never even spent a one-on-one with before, people from the circle that I barely knew anything about, and yet when they heard I needed help, they signed up and they came.
Carlos, another ex from almost a decade ago, volunteered to come by and take care of the animals while I was in the hospital. He's been by several times since I've been home, bringing bags of organic food and groceries, taking the dog for a walk, bringing me a laptop so that I can stay communicated and productive while in bed! And even my ex-husband, all the way in NYC, paid my cable bill from the old apartment so that I'd have internet and tv while I recover.
It's been like this now for the past week. Every single day, I have at least a half dozen friends who call or text or email or chat online, all asking how I am, what I need, if they can help. I have so many visitors, I leave my doors open so people can keep coming and going without having to get up to answer each and every time!
There's a huge moral to this long story that I'm tryng to get too, but finding the words has been the challenge all along. For 34 years, I have carried an immense pain in my heart and body (apparently mostly in my back) and spirit relating to family. I never felt like I had family. There was never anyone to turn to in my hour of need (except Dad, always Dad, but he's gone now), and I was forced to be so independent, self-sufficient and strong from such a young age. The anger I carried about that, the sadness, and so much fear from being so small and so alone - trying to heal that little girl in me for so many years, but she would just gnash her teeth into me again and again, never letting it go. For as long as she held on to all that pain, all that pain held me back in my life, in the pursuit of my dreams, in my relationships, in finding and living my joy.
But this whole experience - this awful, painful, dreadful experience - has given birth to the most profound epiphany of my life: I have a family. Not the family I was born to, but the family that over years I have cultivated and created for my self. This family loves me for exactly who I am - they celebrate me. They love me unconditionally, and have seen me at my very best and very worst and STILL love me. This family will never let me falter, or leave me to suffer. This family will support me, guide me, share with me, teach me, learn from me, learn with me. This family will be there for me in my hour of need, will calm my fears, will let me cry and vent and feel bad for myself, and tell me that it's ok. That I am ok. That I am MORE than ok... just in the past few days I've been told I am "amazing," "a goddess," "an inspiration," "a leader," "a gift." A gift. Me? Yes, me.
For the very first time EVER in my life, a peace has fallen over me. This new understanding and knowledge that I am NOT alone in the world, that I DO have a family, and that this family is better than any I could have ever asked for or dreamed of is something so profound, so humbling, so heart-exploding... it's been hard to describe. But the most amazing part of it all: that little girl in me, who ate at me my entire life, is finally, FINALLY at peace. I can feel her! She is not worried, not afraid, not angry... she is exactly as she should have been her whole life: happy, safe, and dancing circles around my heart.
To all of you, my dear and loving family, I thank you more than words could ever say. Even as I've been writing this, the phone has been ringing, offers to go for a picnic today and a movie tonight to get me out of the house come rolling in! I am so blessed, and so grateful not only for all the help and support, but for the quality and caliber of people I am honored to be friends and family with - amazing healers, artists, mothers and fathers, teachers, guides, philanthropists. I am so eager to heal, to step into my full potential at long last, and to make you all so very proud of the woman I am, and am destined to become! I am eager to pay it all forward, and to help others as I have been helped. I am so inspired, my heart so full. I love you, you painted and glittered and fairy-wing-wearing, fuzzy-pant bearing, black-light dancing, new aged hippies and happies and mammies and pappies...
I am so happy to have you freaks to call home!
I was completely convinced that this pain was, indeed, brought on by stress. My method, then, for curing the pain was to tend to the body with bedrest, massage and chiropractic, and to endeavor to identify the source of the stress which initially caused the pain, and work through it by writing and loads of talk therapy. For years, it went on this way, and while the situations incurring the pain varied greatly, the pain itself and the internal dilemmas were almost always the same: very much centered around my childhood, family, and the way I was raised.
I didn't have very much support growing up. My parents were not present. There was very litle guidance. There was a lot of hostility. I floated between my mom's house, my dad's house, the babysitter's, the cousins and grandparents and friends' houses with no real sense of "home." My mom's house would have been declared as the official "home," but there was seldom anyone there, and when my mom wasn't working and my sisters were around, it was a house filled with much sadness and anger. When I think back to that first home, I don't find many happy memories there at all. Yet, I can recall many memories of feeling alone and afraid. When my back would later give out on me as an adult, each and every time, the feelings attached to it were also of feeling alone and afraid - and, I should mention, both anger and sadness, too, that I was/am so alone and so afraid.
This summer, as noted in previous posts, my back not only "acted up" again, but went the full distance, and just up and quit on me. For the month of July, I was in more pain than I had ever experienced in my life. I had gone crooked again, shortly after an old friend had come into town and signed a lease with me on an apartment, and then backed out. BOOM! Crooked. Alone, unsupported, not knowing where I'd go or where home would be, afraid, angry, sad.... the usual gamut. I went back to my tried and true methods of healing: bedrest, massage, chiropractic - even added acupuncture into the mix. While I was laid up, I spent time reflecting and examining the situation, and the old memories connected to it. I wrote poetry, spoke with friends and my shrink. But something was different this time... I wasn't getting better.
I soon began to experience intense sciatic pain shooting down my left leg. Now, I wasn't only crooked, but I was losing feeling and all strength from the leg, and could barely walk without excruciating and blinding pain. Having no medical insurance, I stuck with the homepathic healing and healers I knew and were offering their services - I added in shiatsu, reiki, myofascial release, herbs, supplements, arnica creams and biofreeze. While some would give me temporary relief, the pain continued to increase and journey further and further down my leg, to my ankle and foot.
In the meantime, my current apartment had been rented out for the month of August - I had to move! I had to find a place to move to, pack all my things, clear out by the end of the month, and have the place cleaned to get my deposit back - and I could barely even move from bed to bathroom! The stress, the crisis, feeling so overwhelmed and not even being physically able to get to my computer to look online for apartments, let alone get in the car to go see them, was.... well, I don't know a word for it. What's more scary than utter fear? That's what I felt.
I hadn't been in contact with my family for well over a year at this point. My father, who ever protected and came to the rescue, had passed away. It was all on me. I felt like I was eight years-old, hiding in the closet in the house of my youth, crying alone, wishing and praying that someone would come to help me.
And they did.
It started with my friend Nicole (as it always does) who sent her husband over to bring food, ice for my back, biofreeze, a backbrace, and other supplies to keep at my bedside for convenience while we figured it all out. Next, my ex-boyfriend Scott (who has always been dubbed "Mr.Mean," due to a song I wrote about our awful break-up) called and said he had a place for me to live. Then, the team came, one by one, day by day... Beth, Jeannie, Brant, Alyssa, Serena all came with boxes, with food, starting to pack me up as I either lied in bed immobile, or made trips to the ER and clinics.
It was a harrowing, emotional time for me. Not only was I in such great physical pain, but now was cycling through feelings of guilt, shame, helplessness, frustration, etc, that I was lying in bed while my house was being packed up around me. It was humiliating and humbling. I would stare out the window or at the water-stained ceiling with tears rolling down my face. Someone would come in to ask a question and catch me like this, would sit at the end of my bed and tell me, "Emily, you have been a great friend to me in this way or that way. You helped me in my life at this time or that time. You are so loved, and it's time for you to sit back, focus on your healing, and let us do this for you. Stop feeling guilty. There is no shame. You need our help, and we are your family, here to give it to you."
The day of the move was horrendous. Despite hiring actual movers, I still had Nicole and Brent and Todd over to help load and unload box after box, heavy furniture, pets, you name it. It took the entire day and over $500, and there were still a few loads left behind. The next day, Alyssa and Lloyd showed up. We made two trips and managed to get the place cleaned. It was over - at least, the move was over. My back was another story.
In the midst of it all, we discovered that I would need a spinal surgery to remove a disc that had left its place between my vertebrae, and had shacked up in my spinal canal, pressing against my spinal cord. I had a matter of days to organize my new home, which was piled in with boxes and furniture, so that when I came out of the hospital, I'd at least be able to get around and have the things I needed most at hand. Again, Todd came over one night, this time with Rich, and they moved furniture and other heavy items to set in places out of the way of my walking paths. I saw so much sweat dripping from my friends' bodies over these few days. More drops of sweat than tears I'd cried over it, I think.
While I was in the hospital having surgery, Krissa organized a schedule for my return home - a schedule of friends who had each chosen a day of the week when they would swing by and bring food, do chores, take the dog out, etc. There were peopleon this list that I had never even spent a one-on-one with before, people from the circle that I barely knew anything about, and yet when they heard I needed help, they signed up and they came.
Carlos, another ex from almost a decade ago, volunteered to come by and take care of the animals while I was in the hospital. He's been by several times since I've been home, bringing bags of organic food and groceries, taking the dog for a walk, bringing me a laptop so that I can stay communicated and productive while in bed! And even my ex-husband, all the way in NYC, paid my cable bill from the old apartment so that I'd have internet and tv while I recover.
It's been like this now for the past week. Every single day, I have at least a half dozen friends who call or text or email or chat online, all asking how I am, what I need, if they can help. I have so many visitors, I leave my doors open so people can keep coming and going without having to get up to answer each and every time!
There's a huge moral to this long story that I'm tryng to get too, but finding the words has been the challenge all along. For 34 years, I have carried an immense pain in my heart and body (apparently mostly in my back) and spirit relating to family. I never felt like I had family. There was never anyone to turn to in my hour of need (except Dad, always Dad, but he's gone now), and I was forced to be so independent, self-sufficient and strong from such a young age. The anger I carried about that, the sadness, and so much fear from being so small and so alone - trying to heal that little girl in me for so many years, but she would just gnash her teeth into me again and again, never letting it go. For as long as she held on to all that pain, all that pain held me back in my life, in the pursuit of my dreams, in my relationships, in finding and living my joy.
But this whole experience - this awful, painful, dreadful experience - has given birth to the most profound epiphany of my life: I have a family. Not the family I was born to, but the family that over years I have cultivated and created for my self. This family loves me for exactly who I am - they celebrate me. They love me unconditionally, and have seen me at my very best and very worst and STILL love me. This family will never let me falter, or leave me to suffer. This family will support me, guide me, share with me, teach me, learn from me, learn with me. This family will be there for me in my hour of need, will calm my fears, will let me cry and vent and feel bad for myself, and tell me that it's ok. That I am ok. That I am MORE than ok... just in the past few days I've been told I am "amazing," "a goddess," "an inspiration," "a leader," "a gift." A gift. Me? Yes, me.
For the very first time EVER in my life, a peace has fallen over me. This new understanding and knowledge that I am NOT alone in the world, that I DO have a family, and that this family is better than any I could have ever asked for or dreamed of is something so profound, so humbling, so heart-exploding... it's been hard to describe. But the most amazing part of it all: that little girl in me, who ate at me my entire life, is finally, FINALLY at peace. I can feel her! She is not worried, not afraid, not angry... she is exactly as she should have been her whole life: happy, safe, and dancing circles around my heart.
To all of you, my dear and loving family, I thank you more than words could ever say. Even as I've been writing this, the phone has been ringing, offers to go for a picnic today and a movie tonight to get me out of the house come rolling in! I am so blessed, and so grateful not only for all the help and support, but for the quality and caliber of people I am honored to be friends and family with - amazing healers, artists, mothers and fathers, teachers, guides, philanthropists. I am so eager to heal, to step into my full potential at long last, and to make you all so very proud of the woman I am, and am destined to become! I am eager to pay it all forward, and to help others as I have been helped. I am so inspired, my heart so full. I love you, you painted and glittered and fairy-wing-wearing, fuzzy-pant bearing, black-light dancing, new aged hippies and happies and mammies and pappies...
I am so happy to have you freaks to call home!
Friday, August 13, 2010
Today, I Think I'll Just Cry
Today I think I'll just cry...
I cry for my friend Sam, who hung himself three days ago.
I knew him as a child.
He would taunt and tease me, as so many boys did back then, making me bawl from time to time.
Later in life, we became lovers, briefly, for maybe all of a week or so.
He treated me then with so much tender passion, and deep understanding of my body and mind...
making up for the years of tears he bullied out of me in my girlhood.
I hadn't seen him since.
Now I know I won't ever again.
I knew him first through weepy eyes;
and sob now again as I say goodbye.
I cry for my mom, who suddenly wanted back in my life
after a year and a half of no connection or communication.
She came, she saw me in pain.
She took me to a clinic, and later to the hospital.
She came for a 10-minute visit five days ago.
I haven't heard from her since.
I cry not knowing what's easiest:
to not have her in my life at all, and therefore not expect anything from her,
or to have her in my life, living with hope that she might actually want to mother me someday,
but knowing, really knowing
that she was never able to before, and likely won't anytime soon.
I cry just wanting a mom, a mom who just calls to say, "I love you."
I cry for a carpenter.
A man who can build things, and take them apart.
A man who constructed, then destroyed my heart.
He thinks it unfair that I feel so used, insists I keep myself from feeling so dumb.
Still I cry each and every day he does not come.
I cry for my back, my spine, my pain and inability
to move, to wander, to work, to enjoy life as I always have.
I cry in this bed, this fucking bed I have come to hate
despite the fact that it, alone, has been here for me, night after night,
day after day, week after week, and now month after month,
giving me comfort and a soft place to land.
And yet I hate it, hate being stranded in it, as I will be, and am.
I cry over bills that stack up a mile high.
Unable to pay, I close my eyes and deny
their existence - as so so many of us do.
No point in opening them, looking to see, calculating or budgeting
when I know it will only overwhelm me some more.
I'm supposed to focus on healing.
Stress will only make me sore.
I cry for my Dad. Loudly - banshee screams,
that he might hear me, wherever he be.
I cry for affection. God, desperately so.
Just to have that "someone" here, lying next to me
for hours on end, making me laugh,
not minding my stink.
Telling me all the good things I'm forgetting to think.
Someone who'd rather be here than anywhere else.
Someone whose love for me is truly and deeply felt.
I cry because I'm crying,
of sadness, frustration, grief, anger and fear.
To quote the book I'm now reading:
"Of all the things to master, why did I have to pick tears?"
I cry for my friend Sam, who hung himself three days ago.
I knew him as a child.
He would taunt and tease me, as so many boys did back then, making me bawl from time to time.
Later in life, we became lovers, briefly, for maybe all of a week or so.
He treated me then with so much tender passion, and deep understanding of my body and mind...
making up for the years of tears he bullied out of me in my girlhood.
I hadn't seen him since.
Now I know I won't ever again.
I knew him first through weepy eyes;
and sob now again as I say goodbye.
I cry for my mom, who suddenly wanted back in my life
after a year and a half of no connection or communication.
She came, she saw me in pain.
She took me to a clinic, and later to the hospital.
She came for a 10-minute visit five days ago.
I haven't heard from her since.
I cry not knowing what's easiest:
to not have her in my life at all, and therefore not expect anything from her,
or to have her in my life, living with hope that she might actually want to mother me someday,
but knowing, really knowing
that she was never able to before, and likely won't anytime soon.
I cry just wanting a mom, a mom who just calls to say, "I love you."
I cry for a carpenter.
A man who can build things, and take them apart.
A man who constructed, then destroyed my heart.
He thinks it unfair that I feel so used, insists I keep myself from feeling so dumb.
Still I cry each and every day he does not come.
I cry for my back, my spine, my pain and inability
to move, to wander, to work, to enjoy life as I always have.
I cry in this bed, this fucking bed I have come to hate
despite the fact that it, alone, has been here for me, night after night,
day after day, week after week, and now month after month,
giving me comfort and a soft place to land.
And yet I hate it, hate being stranded in it, as I will be, and am.
I cry over bills that stack up a mile high.
Unable to pay, I close my eyes and deny
their existence - as so so many of us do.
No point in opening them, looking to see, calculating or budgeting
when I know it will only overwhelm me some more.
I'm supposed to focus on healing.
Stress will only make me sore.
I cry for my Dad. Loudly - banshee screams,
that he might hear me, wherever he be.
I cry for affection. God, desperately so.
Just to have that "someone" here, lying next to me
for hours on end, making me laugh,
not minding my stink.
Telling me all the good things I'm forgetting to think.
Someone who'd rather be here than anywhere else.
Someone whose love for me is truly and deeply felt.
I cry because I'm crying,
of sadness, frustration, grief, anger and fear.
To quote the book I'm now reading:
"Of all the things to master, why did I have to pick tears?"
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