Final Post

I'm reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog.  There is a super intelligent thirteen year old girl who ruminates on the meaning (or lack) of life:

Apparently, now and again adults take the time to sit down and contemplate what a disaster their life is.  They complain without understanding and, like flies constantly banging against the same old windowpane, they buzz around, suffer, waste away, get depressed then wonder how they got caught up in this spiral that is taking them where they don't want to go.  The most intelligent among them turn their malaise into a religion:  oh, the despicable vacuousness of bourgeois existence!  Cynics of this kind frequently dine at Papa's table:  "What has become of the dreams of our youth?" they ask, with a smug, disillusioned air.  "Those years are long gone, and life's a bitch."  I despise this false lucidity that comes with age.  The truth is that they are just like everyone else:  nothing more than kids without a clue about what has happened to them, acting big and tough when in fact all they want is to burst into tears......people aim for the stars, and they end up like goldfish in a bowl.   I wonder if it wouldn't be simpler just to teach children right from the start that life is absurd.  That might deprive you of a few good moments in your childhood but it would save you a considerable amount of time as an adult, not to mention the fact that you'd be spared at least one traumatic experience, i.e. the goldfish bowl.


She goes on to say,

With the exception of love, friendship and the beauty of Art, I don't see much else that can nurture human life......When I say Art...I'm not just talking about great works of art by great masters..I'm referring to the beauty that is there in the world, things that being part of the movement of life, elevate us.....Grace, beauty, harmony, intensity...


This morning, I walked on the lakefront, I had a meaningful conversation with a friend.  When I got home, Joey and I melted into each others' arms - all 45 pounds of fur and muscle jumped into my lap and he clung to me and I to him.   It's amazing really that we found each other and that we need each other so much.  He doesn't let me out of his sight for a moment.   He won't even walk down the back stairs to the yard to do his business if I'm not right at his side.  He has finally found someone to love and he's not letting go anytime soon. Sound familiar?   He and I will both be attachment disordered weirdos together.  After our snuggle session we sat on the deck, enjoying the quiet of the morning, the busy-ness of the squirrels, the happiness of the birds, and the industriousness of a spider who, right in front of my eyes, spun an exquisite web.   Grace, beauty, harmony, intensity.

I believe what Kaveh tells me - that life is a comedy and a tragedy - that it IS absurd in a good way.   I don't believe there is anything else...that there is a big payoff at the very end, or that we get to come back multiple times to get it right.   I think this is it.....the big performance, a single showing.   Life is NOT a dress rehearsal so we have to sing our hearts out and give the performance of our lives.   And it has to be good enough - damn the critics.

My friend Nick wants to feel pain...seriously.   He was in love once in his twenties to a woman who did not love him back.   He was tortured and sleepless, hunting her down every night, looking for her in every bar until he found her, then taking her home to her bed and watching her sleep, wishing she loved him.   Since then he has lived carefully...he has made safe choices....he hasn't put his heart in harm's way.   But no pain, no gain.  He now finds himself over sixty in a relationship that brings him little joy.   He is in danger of being a flat liner.  And so he recognizes the price he has paid for "safe".....and now he longs to feel something, anything, even the pain of love.

I am in excruciating pain.   I waited all my life to find someone I clicked with...I wasn't sure it would happen.   I've never met anyone who I liked half as much as Patrick and with whom I could imagine living happily ever after.   I'm not sure I will be blessed again with such a fortuitous accident - the divine accident of finding one's "other".   Maybe it will happen...maybe not.   And to open one's heart and to have it rejected is something that's difficult to recover from....it tests your will to survive..to recover intact has to be one of life's big accomplishments.  To be rejected is devaluing...it is humiliating...worse it can topple you - reduce you to rubble.

So, yes, life is absurd, but it is also incredibly beautiful and if we are lucky there are unexpected pleasures when we need them most, to offset the gut wrenching sadness (like the hug of a dog or the magical beauty of a spider web).   I am not in the fishbowl.   Are you?   Much of the time I conduct myself through the eyes and with the naivety of a child - life is technicolor for me and I like it that way.  The toddler in me clung to the belief that love could conquer Patrick's and my obstacles.   I counted on magical thinking to restore him to me - that, if I wished hard enough, Santa, the gods or Tinker Bell would bring him back.   But I'm not ALL child.  There is also a wise mother in me - she is the one who tells the scary truth and counsels me to settle down and face reality.  And I guess I'm glad she's there even if she's a drag to be around - even if I hate what she has to say most of the time.  She is so practical and should be heeded even if she doesn't  know how to wish on stars to get what she needs.  She tells me he has gone.

Don't worry.  I will be fine....my spirit is intact....I will continue to wish on stars....I will continue to marvel over beauty...I will keep making mammalian connections and seek the warmth of others.....I will continue to feel joy and sorrow...I will live fully and embrace the mysteries unfolding around me...I will sing my heart out....I will strive for grace, beauty, harmony and intensity.  And I will always love Patrick  until the day I die, even if someone else has taken up residence in my heart.

This is my last post...I may start another blog at some point with a different name that won't have such a personal focus.  Send me an e-mail if you would like the link.

Thanks for listening.   It was helpful.

Sarah

Jo(e)y and Sadness

Two posts today.

Joey is doing great.   He still has issues and bad habits, but with time they will be resolved – I’m confident of it.   One very sad thing - when he went to the vet, she called our attention to a scar on his back.   When his fur is pulled back a small heart shaped branding scar is revealed.   Seriously!  Someone branded my dog with a heart.   What kind of sadistic fuck would do that to a puppy?   It enrages me.  The rancher says it was probably a tennis ball branding iron that was used on him.  Wow.

And today I’m just feeling enraged about everything anyway.   The house.  Two unbelievably messy, spoiled adult girls living with me whom I’ve obviously raised poorly because they are over-the-top disgusting.   And Patrick’s words ring in my ears.   “You shouldn’t complain about your children – you are so lucky to have them, and they are doing so well in so many ways.”  Yeah, whatever.  Today, he can have them.   He’s got a house with six bedrooms.   They can move in with him and he can experience the joy of parenthood.  

He will be woken from a sound sleep by the sound of their arguing, or their beer drinking revelry on the porch with friends.  In the morning as they sleep until well after noon, he will discover presents left him in the kitchen he cleaned the night before:  food encrusted plates, dishes everywhere, take out containers all over, sticky spills and spoiled food that should have been put away.   He will clean up after them and remind himself just how precious they are.   On his way to the bathroom he will pick his way over dirty laundry inexplicably trailed down the hall and he will be repulsed to see underwear with dirty menstrual pads left in plain view.   He will try and attend to his morning hygiene but he won’t be able to find the toothpaste or any towels which have taken up new residence in their rooms.   The sink he washes up in will be crusted with spit toothpaste and pale green blobs of phlegm that have hardened.   If he braves their rooms to rescue a towel, he will see all the coffee cups and glasses he’s been missing, half filled with moldy liquids and plates with half eaten food in random places.   And don’t get me started on the bugs.

I used to be a robot tyrant.    I made rules and enforced them.   I had a clean bathroom because, if something was left on the counter, I threw it away, even if it was a brand new bottle of something expensive.   I waged war against my messy children.   Now I’m nicer and apparently a pushover.   Most days I just can’t muster a head of anger – I’m just not that angry a person anymore.   But now, I have no standards – I’ve given up.   I just sigh a lot.   And I get taken advantage of.   So today I’m thinking anger might have been the ticket after all.    Why did I think it was such a bad thing?   It got results.  

And really why now…..why such negativity?   I’ve been hell bent on being positive and forward moving – life affirming, joy embracing.   My mother used to wail, “There is no joy in this world!”   She said it often and loudly, screaming to the gods for an answer to her misery.   For a while she probably yelled it a dozen times a day until it got to be farcical.  She knew she was ridiculous and so it finally became a joke and a family catch phrase whenever anything went wrong.   I think we presented her with a container of liquid Joy dish detergent at one point, or perhaps she bought it for herself and made an altar to it, happy at last that she had "Joy" in her life.  Today, this week, this period of my life, I understand my mother’s rantings.   There is little joy in my life and without joy, life is a drudge, barely worth living.

It’s finally sinking in - something all of you have already known for a while.   I’m like the accident victim who doesn’t know they’ve been mortally wounded.   They have been shot in the head and they’re gushing blood but for some reason their body hasn’t gotten the death message yet.   Or maybe they have been impaled by a picket from a fence and the paramedics know that, once the picket is removed, death will be instantaneous.   But for a while, the body will continue to function around the picket.  The picket applies pressure to the organs it has penetrated, keeping hemorrhaging at bay.

What you know, that I have not admitted to myself before today, is that he left me – he is gone.   He really left me.  He didn’t choose me.   He came, he saw, he conquered, he didn’t want what he conquered, he left.  That simple.  I have been left.  Being left - for me it is my oldest and darkest fear and nightmare come true.  Thank God for therapy…..this is unbelievably hard.

Inertia

Inertia.  Being stuck.   It’s everywhere.   It’s everyone.   I hate it.  I’m feeling mired these days and it’s not just me.   People often ask me how it is that I get so much done, have such a long list of accomplishment and talents, fit so much into a day.   They ask me what it was that made me wake up and make such dramatic changes to my life.   I think the answer is that I have been able to shake off inertia all these years and that I possess a “just do it” attitude.    That’s why clients hire me – I execute.   I tell my employees they have to get from point A to B with no excuses -  negotiate around the obstacles, jump them, blast them, seduce them – whatever it takes to get the job done, short of doing something illegal.   Companies hire me because they want results…period…no excuses allowed.

So how can it be that these days I’m mired, flailing around, waking each day with a head of steam but going to bed like a pricked, deflated popover?    What changed and how can I un-change it?  This is SOOO not me.

I think it’s a perfect storm of paralysis.   First the loss of my main consulting gig with US Cellular – work I really enjoyed and for which I was handsomely paid.   Then Kaveh’s final move to Louisville and no face-to-face contact with him…a loss.  Madeleine moving back from Rockford added a deep layer of worry – I watch her flailing around trying to negotiate the rapids of adulthood – I feel helpless.   Elizabeth, being dependent and needing my continued financial support for at least two more years of college (I’ve already paid for four) – exhausting and I’m so eager to have my kids on their own without sucking at my breasts.   Steve refusing to move on with his life, expecting to be on my dole for the rest of his years.   Finding and losing love in the blink of an eye and the instability that has caused.   Taking over the finances only to learn what a disaster they are.   Having one thing after another break at home – the joys of home ownership.   Having friends who are painfully stuck too.   Losing a three year friendship with a man who has been very special to me.   Feeling the final loss of my mother as she moves back to the East Coast to live with my sister – having her tell me she feels “burned” by our relationship.   And more, more more.

Have you ever felt this paralyzed, turning this way and that – not seeing your way out of the box?    Even this blogging has become an escape.   I am in such pain that I am grasping at anything that can make me feel better.   Writing is Novocain.   Vodka is an escape.  Good books soothe me.  Sleeping releases me from worry.   Sitting with coffee when I should be working seduces me .   Talking to friends when I should be working distracts me.  

This is NOT rocket science.   To be paralyzed is to be fearful, self-indulgent and lazy.   There is really no excuse for it.   None of the things on the big list are really all that hard – it’s just that there are SOOOO many things on the list – it’s overwhelming to think of doing them all.  But really, it’s all about doing just one thing and crossing it out and then moving on to Item #2, and so forth.

It’s also the emotional strain of having people cling and grasp to you, like you’re a life preserver.  They are confused.   You’ve always taken care of them and they don’t believe you when you say, “no more”.   You have to mean “no more”.  They have to live with the consequences. 

So, it’s time for Sarah to project manage her own life like she would manage a project for a valued client.   These are the steps to which I will apply discipline (no excuses):

• Up at 5AM – walking at the beach or exercise from 6AM-7AM.
• At the office by 8:30AM
• Work, no play until noon and then an hour for fooling around (blogging, corresponding with friends)
• Morning spent on finances/administration/training Madeleine – giving her marching orders.  Afternoon spent on business development/client support.
• Workweek evenings spent in creative pursuits. 
• Friday/Saturday socializing
• Sunday – cleaning and organization

Inertia sucks.   I feel like I’m in that episode of Star Trek where the salt sucking monster has her tentacles on me and is sucking my precious nutrients.   I need a simpler life with fewer responsibilities.    I need to make that happen – NOW.

Soon I won’t write this blog anymore.   I’m thinking one more week is all I need.   It’s done the trick – given me a focus, helped me from dwelling solely in my head, given me something to think about other than Patrick.   But it’s also cheating.   I know he reads this and much of the time I write for him.    It’s also mean, in a way, not to fully release him.   He either needs to come back to me or move on.    And it’s also not fair to me that he has a conduit to me while I have no idea what is going on with him.   I feel the miss….I’m not sure he does as much, when he can read about me every day.    He should feel the miss to appreciate how much he has lost, what he’s walking away from.

And me……damn it – I have always prevailed.   I am a tank when I put my mind to it, bull-dozing over any obstacle.   Being in love has made me soft.   Having people cling to me in desperation has weighted me down.   Having SO much happen all at once has put me in the glare of the headlights.   I need to shake myself awake, test my legs, get my engines revved and then just GO!   Watch me.

Time for a New List/Do We Like the Rancher?

It's time for me to make a new list.   It's kind of addictive, this self improvement thing.   One positive change begets another and voila pretty soon you actually start to like yourself!   I'm proud of my accomplishments but now is not the time to start resting on my laurels.  So here goes!

• Lose the rest of my weight.  Slow and steady wins the race.   I know what I have to do.   Work the WW program, monitor my points.  Eschewing vodka will help - there are a bunch of calories there.  My goal is to be 45 pounds lower than I am by my birthday on May 3rd.   That is eminently doable.
• Younger Next Year - this is a great book that everyone should read.   It has been a huge source of inspiration for me.   The concept is that, with the right combination of lifestyle and attitude you can live your senior years with the health of a 50 year old and then just keel over dead at a good ripe age.  The average person lives a good long time, but wishes they were dead for the last decade or so because of poor health.   There is absolutely no reason for that to be.   You can give your body a springtime message and retain physical youthfulness well into your '80's.    So, do you want to be an analog watch and wind down painfully or would you rather be a digital watch and work perfectly until the day you just stop?    I am going to reread the book and incorporate the suggestions into my life.  It won't be easy to get a full, hard hour of cardio in every day, but it will be worth it.
• Divorce - just get it done....soon.   Put that relationship behind you.
• Business - figure out what your next incarnation looks like and make it happen.   I am a business chameleon.  I have successfully morphed my business through many different business climates in the past.   It's time to give my business that focus again and figure out how I can revitalize it and feel energized by it.   I'm good at what I do, but it's gotten so damn boring.   I need a new twist to feel excited.
• Finances.  I should be fine with the residual revenues I have coming in - even without a new revenue source, I make more than most people.   Problem is runaway expenses and the fact that I'm supporting too many people.    I need to keep applying effort to simplify my life and cut expenses.   Get the office sold - that's a hemmorage.   Run a tighter ship.  Be a better consumer.
• Make a 10 year plan.   What do I want my life to look like at age 65.   How can I get there?  Work a plan.
• Singing - it's time to take it to the next level.   I need to be bold and figure out how I can get paid for doing what I currently pay to do.    I'm good enough to have a Friday night gig somewhere and make $100-200.    I also need to organize my repertoire, learn more songs, and I need to work on my one woman show called "Necessary Losses".   It's a concept I've had for a while and has to do with the book Necessary Losses by Judith Viorst.   It's about how you can't move forward in life without leaving things behind - loss is necessary for growth. I also plan on tying in my own necessary loss of the weight - everyone loves a good weight loss story and because it's rare to have such a loss without drastic measures like surgery, it's a good story to tell.   And of course the show will be cabaret and the philosophies will be punctuated with fabulous songs I will sing.  
• New Challenges - because I don't have a TV, I miss out on a lot of popular references, so I'm not sure where this whole "bucket thing" came from (a movie, book or TV Show?)  But I've heard people talk about their bucket list and I think I understand it to be the list of things we want to do before we die.   I have a few:  I want to be in love in Paris, I want to learn to blow glass, I want to ride horses and look good in jodphurs and a tight hunter green blazer.  I want to feel the thrill of jumping over fences.   I would like to travel and make friends on every continent and then have them come visit me regularly.
• Writing.   It's time for me to write a book.   I will do NaNoWriMo this November.   Stands for National November Writing Month.   Participants commit to writing 50,000 words which is the equivalent of a short novel.    It takes will and dedication to crank that much out in a month.   I will do it and at the end, hopefully have the skeleton of a compelling book that I will try and publish.

That's a good list.   Now it's time for me to work it.  These are not just pipe dreams - I can make ALL of this happen!

And on another note, I know I said that I wouldn't date yet and I'm not, but the Internet dating thing is a fun distraction, especially when you're lonely.   I have the app on my phone so it's fun to see who is interesting and interested in me.   It's like shopping for good books on Amazon - guy shopping.   So there is a rancher I'm communicating with and he is so funny and unexpected.   And can you imagine me moving to live on a cattle ranch in Nebraska?   Strangely, I can for the right guy.   Here are the questions he asked me today.   We are still just e-mailing me:

How many fish can you clean in a half hour? Do you sharpen your own filet knife? Have you ever been ice fishing? Do you bait your own hook? Can you swim; or at the very least float? How long can you hold your breath? How many Hula-Hoops and Jingle Jumps do you own? Did you prefer Hop-Scotch or Jump Rope as a young girl? Did your Barbie Doll ever date "G.I. Joe - A Fighting Man from Head to Toe?" or did she hang out with that "preppy fuck" Ken? Is your favorite base color for fine china red or blue? When is the last time you used it? What's your favorite brand of silver polish? Do you like antiques? Do you like folk art? Have you ever been fossil hunting? Have you ever dated a fossil? Which city would you prefer to spend a day in; Paris, Tokyo, or Amsterdam? When is the last time you received a post card from a friend? Have you ever stayed overnight in a B&B? Front or back seat on a bicycle built for two? Which show did you like best; "I've Got a Secret" or "To Tell the Truth?" Which TV show could you win more money on; "Wheel of Fortune" or "Jeopardy?" Tan or Burn? Do you like help applying sun tan lotion? Do you ever tan in the buff? Who's funnier; you or your girlfriends? How many comedy clubs did you visit last year? Were you in the audience or on stage? How well do you sing? Can you play a musical instrument? Do you know any magic tricks? Are you able to juggle more than 3 balls at a time? Do you wear shorts? How high is your tallest pair of heels? Do you like to hold hands? When's the last time you made a snow angel? Would you prefer to cuddle or French kiss, or both? On your place, do you have legacy flowers; Iris, Daisies, Mums, Hollyhocks, Peonies, Lilacs or Wild Roses? Do you have chickens where you live? What is the color of your favorite tractor? Do you think you have a chance at baking a better peach pie than me? When's the last time you played Backgammon? Checkers or Chinese Checkers? What's your favorite card game? Have you ever played Strip Poker? Did you win or loose? Do you like convertibles? Are you in possession of a secret family recipe for moonshine you would be willing to share? When you go to the dump to shoot rats, do you use a revolver or a pistol; or do you say the hell with it and shotgun them instead? How many skunks, raccoons, possums, and coyotes have you shot at in the last three years? How many did you hit? Do you have any shooting irons that you are able to put a 5" group together at 100 yards? Have you ever panned for gold and do you have any gold claims staked out in West Texas, Arizona, New Mexico, California or Nevada? When is the last time you played a round of golf? What was you score? What is your handicap? Can you Cha-Cha, Sumba, Tango or Line Dance? How many large grapes can you peel in 20 minutes? What's your favorite color for intimate apparel? Where do you shop for intimate apparel; K-Mart, Fredricks's of Hollywood or Victoria's Secret? Shaken or Stirred? Milk or Dark Chocolate? Do you use the word "hot dish" or "casserole?" Which would you rather play; "Cast-A-Way Sailor and the South Sea Island Princess" or "Research Scientist and Faithful Lab Assistant?" Do you like fudge? What color are your eyes and hair? Are you right or left handed? Here's the punch line; "Why do you ask two dogs having sex?" can you tell me the joke? Do you take points off for spelling errors and grammatical structure? Are you up with the birds or night owl? Granny panties, French cut, Bikini, Thong or Commando? Now it really gets personal - - - - Are you ready? Are you a democrat, republican, independent, libertarian or a free thinker when it comes to politics, and do you have over or under three tattoos and where are they located?
Are you smiling or getting ready to move the cursor to the "Close Match" Button? 


Do we like him?

Love you all,
Sarah

Vodka and Other Ruminations

It’s Sunday and the end of blogging Week #1.  It was a good idea to do this blogging thing – it gave me a healthy focus – that and Joey.   No anti-depressants, acupuncture or Chinese herbs for Sarah.   I know how to heal myself.

So the date.   He never showed – he left me a message that his work event ran longer than he anticipated, whatever that means.   Is it wrong I was relieved?  I sent him a message that it was just as well we didn’t meet – that I am probably emotionally unavailable for a while yet, going through a tough breakup.   I never heard back from him.

But Schaller’s on Friday – it was a lot of fun.  The evening started crabby, talking my friend off the despair ledge, getting a late start, too much traffic, worried I was standing up my date (hadn’t gotten his message at that point).  But once we were there and the martinis were flowing we were very silly and silly was fun.   I sang well which was a relief – my voice is back and only once did I almost lose my composure.   It was “All of Me” – the way I do it slowly at the beginning before picking up the tempo.   I don’t think anyone but Liza knew I was in trouble – maybe Bobby, the pianist, knew too.   I’ve never been on stage and lost it before – and I did get through it, barely, with some awkward pauses between phrases while I swallowed down tears that threatened to spill over.   Liza said she whispered to herself, “Come on. You can do it,” and was relieved when I rallied.  

And then there was the funniest part of the evening.   While I sang "All of Me" so believably and with such pathos, there was a man who was riveted.   He stood with his friends at the bar, transfixed.  When I returned to my seat he came over – handsome, young, sure of himself.   We chatted.  He flirted.   I looked on my smart phone for lyrics to a song he wanted to sing.   He made fun of me for being so North Shore and said I was probably all style and no substance.  He mocked my long fingernails and the problem I was having with my phone.   He asked me to feed him one of my olives which I did.  He thanked me with an unexpected kiss.    And then he left, saying, “Sweetheart, I’ll see you around.”  He didn’t look back.  It was perfect…..a flirt, being appreciated, a kiss…..but nothing more and no need for follow up.   It’s all I can handle now.   I hope I never see him again because I’m already fond of that memory.

No new bad habits….that is my motto.   Most of you know about the epic list I made years ago.   I can pinpoint the day when I decided to grab life’s brass ring.   I itemized all the things I needed to fix about myself - the list was huge.   I needed to lose 175 pounds and become fit, tend to my grooming and beauty, find creative outlets, become less angry, learn intimacy skills, face up to my unhappy marriage, and more.   I challenged myself to do it all – to give myself a shot at happiness.   Since then I have lost 125 pounds, my health is fabulous thanks to lots of exercise and clean eating, I sing seriously, I write for mental health, I have visited the chasm of childhood insanity and survived stronger, I left a marriage that deadened me, my relationship with my kids is so much better, I am comfortable with physical intimacy, I got rid of the television and my home is a creative sanctuary.    It’s wonderful and amazing and I’m proud of myself.   I attribute the changes to a strong will to live and thrive, a good support system and a lot of discipline.

So…no new bad habits.  Why would I want to start anything that would dilute or undermine the progress I’ve made?   To be fully present, to be joyfully functioning, you need to challenge yourself daily and be on the lookout for anything that holds you back, makes you complacent, keeps you from living well.   There are times to say “no” to yourself.    We all know what we need to be well.   It’s just so damn hard at times to put it into practice.   Rules, rules, rules – yuck.   But if we make rules for ourselves because we love ourselves, because we are being our own good parent, that is good.

Vodka.   I’m not going to drink it anymore.   It’s a new bad habit.   I’ve never been much of a drinker – until the renaissance I maybe had 1-2 drinks a month.   Then the separation and I was out 4-5 nights per week.   Suddenly the social activities I planned all included liquor:  all the singing stuff I do, dinner with friends, even drinks after the writing group.   Liquor everywhere.   And then an affair with a certain pianist and a new love and appreciation for a well made martini, fussing over the choice of vodka (splitting hairs over whether Stoly, Grey Goose, Ketel 1, or Belvedere was the best and debating the merits of a blue cheese stuffed olive over a traditional manzanilla pimento stuffed one).

So I’ve come to love a good martini, or two or in the case of Friday, three.   And each martini is the equivalent of at least two drinks, so wow!   And many of my friends are hard drinking martini lovers as well, so there is camaraderie there.   But this is not good, right?   I’ve never until this last year been a drinker – I’ve led my entire life as a bit of a prude, making a fuss over having a single glass of wine.   Why would I want a new bad habit to take me into the last chapters of my life?   And older people often DO acquire new bad habits.   My mother was never a drinker and now she has several glasses of wine a day to squelch her loneliness.   This is feeling like a potentially slippery slope.    I also never want to be a person who sits alone at a bar, part of the lonely heart’s club, sipping a cocktail, and waiting for someone to talk to me.   Put me out of my misery before I am one of them.

New rules.    #1 No more martinis – alcohol limited to a single, wonderful glass of wine, then switch to tea.   #2 Alcohol limited to three nights a week which means no more than three glasses of wine per week  #3 Never drink alone at home or alone at a bar (I don’t do this now, but I will remind myself to never start).  And having made all these rules, I will make them the norm, but feel free to break them once in a while.   If it’s New Year’s and I want a martini, I’m going to indulge.

So, boring post I know, but this blog is about being well.   I am sincerely worried about the effects of alcohol. I worry about my friends who are drenching their pain in booze – I just wish they could be happy without it.   I worry that it’s so easy to anesthetize ourselves when we should be facing up to whatever is on our plate and not trying to escape through the use of substance.   Here's an idea!  What if I invited my friends over on a Friday night and I put on some new age music and we sat around on yoga mats and held hands and closed our eyes and were comforted by each others’ presence?   What if we used calming music and a peaceful environment along with each others’ warmth to decompress from a stress-filled week?   We could drink ginger tea and eat grape leaves and play board games and feel really great on Saturday morning.

Reptilian Thinking

I’ve been thinking about this whole grieving thing and whether it’s pathetic and whether pathetic is necessarily a bad thing.   Pathetic as defined as “affecting or moving the feelings” would seem to be an appropriate reaction to seeing someone you care about suffer.   But if being pathetic is to be “so miserable as to be ridiculous” to quote another source, then that’s another thing.  My friends and family love and care about me – they are worried about me.   They see me spinning my wheels like a whirling dervish, stuck in a heartsick place, not moving forward.   It has been almost two months since my two month relationship ended and I am not OK.   I am a broken record of “what if’s” and “if only’s”.  

Recently a friend ended a much longer relationship – a 13 year marriage.   He is being brave, forward moving, taking on the huge task of starting over, rebuilding his life.   And yet sometimes he descends into self pity, worry about the future, fearful he’s making the wrong choice.  And when he gets this way there is absolutely nothing I or anyone can say to him to budge him from his pity pot.   I can remind him of just how miserable he was, how it’s better to be alone than alone in a bad marriage, that he has, just in time, extricated his foot from the grave, that there are tons of eligible woman looking for someone as interesting as he.   That he is embarking on a wonderful new life.   He will hear none of it.  His reptilian brain is convinced he is never going to be loved again - that that he will die alone to be found weeks later, rotting in his bed.  The reptilian brain provides the drive for life and survival – it is primal thinking.   It doesn’t listen to reason.   So, when my friend is thinking like a lizard, there is no reasoning with him – at those times, all my positive comments can’t penetrate his leathery lizard skin.  And the reality is that some people DO die alone.   I recently inquired of a mutual acquaintance, about a woman I admired, a dog trainer extraordinaire who had worked with me and my first dog.   I was horrified to hear that she had died in her car, not to be found for weeks while her dogs starved in her house.   She had many.  A few lived but barely.  So yeah, these kinds of stories give us pause but they are not the norm, thankfully.

And who am I to cast stones and become impatient with my friend?   Seeing him descend to these unattractive depths is like holding a mirror to myself - pathetic.   It takes a lizard to know a lizard.   My friends and therapist have, for the past months, tried to reason with me.  Just as it’s statistically impossible for Earth to have the only intelligent life in the universes, it would be extremely unlikely that my relationship with Patrick spells the end of my love life.   My friends point out that I am beautiful, talented, outgoing, that I make connections easily, that I am loveable.   Patrick, himself, said that someone will snatch me up – that they won’t believe their good fortune that I am unattached.  So when I tell myself lightening won't strike twice, that maybe two months in a lifetime is all the love I get, that I will grow old alone - disappointed and bitter, that I will never again experience great sex, blah, blah blah I'm being an iguano or a gecko or a komodo dragon.  

I am not covered in scales or leathery bumps, I get it.   My life is NOT over.   There is love for me, probably right around the corner.   Kaveh says I have grown to have a huge heart, with the capacity for great love.   He says it wasn’t always that way – that when he met me, my heart had shrunk like the Grinch’s  - that I was operating like a tyrant robot.  Seriously bad, huh?    I’ve had a renaissance since then – I now live bravely, optimistically,  passionately and with gusto for the first time.   I take risks.  I trust in the future but enjoy the moment.  I love well and often.  I rejoice in my life.

Patrick was my first love despite the fact that I’ve had other boyfriends and two husbands - they were mostly all business relationships.  I was incapable of loving or being loved.   When I met Patrick I was ripe to experience all that love had to offer and I did.   It lasted too short (two months).   I didn’t get a whole meal, just a taste and I now want more.  I will get more.

So, I will tell my friend that he and I need to do better.   We need to recognize reptilian thinking for what it is and shut it down when we are in the throes of it.   We need to listen to logic and talk ourselves off the ledge of despair when what we are telling ourselves are irrational lies.   It’s a dangerous place to dwell – in that dank cave of gloom where, like Golum, we obsess and fret and grow weaker and paler, and start to believe in our own fearful scenarios.

I will tell him that creativity is the key to shedding our reptile skin.   Lizards are not creative - humans are.   By writing this blog I am creating something worthy.   By adopting an abused dog, I am creating a new life for a beautiful animal who deserves to be happy.   By singing, I am filling the air with art.   Tomorrow I will cook and write some more and if those lizard thoughts start to seep back into my brain, I will recognize them as primitive fears that should be given short shrift.

Can you tell I’m feeling better?  Hugs to you all. Tomorrow I will tell you about my "date" last night and we will discuss vodka.

Oh, and on an administrative note, I added a "gadget" to this site.   At the top of the post there is a spot where, if you put in your e-mail address and hit the submit button, you will get an e-mail notification of new content on the blog.   I'm not sure if the content will appear in the e-mail or whether it's just a reminder to read it with a link.   

Internet Dating

I have a date tonight.   He is a trial attorney…he sounds nice.   And I like that the last good book he read is A Team of Rivals by Doris Kearnes Goodwin.   I’ve appointed Lincoln as my spiritual father – when the going gets tough and I need to draw on elder wisdom, I always ask myself what Lincoln would tell me to do….seriously.   In the absence of a good father, he is my "go-to" role model.  I am inspired when I think of his bravery....he always strove to do the right thing, more often than not against public opinion and advice.   During the war, each night, when he was presented the battlefield report, he would suffer over his decision to send more young men to their deaths, really suffer, and yet each day, he gave orders that would result in more deaths, knowing the nation was at stake.   I suspect his death was in some ways a blessing .....the toll he suffered for his leadership was too high.   Between the death of his children and the deaths of so many young men, his sorrow had to be more than one person could bear.    So, this attorney.  Promising, yes?  He is a fan of Lincoln.   We will have something to talk about.   And he has a summer home on 200 acres in Wisconsin where he entertains every weekend.  That sounds like fun.

I have a profile on an Internet dating site.  I never surrendered my membership even when Patrick and I were dating – I just never bothered to check it.  And surprisingly I don’t get that many matches sent to me.   I can’t figure it out.   I don’t think I’m that picky.   Here are my requirements as written on my profile.  Let me know if you think I need to make any changes. (Leave me a comment!)

Looking for a man who is tall and handsome. He should be no shorter than 6’1” and weigh no less than 260 lbs.   I prefer gray or white hair and my match should have a beard and moustache.   I expect my match to be well educated with advanced degrees, really nothing less than a PhD, and he should draw a six figure income.   He should be physically brave and have served his country – either a Marine or a Navy Seal.  He should be strong with huge, well developed muscles.   I expect my match to have exceptional intelligence with an IQ of at least 135.   He should be well read and literary – an English undergraduate degree would be a plus so we can discuss great literature and plays.   A calm and gentle disposition is a requirement, slow to anger, quick to praise.   A great laugh and a quick wit is also something I must have - and also great social skills.  He should love music and the arts, enjoy simple pleasures, home cooked meals and entertaining.   In bed he should be a masterful and generous lover.  

I’m befuddled why I’m not being presented with a long list of candidates who fit that profile.   Surely there must be a lot of guys out there who qualify!  I just don’t get it! 

So tonight, a date.   I am not ready to date.   This person found me – I didn’t look for him as I have sworn off dating for a time.   But I didn’t say no, although perhaps I should have.   I already feel sorry for him and we haven’t even met yet.   He will meet me at the bar that I sing at on Fridays.   That is also how I met Patrick.   I will be pleasant to him, probably impress him with my singing, listen politely to his stories and then I will tell him, Thanks but no thanks."   So, why did I say yes?    I guess I’m hungry to move on, to be free of this pain, to get to the next phase of my life.   But Kaveh would say, “Sit with the pain a while longer.  Just as you can’t hurry love, you can’t hurry healing."    When the crying has stopped, when my mind has quieted, when everything I see or hear around me doesn’t remind me of Patrick, when I find myself going for a day without thinking of him, when my heart is at peace again, when I no longer have to write frenetically to ice the pain, when all these things happen, I will date again.

Tonight I will sing my heart out.   I've been sick with a deep cough that has battered my vocal chords, a cold that should have resolved itself by now.   I'm sure grief is not a good tonic for health.   My voice is as fragile as I am, but I will sing tonight, probably 6-7 songs.   I will be singing to an empty chair that was once inhabited by a very beautiful, large man who only had eyes for me.   Here are the songs I will sing:

There Will Never Be Another You

After You've Gone

The Man that Got Away

The Nearness of You (that was our song)

I've Never Been in Love Before (another song I used to sing privately to P.)

All of Me (his favorite - an upbeat but very sad song)

At Last

But dating?  Tonight is already a mistake.  

Patrick's Bakery

Liza says she and I should open up a bakery and sell cakes muffins and cupcakes.   She says my baked goods are head and shoulders above the stuff that’s out there.   One place in Wilmette has great frosting but lousy cake, and the new snobby cupcake store in Evanston has great cake but yucky frosting.   You’d think if you were opening up a cupcake store, you’d ace it, right?  And you all have had my "better-than-sex chocolate cake", or to be more accurate my “almost-better-than-sex-chocolate cake”   I had to rename it at Patrick’s insistence and my concurrence.

So, we open the bakery and Liza says we name it “Patrick’s” – she has a sick and twisted sense of humor.   I guess it’s because of the whole dog naming thing - that naming critters and things “Patrick” seem funny and apropos to her, even though I'm supposed to be trying to forget him.

So picture me in my bakery named “Patrick’s”, trying to stay busy, trying to be OK, productively going about the business of trying to forget him, humming happily to myself as I frost cupcakes.   A nice man comes in – he asks to speak with the owner, Patrick.  I am outraged.   I say, “Are you fucking kidding me?  Is this some kind of a joke?  He is confused.  “I don’t know what you mean, mam – could you please let Patrick know a customer would like to speak with him?”   He says that painful name a second time.  “Are you a fucking sadist sir?” I shriek.  “Why would you torment me by mentioning his name?”   He is even more confused – he insists he just wants to speak with the owner to give his compliments – he wants to talk with Patrick.   I can’t bear to hear him speak Patrick’s name over and over.  I berate the gentleman for his cruelty, his insensitivity, his utter lack of discretion.   With daggers in my eyes, I reach into the case of lovely confections and, one by one, start pelting him with cupcakes and blueberry muffins.   He is stunned and scared.  He bolts for the door but my aim is lethal – before he escapes, his lovely pinstripe suit is covered in blobs of pink and purple icing and blueberry stains.   My anger spent, I fall to the floor, despondent, and pick up the mess, heartsick at the mention of my love’s name and flabbergasted that anyone could be so obtuse and cruel.

Then my employee, Pamela – she answers the phone as she always does, “Patrick’s – may I help you?”    “You too!”  I scream at the top of my lungs.  Like a ninja I spring from the floor ready to gut her with my offset spatula.   “Will there be no peace for me!   Why do you torment me so?   Why do you continually rub his name in my face!!!!”    Pamela backs away from me with terror in her eyes – like she’s just encountered a grizzly bear on a woodland path.   She says, in a deliberately sing-songy voice, meant to calm me, “I just answer the phone, Sarah. That's my job”   As she speaks, she deliberately and in cautious slow motion,  makes a backwards retreat in the direction of the kitchen, not letting me out of her sight.  At the last second she turns and runs but she too is the recipient of my fury - an orange chiffon cake smacks the back of her retreating head and slithers down her back leaving a frothy peachy trail.  Heartbroken, I slump to the floor again.  “Will there be no peace for me?” I sob, scooping up handfuls of chiffon cake from the floor and stuffing it into my mouth.  “What is wrong with everyone?   Have they all gone insane?”

**************************************************************************

Somehow this was funnier when we concocted it as we walked along the beach with Joey this morning.  We laughed until tears streamed from our eyes.   The idea of naming the bakery "Patrick’s" and then me being outraged whenever anyone says the word “Patrick” - as if it were intentional cruelty – too funny.    Or maybe Liza and I are just weird.

Angel in Love/Missing Patrick

I almost got through the day yesterday without crying.  Almost.  It was a good day for the most part.   Productive at the office, enjoying one-on-one time with Joey.  We are settling into a routine.   He and I camped ourselves at the office for eight hours and he spent the time quietly dozing or chewing on his bone at my feet, while I worked.  Periodically we took a walk around the block, even in the rain and that was lovely.

And last evening a break from him -  I felt like a mother with a night away from her baby.  As much as I love him already, it was nice to have him in someone else's care.   Madeleine took him into the city to hang with her friends with lots of admonitions from me about how to care for him (no getting him high or drunk, no people food, lots of water, not too much excitement, making sure the car windows are mostly closed, getting him home at a reasonable time, etc).   I went to my bi-monthly writing group and wrote well.   James led the prompts and our assignment was to write a perfect first sentence and then, for the rest of the evening, we wrote three pieces using that perfect sentence, each inspired from a photograph he passed around.   Being the trouble maker that I am, I warped the instructions and changed the first sentence for each of the three pieces and just continued my story.   Luckily there is no time out corner for writers who fail to follow instructions.

Here are the three pieces I wrote last night.   They are unpolished (that's the point) and each was written in the allocated 10-15 minutes.

*******************************************

Piece #1
I was ten when the angel visited me for the first time.  It was on a class trip to the Badlands.  Badlands for a bad girl - a perfect destination for the class floozy.  At age ten, I already had my period and a B cup.  The boys were buzzing around me, hopeful to cop a feel.  That was the year I learned to sew and the year hip hugger bellbottoms made their appearance.  I dressed the part of a bad ass girl with my pants barely covering my pubic bone and a red see-through shirt over a black lacy bra.

Jonah and I broke away from the group, ignoring the warnings of the group's tour guide.  Slyly we slipped into a cave, thick with bat guano, aquiver with the furry, upside down, sleeping critters who seemed to whisper in their sleep.   The cave vibrated.  Repulsed we dove deeper into the cave in the hope that we could find a spot free of guano where we could lay together and explore each other's bodies.

Soon we were lost, irretrievably lost, in the inky darkness.  We were no longer amorous prepubescents.  We clung to each other.  We cried for our mommies.  I think I lay down, eyes closed and sucked my thumb.  Jonah tried to nuzzle me.  I kicked him - it was his horny fault we were in this predicament.

Willing myself alive, I sprang to my feet and lurched through the darkness, arms outstretched before me, feeling my way through cave passages.  Then it happened.  My hands touched him...he was stock still waiting for me..calm, waiting for my fingers to discover him.  He put his arms around me.  I thought he was the tour guide.  But then I felt his feathered wings - huge wings that draped his nakedness like a blanket.  He pulled me to him, tucked me under one of the wings and led me from the cave.

"Jonah," I said..."what about Jonah?"

"He wasn't intended to live," the angel replied.  "You were."

Piece #2
I was twenty when the angel visited me for the second time.  I was home alone, house sitting an old Victorian lady home, owned by my anthropology professor, Sy, who was on a sabbatical dig in Tunisia.  I had just broken up with my boyfriend Jonah.  I listlessly ignored the sirens that warned me to the basement, not really caring if I lived or died.

Sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed in Sy's bedroom, I watched the 100+ year old elm tree dance like a sapling in the 75 MPH winds.  It was fascinating - would it hold?  And if the tree, that had survived this long, finally snapped, how would it fall?  On the house?

Lightening cracked open the sky, followed by thunder that boomed through my body.  I closed my eyes and for the first time felt fear.  Maybe I did want to live after all.  Maybe I should get my ass to the basement.   Then another crack of light and a crash followed by the shriek of the tree splitting down the middle.

I watched, absolutely frozen, at the tree, which, as if in slow motion, listed and slowly fell.  I watched in fascinated horror as it fell toward the house and me.  I did nothing.  I just watched the danger approach.

When I came to, he was there.  He held my face in his baby-soft hands.  His lips brushed mine, as soft as a whisper.  "I thought I had lost you this time," he said.  A single tear wet his white eyelashes.

"I remember you...you are real after all.  Why did you come back?"

"You belong to me," he whispered.  "I  am always near."   He pulled me from the tree branch that had crashed into and penetrated the house.

"I have to leave you now - but first one question," he said looking mournfully into my eyes.

"What?" I asked.

"Why do you keep falling for guys named Jonah?"

Piece #3
I was thirty when the angel visited me for the last time.  The pregnancy had been difficult.  Jonah and I had tried for five years and finally with the help of in vitro, we had conceived.  There would be no hospital birth for me and my baby.  I had found a pregnancy wellness spa in Puerto Rico, on the outskirts of the El Junque rain forest   The owner, Myrna, called herself a witch doctor  She had purchased the little piece of land that abutted up to a beautiful waterfall.  Through Internet marketing she attracted starry-eyed, alternative mothers-to-be like me who wanted their babies to be grounded in nature from their first cry.

Next to the waterfall was a natural shallow pool.  The water was warmed by the sun to the perfect birthing temperature.  Myrna had built a birthing stool from smooth stones she hauled from the falls.  All was going well.  I labored for eighteen hours and periodically, Myrna dove beneath the water and examined my progress, holding up fingers to let me know how many centimeters I was dilated.  When she held up ten fingers it was time for me to push.  Something slipped inside of me and lurched - then stillness.  I knew my baby was in trouble.

"Shit, shit!!" yelled Myrna.  "What's going on here?"  I looked down - the water was dark crimson,the color of liver blood.  The air shimmered, the light grew dimmer, my limbs grew cold.  Myrna ran to the house for help.

I prayed for him...."Help me," I pleaded.  "Help my baby...please come again.  You said you are always near."

I opened my eyes.  He was there, whiter than ever.  He gently spread my legs.  The crimson water stained the white wings that drooped into the bloody pool.   Grimly he helped the baby out.  It was lifeless and almost black.  I howled.  Then I watched as the angel leaned over the lifeless thing and began to lick it like a mother cat licks her newborn kittens, not missing  a single spot.  The baby stirred and pinked.  It was then I noticed the tiny little wings sprouting from its shoulders.

"It's yours!" I gasped.  "How?"

"I am always near," he said, smiling.  "Sometimes I am very near."

***************************************
Every Wednesday for the past few months, after we write we hang out at the Hotel Orrington.  Patrick calls me and I excuse myself and find a quiet spot to talk with him.   I read him what I wrote that night - often about him and us. He is always astounded...he hangs on every word.   Last night I knew, for the first time,  there would be no call from him.   I also knew he was feeling the loss too, knowing it was my writing night, wishing we were still connected.   And so I cried a little bit, discreetly.  Missing him so much.

And is it OK to tell you, my friends, just how much I miss him and why?   I won't bore you again with this but I need to talk about it.   It just feels wrong, like the universe is shrieking in pain to have two hearts ripped asunder.  The loss is terrible.   I miss feeling tiny in his arms.  I miss the way he held my chin while he kissed me over and over and over again.   I miss his gravely voice and his hearty laugh.   I miss his wit and fine mind. I miss how he lorded over me when he won at games and my fake sulking.   I miss that he could never be near me without touching me, whether it was a hand on my thigh as we drove or an arm around me as we took in a show, absently stroking me, or a hand extended across the dinner table, searching for mine.   I miss the way he smells, and his manly looks.   I miss his 20" upper arms and his legs, each the size of a small child. I miss his hairy chest that I would run my fingers through.   I miss his adoration when I sang just for him, our eyes locked to the exclusion of everyone else.    I miss the sex - a lot.  I miss talking to him about business, his and mine.   I miss reading to him amazing passages from a book and having him appreciate the beauty of the English language as I do.   Oh.....I miss him so much!!!    There I've said it.   I won't belabor the point in this blog.

Several weeks ago when we were still talking I wrote this paragraph in a larger piece I wrote.   It captures perfectly how I feel.

***********************

Love is an awe inspiring power.  Two hearts cleave to each other and start to beat as one, sympathetic beats in time.  Two bodies, move as one, in time.  Two breaths are shared, his out, hers in.  Limbs entwine, where his end, hers begin, physical boundaries dissolve.

And when it ends, the hearts and bodies are cleaved in the opposite way, as with a butcher knife.  Two hearts, ripped from each other, two breaths independent once more.  Limbs unravel.  Separation.  The hearts and bodies mourn their other.

Dog Pens, Doors and Boundaries

Closed doors, open windows, dog pens and crates, firm and porous boundaries - all worth discussing and thinking about.   I'm crate training Joey - it's as hard for me as it is for him - so much has gotten stirred up.  It's necessary to give him firm boundaries, secure boundaries.  And if I do this right, he will come to love his crate as a place of refuge.  But now, he weeps when I leave the room, even for a moment.   His weeping breaks my heart - it's heart wrenching sobbing coupled with pitiful little barks and scrabbling at the cage to get out.   When he does this, I want to run to him and let him out and hold him in my arms and tell him I'll always be there for him - I'll never leave him.   But I can't do that.  If I go to him when he is in distress, it will teach him that crying and barking are an effective way to get comfort.  So, I sit in the other room and wait it out.   As soon as he settles down (and he does) I reenter the room and tell him what a good, brave boy he is and how proud I am of him.

When I was a child there were either no boundaries or very sad and scary ones.   When I was two and my brother was born, I was put in the care of my older siblings, age 6 and 9.   My sister tells me they resented having to watch me and mostly they didn't.  So I wandered the large property, with no clothes on and was found by motorists on several occasions crossing the street in front of the house.   My mother, in exasperation, had a friend build a pen for me outside, attached to the house.   It is my earliest memory, being confined in the equivalent of a dog pen, crying for my brother, sister and their friends to let me out as they taunted and laughed at me.   It was a horrible thing to do to a baby.   Finally my mother realized her mistake and abandoned the idea of keeping me in an outdoor pen, but the damage was done.

So I hate closed doors and confined spaces.  Much of my therapy has been about me pounding on doors that were or are closed to me, or standing wistfully in doorways, looking in, wishing to be invited.  Doors are boundaries.   Children pound on the marital door wanting to know what is happening on the other side, furious to be excluded.  Kids that breach that boundary, literally or figuratively, get screwed up.  Some closed doors are critical to growth.  Having said that, I've never met a closed door I didn't try to kick in.

Patrick closed a door.  He said, "no".   I am weeping on the other side, pounding and pounding.   He is mostly silent which is as it should be.    I have created this blog to keep a peephole open, an small open window in the door.   I am very clever when I'm told no.   I've spent my lifetime getting around "no's".

Boundaries - some are hard and firm and obvious, others are flimsy and fragile and not always easy to see the edges of.  There is the boundary between love and obsession, the boundary between creativity and insanity, the boundary between wellness and decay, the boundaries between lovers whose bodies have been fused but who must still maintain their autonomy.   As I follow the bubbles to the surface of the water, I will encounter the boundary between the depths and the light of the open air.   That's a fragile boundary of wellness because there is life on either side of the surface.   Dip below the water, you can hold your breath, you can still see light, but you can't survive there for long.  Fight your way to the top, breathe the fresh air, but know how easy it is to slip back.

It's the little things we do every day to take care of ourselves that keep us above the surface, that keep us on the right side of the sanity/cuckoo boundary.   Sleeping enough, feeding ourselves properly, tending our environment, taking care of our bodies, reaching out to friends, doing honest work - all of these things must be done.   Every day, one foot in front of the other.  Dieting, taking calcium, flossing, exercising, doing laundry, tidying the house, reading, talking to loved ones, opening bills, making long term plans, looking pretty, singing, laughing even when your heart is broken, writing in a blog.  And then the next day, doing it all over again.

Yesterday I screwed up.   I texted him.  It was selfish and cruel.   He is struggling too and it has to hurt and worry him to see me pounding at the closed door.   He must have had to walk into the next room and close his ears to the sobbing, knowing he was doing the right thing to ignore me, even though his heart was breaking for me.  And unlike me with Joey, he won't be reentering the room anytime soon to tell me that I am a good and brave girl once I settle down.   I will have to comfort myself.

Chaos and Sense and Sensibility

I survived yesterday and today I'm on Day #2 of my recovery.   It was a day full of chaos primarily due to Joey, the new yellow lab who has invaded our home and is knocking at the door of our hearts.   Chaos.  I have a love/hate relationship with it.   There are two Sarahs:  the one who craves and needs order.  The Sarah who hates a dirty dish in the sink and who folds towels in precise thirds and doesn't understand why everyone doesn't do the same.  I love a serene vista and my coffee table is at its happiest state when there are treasured objects arranged just so, the glass top free of prints and rings and books that beckon to be read, stacked strategically in order of desirability and size.   But there is also the Sarah who has lived her life with layers upon layers of responsibility, stress and runaway chaos.  And when my life starts to hum predictably is when it's time to add another stressful element (a new child, more animals, a huge holiday undertaking, canning thousands of jars of fruit, a Frisbie reunion two years in the making, a new hobby that consumes me).

But chaos yesterday was a good thing.   The house was trashed with take-out chinese food, dishes everywhere, all three daughters ran in and out, there was a friend with his dog, dogs running crazy through the house and zipping in circles in the yard, ripping up my carefully tended lawn (oh, well, what was I tending it for, if not to be used?)   There were trips to the store to get dog supplies and return trips to exchange things that didn't work.  There were smiles and laughter along with dog poop everywhere.    I surrendered to the chaos, knowing I could clean today - I enjoyed seeing my family happy.

Joey.   I named him after my dead Frisbie father (the one of my three fathers who loved me) and also after Patrick.   I was going to name him Patrick but the middle, always-wise daughter threatened to tell the shelter people that I had once hit the previous dog, Merlin with a hair brush if I named him Patrick.   Joseph is Patrick's middle name - that was my compromise.   Probably a better choice - Patrick would be a weird dog's name.

Joey and I are a mess together.   It's fitting that I should get a dog with issues similar to mine.   We don't look alike but beneath our skin, we resonate.   He is a yellow lab mix (not sure what the mix is).   He is eight months old, so still a puppy.  He has scars from being beaten (I carry emotional scars from being beaten as a child).   He has severe attachment disorder and can't handle being left, even for a minute (me too).   He has no boundaries - he spills out of his skin, mouthing, jumping, pooping everywhere, licking, loving, biting clothing, running after cats.   Doesn't he sound like me?   I don't poop all over the house but I'm all over the place, loving too fiercely, jumping on people critically when things anger me, revealing every thought that comes into my mind without a filter, and always nervous when people walk away from me, even if it's just for a bit.   Appropriateness.   Joey and I will work on being appropriate.   I will read Jane Austen to him every night.   Currently we're reading Sense and Sensibility.   He and I cringe at the description of Maryanne who indulged her every heightened emotion to the exclusion of having sense.   She lived her life at the extremes and made some very poor choices.    There is valor in managing oneself to the center, eschewing violent extremes.   It takes, I think, habit and discipline.  Joey and I will work on being more like Elinor, Maryanne's older more sensible sister.  I like that Joey is literary,  it's something else we share.

He will be a solid citizen and a happy dog - I am sure of it.   He is eager to please which is 9/10ths of the equation - the rest will come.    I am going to give him structure, discipline, tons of love and lots of time.   He will heal in time.   We will both heal together - we will be well together.  As I write this, he is at the office with me.   He is settled down, sleeping at my feet, his head propped on my foot.   Joey is happy, I think, for the first time in a long time.

I'm glad I didn't name him Patrick.  Thanks Elizabeth

Blogging vs. Anti-depressants?

Liza says I should go on anti-depressants, take Chinese herbs or go to her accupuncturist - she says this hurt has gone too deep - she is worried that I won't be able to pull myself back to life.   I said, "Let's give it a week.   I will write a blog.  I will write my ass off with the the thought that by getting these feelings out of my gut and onto the page, I can find some measure of relief - like vomitting."

And I will give Patrick the link to this blog.   He can choose whether or not to follow my progress.   I will imagine that he will stay connected in this way, checking in on me from time to time, with still tender and loving feelings for me.   I don't want to be cruel to him by making it all about my loss.   He is suffering too, holed up in his man cave, waiting for the heartache to subside so that he can venture out into the world again and a new relationship.   If I were stronger I could do this 100% break and not need to feel connected to him.    We would be totally decoupled and eventually whole again.  But I am not strong - me, Sarah "the hero" - that is what he calls me because I have lived my life cholerically, forging pathways, never looking back, results oriented, strong and optimistic, taking care of everything and everyone.   I am no longer strong.

So this is new - this falling apart thing.   To be broken hearted is to be broken - shattered.  This blog will witness my recovery.   It will chronicle the baby steps I will take to get back.   I suspect this won't be easy, getting over him.   Everything I do, I do passionately and completely.   I fell in love so deeply that I now find myself at the very bottom of the ocean, unsure which way leads back to the surface, holding my breath, not sure that I will ever see the sun again.   I could perish here, sitting at the bottom with bubbles escaping from my lips.  Today, a baby step.   I will sit quietly and watch the bubbles and note which way they travel - that is up.  Once I determine "up", I will make my next move.

Everything hinges on me being able to recover from this.    If I don't fully recover, I will never love romantically again, I will be one of the perpetually disappointed who just go through the motions of living, and I will stand no chance of a reconciliation with Patrick.  I will fade away.

So how did it happen that my child is smarter and wiser than me?   Elizabeth.   I told her I told Patrick that if he came back to me, he had to be 100% certain that it would be forever, because I could never withstand this pain again.   He agreed.   She said, "Seriously?   If he came back to you, you would marry him, just like that?    That's not right.   You only knew him for two months.   You and he never got through the honeymoon stage.   You don't know him well enough to jump to that kind of commitment."    That's when I realized she was right.    My reaction and request were unrealistic and imprudent.   It was bizarre of me to tell him to come back on bended knee or not at all.    I guess the pain of losing him was/is so great that I couldn't imagine risking my heart to him again with potentially the same outcome.   He is my first love and I have no confidence that one can actually recover from something like this, never mind do it again.   But normal people fall in love, break up, fall in love again, break up, over and over and they DO go on to love again - they DO recover.   They KNOW they can withstand the pain if the risk is worth it.    So a normal person would have said, "Don't come back to me unless you really want to try to make it work.   Don't come back just because you're lonely, or miss me.   Come back to me if you think it could work, if your head is in a different place and you think we might be able to get it right this time."   And then we would give it a shot, pick up where we left off, and get to know each other better before making such a monumental decision to be life partners.  And it might not work, in which case we would break up again...and I would survive because that is what people do. 

For there to be even the possibility of a reconciliation, we both have work to do that could (ironically) spoil any possibility of a future relationship - the work that could bring us back to each other is also the same work that is more likely to estrange us permanently.   That is the risk, but it's the only path.  My work is to acquire the skill of breaking up and reclaiming myself.   If I can't do this - if I can't heal my heart, then my original statement was correct - "I will not be able to withstand this again".   And if I can't heal my heart, then I will never love again because I will be stuck in time, my heart life will have ended on June 15, 2011.    But if I can survive this once, I can survive it again, and again, each time recovering with less heartache.  And if I know I can be OK without him, then I can risk a second chance with Patrick, knowing there are no guarantees in love.

His work is reclaiming his heart and getting back out there, looking for his heart's desire.    He needs to give his dream its due and find someone who will love him as much as I do but also give him the things he needs that I can't.   He owes it to himself to try and find this.   If he doesn't take this path he will always be restless.   The selfless part of me hopes, upon hope that his every wish comes true, just as he envisions.   But, in equal measure, I also hope for a miracle in my favor - for him to search and not find someone who touches him the way I do - eventually making his way back to me with peace in his heart  - that, in me, he found his holy grail, his soulmate - he just wasn't sure the first time.

So, Sarah....work to do.    Keep writing everything in your heart but don't put Patrick on a pedestal.   Remind yourself every day that while he is wonderful, there are other wonderful people out there.   Get your affairs in order, let the separation take root, attend to family and friends, spend time with your new dog and make him a great companion.    Don't date yet....that is a disaster while your heart is still so committed.    Just heal.