Sunday, March 31, 2013

The 53-year-old adolescent

Last night I dreamed I was at a class reunion.  But I didn't realize it was a class reunion until C came up to me and said, pointedly, "Hello."   I didn't recognize her at first.  We walked and talked awkwardly.  I know from Facebook that she is married with a beautiful daughter and  a happy life, but in the dream she was single and unhappy, and not admitting it.  She was aloof, which was odd, since she approached me to begin with and I had always had a cordial, if not close, relationship with her.  The scene shifted, as dream scenes do. She had moved to a reference desk:  we were in a library and she was volunteering.  I tried to assist and got a patron from hell who yelled at me and asked for someone else to help her.  (She had lost a bet on a horse race and was looking for information on the horse.)

The dream was an odd amalgam of high school and work.  Now that I've written it down, it seems obvious that it's about the toxic environment at work.   It doesn't take much insight to realize that one of the reasons I'm sensitive to criticism and back-biting is my experience with the public school system and the mean-spirited nature of adolescence.  After high school, I learned that I was worthwhile and talented and accomplished, but that self-knowledge remains a facade, easily breached with the right (or wrong) concatenation of events.  All the subsequent learning and self-confidence can crumble, and my high school default mechanisms return.  I don't confront, I try to hide my hurt, I absorb and accept and amplify the negative assessment, and I move on, curled tightly around the fragile cracked core of my being.

My current task is to repair that core.  I get tired of the job, though.  I want to plaster it over and forget about it.  I want that hurt teenager to stop whining and influencing me.  I'm 53 years old fergawdsake, I have a responsible job, I have grown up things to do.  Enough with the adolescent angst.

Work has actually reached a detente.  I start my day with a 2-minute Power Stance, which actually seems to have an effect on my day.  My bete noir has eased off the backbiting and snippy repartee, and my bosses are backing me on next steps.  But personally?  That's another matter.  I find myself addicted to the internet, obsessively checking my accounts, living from text to text and post to post, sharing the minutia of my life, trying to connect with someone, anyone, distracting myself from doing what I need to do.  I reach out for contact and feel rejected and hurt when people have other commitments.  I doubt the friendships, and I don't want to be alone.

Yesterday I colored Easter eggs by myself.  I've happily done that in the past, but usually I connect with a friend or three and make a party of it.  I remember coloring eggs with my cousin:  he is so creative. His eggs were rich with color and design.  I remember discovering, via my aunt, how amazingly deep the colors are when you use brown eggs.  I remember borrowing friends' kids, and the joy of helping them discover their own styles.  The great thing about crafting with another person is the variety that results.  Everyone has a different mode of expression, it's very personal.  You can tell without being told who did what work.  (Once, when I was living with my cousin and T and S, I had my first pumpkin carving party.  R joined T and S and me. We lighted the jack-o-lanterns and lined them up on the living room floor, and when my cousin came home we made him guess who had carved which pumpkin.  He got them all right.)

But the real reason to craft with another person is to feel that connection.  Some people need solitude to produce anything.  I used to be that way, and in many of my previous posts you'll find me complaining that D is distracting me from doing meaningful, creative, or joyful work.  Now it appears that I was blaming him unfairly.  I have lost my ability to be alone, to find joy in the creative process.  I need someone to be with me, to praise the end result, to share in the process and product.

Without that connection, all I can seem to do is post pictures to the internet, and whine in this blog.  I am so looking forward to getting past this stage.  But, how do I do that?  I can't build a framework when the core is weak.  Do I really have to tear down the facade and fix the foundation?

I think I need a new metaphor.  Meanwhile....here are pictures of my Easter eggs.    The proper response is "ooh!"  And to post your own pix back.

Organic eggs will
Produce richer colors, and
Tastier omelettes.






Saturday, March 16, 2013

Moving on

About a year ago, I wrote a blog about downsizing and loss.  In August, I wrote about loss in general.  In fact, much of the past year I have been contemplating the gradual erosion of my life.  And here I sit, at 4 am, unable to sleep, treading that familiar ground yet again.  A bronchial cough woke me up, and, in between bouts, I am thinking about finances, health, next steps.

Most of what I presaged last March has come to pass.  I've lost most of my possessions and savings, my marriage, and my sweet dog.  I am in the process of figuring out how best to jettison my house.   And yet, the grief of the past year is missing.  Yes, I sobbed throughout the divorce mediation.  And I sobbed when I learned  about D's collapse.  And I cry in my weekly therapy sessions.  But behind all of that emotion is...emptiness.  And maybe relief.  And maybe, just maybe, the stirrings of hope.

I'm not sure.

I do know that loss of stuff is no longer part of the grief.  As part of the mediation, I took the inventory of possessions and labelled them:  D, K, and M.  (M stands for marital possessions.)  D initialed the stuff he plans to retrieve, now that he's back in Portland, and I faxed the result to my property managers.  In looking over the inventory, I realized that, for the most part, I haven't missed any of it.  There is some Grandma furniture that I'd like to cherish, there are boxes of pictures and letters and  financial doings that I should go through.  But otherwise....?

Last week my managers sent me 2 boxes of clothes, which are a welcome addition, and another small box of craft stuff.  Much more remains, along with books, dishes, CDs, and Christmas decorations.  All are nice to have, all give me joy, but if I never saw them again, I'd be okay.  In fact, that would be a painless way to deal with it:  just walk away.

Really?  Have I reached that point?

Last year I was wandering around the house, agonizing over what was going in the downsizing estate sale.  A few months later, I flung things in boxes, preparatory to moving here.  At the time, I was thinking in terms of "what do we need for the next 6 months."  So, the tough decisions were set aside.  It was very Scarlett O'Hara:  I'll think about that tomorrow (or in this case, 6 months of tomorrows.)

Now I find that, for the most part, my hasty decisions were as valid as the decisions I agonized over.  In both cases, precious things were lost, precious things were kept, precious things were stored.  And the same goes for unimportant things:  while I tossed and sold a lot, I also boxed up paperclips for god's sake, scraps of wrapping paper for origami, jewelry bits to be reused.... and now that I've left D, I still have too much stuff:  my 350 sq ft are crammed with linens, clothes, dishes, papers, books, furniture.  I am not yet traveling light.  And I want to.

But the real issue, of course, is how to lighten the emotional load.  All this preoccupation with stuff is a distraction from the job at hand.  It's easy to talk about moving on, traveling light, but what does that really mean?

After the divorce was final, I wrote a haiku:
Loss is emptiness.
It should be weightless.  But no:
Tears have gravity.

So, how do I pay homage to the past 10 years and look towards the next 30 years?  How do I jettison my tears, guilt, sadness?  How do I store memories?  and how do I take joy and hope and regain my bright, serene, creative self?  How do I move on?

My friends and family and therapist are all advising me.  It's contradictory.  Most people see the last 10 years as a waste:  I lost the self that they loved, while trying to maintain a partnership that drained me financially and emotionally, alienated my friends and family, and eroded my self-confidence and self-esteem.  I get that point of view.  But it's not the whole story.  Clearly, I would not have spent 10 years on something that gave me nothing.  There were joys experienced, lessons learned, friends made.  I did not stop creating, making music, or feeding my soul.  Those 10 years are part of me, and I need to acknowledge them, grieve over what I lost, and take what I gained.

D is not the demon of the piece.  He is the man I fell in love with after my father died.  He got me through that tough time, and he loves me and thinks me beautiful and talented.  He is proud of my accomplishments.   He is a good man.  But, as E once said, he was a lousy husband.  The power imbalance led to escalating emotional abuse, and I had given all I had to give.  No one, not even D,  blames me for leaving, for giving up.  In the final analysis, I don't blame myself.

But the process?  the process is driving everyone crazy.  I wallow in grief, in guilt:  What could I have done differently, why wasn't I strong enough, what is D going to do, why couldn't I be there for him and his sister?  I whine:  I've lost everything.  I curl up in a fetal position.  I cry.  I can't make decisions, I don't follow through.  I express my loneliness.  I express my neediness.  I cry some more.  I don't know what I want to do with my life, and I cry about that.  I don't have the confidence to start something new.  I worry about debts, about stuff.  I worry about self-care and self-talk.  I worry about alienating my friends and family even more. I worry about being a burden.

One friend thinks the guilt is useless and self-destructive and I need to Just Stop.  Another says, "pffft, feelings don't work that way.  And you've raised whining to an art form.  Your friends need to deal with it."  Some friends think I'm an idiot for dreaming of eventually being friends with D again.  The current estrangement should be permanent.  Wish him well and move on. Others think that I will, in time, need to renew contact, for closure if nothing else.  My therapist tells me to acknowledge the feelings, accept where I am:  it's okay that I don't know what I want.  But....do something about that negative self-talk.

Which brings me back to the beginning of this blog.  What is really behind all this emotional flailing?  That's what I need to find, in order to move on.  Am I truly empty?  Have I lost the ability to really feel, am I just going through the motions, running on my default whiny behaviors?  What do I really want, where is my joy, where is the me that people want me to retrieve?  I truly don't know, I don't recognize that woman they are describing. I don't believe the future is limitless.

But I want to believe it.  I know that I have all the tools to do amazing things with the next 30 years, and the freedom to pursue those adventures.  If I want to.


Sunday, March 3, 2013

It's never too late, right?

Tonight I went to the Hiland Theatre to watch the NDI Winter Escape performance.  It was a mix of modern/athletic dance, tap, ballet, and Broadway, so it had something for everyone.  My favorite was the Alley Kats tap/funk troupe, especially when paired up with non-tap dancers.  There was no music to that number, so the tap provided the beat, and it was amazing how much variety they had at their disposal.

I had complimentary tickets, but, sadly, no one was able to join me.  Part of the reason was that my friends were busy with their lives, and I had a last-minute cancellation that couldn't get filled;  but I think a lot of it was that I wasn't able to really sell the program.  I had no idea what to expect, I just knew it was kids dancing, and my tickets were free.

Next time I'll pay for my tickets:  they deserve it.  And I'll put more enthusiasm into my offer.  I'm sorry that my friends missed out on this.  The dancing and music were both well worth it.   A lot of the music was canned, but there was some excellent jazz and piano accompaniment, some written specifically for the group.  It was incredibly moving to see these kids put on a professional-level show with joy and showmanship.  They had the skill, but more importantly, they had the heart.

I remembered my high school days:  it was such a small school, we all did a little of everything. Because of that, we never achieved the level of excellent that kids in big cities do.  But we did get a lot of exposure to the various options, if we chose it.   There were some road blocks, of course.  For example,  I never learned to dance, and I always felt like my size prohibited me from it.  Clearly, that was self-talk at its most destructive, and I was pleased to see that this group did not discriminate on the basis of size.

I'm glad I got myself out to see them.  I have a feeling that I need to become more comfortable with the concept of solo adventuring.  I can't wait for my friends to have the time or inclination to join me, and I can't depend on them to galvanize me.

It wasn't a slam dunk. I almost talked myself into staying home:  I don't feel well, I'm still sad,  I have things I need to take care of, I don't want to go out by myself and sit in an auditorium filled with kids and parents. Above all,  I don't want to emphasize to the world that I'm one of those pathetic lonely old ladies with no one to play with.

But then I looked at the map and saw that the venue was a 5 minute drive from my house.  I have done nothing productive all day, and I realized that I'd beat myself up for being a lump if I didn't put on a coat and Just Go.  So, I put on my coat and went.

Now I am beating myself up for not joining a dance class.  Yes, I know I can do it any time.  Yes, I know I'd like it.  Yes, I know I have both time and money enough to do this, and I'll feel better if I do. So, what is keeping me from it?   Aren't I past the point of expecting more of myself than I have to give?  Can't I allow myself to be mediocre?

Apparently not.  Instead, I get sad as I listen to well-loved music from my past and watch those girls who have focused their young minds and bodies into the pursuit of excellence.

Strong lovely girls dance
To the Bulgarian choir.
My throat closes up.