Anniversaries

Three weeks ago, I was in Melbourne, Kentucky, at G's riverside family vacation home, for the 2nd Annual Spider Reunion.  Only four of us made it, as with the 1st, but the rest were there in spirit.  As we drove and photographed and chatted and posted silly things to Facebook, I realized how deep the friendship is.  We bonded at a young age, and when we meet, we fall back into the old patterns as if we never parted.

37 years ago, we were callow 18-year-olds.  We didn't know who we were, or who we wanted to be. By the end of the four years, it was clear that few of us would turn out as planned.  In the interim,  we had our differences, we had our crises, we grew up, we disappeared, we reconnected, we remained friends.  And now it turns out, the most important discovery from that long-ago freshman year is that friendship endures.  What a splendid discovery that is!

That being said, another discovery is how very little people change at the core.  The process of living has refined and winnowed, and we are unapologetically ourselves, without much veneer, and without much desire to have one.  In fact, we embrace our quirks, as evidenced by our ready assumption of the nicknames G's boyfriend M assigned to us (he couldn't remember our names.)  B was the Manly One, C the Child.  I was the Hippie (that's Bohemian to you, M!)  And yes, that's always been my bent:  slapdash with my house-keeping and organization, living in the moment, wearing comfortable swirly clothes, dancing and singing at the drop of a cue.  What sealed the deal, for M, was my home-made kale chips.  He took one, politely, nibbled and said, "that's good!" and then turned to G and made a WTF?! face.

This sounds like fun doesn't it?  And it was:  zip-lining between two backyard trees, sitting on the deck watching the barges and drinking coffee, walking through the woods and parks, listening to Latina jazz at G's regular Tuesday night music venue, and talking, talking, talking.  However, on the next to the last night, I got into a confrontation with G and realized how thin my skin remains.  I know it always has been, but I had thought that, since the divorce, I had toughened up.  I thought that I accepted myself and trusted in the love of my friends and family.  I was startled when, during the confrontation, my throat tightened with hurt and tears.

In many ways, it is a silly fight.   She says, "Tomorrow it's your turn to pick up and clean and decide meals."  Surprised, I say, "sure..."  and then I pause.  "Do you think I'm not pulling my weight?"  She looks at me and says, rather like a manager/psychologist, "What do you think?"  In times past, I would have crumpled and apologized, for what I wouldn't know, but I'd apologize and grovel and feel like pond scum. I would embrace the judgment and feel hurt by it at the same time. On this occasion I say, "Yes, I do think I've been pulling my weight.  I've been doing dishes and picking up and contributing."

She does not agree, and I recognize afresh how little power one has to change an opinion.  Because, yes, I am doing my share.  But, I am also leaving coffee cups on side tables, snack dishes on bedside tables, doors ajar.  I am making my bed, but leaving my coat and scarf hanging on chair backs and my knitting and camera bags on the floor by the corner chair where I download my pix every night. I am trying to contain my overflow, but, catlike, I am scattering my fur everywhere and sitting wherever I damn well please.  In her eyes, I am a nightmare guest, selfish and disrespectful of others.

I am hurt, and I leave the house and sit out in the old Shawshank bus/guest house, editing pix and talking with C on speaker phone.  I think about my reaction to criticism.  I can't totally blame D for it.  Yes, his constant picking amounted to emotional abuse, and yes, I am slowly recovering from that.  But, I wouldn't have been vulnerable to him, and I wouldn't feel hurt by G's irritation with me, if I didn't, at the core, believe that I am a pain in the ass, unproductive and unlovable.  I used to tell him, "I have my own voice telling me I'm a fuck-up, I don't need yours as well."  Now, although I stood up for myself with G, I don't really believe it.  I grieve:  why don't people notice the GOOD things I do?  Then  I think, why would anyone be friends with me?   I feel myself spiraling downward into the old self-loathing, and then I realize what I am doing.

I give myself a talking to:  People are quirky.  People have different priorities.  People have different ways of looking at the world, of being productive, of being friends.  People have flaws, and self-awareness only goes so far.  People are lovable.  And I am a person.

So, I talk myself out of the bus and into bed.  I get up and do dishes and put things away.  I wait on my friends. I sit quietly on the edge of group.  I get through the last day, uncomfortable, wondering if I will be welcome at the 3rd reunion, fumbling through an apology in my brain.  I talk with B on the drive back to the airport, working through my feelings, honing my arguments, shoring up my defenses.  I go home.  I act like nothing happened.  I don't send G an apology (although I do send a thank you.)  In the end, I have almost forgotten about it.  Until this week.

Yesterday would have been my 10th wedding anniversary.  For the last week, I've been in a mini-funk, without really knowing why.  It's October; the aspen and cottonwoods are golden and the deep blue skies are full of clouds and rainbows.  I'm making music, I'm seeing friends.  It's my favorite time of the year.  What is wrong?  And then I remember.  10 years ago, I was in Portland, marrying D, filled with joy and light and hope.  I was so sure I was doing the right thing, so confident in my friends and my love and my family.  The day was golden, the food was excellent.  I honeymooned in Santa Fe, I visited Madrid.  I planned to come back here to live.

Ten years ago, I felt like the most lovable person in the world.

I remembered this, because E and I were driving through Madrid back from ABQ, having dropped off her high-maintenance friend.  The relief was overwhelming, and I thought, G and D should try living with her.  I thought, maybe my funk was because it was so exhausting hosting her.  Then I recalled the date, and out of the blue, I emailed M and S and N:  "Care to meet me for dinner tonight in SF after rehearsal?  I'll be free at 7."

Why did I do that?

M couldn't make it, but S reserved a table at El Meson. It was a lovely dinner.  We shared our tapas, and we caught up.  They looked so happy with each other, both so beautiful and charming and smart and witty.  They talked of their jobs and their lives together. I talked of my travels and my future plans.  I pondered the idea of the library job in Taos:  it feels like I'd be moving backwards.  S said, no, care-giving is moving backwards:  you've done that for 10 years.  I did a double-take:  I've only been with E for one year.  And then it hit me.  hmmmm.  Yes, I was the caregiver in my marriage, and it is time to take care of myself, to trust that I am worthy of that.

S is not the best friend I've ever had, and I have been avoiding him for months because of past hurt. However, last night I remembered why I cared.  He listens to me, and he makes connections.  He helps me grow. He tries to grow himself.  And, like my old friends, he judges me and loves me anyway.  He and N were the perfect choice for my non-10th anniversary dinner.

As we talked, he reminded me that his ex died a year ago.  I was humbled.  I'm mourning the loss of my marriage, but there are other, deeper losses.  Yes, every day is an anniversary of something, and every day is a chance to make the choice of forward movement.  I don't have to wallow in the mistaken choices of my past.  I don't have to accept the mistaken judgments, even those of people I love.  I don't have to partner up, and I don't have to be alone.

I do have to have friends.

The Ongoing Whine

I sent a whine to my friends, because it was the anniversary of my divorce and I was feeling sad.  The responses varied from silence to reassurance (you ARE beautiful and beloved) to sympathy (anniversaries are like poking at a wound that is healing:  fresh pain), to irritation (he never loved you, he USED you, just get over it already.)

All of these are valid responses of course, as is my ongoing pondering.  I find that I have been distracting myself from really thinking about the divorce and from moving on, though.  I let myself focus on other people (again) and I let myself be hurt because the new friends don't love me wholly and immediately.  The real problem is the men:  they seem to think that I'm looking to replace D, and I'm not.  I don't know why I traded in my single blessedness for marital strife, but I do know that I am not ready, if ever, to partner up again.  While one friend commented that it would be nice to add someone who adores me to the interesting and creative mix that is my life, another said that partnering was an anomaly, a small part of me.

And I think that last is the truer observation.

So what is it about me (or them) that makes men think I'm looking for a relationship they cannot give?  It's not just about lack of attraction.  For example, I've met some polyamorous men.  First they pursue me, and then they panic at the thought of getting close to me.  I'm not sure what it is about me that attracts these men and then repels them.  I'm not asking to be the one and only, I just want to be treated like I'm important and wanted.  Surely the point of polyamory is that the relationships can be multiple and loving, as long as they are honest?  Apparently not.

And of course, the monogamous men are looking for Ms. Right.  They are not interested in casual dating, and I'm not interested in anything but casual.  Somehow it's okay to be rejected on that basis, though.

Really, I don't know why I let this distract me.  I never did need men to make me feel loved or happy, and my past experience has shown the fallacy of seeking fulfillment in that arena.   Is it because I tried and failed at partnering that I'm trying again?  If D had died instead of being divorced, would I say, "Okay, been there, done that, time to try something new"?

Or do I just want to get laid?

What are my thoughts? One night I had a strong dream about T. I think about him a lot. A year ago, he was still a major part of my life, taking up my attention and focus, constantly texting, always aware of what what going on with me, checking up on me every day, helping me get through various obstacles. He was there, and he cared. I think.

Missing him is an ongoing thing, almost more painful than missing D. I wrote to T from the train, telling him there's a hole in my heart where he used to be. He did not reply. I didn't expect him to. But he was such a huge part of my recovery, and I thought he'd remain part of my life and he has not. I can't accept it. I don't know why he dropped me so abruptly. I keep wondering what I did, even though I know, really know, it has nothing to do with me. I am the person I've always been. Stronger, but still needy. Resilient, but still fragile. Fragile. The song D sang to me at our wedding.

A year ago, T was a crush, a support, a shoulder to cry on. Now, what is he? And who am I, and what do I want?

I am living in the mountains in New Mexico...something I've dreamed of doing for years. But, I'm alone. I'm working, but it doesn't feel like I'm working. I'm not free to take off and see people, but in any case there is no one I want to see, nothing I want to do, no one who wants to see me. I know people, and I like them, but none of them are soul mates, and none of them pursue me. In fact, they reject me when I get too close.

It appears that I need to find what I want to do. M thinks that I'm living the good life: choosing my work, choosing what I do for fun, what I do for sustenance. B thinks I'm being creative and growing. V thinks I'm pursuing my dream of living in New Mexico.

I think I'm floundering. I know that I'm floundering. I think I need to talk to my therapist again, set up some counseling sessions. Cry. Figure it out.

Sometimes I want to write to D. Sometimes I want him back in my life. Why? Did I leave him because I'd had enough? Or did I leave him because I had a crush on T? I don't think so. But I don't know if it's true that I just ran out of anything to give. I don't know what made me decide to leave at that exact juncture, and what made me decide to stay away. I do know my friends and family exerted a lot of pressure to keep me pointed towards escape. My health and finances improved dramatically: I can't ignore that.

But my emotions are still raw. I still don't know what I want to do, and I'm still mourning the loss of....what? The loss of a lover? Of the future I had planned with him? Of purpose? Of someone who loved me and thought I was beautiful?

Surely I can plan my own future, supply my own purpose, love myself, think I'm beautiful. Surely I don't need another person for that.

Meanwhile, I'm dating men who are married or in committed relationships. Even though the relationships are "open," it's clear who's the second class citizen here. Me. Regardless of what they say about loving relationships, it does not feel good. If the primary partner decided they didn't want me around, I'd be gone. It's not like a friendship with a married couple. My emotions are more strongly involved, and the hurt of rejection is more strongly evident. Why am I doing this? Why am I putting my focus on relationships that hurt?

Do I miss that pain?