Many years ago, I was introduced to the concept of polyamory, which seemed to involve open multiple loving/intimate relationships. I respect and love the people involved, so I listened to their explanations with my inner skeptic firmly throttled down. It seemed to work for them, but the operative word was WORK. Lots of communication, lots of checking in, lots of loving negotiation. Also, lots of people who really didn't get the concept, but just wanted to sleep around without repercussions.
I decided that it wasn't for me.
Fast forward to 2012, when I moved to New Mexico. I met a gent who invited D and me to a potluck with "unconventionally-thinking people." After we accepted, he expanded the description: it was the Santa Fe Poly group. As he described it, it was a way of including sex in the friendship mix. Friends fulfill your social, financial, cultural, and sexual needs, but not usually all four at once. So, you have a friend with whom you go to plays, and you have sex afterwards. You have another friend who is a domestic partner (shared finances and sex implied.) You have other friends with whom you are social, and maybe sexual. In some cases, there is no sex at all. Etc etc. The common denominator is that everyone knows about everyone else. And, there are discussions about that.
I was a bit confused: it sounded to me like he was describing the basic rule of thumb: you can't get every need met by a single person. But, how is polyamory different from having a lot of different friends and sleeping around?
It was the beginning of a whole new exploration of the phenomenon. There's the vocabulary: metamour, compersion, primary partner, unicorn hunters, cuddle parties, solo Poly. There's the etiquette: asking if it's okay to hug, for example. I discovered that there are groups that meet to discuss issues (what do you tell the kids?, how do you handle jealousy? what do you do if your primary partner does not want to meet your other partners?) Afterwards there's a potluck. It's surprisingly innocent. Of course, some of the groups are loosely-veiled swinger clubs, but most differentiate between swinging and Poly. There's a book that describes the various forms of Poly (a W is five people, whose connections form a W, a V is 3 people, etc etc). The author is the doyenne of the movement, and is also a couples counselor. I'd say she has lots of business amongst the Poly crowd.
Being fresh from a disastrous stint of monogamy, I was open to the possibilities. I wanted a loving relationship that would allow me to pursue my own interests and friendships, with none of the control and claustrophobia that characterized my failed marriage. My OKCupid profile indicated that, and I began finding that my best matches were Poly. I checked in with them, and discovered that Poly means different things to different people. One man wanted nothing to do with the negotiation and communication (one might say over-communication) of the Poly community. He didn't attend meetings or meet his partners' other partners. He wanted the openness of dating and sleeping with a number of women, but didn't want any of the other connections. He was totally open to basic non-sexual friendship, too, which was what we had for many months. Another wanted the connection (triple dates, for example), but his form of Poly was hampered by his inability to honestly connect, and I don't think he really liked independent, thinking women. Certainly, he did not like discussion or compromise. Any confrontation was met with, "I don't feed the drama lama." There was a kink element too, which is often the case with failed Poly attempts. For example, I chatted with another gent who was mostly interested in finding a "slave." Loving relationships were not what he was looking for.
There's the more insidious type. This man discusses the whole thing up front and is very much into meeting other partners, but he doesn't know how to handle ex-intimates. Part of his problem is the hierarchy of primary and secondary partners. People who emphasize the hierarchy are suspiciously like non-monogamous marriage partners: you can sleep with other people, but the real caring and commitment is with the primary. There's a truly gag-producing term for one aspect of this: fluid bonding. Basically, it means non-protected sex.
I met a woman who exemplified the hierarchy gone wrong: she got involved with a couple and then tried to detach the woman of the pair. It ended badly: she said the male partner was a chauvinistic misogynist with control issues, and he said she went into a screaming fit when he and his partner confronted her about her divisive behaviors. I'd guess the honeymoon was over, and they had not been honestly Poly from the get-go.
I only met one person who seems to actually walk the talk. He attends conferences and potlucks and discussion groups, mans booths at festivals, and is generally immersed in the lifestyle. I think he is an anomaly, though. He sincerely wants loving relationships, not just sex, and he wants the same for his partners, whom he thinks are awesome women (he is not bi.)
The awesome people don't, for the most part, seem to be Poly, though. I met a Colorado group and I've attended two sessions of the Santa Fe Poly, and it seemed to me that a disproportionate number of the attendees were misfits. They were breathtakingly homely, or exceedingly obese, or socially awkward or all three. There were a large number of sexual deviants, aka kinksters. Trans-gendered and bi individuals were the norm. Those who were most conventionally attractive seemed to be Poly-curious, not actually Poly. One man in Santa Fe had fantasies of a fivesome: 3 women and 2 men. He was very specific about that. So, there was a lot of variety in motivation and understanding. However, the common denominator and saving grace was an attitude of inclusiveness. Members were truly kind and thoughtful of each other. They had interesting jobs or obsessions, they liked to discuss many of the things I like to discuss. They seemed, despite some personal unawareness, to be genuine in their desire to create community. Surprisingly, there was a reasonably even distribution of gender and age, and hooking up did not seem to be the main emphasis of the get-togethers. I get the impression that other Poly groups are not like that, however. The groups I attended are organized under the umbrella of Loving More, which is a political and convention-planning entity. I found the leader in Colorado to be thoughtful and even-handed in her approach, and, if she has demons of her own, they are not in evidence. The leader probably sets the tone: there was some discussion of a gent in Denver who seemed to use the group as his personal dating pool.
Anyway, I was comfortable spending time with them, but I was not attracted. Community for the sake of community is not enough for me. And sex without commitment isn't either. There is an inevitable emotional connection that comes with the physical connection, and people who deny that are lying to themselves and their partners. I don't know the answer to my desire for connection, but polyamory is not it. The recent encounters with Poly folk netted some friendships and an insight into the ways other people deal with the inherent loneliness of the human condition. But that's it, even though I like the honesty and the sincerity exhibited by many of the pilgrims, and I do believe that people should be free to pursue love and friendship in a variety of ways. Diversity should not be a buzz word, applicable only to the politically correct few.
Still, friendships are not soul mates, and increasingly I find that's what I want. Do I seek for one, or do I table that longing and attend to living a meaningful life? Can I do both?
Showing posts with label online dating. Show all posts
Showing posts with label online dating. Show all posts
Friday, August 15, 2014
Friday, March 28, 2014
Same time next year
Three years ago, D took me on my first (and so far, only) rafting trip. We were staying in Taos for a few weeks, and rafting companies are available to take you all along the Rio Grande. We opted for a half-day trip, east of Taos. There were four of us, plus the guide. He put D and me in the front where we'd get splashed the most, and the teenager and her father in the middle. He sat on the back bumper and steered. It took awhile for me to get used to the idea that I didn't sit IN the raft, but rather on the puffy outer edge.
We acquitted ourselves reasonably well, better than we did during the sea kayaking in Mexico, where we capsized and dropped D's glasses in the drink, and were separated for the remainder of the trip. I ended up with the handsome Mexican guide, so all was well.
I am thinking about that rafting trip, because I am sitting at the same picnic/take-out area, eating lunch and writing. It's March, not June, and I wouldn't dream of putting my toes in that tumbling icy green water. But, I recognized the route as I was driving back to Santa Fe from an overnight in Taos, and I decided that this would be the perfect place to munch on my apple and cheese. I am taking advantage of my independent state to stop where I want, and as long as I want. Yesterday, I was in "get there" mode, and I didn't stop for much of anything. I had breakfast at San Marcos Cafe with the co-op and took pictures of the peacocks, and I stopped by Kokoman's to check out the excellent wine selection and buy 7 bottles. Then I drove north along the scenic high road, through the mountains.
It was lovely, and I kept thinking I should stop and enjoy the view. But the power of inertia - in this case forward motion - kept me going past scenic overlooks, adobe churches, decorated graveyards, Chimayo, Nambe Falls, turn-offs to unknown towns, galleries, wineries....I just kept going until I reached M's Topsy Gallery on the outskirts of Taos. M wasn't there, so I called him for a room. (We had stayed at his house that time in June, trading our Airbnb room in Portland for his spacious adobe house in Taos.) Fortunately, he was able to offer me a room in his house for $50, cash. When I got there, it was 5 pm, time for happy hour at the Alley Cantina. I gather he goes there most evenings, bringing along the schnauzers, and sits in the patio waiting for H to get off work.
The scene at the Cantina was very small town. Everyone knew each other, and the patio table population grew and shrank as people wandered through. We joined a 40-something shaven-headed ski bum/surveyer (D), and a 64-year-old hippie with long white hair hanging lankly down from his baseball cap. He had a scruffy beard, wide-open blue eyes and wide white smile. He had excellent teeth. People came and went, cigarettes were lit, drinks were drunk. Everyone that came through the archway was greeted by name, and most stopped for a second to say hi and pat the dog. A few joined us.
Conversation was slow and calm -- these people knew each other and everyone's business was old news. They were just keeping company while they drank and passed the time until the next thing. The hippie was on his way home to smoke the "herb" that he'd just scored. D was on his way to visit a female friend who was home after two weeks in the hospital with a punctured lung from a catastrophic car accident. He was also in telephonic communication with another female friend who was giving him one of her clowder of Persian cats: she had just lost her house and moved in with her boyfriend, and the boyfriend's dog had mauled the cat. The cat was still at the vet, but would soon be released to D's care. He had a kind competence about him that made it seem natural for him to take on these women's troubles. He smoked and talked, wrinkling up his eyes in a smile, looking sideways at me with a wink.
A 40-something woman joined us for a smoke while her boyfriend played pool. She had long straggly brown-gray hair, and a deep freckled tan. Her tight shirt and cami held small fat rolls at her waist, without apology. She looked reliable and kind enough, but worn out and no-nonsense tough. The conversation turned to a matanza that had been held on a local street. I've heard of matanzas before: basically it's a Spanish tradition, a pig-roast, held in the fall. It sounded medieval to me, as it was described: lots of blood and meat and alcohol. Once the butchering is done, there's a huge community party, mainly extended families. D said he'd been to one, and he was the only gringo there. She said, "I grew up doing those...it was a matter of survival. We grew and raised our food, and we used everything. I remember in the winter, digging in the barrel on the porch for the frozen packets of meat."
Talk, and talk, and silence. D went inside to sit at the bar, the hippie went home, and we were joined by a 20-something man with shoulder-length brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and a thin-lipped frog-like mouth. He was smoking a cigar, and had just risen from a nap. I never did figure out what his game was, because I grew chilly as the sun set and went inside to text and play phone games while we waited for H to close and clean up the salon.
When I arrived earlier in the day, I had texted R. He's an OKCupid acquaintance who lives in Taos, and he had recently suggested that we might have a "physical connection." But I wanted to meet him before having that discussion. So, part of the reason for my trip north was to see him in the flesh, instead of via Skype. The distance and our respective work had made it difficult to connect, other than randomly. Unfortunately, that morning he had said he had three clients contact him, so there was little free time. That had been the case on his previous jaunts to Santa Fe, too. Clearly, he's not real invested in pursuing the relationship. The stars would have to be aligned just right. I almost decided to go somewhere else for my getaway, but I wanted the pretty drive to Taos, and I thought I'd check out the Harwood. (I didn't, as it turned out.)
Anyway, when I texted "I'm here!" R texted back "cool!" and offered to buy me a beer at the Mesa Brewery at 5. I suggested he join us at the Cantina. No, he opted for breakfast instead. So, I went home with M and H and we had dinner (spud-encrusted cod, and a pinot grigio from my stash.) Then we watched subtitled Korean soap operas, and I went to bed.
I walked down to the Plaza the next morning. El Gamal, our breakfast place, was on Dona Luz, just behind Taos Plaza, in the parking lot by the Guadalupe church. I had noticed it on previous trips, without really noticing it. It's a hole in the wall, with a small covered porch that features crowded tables and stools along the street bar. The building is long and narrow. The front room has varied tables with a service bar to the left, a stage, concrete floors, and open ceiling with white painted rafters. The single unisex restroom is at the back. You walk past a pool table and alcove-rooms, the floor slanting at each doorway and threatening to trip you up. At night it's a bar and apparently quite active, but this morning there was one blond gent with scruffy hair and white t-shirt settled at an outside table, a woman and child inside, and a kerchiefed young woman waiting tables. She brought me weak coffee in a tall glass with a thin cardboard hand protector.
R showed up while I was sitting at the outside bar with my coffee. I was talking to C about the schedule mess-up back at the co-op. (My boss had mistaken her departure time and had to leave that afternoon instead of the next day.) I greeted him, and he went inside while I finished my conversation. He came back out and squinted at the sun....let's go inside. Okay!
He's stockier than he appeared in our Skype talks, with large hands, thick neck, and a broad chest showing through the V of his shirt and brown corduroy jacket. The thin blond hair is just as unkempt, however, sticking out on the thinning top and slamped to the sides. His heavy-lidded blue eyes are just as apt to suddenly open wide, the mouth just as apt to drop open in response to a puzzling comment. His smile appears as a forced stretch across the teeth before it settles into a surprising charm, but just as abruptly the lips snap shut while his eyes look down and sideways.
The conversation was not uncomfortably forced, but it felt random, like his thoughts were stressed and elsewhere, and he had to make himself respond appropriately to the here and now. We talked about New Mexico, and I told him that I'd found old information about him online. He said, I doubt it, there are a lot of people with my name. Yes, I knew about the actor and some of the others, but the info I found was about a computer store in Taos....Good for you, he said, that's me. And he showed me the card. But, he's not working there any more.
He had a pita breakfast sandwich, and I had eggs Florentine on challa with a yummy sauce. We talked about Airbnb and about travel, and he consumed his Turkish coffee and spicy condiments, saying, it's good for respiration. I asked if he had asthma, and he said, no I live at 14 thousand feet, in an Earthship. At that point, a 20-something dread-locked man at the next table entered into our conversation. He owns property up at R's complex, and they immediately began trying to place each other. "Do you know....? which lot do you mean....? you wanna sell...? Oh yeah, he's selling, but she took the house..."
Yes, Taos is a small town, everyone knows everyone else.
And that was the end of our date. Forty-five minutes in, and he was up and paying the bill, coming back with a handshake offer which I converted into a push-away hug. I settled back to finish my coffee and check my iPhone while his silhouette passed the window, staring straight ahead into his day, no backward glance. My guess was that he would not want to be contacting me again, and I was glad that I had not taken him up on his offer to share a room in Espanola. However, he did text a somewhat equivocal message later. He's an odd duck, but not malevolent. I'd be interested in seeing how the Earthship community works, but my guess is that they are all marginal and quirky in some way. Like R.
Meanwhile, however, I wrapped up the visit and began the drive back to Santa Fe. And here I am, sitting by the river, watching rafts and kayaks pull out, listening to trucks rattle past. A chilly wind snatches at my paper, which I hold down with purse, knitting bag, and my writing hand. My hair flies about my face, crows soar past with a brief caw. Whitecaps break, water rustles over and around rocks and boulders. I'm in no rush to move along. There's nothing much to do until rehearsal, no need to push it.
I think about independence. I want to finish the book I took from S's library and mail it back, along with his house key. And that will be that. I am still figuring out what to do with my desire for friends and lovers, and still figuring out why the relationships with men get so tangled. But, each of these flawed humans has brought something good to me. Today, it's this time by the river, the river which also holds memories of D. They are good memories, and this was a good trip. I can follow V's advice: when I start feeling sorry for myself, think about the benefits of independence. Yes, I need people, but I can be choosy about whom I let into my life. I don't need to lose myself in the process.
We acquitted ourselves reasonably well, better than we did during the sea kayaking in Mexico, where we capsized and dropped D's glasses in the drink, and were separated for the remainder of the trip. I ended up with the handsome Mexican guide, so all was well.
I am thinking about that rafting trip, because I am sitting at the same picnic/take-out area, eating lunch and writing. It's March, not June, and I wouldn't dream of putting my toes in that tumbling icy green water. But, I recognized the route as I was driving back to Santa Fe from an overnight in Taos, and I decided that this would be the perfect place to munch on my apple and cheese. I am taking advantage of my independent state to stop where I want, and as long as I want. Yesterday, I was in "get there" mode, and I didn't stop for much of anything. I had breakfast at San Marcos Cafe with the co-op and took pictures of the peacocks, and I stopped by Kokoman's to check out the excellent wine selection and buy 7 bottles. Then I drove north along the scenic high road, through the mountains.
It was lovely, and I kept thinking I should stop and enjoy the view. But the power of inertia - in this case forward motion - kept me going past scenic overlooks, adobe churches, decorated graveyards, Chimayo, Nambe Falls, turn-offs to unknown towns, galleries, wineries....I just kept going until I reached M's Topsy Gallery on the outskirts of Taos. M wasn't there, so I called him for a room. (We had stayed at his house that time in June, trading our Airbnb room in Portland for his spacious adobe house in Taos.) Fortunately, he was able to offer me a room in his house for $50, cash. When I got there, it was 5 pm, time for happy hour at the Alley Cantina. I gather he goes there most evenings, bringing along the schnauzers, and sits in the patio waiting for H to get off work.
The scene at the Cantina was very small town. Everyone knew each other, and the patio table population grew and shrank as people wandered through. We joined a 40-something shaven-headed ski bum/surveyer (D), and a 64-year-old hippie with long white hair hanging lankly down from his baseball cap. He had a scruffy beard, wide-open blue eyes and wide white smile. He had excellent teeth. People came and went, cigarettes were lit, drinks were drunk. Everyone that came through the archway was greeted by name, and most stopped for a second to say hi and pat the dog. A few joined us.
Conversation was slow and calm -- these people knew each other and everyone's business was old news. They were just keeping company while they drank and passed the time until the next thing. The hippie was on his way home to smoke the "herb" that he'd just scored. D was on his way to visit a female friend who was home after two weeks in the hospital with a punctured lung from a catastrophic car accident. He was also in telephonic communication with another female friend who was giving him one of her clowder of Persian cats: she had just lost her house and moved in with her boyfriend, and the boyfriend's dog had mauled the cat. The cat was still at the vet, but would soon be released to D's care. He had a kind competence about him that made it seem natural for him to take on these women's troubles. He smoked and talked, wrinkling up his eyes in a smile, looking sideways at me with a wink.
A 40-something woman joined us for a smoke while her boyfriend played pool. She had long straggly brown-gray hair, and a deep freckled tan. Her tight shirt and cami held small fat rolls at her waist, without apology. She looked reliable and kind enough, but worn out and no-nonsense tough. The conversation turned to a matanza that had been held on a local street. I've heard of matanzas before: basically it's a Spanish tradition, a pig-roast, held in the fall. It sounded medieval to me, as it was described: lots of blood and meat and alcohol. Once the butchering is done, there's a huge community party, mainly extended families. D said he'd been to one, and he was the only gringo there. She said, "I grew up doing those...it was a matter of survival. We grew and raised our food, and we used everything. I remember in the winter, digging in the barrel on the porch for the frozen packets of meat."
Talk, and talk, and silence. D went inside to sit at the bar, the hippie went home, and we were joined by a 20-something man with shoulder-length brown hair, bloodshot eyes, and a thin-lipped frog-like mouth. He was smoking a cigar, and had just risen from a nap. I never did figure out what his game was, because I grew chilly as the sun set and went inside to text and play phone games while we waited for H to close and clean up the salon.
When I arrived earlier in the day, I had texted R. He's an OKCupid acquaintance who lives in Taos, and he had recently suggested that we might have a "physical connection." But I wanted to meet him before having that discussion. So, part of the reason for my trip north was to see him in the flesh, instead of via Skype. The distance and our respective work had made it difficult to connect, other than randomly. Unfortunately, that morning he had said he had three clients contact him, so there was little free time. That had been the case on his previous jaunts to Santa Fe, too. Clearly, he's not real invested in pursuing the relationship. The stars would have to be aligned just right. I almost decided to go somewhere else for my getaway, but I wanted the pretty drive to Taos, and I thought I'd check out the Harwood. (I didn't, as it turned out.)
Anyway, when I texted "I'm here!" R texted back "cool!" and offered to buy me a beer at the Mesa Brewery at 5. I suggested he join us at the Cantina. No, he opted for breakfast instead. So, I went home with M and H and we had dinner (spud-encrusted cod, and a pinot grigio from my stash.) Then we watched subtitled Korean soap operas, and I went to bed.
I walked down to the Plaza the next morning. El Gamal, our breakfast place, was on Dona Luz, just behind Taos Plaza, in the parking lot by the Guadalupe church. I had noticed it on previous trips, without really noticing it. It's a hole in the wall, with a small covered porch that features crowded tables and stools along the street bar. The building is long and narrow. The front room has varied tables with a service bar to the left, a stage, concrete floors, and open ceiling with white painted rafters. The single unisex restroom is at the back. You walk past a pool table and alcove-rooms, the floor slanting at each doorway and threatening to trip you up. At night it's a bar and apparently quite active, but this morning there was one blond gent with scruffy hair and white t-shirt settled at an outside table, a woman and child inside, and a kerchiefed young woman waiting tables. She brought me weak coffee in a tall glass with a thin cardboard hand protector.
R showed up while I was sitting at the outside bar with my coffee. I was talking to C about the schedule mess-up back at the co-op. (My boss had mistaken her departure time and had to leave that afternoon instead of the next day.) I greeted him, and he went inside while I finished my conversation. He came back out and squinted at the sun....let's go inside. Okay!
He's stockier than he appeared in our Skype talks, with large hands, thick neck, and a broad chest showing through the V of his shirt and brown corduroy jacket. The thin blond hair is just as unkempt, however, sticking out on the thinning top and slamped to the sides. His heavy-lidded blue eyes are just as apt to suddenly open wide, the mouth just as apt to drop open in response to a puzzling comment. His smile appears as a forced stretch across the teeth before it settles into a surprising charm, but just as abruptly the lips snap shut while his eyes look down and sideways.
The conversation was not uncomfortably forced, but it felt random, like his thoughts were stressed and elsewhere, and he had to make himself respond appropriately to the here and now. We talked about New Mexico, and I told him that I'd found old information about him online. He said, I doubt it, there are a lot of people with my name. Yes, I knew about the actor and some of the others, but the info I found was about a computer store in Taos....Good for you, he said, that's me. And he showed me the card. But, he's not working there any more.
He had a pita breakfast sandwich, and I had eggs Florentine on challa with a yummy sauce. We talked about Airbnb and about travel, and he consumed his Turkish coffee and spicy condiments, saying, it's good for respiration. I asked if he had asthma, and he said, no I live at 14 thousand feet, in an Earthship. At that point, a 20-something dread-locked man at the next table entered into our conversation. He owns property up at R's complex, and they immediately began trying to place each other. "Do you know....? which lot do you mean....? you wanna sell...? Oh yeah, he's selling, but she took the house..."
Yes, Taos is a small town, everyone knows everyone else.
And that was the end of our date. Forty-five minutes in, and he was up and paying the bill, coming back with a handshake offer which I converted into a push-away hug. I settled back to finish my coffee and check my iPhone while his silhouette passed the window, staring straight ahead into his day, no backward glance. My guess was that he would not want to be contacting me again, and I was glad that I had not taken him up on his offer to share a room in Espanola. However, he did text a somewhat equivocal message later. He's an odd duck, but not malevolent. I'd be interested in seeing how the Earthship community works, but my guess is that they are all marginal and quirky in some way. Like R.
Meanwhile, however, I wrapped up the visit and began the drive back to Santa Fe. And here I am, sitting by the river, watching rafts and kayaks pull out, listening to trucks rattle past. A chilly wind snatches at my paper, which I hold down with purse, knitting bag, and my writing hand. My hair flies about my face, crows soar past with a brief caw. Whitecaps break, water rustles over and around rocks and boulders. I'm in no rush to move along. There's nothing much to do until rehearsal, no need to push it.
I think about independence. I want to finish the book I took from S's library and mail it back, along with his house key. And that will be that. I am still figuring out what to do with my desire for friends and lovers, and still figuring out why the relationships with men get so tangled. But, each of these flawed humans has brought something good to me. Today, it's this time by the river, the river which also holds memories of D. They are good memories, and this was a good trip. I can follow V's advice: when I start feeling sorry for myself, think about the benefits of independence. Yes, I need people, but I can be choosy about whom I let into my life. I don't need to lose myself in the process.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
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?
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?
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Rakish? Me?
One of the attractive things about online dating is the opportunity for reinvention. Reinvention is what I'm about right now, after all. Or, is it recovery? Hmmm. I am reinventing my lifestyle, sure, but am I reinventing myself? I don't think so.
I have always seen myself through others' eyes. I don't trust my self-assessment, and I'm constantly checking in: was that annoying? diverting? frustrating? enchanting? boring? fascinating? Can I trust the reaction? How much does it have to do with me, and how much with the other person's issues? Online dating puts all these questions into a sharp focus, because all you have to go by are the words. You can't be distracted by the smiles and laughter, the outward game face. Yes, there is obfuscation and outright lying, but the words are there, ready to be dissected. And if the grammar sucks, well that's one more thing to add to the critical mix.
So, I'm looking at other people's words and carefully crafting my own. In the process, I realize that I am not capable of reinventing myself, not really. My core is as it ever was, and I don't see any way to change that. I'm not sure I want to. A few weeks ago I had a bout of extreme weepiness. I was visiting S; he was working in his computer lab, and I was sitting nearby writing out my grief, tears dripping down (but I don't think he saw them). I wrote: 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.
I won't share the rest of that writing....too whiny, too self-absorbed, too full of information about relationships, too full of self-recrimination, too sad. What's important is what came next. I was walking at sunset one day, and suddenly I felt like Sylvia Plath: the bell jar had lifted and I was free to the circulating air. Not only had it lifted, it was gone. I suddenly understood what others had been seeing for so long: in its absence it made itself known to me. In its place was myself.
And what was myself? At that moment, my self was walking in a landscape littered with juniper, pinon, rocks, and cactus. The sky stretched overhead, filled with blues and fluffy whites and yellows and pinks and oranges. The wind rushed through the branches, the mountains outlined on the horizons were grey-green rockpiles, filling in with slate blue shadows. And I saw every detail, FELT every detail, without that deadening sense of remove. I was actually there. I think I took a photo and wrote a haiku, as I have been doing endlessly over the years and months of my depression. But I didn't need to, as I have in the past. I needed no product to prove I was there.
So, I was there, but who was I? And why was I? I'm still working on that. Socrates says, Know Thyself. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. It seems that I have gone more elemental than that. I feel, therefore I am. I feel myself, I recognize myself, but I don't know myself, and I don't know what I was put here to do. (But, that's a topic for another blog.) What I do know is that the self I want to know was muffled under a coating of stress and grief and sadness. Pulling off that blanket and keeping it off are the tasks of the moment.
So, recovery, not reinvention. I want myself back. And it seems that it's happened, at least for the nonce. In my recent visit with my sister and brother, I felt that. And L did too. He wrote to my siblings: [She] looked good - that might have been an illusion but she appeared to be on the mend. Yes. I know that depression and anxiety and panic are part of me, but they don't need to define me, nor do they need to separate me from my life. And, in the meantime, I can toy all I want with lovers and jobs and creations. I can meet people online and at activities and through others. I can talk story (and every tale we tell is equal parts invention and truth, our own particular truth.) Those things I can reinvent. It might even be necessary to do so, to move far away from the people and things and thoughts that brought me into a marriage with D.
But what I can't do is hide who I am. The other day I was describing myself to a woman, unknown to me, whom I was scheduled to pick up at the airport: I am 5'10", 240 lbs, shoulder length white/grey hair, glasses. E later sent her another description: She is a big tall woman, maybe 5'11" and perhaps 230 lbs, with sort of rakish white/gray hair, big brown eyes, and a beautiful smile.
Not much disagreement there. But it doesn't reach the core of who I am.
I have always seen myself through others' eyes. I don't trust my self-assessment, and I'm constantly checking in: was that annoying? diverting? frustrating? enchanting? boring? fascinating? Can I trust the reaction? How much does it have to do with me, and how much with the other person's issues? Online dating puts all these questions into a sharp focus, because all you have to go by are the words. You can't be distracted by the smiles and laughter, the outward game face. Yes, there is obfuscation and outright lying, but the words are there, ready to be dissected. And if the grammar sucks, well that's one more thing to add to the critical mix.
So, I'm looking at other people's words and carefully crafting my own. In the process, I realize that I am not capable of reinventing myself, not really. My core is as it ever was, and I don't see any way to change that. I'm not sure I want to. A few weeks ago I had a bout of extreme weepiness. I was visiting S; he was working in his computer lab, and I was sitting nearby writing out my grief, tears dripping down (but I don't think he saw them). I wrote: 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.
I won't share the rest of that writing....too whiny, too self-absorbed, too full of information about relationships, too full of self-recrimination, too sad. What's important is what came next. I was walking at sunset one day, and suddenly I felt like Sylvia Plath: the bell jar had lifted and I was free to the circulating air. Not only had it lifted, it was gone. I suddenly understood what others had been seeing for so long: in its absence it made itself known to me. In its place was myself.
And what was myself? At that moment, my self was walking in a landscape littered with juniper, pinon, rocks, and cactus. The sky stretched overhead, filled with blues and fluffy whites and yellows and pinks and oranges. The wind rushed through the branches, the mountains outlined on the horizons were grey-green rockpiles, filling in with slate blue shadows. And I saw every detail, FELT every detail, without that deadening sense of remove. I was actually there. I think I took a photo and wrote a haiku, as I have been doing endlessly over the years and months of my depression. But I didn't need to, as I have in the past. I needed no product to prove I was there.
So, I was there, but who was I? And why was I? I'm still working on that. Socrates says, Know Thyself. Descartes says, I think therefore I am. It seems that I have gone more elemental than that. I feel, therefore I am. I feel myself, I recognize myself, but I don't know myself, and I don't know what I was put here to do. (But, that's a topic for another blog.) What I do know is that the self I want to know was muffled under a coating of stress and grief and sadness. Pulling off that blanket and keeping it off are the tasks of the moment.
So, recovery, not reinvention. I want myself back. And it seems that it's happened, at least for the nonce. In my recent visit with my sister and brother, I felt that. And L did too. He wrote to my siblings: [She] looked good - that might have been an illusion but she appeared to be on the mend. Yes. I know that depression and anxiety and panic are part of me, but they don't need to define me, nor do they need to separate me from my life. And, in the meantime, I can toy all I want with lovers and jobs and creations. I can meet people online and at activities and through others. I can talk story (and every tale we tell is equal parts invention and truth, our own particular truth.) Those things I can reinvent. It might even be necessary to do so, to move far away from the people and things and thoughts that brought me into a marriage with D.
But what I can't do is hide who I am. The other day I was describing myself to a woman, unknown to me, whom I was scheduled to pick up at the airport: I am 5'10", 240 lbs, shoulder length white/grey hair, glasses. E later sent her another description: She is a big tall woman, maybe 5'11" and perhaps 230 lbs, with sort of rakish white/gray hair, big brown eyes, and a beautiful smile.
Not much disagreement there. But it doesn't reach the core of who I am.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Online dating
Many years ago, I was sitting in a training. Because we were doing hands-on computer work, I had a computer to myself and I had my e-mail up as well as the program we were working with. That means I was sneaking around, doing personal e-mail while I was supposed to be working.
In the middle of the morning, I got an email from someone with my last name, but a first name I didn't recognize. He said, "Your name makes me think you are a nice Norwegian lady." I wrote back, "Well, I'm not sure that I'm nice or a lady, but I am 2nd generation Norwegian American." That did not deter him, and we embarked upon an e-mail friendship.
It became clear to me that this was a man looking for an old-fashioned girl. He was a teacher in SoCal, an artist, and a cross-dresser. Quite the mix. Eventually he found my number and called me up, and he sent a video of himself, and it became an internet romance. Somehow, I'm not sure how or why, we decided to have me visit. There was a Van Gogh exhibit in the area, which was the official excuse.
Mind you, this was a married man, with a 20-something daughter who lived at home. His wife had had kidney disease for 20 years, going in to dialysis twice a week. And he was terrified of the time when she would finally succumb and he would be alone. I knew I could not be the solution to his problem, but I liked his sincere love of teaching and his belief that he could foster character growth even while he was teaching math. I'm a sucker for social activists. And I found that I liked his family, too.
The Van Gogh exhibit was great, and the stay was pleasant. I explored the town and walked by the orange groves. We went on some hikes and visited some missions and walked by the Pacific. Mainly, his wife and daughter went along. He sent me home with avocados and limes from his back yard, and I made the Best. Guacamole. Ever. when I returned to Portland. But, the pheromones just weren't there, and after that visit I wrote less and talked less and then I just stopped answering him. He was pushing for something I couldn't give.
This last summer he called and told me that his wife had died, and there was some disconnect with his daughter, but he was retired and working on his art. I told him I was married and moving to ABQ, and he wished me a good life. That's probably the last I'll hear of him.
I'm thinking of him, because I just joined OKCupid and created a profile there. And the responses have been very reminiscent of that previous online dating experience. Lots of men ignoring the profile and making up a person in place of the one I presented. Lots of widowers and lonely men, looking for that special lady. Lots of people who put God at the top of the list of 6 things they cannot do without. And lots of people ignoring the algorithm that says we are 43% enemies. (Then again, two of my friends on OKC also rate highly on the enemy scale. And highly on the match scale. So, I don't get how the calculations work.)
Truth be told, I joined OKC because I was sad and unable to focus on practising or reading or sleeping. (I was also coming down with an infection, but that's another story.) And I wanted to see what TheGWickham was doing. The Lizzie Bennet diaries are entering the home stretch, and I need to read the tea leaves. How are they going to deal with the Wickham-Lydia thread?!
Instead, I discovered why online dating is not for me: I can't bear to blow off these men. Yes, they are probably not who they say they are, and yes, they probably are just trolling for any willing female, playing the odds. But how can I say, what planet are you from? when they tell me I have an inviting smile and I am radiant and beautiful and have the potential to mend their broken hearts? When they live hundreds of miles away, from Manchester England to Massachusetts to Texas but still want to get to know me? When there is no way they understood what I meant by caveat emptor (I was alluding to the fact that I'm just getting over a 10-year marriage.) but they tell me my profile is wonderful? When we clearly have nothing in common, but they still write to me, pleading for a response?
Clearly, this is not the time to be doing this. I'm just a tad too vulnerable and it's just too big a time sump. But, I did discover a man whose favorite books include The Wind in the Willows, Sense and Sensibility, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Where the Wild Things Are. And whose music includes Nina Simone. That alone is worth the price of admission. Who knew?
Oh, and if you are curious: Wickham is "seeing someone" (Lydia?!) and he and I are a 75% match. Hmm. Wonder why he hasn't written to me.
In the middle of the morning, I got an email from someone with my last name, but a first name I didn't recognize. He said, "Your name makes me think you are a nice Norwegian lady." I wrote back, "Well, I'm not sure that I'm nice or a lady, but I am 2nd generation Norwegian American." That did not deter him, and we embarked upon an e-mail friendship.
It became clear to me that this was a man looking for an old-fashioned girl. He was a teacher in SoCal, an artist, and a cross-dresser. Quite the mix. Eventually he found my number and called me up, and he sent a video of himself, and it became an internet romance. Somehow, I'm not sure how or why, we decided to have me visit. There was a Van Gogh exhibit in the area, which was the official excuse.
Mind you, this was a married man, with a 20-something daughter who lived at home. His wife had had kidney disease for 20 years, going in to dialysis twice a week. And he was terrified of the time when she would finally succumb and he would be alone. I knew I could not be the solution to his problem, but I liked his sincere love of teaching and his belief that he could foster character growth even while he was teaching math. I'm a sucker for social activists. And I found that I liked his family, too.
The Van Gogh exhibit was great, and the stay was pleasant. I explored the town and walked by the orange groves. We went on some hikes and visited some missions and walked by the Pacific. Mainly, his wife and daughter went along. He sent me home with avocados and limes from his back yard, and I made the Best. Guacamole. Ever. when I returned to Portland. But, the pheromones just weren't there, and after that visit I wrote less and talked less and then I just stopped answering him. He was pushing for something I couldn't give.
This last summer he called and told me that his wife had died, and there was some disconnect with his daughter, but he was retired and working on his art. I told him I was married and moving to ABQ, and he wished me a good life. That's probably the last I'll hear of him.
I'm thinking of him, because I just joined OKCupid and created a profile there. And the responses have been very reminiscent of that previous online dating experience. Lots of men ignoring the profile and making up a person in place of the one I presented. Lots of widowers and lonely men, looking for that special lady. Lots of people who put God at the top of the list of 6 things they cannot do without. And lots of people ignoring the algorithm that says we are 43% enemies. (Then again, two of my friends on OKC also rate highly on the enemy scale. And highly on the match scale. So, I don't get how the calculations work.)
Truth be told, I joined OKC because I was sad and unable to focus on practising or reading or sleeping. (I was also coming down with an infection, but that's another story.) And I wanted to see what TheGWickham was doing. The Lizzie Bennet diaries are entering the home stretch, and I need to read the tea leaves. How are they going to deal with the Wickham-Lydia thread?!
Instead, I discovered why online dating is not for me: I can't bear to blow off these men. Yes, they are probably not who they say they are, and yes, they probably are just trolling for any willing female, playing the odds. But how can I say, what planet are you from? when they tell me I have an inviting smile and I am radiant and beautiful and have the potential to mend their broken hearts? When they live hundreds of miles away, from Manchester England to Massachusetts to Texas but still want to get to know me? When there is no way they understood what I meant by caveat emptor (I was alluding to the fact that I'm just getting over a 10-year marriage.) but they tell me my profile is wonderful? When we clearly have nothing in common, but they still write to me, pleading for a response?
Clearly, this is not the time to be doing this. I'm just a tad too vulnerable and it's just too big a time sump. But, I did discover a man whose favorite books include The Wind in the Willows, Sense and Sensibility, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Where the Wild Things Are. And whose music includes Nina Simone. That alone is worth the price of admission. Who knew?
Oh, and if you are curious: Wickham is "seeing someone" (Lydia?!) and he and I are a 75% match. Hmm. Wonder why he hasn't written to me.
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