I believe that artists are crazy because we... a certain subsection of us are...
~*~*~*~
The idea: self-help book from the future.
~*~*~*~
Four missed calls, each spaced less than a minute apart. It would be bad... Or with any luck, maybe Echo was finally calling to ask me to come over. Maybe I should start packing a bag, while I redial... I could pick up groceries on the way, cook a stew, feed her a healthy healing meal. Maybe I could just hold her, like I did when she was a baby. Maybe if I did everything just right this time, she could wake up with a smile on her face again, ready to take on the world once more.
When I heard her voice, I knew better than to offer to come over, but it was the first question that escaped my lips.
"No, Mom. Don't come!"
I had heard this frantic phone call too many times. "Okay, okay, Echo. I won't. I won't. Just talk to me. It's okay."
~*~*~*~
It was 4:32 AM when we hung up. She sounded like she was falling asleep, crying. How I wish I could have wiped away her tears. This dull ache... God, is this her pain? Please, let me take it away from her.
I toss and turn in bed for twenty minutes before getting up and taking the Bible to the kitchen table. I might as well start the coffee now. Dad will be up to go to work in an hour or so. I can cut him fresh home fries with this much time on my hands.
I throw the Bible open to a random page and put my finger down on a random verse. "So the Jews gathered around him and said to him, 'How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Christ, tell us plainly.' -John 10:24." Alright, Lord. You do speak "in mysterious ways".
The coffee is ready. I start to pour a cup.
Echo is thirty. She was born when I was thirty. The third child, the youngest child. Maybe I waited too long to have her. Maybe I was selfish wanting one more child, a daughter. Maybe we would have been able to help her brothers more through college if we hadn't been paying for her lessons and sending her to Korea. I just... wanted to give her opportunities. She was so open to the world. She could handle anything. What happened? What did I do wrong?
My hand slips and touches the heat of the carafe. In shock, my fingers go limp and the glass vessel falls to the floor, shattering. Brown water splatters on the white floral tiles. So different from glass hitting that old linoleum floor, no bounce whatsoever. I take a moment to inventory the situation. Don't move, I tell myself, broken glass. Leaving my feet flat on the ground, I reach for the light switches to illuminate where the shards may have landed. I grab a rag from the sink and begin the tedious process of cleaning my mess.
A memory flashes. ---Echo is about her niece, Rose's age, about thirteen. Echo's brother, Rose's father was driving me to the store on an icy winter evening. I am trying my best to not berate him for tuning the radio while he is driving. But I can feel the wheels sliding on the wet road. I wish he would just turn the damn thing off altogether. "Pay attention-"
I heard the words slip out before I could realize I was saying them... Now he is exploding. I hit his defensive button. They are all his defensive button. There will be no way to calm him down. Don't yell back. A deep exhale. I am using the calmest tone I can muster, "I just want you to keep your hands on the wheel. It's icy..."
Then we both feel it. There is no control of the steering to catch, two hands or none. A sharp icy patch throws the car into a tree.
We assess the damage. I hear myself yelling at him, but I can't catch all the words. I am calculating whether the mad money savings account stowed away in my bookcase will cover the dent to his father's vehicle. If only there was some way to repair it without telling Dad. No, I will have to have this argument again... and again... and his older brother will add this to his list of belittling statements when the two of them argue now.
Another few years and Echo will be driving. What? Wait... my baby.
The arguing continues into the front door of the house. Forget going anywhere tonight. Can I just send him to his room? Does that still work? He can't go anywhere at this hour, unless one of his friends picks him up. Is the phone working? Maybe some lines fell with the weather. It isn't unusual.
Echo is sitting on the staircase, in the dark. She is watching us. Don't want her to see... There is a look on her face. Her eyes are full of tears. Damnit. Another fire to put out?
She walks up slowly to me and caresses her arms around my shoulders. She is so tall. I am glad. I hope she will be tall and strong and confident. I feel my body collapsing into hers. Is she upset for me? Don't ask me to be calm. Who is the mother here?
"Mommy. I got my period." She whimpers quietly into my ear, as if ashamed.
I feel something divine touch me. My pain is extinguished and ignites into strength. I am still her pillar. I am holding her, although I am in her arms. I hold her. We ransack the house for feminine products to no avail. She has been bleeding for several months in silence, taking what she needed from my supplies. Now they are depleted. She had no choice but to tell me. Why wouldn't she tell me?
I try to tell her there is nothing shameful about menstration... I try---
The kitchen is clean. I am more tired but restless. My thirst for coffee is worse now. Somewhere in the cellar my mother in law had a spare carafe. I saw it sometime...
Fumbling through boxes of candlesticks and ceramic figurines, I question why I am holding onto so many things... her grandchildren say they want these things, but they never come to claim them. Maybe taking them home is admitting she is gone. No one has room. I guess we still have room. Would they really notice if I gave it all to Goodwill? What could I do with this space? What if I made it a proper gym for Dad to work out in? He is trying so hard to stay in shape... If only he would eat the healthier dishes I would like to share with him... What will life as a widow be like?
Something scurries. A mouse? A bug? My imagination? I swear I saw it crawl into the space between the wall and the hutch. Is there an opening? I kneel down and put my hand into the space to feel for a breeze, some indication of hole to the outside. My hand touches something. I fight the urge to recoil. It isn't alive. It isn't animate. It's soft, unexpected. I hook its texture between two fingers and pull... pages... It's a book.
Weathered and dog-eared, it bears dried brown water stains. It has lost its cover and the side title has worn away. Attempting to adjust my eyes in the dim cellar light, my gaze moves from near to distance without the ability to focus. I need my glasses. That is when I see the carafe, sitting atop a box of other kitchen conveniences. I grab it and head upstairs.
Wash the replacement carafe, brew a fresh pot of coffee, pour a cup and take the book out onto the porch... The sun will rise soon. I can see the horizon turning pink.
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
9. Transient, stress-related feelings of unreality or paranoia.
"You and your beloved are walking a path never walked in exactly the same way by anyone else who has ever lived. You do not take a breath, think a thought, have a wisp of feeling that existed before, and the intimacy you build together will never be known again. Countless paths exist -as many as there are people in the world... It starts with you and someone you love, learning to be together without resistance or fear" -Deepak Chopra (The Path to Love)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For most people, death is one of their worst fears. For the suicidal, death seems... well, I shouldn't generalize. For this suicidal individual, death is not frightening. It is relief, release- freedom from the fear of living. I know when I am beginning to care about someone because that is when I begin to fear death. My death, his death... the idea suddenly becomes frightening rather than comforting- a foreign concept.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somewhere in time and space I am laying in a hospital bed. I am unconscious. You are sitting at my side as often as possible. You tell me that everything will be alright. You beg me to come back to you. You hold my hand. You tell me stories about us; how we met, our first date... memories.
...This is something I wrote while I was recovering from my breakdown. It is a reoccurring daydream that would visit me. It still is... in a way.
I have always had a very overactive imagination. My daydreams have a continuous and symbolic "Ally McBeal" quality. The more input (books, movies, TV) I give my brain, the more often I notice these "sign"-like moments... It is called priming. There is nothing magical or mystical about it really... It is my brain making associations with recently accessed information-
...When Victor and I started dating, I had a weird story visit me... In it, he was a white knight, questing to save me, as a princess in a tower, guarded by a dragon. Many knights had tried, but somehow where they had failed, he was succeeding... He did not save the princess by slaying the dragon. He soothed the dragon to sleep, and when it found peace, it melted away into the princess.
(I dreamed this story before Victor drew this picture in my notebook...
...and I did not tell him about the story I imagined until afterwards.)
I wanted the dragon to be gone... But it is always just below the surface, temperamental and breathing smoke, ready to strike. (8. Frequent and inappropriate displays of anger) It is careless. It destroys what I cherish most... It wants me to be alone.
Although no one has ever really left me, it is what I fear most... as a result, I have pushed away and run away from everyone I cared about at some point or another. (1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...When I got home from the hospital, I was not ready to re-enter my life. In fact, my life had gone on without me. All the plans I had made with Victor were still happening, but I was no longer invited. I sat in my apartment and moped a lot, barely willing to leave bed many days, aimlessly walking around the city others. My mother stayed with me for a long time, forcing me to eat at least once a day. I had no appetite, took no pleasure in eating or drinking anything except coconut water. My clothing hung off of my frame like drapes. I finally had the rail thinness that I had always envied.
I slept more than anything. I slept and wrote and watched movies on the internet.
One of the stranger flicks I saw was a Dutch dark comedy called "Ober" ("Waiter" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiter_(film)). The title character portrays a waiter who knows he is the main character of an author's novel. It is a much more somber and unmistakably European take on one of my favorite American movies "Stranger Than Fiction" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stranger_than_Fiction_(2006_film)). However, in this film, the waiter knows his author from the start and frequently calls and visits him to complain about his circumstances... Like a direct line to God. The author makes many excuses about preserving his creative integrity, and in fact, giving into the waiter's pleas often only leads to more disappointing consequences.
...I experienced a similar writing conflict, trying to write many novellas, as a child. I never finished any of them, largely because my characters also refused to comply with my plans. I would start with fantastic a plot in mind, an intended destiny... a destination, an ending. But as I would begin to describe my characters, meet them and get to know them, I would realize that they would make other decisions. They would derail my trains of thought, sabotage my story-lines. They had other desires. They were flawed, impulsive, rebellious; and I could not force them to submit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can not explain how it happened, why it happened. One day...dream, I awoke from my coma. In the hospital, you were there waiting for me... But as time passed quickly in my dream, and I began to recover, I saw myself in a mirror- I was not me. I was not Echo. You were not Victor. Different faces. Different lives. So confusing...
I watched as she re-entered her life with my memories, bewildered. I watched as she was taken to a psychiatrist. Then I knew- You are confusing her. Leave her be to heal. Heal yourself. If you keep pursuing this ghost, she will be stuck in a hospital, away from the man she loves.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I missed Victor so much. I could not attend a summer's worth of his bands' gigs that we had planned to go to together. Gigs that we were going to play together were cancelled. My band seemed to be dissolving... Even if I replaced him, I could not get out of bed.
I would nap and sleep as often as possible to escape the pain... the memories- good and bad. It hurt to remember how happy we were. It hurt to remember how I lost control. Falling asleep was a relief, a brief reprieve from the truth... and each time I awoke, after a few seconds of blissful ignorance, I would realize he was not laying next to me. All the memories would flood back into my mind, drowning any sense of contentment that lingered.
It was during these weeks that I would learn my diagnosis was more than Major Depressive Disorder, as they had told me at Friends Hospital. I Googled the therapy treatment that Victor, my nurse, psychiatrist, psychologist and other therapists had recommended: dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT). Wikipedia informed me, "a form of psychotherapy that was originally developed by Marsha M. Linehan, a psychology researcher at University of Washington, to treat people with borderline personality disorder (BPD)." Borderline? Like the Madonna song?
I started reading as many books about BPD as I could find; Loving Someone with Borderline Personality Disorder (http://www.amazon.com/Someone-Borderline-Personality-Disorder-Control/dp/1593856075), I Hate You, Don't Leave Me (http://www.amazon.com/Hate-You-Dont-Leave-Understanding/dp/0380713055), Girl, Interrupted (http://www.amazon.com/Girl-Interrupted-Susanna-Kaysen/dp/0679746048), Mindfulness for Borderline Personality Disorder (http://www.amazon.com/Mindfulness-Borderline-Personality-Disorder-Dialectical/dp/1608825655), Stop Walking on Eggshells (http://www.amazon.com/Stop-Walking-Eggshells-Borderline-Personality/dp/1572246901), The Buddha and the Borderline (http://www.amazon.com/The-Buddha-Borderline-Personality-Dialectical/dp/157224710X), Get Me Out of Here (http://www.amazon.com/Get-Out-Here-Borderline-Personality/dp/1592850995/ref=pd_sim_b_2). I was astounded to read book after book about people like me, struggling like me. Suddenly, I was not completely alone. Suddenly, I was not a conniving prima donna, constantly demanding her way. There were others like me. My compulsive pushing and testing were more than a series of bad habits and thoughtless choices. It was part of something bigger, something that had a prescribed treatment... something from which people recovered.
...I hit a wall. I had given Victor all my patience. I ran to him in the middle of the night... Something so stupid had been the last straw; his Facebook page said he was singing in his apartment "hope the neighbors don't mind -with" some girl's name. I was crushed. If he was moving on and announcing it so publicly, I deserved to know. I could not contain myself. I was a moth to a flame. I was shaking when I knocked on his door. It took several excruciating minutes before he answered, "Who is it?"
"It's me," I managed. Am I interrupting something? Are you going to open the door- or tell me to leave?
When he opened the door, I could not stop the tears, "I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to-"
"It's okay," Victor pulled me into his arms and held me tight, "It's okay."
I continued to apologize and cry, despite the comfort of being his arms once more, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." For everything, everything. I'm sorry I'm me. I'm sorry I'm here. I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I'm broken. So very sorry...
He put my face in his hands to look into my eyes, "Anytime before now, I don't think I could have handled this... But it's okay. I promise." He pulled me close again. "Let's go sit down."
After an hour or so of Victor consoling me, I could not be dishonest with him and avoid telling him about the jealousy that had instigated my visit. I confessed, "I thought someone might be here with you."
He laughed at me, "That's my neighbor's name. It was a joke... You know she can hear through the walls." ...Nevertheless, my admission had done its damage; my green dragon had shown itself again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the next week, I would daydream of the woman again, out of her coma. I would not recognize who she was at first... But this time when I saw her, I saw the Wheel of Fortune, like a cog in a clock. I would ask for the process to progress... Then slowly... so much started happening in my life... I hit another wall- one that threatened the end of everything with Victor ...I quit everything and poured myself entirely into this blog. It became my life. I finally admitted, I may be writing a book.
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/ceremony.html
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/cocoon.html
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/crickets.html
I spent a lot of time with friends; playing music, planning, volunteering, coordinating... events, recording time, photo shoots... Job interviews! I found the confidence to offer Victor a month away from me... a month with no ties or contact. A month for him to be free of my influence and make a decision about whether to continue our relationship or say goodbye. He postponed the decision to the last possible day...
...a few days before our deadline, the first open mic I used to go to, out in the burbs- where all this started- was suddenly cancelled. I went to its grand finale. It was bittersweet. I performed for the last time on its stage, alone, borrowing Andy's guitar.
This weird theme visited me repeatedly throughout the evening... Meta. "A term, especially in art, used to characterize something that is characteristically self-referential." They were selling t-shirts, featuring the original host of the open mic... He was there wearing one. There were many more examples- Why don't you write these things down?
I knew everyone would carry the party on late... or early rather, into the morning hours, but I slipped out at last call. I texted Victor, "Can I drive by and have you bring out my key?" He obliged.
Just take the key and say goodbye. Don't even park your car. Give him distance. Give him space and time.
He walked out to my car in shorts and flip-flops. I thanked him. "Echo, if you go away in September... You're not coming back, are you?"
I looked down, "I've been thinking about that... Honestly, I'm not sure. I might not be. I don't know."
He talked me into parking and chatting for a while, "Should we stay outside?" He asked.
"I would, but I have to pee... three beers," I danced up the stairs and into the bathroom. I could have cried, staring at where my toothbrush used to rest next to his.
We talked... I told him I was sorry, "We were so good before we fell in love. Then we fell into the trap of trying to play house, like everyone we know... I'm no good at that, never have been. If I wanted that life, I could have had it several times now."
"I don't want to live that way."
"Me either. We don't have to- We can figure out how to live the life we want- together. One step at a time... Like you said, baby steps."
It was getting late, and I wandered to the door, but when he held me like he did not want to let go- I offered to stay... I had not slept in his bed in months. "You could see how you feel about everything in the morning."
He agreed, and we fell asleep in each other's arms.
...There was no way to rewind the past. We could only learn from it... I can never be that person again. Although I will always be myself, I am going to change everyday...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My family relationships have been strained. Our contact has been limited. They barely answer my calls, when they do, they barely speak... except my dad. The one person I struggle most to turn to... my one supporter... the only one not afraid of what I am exposing.
I have had to accept that they are not prepared to handle this- I could choose to crawl back into my shell, if I wanted to live the normal life they would prefer... if I let their fears and hesitations influence me, but I can't. I can't. Only through this clear channel of communication have I felt free to live again... have I found a life worth living again!
...my only fear is that I could say something now to ruin all my progress- What if my new employer reads the blog? What if... What if... What if... I am finally beginning to finally feel as though I have something to loose again- a blessing and a burden. How to continue trusting my gut, even when it jeopardizes my immediate happiness and stability?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The woman... the coma woman... Sometimes I talk to her when I am frustrated. I see her, in her daily routine. One time she was getting ready for a dinner date. She was in the bathroom, looking in the medicine cabinet. Her husband entered and saw her looking perplexed.
"You okay?"
"Yes," She replied automatically, "No," She corrected herself. "We need to put these razors away for a while... She's here again."
He began collecting the sharps, "Do you need your medication?"
"No, I'm fine. We just need to take precautions... to be safe."
"What does she want?"
"...I don't know... What do you want?" She's asking me a question. What do I want?
Later I saw her writing. I recognized her... my narrator. She is writing my story?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nearly a year after Victor and I left the Tin Angel together, I went there to see him play a show with another band... He knew I was coming. We discussed it. He was happy to see me, happier than I expected. While I got caught up in conversation with the venue promoter, I heard him order me a beer, "This and whatever she's having... Actually, she'll want this. Pour me another?" He put his glass in my hand with a smile and a kiss.
All night he touched me. All night I was finally ready to be his... to let everyone see how affectionate we are behind closed doors... to let everyone see what I had been running away from for months- A wonderful, darling man that I loved so much, it broke my heart.
To long for someone is an incredible sensation... standing on the precipice of acquisition. It fills me with hope and wonder. But when I am with someone, life is full of fear and doubt... the possibility of loss looms. I suddenly fear death.
...It has not been a smooth transition. It is an effort for us to let go of the past, when we gave ourselves to each other so willingly but made so many mistakes. Now even good routines, like sharing household chores, can trigger bad memories- codependency.
Loving after the falling part and the falling apart is work... and many people choose to go on falling again and again with different partners. I do not want to perpetuate that cycle. I do have faith that there is something very real worth saving between Victor and I...
One morning he caught me using his toothbrush, "Use your own." He handed me my purple toothbrush.
I felt my eyes nearly fall out of my head, "You didn't throw it away?"
"No, I put it away in my travel bag," he smiled.
I kissed him. A diamond could not have meant more to me in that moment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...don't feel the urge to manipulate, canjole, seduce, demand, beg, or insist. You simply allow, and in that you make an open space for love to flow." -Deepak Chopra (The Path to Love)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For most people, death is one of their worst fears. For the suicidal, death seems... well, I shouldn't generalize. For this suicidal individual, death is not frightening. It is relief, release- freedom from the fear of living. I know when I am beginning to care about someone because that is when I begin to fear death. My death, his death... the idea suddenly becomes frightening rather than comforting- a foreign concept.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Somewhere in time and space I am laying in a hospital bed. I am unconscious. You are sitting at my side as often as possible. You tell me that everything will be alright. You beg me to come back to you. You hold my hand. You tell me stories about us; how we met, our first date... memories.
...This is something I wrote while I was recovering from my breakdown. It is a reoccurring daydream that would visit me. It still is... in a way.
I have always had a very overactive imagination. My daydreams have a continuous and symbolic "Ally McBeal" quality. The more input (books, movies, TV) I give my brain, the more often I notice these "sign"-like moments... It is called priming. There is nothing magical or mystical about it really... It is my brain making associations with recently accessed information-
...When Victor and I started dating, I had a weird story visit me... In it, he was a white knight, questing to save me, as a princess in a tower, guarded by a dragon. Many knights had tried, but somehow where they had failed, he was succeeding... He did not save the princess by slaying the dragon. He soothed the dragon to sleep, and when it found peace, it melted away into the princess.
(I dreamed this story before Victor drew this picture in my notebook...
I wanted the dragon to be gone... But it is always just below the surface, temperamental and breathing smoke, ready to strike. (8. Frequent and inappropriate displays of anger) It is careless. It destroys what I cherish most... It wants me to be alone.
Although no one has ever really left me, it is what I fear most... as a result, I have pushed away and run away from everyone I cared about at some point or another. (1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...When I got home from the hospital, I was not ready to re-enter my life. In fact, my life had gone on without me. All the plans I had made with Victor were still happening, but I was no longer invited. I sat in my apartment and moped a lot, barely willing to leave bed many days, aimlessly walking around the city others. My mother stayed with me for a long time, forcing me to eat at least once a day. I had no appetite, took no pleasure in eating or drinking anything except coconut water. My clothing hung off of my frame like drapes. I finally had the rail thinness that I had always envied.
I slept more than anything. I slept and wrote and watched movies on the internet.
One of the stranger flicks I saw was a Dutch dark comedy called "Ober" ("Waiter" http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiter_(film)). The title character portrays a waiter who knows he is the main character of an author's novel. It is a much more somber and unmistakably European take on one of my favorite American movies "Stranger Than Fiction" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stranger_than_Fiction_(2006_film)). However, in this film, the waiter knows his author from the start and frequently calls and visits him to complain about his circumstances... Like a direct line to God. The author makes many excuses about preserving his creative integrity, and in fact, giving into the waiter's pleas often only leads to more disappointing consequences.
...I experienced a similar writing conflict, trying to write many novellas, as a child. I never finished any of them, largely because my characters also refused to comply with my plans. I would start with fantastic a plot in mind, an intended destiny... a destination, an ending. But as I would begin to describe my characters, meet them and get to know them, I would realize that they would make other decisions. They would derail my trains of thought, sabotage my story-lines. They had other desires. They were flawed, impulsive, rebellious; and I could not force them to submit.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can not explain how it happened, why it happened. One day...dream, I awoke from my coma. In the hospital, you were there waiting for me... But as time passed quickly in my dream, and I began to recover, I saw myself in a mirror- I was not me. I was not Echo. You were not Victor. Different faces. Different lives. So confusing...
I watched as she re-entered her life with my memories, bewildered. I watched as she was taken to a psychiatrist. Then I knew- You are confusing her. Leave her be to heal. Heal yourself. If you keep pursuing this ghost, she will be stuck in a hospital, away from the man she loves.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I missed Victor so much. I could not attend a summer's worth of his bands' gigs that we had planned to go to together. Gigs that we were going to play together were cancelled. My band seemed to be dissolving... Even if I replaced him, I could not get out of bed.
I would nap and sleep as often as possible to escape the pain... the memories- good and bad. It hurt to remember how happy we were. It hurt to remember how I lost control. Falling asleep was a relief, a brief reprieve from the truth... and each time I awoke, after a few seconds of blissful ignorance, I would realize he was not laying next to me. All the memories would flood back into my mind, drowning any sense of contentment that lingered.
It was during these weeks that I would learn my diagnosis was more than Major Depressive Disorder, as they had told me at Friends Hospital. I Googled the therapy treatment that Victor, my nurse, psychiatrist, psychologist and other therapists had recommended: dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT). Wikipedia informed me, "a form of psychotherapy that was originally developed by Marsha M. Linehan, a psychology researcher at University of Washington, to treat people with borderline personality disorder (BPD)." Borderline? Like the Madonna song?
I started reading as many books about BPD as I could find; Loving Someone with Borderline Personality Disorder (http://www.amazon.com/Someone-Borderline-Personality-Disorder-Control/dp/1593856075), I Hate You, Don't Leave Me (http://www.amazon.com/Hate-You-Dont-Leave-Understanding/dp/0380713055), Girl, Interrupted (http://www.amazon.com/Girl-Interrupted-Susanna-Kaysen/dp/0679746048), Mindfulness for Borderline Personality Disorder (http://www.amazon.com/Mindfulness-Borderline-Personality-Disorder-Dialectical/dp/1608825655), Stop Walking on Eggshells (http://www.amazon.com/Stop-Walking-Eggshells-Borderline-Personality/dp/1572246901), The Buddha and the Borderline (http://www.amazon.com/The-Buddha-Borderline-Personality-Dialectical/dp/157224710X), Get Me Out of Here (http://www.amazon.com/Get-Out-Here-Borderline-Personality/dp/1592850995/ref=pd_sim_b_2). I was astounded to read book after book about people like me, struggling like me. Suddenly, I was not completely alone. Suddenly, I was not a conniving prima donna, constantly demanding her way. There were others like me. My compulsive pushing and testing were more than a series of bad habits and thoughtless choices. It was part of something bigger, something that had a prescribed treatment... something from which people recovered.
...I hit a wall. I had given Victor all my patience. I ran to him in the middle of the night... Something so stupid had been the last straw; his Facebook page said he was singing in his apartment "hope the neighbors don't mind -with" some girl's name. I was crushed. If he was moving on and announcing it so publicly, I deserved to know. I could not contain myself. I was a moth to a flame. I was shaking when I knocked on his door. It took several excruciating minutes before he answered, "Who is it?"
"It's me," I managed. Am I interrupting something? Are you going to open the door- or tell me to leave?
When he opened the door, I could not stop the tears, "I'm sorry. I know I'm not supposed to-"
"It's okay," Victor pulled me into his arms and held me tight, "It's okay."
I continued to apologize and cry, despite the comfort of being his arms once more, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." For everything, everything. I'm sorry I'm me. I'm sorry I'm here. I'm sorry I love you. I'm sorry I'm broken. So very sorry...
He put my face in his hands to look into my eyes, "Anytime before now, I don't think I could have handled this... But it's okay. I promise." He pulled me close again. "Let's go sit down."
After an hour or so of Victor consoling me, I could not be dishonest with him and avoid telling him about the jealousy that had instigated my visit. I confessed, "I thought someone might be here with you."
He laughed at me, "That's my neighbor's name. It was a joke... You know she can hear through the walls." ...Nevertheless, my admission had done its damage; my green dragon had shown itself again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Over the next week, I would daydream of the woman again, out of her coma. I would not recognize who she was at first... But this time when I saw her, I saw the Wheel of Fortune, like a cog in a clock. I would ask for the process to progress... Then slowly... so much started happening in my life... I hit another wall- one that threatened the end of everything with Victor ...I quit everything and poured myself entirely into this blog. It became my life. I finally admitted, I may be writing a book.
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/ceremony.html
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/cocoon.html
http://echovictory.blogspot.com/2013/08/crickets.html
I spent a lot of time with friends; playing music, planning, volunteering, coordinating... events, recording time, photo shoots... Job interviews! I found the confidence to offer Victor a month away from me... a month with no ties or contact. A month for him to be free of my influence and make a decision about whether to continue our relationship or say goodbye. He postponed the decision to the last possible day...
...a few days before our deadline, the first open mic I used to go to, out in the burbs- where all this started- was suddenly cancelled. I went to its grand finale. It was bittersweet. I performed for the last time on its stage, alone, borrowing Andy's guitar.
This weird theme visited me repeatedly throughout the evening... Meta. "A term, especially in art, used to characterize something that is characteristically self-referential." They were selling t-shirts, featuring the original host of the open mic... He was there wearing one. There were many more examples- Why don't you write these things down?
(Insert example of meta in artwork)
I knew everyone would carry the party on late... or early rather, into the morning hours, but I slipped out at last call. I texted Victor, "Can I drive by and have you bring out my key?" He obliged.
Just take the key and say goodbye. Don't even park your car. Give him distance. Give him space and time.
He walked out to my car in shorts and flip-flops. I thanked him. "Echo, if you go away in September... You're not coming back, are you?"
I looked down, "I've been thinking about that... Honestly, I'm not sure. I might not be. I don't know."
He talked me into parking and chatting for a while, "Should we stay outside?" He asked.
"I would, but I have to pee... three beers," I danced up the stairs and into the bathroom. I could have cried, staring at where my toothbrush used to rest next to his.
We talked... I told him I was sorry, "We were so good before we fell in love. Then we fell into the trap of trying to play house, like everyone we know... I'm no good at that, never have been. If I wanted that life, I could have had it several times now."
"I don't want to live that way."
"Me either. We don't have to- We can figure out how to live the life we want- together. One step at a time... Like you said, baby steps."
It was getting late, and I wandered to the door, but when he held me like he did not want to let go- I offered to stay... I had not slept in his bed in months. "You could see how you feel about everything in the morning."
He agreed, and we fell asleep in each other's arms.
...There was no way to rewind the past. We could only learn from it... I can never be that person again. Although I will always be myself, I am going to change everyday...
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My family relationships have been strained. Our contact has been limited. They barely answer my calls, when they do, they barely speak... except my dad. The one person I struggle most to turn to... my one supporter... the only one not afraid of what I am exposing.
I have had to accept that they are not prepared to handle this- I could choose to crawl back into my shell, if I wanted to live the normal life they would prefer... if I let their fears and hesitations influence me, but I can't. I can't. Only through this clear channel of communication have I felt free to live again... have I found a life worth living again!
...my only fear is that I could say something now to ruin all my progress- What if my new employer reads the blog? What if... What if... What if... I am finally beginning to finally feel as though I have something to loose again- a blessing and a burden. How to continue trusting my gut, even when it jeopardizes my immediate happiness and stability?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The woman... the coma woman... Sometimes I talk to her when I am frustrated. I see her, in her daily routine. One time she was getting ready for a dinner date. She was in the bathroom, looking in the medicine cabinet. Her husband entered and saw her looking perplexed.
"You okay?"
"Yes," She replied automatically, "No," She corrected herself. "We need to put these razors away for a while... She's here again."
He began collecting the sharps, "Do you need your medication?"
"No, I'm fine. We just need to take precautions... to be safe."
"What does she want?"
"...I don't know... What do you want?" She's asking me a question. What do I want?
Later I saw her writing. I recognized her... my narrator. She is writing my story?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nearly a year after Victor and I left the Tin Angel together, I went there to see him play a show with another band... He knew I was coming. We discussed it. He was happy to see me, happier than I expected. While I got caught up in conversation with the venue promoter, I heard him order me a beer, "This and whatever she's having... Actually, she'll want this. Pour me another?" He put his glass in my hand with a smile and a kiss.
All night he touched me. All night I was finally ready to be his... to let everyone see how affectionate we are behind closed doors... to let everyone see what I had been running away from for months- A wonderful, darling man that I loved so much, it broke my heart.
To long for someone is an incredible sensation... standing on the precipice of acquisition. It fills me with hope and wonder. But when I am with someone, life is full of fear and doubt... the possibility of loss looms. I suddenly fear death.
...It has not been a smooth transition. It is an effort for us to let go of the past, when we gave ourselves to each other so willingly but made so many mistakes. Now even good routines, like sharing household chores, can trigger bad memories- codependency.
Loving after the falling part and the falling apart is work... and many people choose to go on falling again and again with different partners. I do not want to perpetuate that cycle. I do have faith that there is something very real worth saving between Victor and I...
One morning he caught me using his toothbrush, "Use your own." He handed me my purple toothbrush.
I felt my eyes nearly fall out of my head, "You didn't throw it away?"
"No, I put it away in my travel bag," he smiled.
I kissed him. A diamond could not have meant more to me in that moment.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"...don't feel the urge to manipulate, canjole, seduce, demand, beg, or insist. You simply allow, and in that you make an open space for love to flow." -Deepak Chopra (The Path to Love)
The importance of being...
Written: December 14, 2011 at 2:20am
It occurs to me that I frequently misrepresent myself... not for the better... rarely on purpose. I always find myself a round peg, being pushed into a square hole. I may fit, somewhat- but I can never fully fulfill the role I'm being asked to play.
People love labels. We love to generalize. When we can define someone- by socioeconomic status, by religion, by culture or heritage- we can start to apply rules we've learned about how to treat that type of person... Before we can get to know him/her, if we bother to get to know him/her. I know I do it- But I am TRYing move beyond that initial stage with my friends.
I worked with children and adults with mental retardation and autism spectrum disorders for many years. (These are not politically incorrect labels, they are medical diagnoses.) It was my job to help them "fit in". This was always a balancing act between making the people around them feel comfortable and teaching them how to advocate for themselves. I had to learn how to interpret their intentions in order to facilitate their achieving goals... goals can be simple (like having a bowl of cereal) or complex (like asking a woman on a date). In order to begin approaching any goal, we must break the process down into a sequence of steps.
Simple: fixing a bowl of cereal
1. Check if we have all the materials required: bowl, spoon, milk, cereal
2. Gather materials
3. Open and pour cereal into bowl
4. Open and pour milk over cereal
5. Eat cereal
6. Close and put away milk and cereal containers
7. Put bowl and spoon into sink
Complex: asking a woman on a date
.......
One young man made this his personal goal- We discussed and roleplayed appropriate scripts that people typically use in these situations. We described and observed behaviors that demonstrate positive and negative affect between a man and woman. And given repetitious practice of these skills, he became confident enough to face rejection again and again... But no matter how I tried, I could not teach an individual, born without the ability to acquire social skills, to perceive how his communication partner might feel. How to accomodate... I began to wonder if I knew how to do this myself.
I have a set of male friends whom I consider un-datable (for me). I call them "Charlie Brown". They are sweet. There's nothing wrong with them. They are too good to me, despite my blatant honesty. But they don't challenge me. I would only hurt them when I found someone who would.
They call me "Sally"/"Lucy", an unflattering female take on Jekyll/Hyde. Every man who has ever liked me has been hoping to find a way to sustain my Sally status... Naive, clumsy, easily amused... Simple. But at the end of the day, I will pull that football out of reach and go lounge by Schroeder's piano- every time. Nevertheless, they persist in returning to me for my 5-cent opinions.
Wouldn't I switch- like a light switch- if I could? I'm constantly changing. I analyze my behavior... I used to agonize over sequences of events that have led me astray... But the past is in the past, and that series of mistakes and lessons have taught me to have an abundance of patience, tolerance, and the restraint to let go when I have no control over an outcome. Slowly, I see my Lucy becoming someone better... the someone I want to be- and she is not Sally either.
I'm Ev. I don't fit into a box. Boxes can be comforting. They provide stability and structure for life. Many labels I have been called could tell me how to act, dress, speak... live. However, since I usually do whatever I feel like doing, rather than what I am expected to do, I frequently say the wrong thing or have the wrong expression on my face at the wrong time- and someone takes it personally... assumes I am communicating some intention, when I'm really somewhere else altogether, in my head.
I recall purporting to know myself... Now every day I wake up and meet myself again- with a vague set of goals and standards in mind. But I don't judge others based upon these, and I no longer become disappointed in myself when I fail to meet them. Sometimes the process takes longer than expected. Sometimes standards have to be adjusted. Sometimes goals have to change... Because people change. It's when we refuse to continue being part of the process of life, of striving to become archetypes, that we stagnate into one dimensional stereotypes, repeating the same silly patterns week to week, month to month, year to year...
Every day is an opportunity. Life continues to happen, until it doesn't. It is up to us whether to be active participants or to simply go through the motions. I choose to keep learning.
I worked with children and adults with mental retardation and autism spectrum disorders for many years. (These are not politically incorrect labels, they are medical diagnoses.) It was my job to help them "fit in". This was always a balancing act between making the people around them feel comfortable and teaching them how to advocate for themselves. I had to learn how to interpret their intentions in order to facilitate their achieving goals... goals can be simple (like having a bowl of cereal) or complex (like asking a woman on a date). In order to begin approaching any goal, we must break the process down into a sequence of steps.
Simple: fixing a bowl of cereal
1. Check if we have all the materials required: bowl, spoon, milk, cereal
2. Gather materials
3. Open and pour cereal into bowl
4. Open and pour milk over cereal
5. Eat cereal
6. Close and put away milk and cereal containers
7. Put bowl and spoon into sink
Complex: asking a woman on a date
.......
One young man made this his personal goal- We discussed and roleplayed appropriate scripts that people typically use in these situations. We described and observed behaviors that demonstrate positive and negative affect between a man and woman. And given repetitious practice of these skills, he became confident enough to face rejection again and again... But no matter how I tried, I could not teach an individual, born without the ability to acquire social skills, to perceive how his communication partner might feel. How to accomodate... I began to wonder if I knew how to do this myself.
I have a set of male friends whom I consider un-datable (for me). I call them "Charlie Brown". They are sweet. There's nothing wrong with them. They are too good to me, despite my blatant honesty. But they don't challenge me. I would only hurt them when I found someone who would.
They call me "Sally"/"Lucy", an unflattering female take on Jekyll/Hyde. Every man who has ever liked me has been hoping to find a way to sustain my Sally status... Naive, clumsy, easily amused... Simple. But at the end of the day, I will pull that football out of reach and go lounge by Schroeder's piano- every time. Nevertheless, they persist in returning to me for my 5-cent opinions.
Wouldn't I switch- like a light switch- if I could? I'm constantly changing. I analyze my behavior... I used to agonize over sequences of events that have led me astray... But the past is in the past, and that series of mistakes and lessons have taught me to have an abundance of patience, tolerance, and the restraint to let go when I have no control over an outcome. Slowly, I see my Lucy becoming someone better... the someone I want to be- and she is not Sally either.
I'm Ev. I don't fit into a box. Boxes can be comforting. They provide stability and structure for life. Many labels I have been called could tell me how to act, dress, speak... live. However, since I usually do whatever I feel like doing, rather than what I am expected to do, I frequently say the wrong thing or have the wrong expression on my face at the wrong time- and someone takes it personally... assumes I am communicating some intention, when I'm really somewhere else altogether, in my head.
I recall purporting to know myself... Now every day I wake up and meet myself again- with a vague set of goals and standards in mind. But I don't judge others based upon these, and I no longer become disappointed in myself when I fail to meet them. Sometimes the process takes longer than expected. Sometimes standards have to be adjusted. Sometimes goals have to change... Because people change. It's when we refuse to continue being part of the process of life, of striving to become archetypes, that we stagnate into one dimensional stereotypes, repeating the same silly patterns week to week, month to month, year to year...
Every day is an opportunity. Life continues to happen, until it doesn't. It is up to us whether to be active participants or to simply go through the motions. I choose to keep learning.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)