We’re at that Age

{I promise I’ll recap #BiSC soon. I have ALL THE FEELINGS, and I haven’t processed them yet.}

…

My best friend’s mother died this morning at approximately 5am.

I am pretty sure it hasn’t sunk in yet–the fact that J’s mother is gone. In the interests of full disclosure, this woman and I didn’t always have the best relationship. I broke up with J our freshman year of college after a year and a half together. We’ve remained friends since then, and she never forgave me for hurting him. I understand it. I feel badly that we were never able to reconcile.

My heart hurts for my dear friend. I can’t imagine how he’s feeling, and all I can come up with are the very contrived sounding “I’m so sorry” and “What can I do?” and “I’m praying for you”. I feel like I should have more to offer a person who’s been in my life for almost ten years. I also have to accept that whatever I have is enough-I can only give what I can. The best thing I can do right now is get my butt in the chapel and spend some time praying for J and his mother.

In the nine years or so that I’ve been in J’s life, we’ve had some time where we’ve been inseparable, but for the last six months or so things have been a little distant. He’s been dating someone for about a yearish and I haven’t met her yet. He’s kept us apart on purpose, and that doesn’t lead to a whole lot of hang out time with the other female, me. I understand this.

I’ve lost contact with most of our old friends. I moved away and am terrible at keeping in touch with people–the next time I expected to see them was at his wedding. Now, instead, we’ll all be brought back together at a funeral. I’m sad that it required a death to bring the old gang back together. I’m also vainly nervous about how I look compared to three or four years ago, the last time I saw most of them. I feel so shallow for admitting that, but I don’t want to look like the pathetic ex girlfriend who is still single.

Tomorrow will be an exercise in:

1. keeping my cool and not breaking down in tears

2. being very, very nice to the new girlfriend

3. trying to prove to all the old friends that I’m successful, and all that

4. survival

Stability and Las Vegas

She is my new focus:

Her name is Grace, and I’m completely smitten.

#BiSC!

I love Vegas– time is irrelevant, the lights are bright, and everything sparkles. This trip I get to spend time with 59 awesome people, only two of which I’ve met. In January BiSC seemed so very far outside my comfort zone. I was excited, but fear was winning.

I have a bit of trouble traveling.

I am very aware of my need for routine. My brain functions best when I don’t have to worry about anomalies in my schedule. My head can focus on getting through the day–on surviving and protecting itself from unnecessary stress or panic. If I have too many things outside of the norm my anxiety tends to spiral, quickly.

For the first time in a couple of years, I’m excited about going somewhere outside of my apartment. Most of the time, the outside world is nothing but anxiety ridden–now that anxiety is swirled with hope and possibility.

I think… I think this is stability. Control, in a very small way, of the depression that has been the main facet of my personality for the last 14 years. Progress.

Quiet

 

I was on retreat called HOPE this weekend. Hidden away at the motherhouse of my favorite Franciscan sisters, I spent 48 hours with 6 women all processing our relationship with God and sexual trauma.

My head is a bit of a mess, and I can’t quite articulate… anything, really. I’m going to continue to be fairly quiet online while I continue to rest and contemplate.

Happy Holy Week.

To that Woman

Dear J,

From the time I saw you, I should have known it would end badly. That first meeting, when you told us that you were married to a man but pretty sure you were gay. I should have known you won’t ever be comfortable enough with your surroundings and yourself to settle down.

I was so attracted to you. You were smart and passionate–and you appreciated the same in your friends. We could talk theory and literature, or lapse into giggles about nothing. You called me beautiful, and always reminded me that I was intelligent–especially when I felt like I couldn’t write another word.

The first night we kissed, sitting on your living room floor watching a movie about French lesbians, I could hardly breathe. You kissed me. As much as we were flirting, I wouldn’t have made the first move. I was far too scared.

From that night on, I was yours.

The first night you told me you’d had sex with your husband I thought I was going to throw up. You assured me that it didn’t mean anything, that sex was just a perfunctory obligation of your marriage. I should have known then that at some point you’d treat sex with me in the same manner–something you didn’t really want but you went along with.

When you ended it, I wasn’t sure I would make it through the night. It was one of those nights that I spent praying for sleep and not finding it. I didn’t sleep for three nights–by the night you called me, I didn’t have anything left. You were going to try and make it work with the husband-but more than that, I wasn’t enough for you. I wasn’t advanced enough. I was too young, you said.

Do you realize how much you invalidated my suffering that night?

We came together again as equals, as much as we ever were. You as a divorced woman, and I living alone in the mountains. When you walked off that plane in Colorado I was both panicking and completely calm. You were in my town, in my apartment, on my mountain. You came to me, and you wanted me.

 We had love, and we had passion.

The next time you ended it, I was in your space. You were cruel–you had moved on. Again, I wasn’t good enough. But this time, I was blindsided with a two hour drive home. You asked for a hug, and I gave it without thinking. It was automatic. Of course, I loved being in your arms.

When I was 20 miles away, I realized that not only had I been broken up with, I’d given you exactly what you wanted. I’d left–but before I left, you had the gall to ask ME for comfort? You selfish, cruel woman.

And yet I let you into my life again. Only to have my friendship thrown away like spare change. No wait, you value spare change more than you valued my friendship. After 5 years of dating and friendship, you didn’t even want to speak with my anymore? You couldn’t handle my hurt anymore?

Fuck you. I am good enough.

–Anna

(I’m participating in The Scintilla Project. Day 6: Write the letter to the bully, to the cheater, to the aggressor that you always wanted to but couldn’t quite. Now tell them why they can’t affect you anymore.)

Panis Angelicus

Luciano Pavarotti and Sting

I’m participating in The Scintilla Project.

“1.Talk about a memory triggered by a particular song.”

I suppose it’s an obscure Catholic chant written by Aquinas–but it’s my favorite Eucharistic hymn.

By the time I reached Holy Week that year, I felt like I hadn’t stopped running since August. I was heartbroken and joyful when, on Holy Thursday, I told my boyfriend I couldn’t be with him anymore. I was standing on the steps of chapel when I realized it was unfair to both date him and actively discern my (possible) religious vocation. He was understanding, knowing I’d been considering it for a while, and we parted amicably.

I felt at peace during that mass. I felt Jesus pulling me a little bit closer to Him, inch by inch. I was calm during the breakup, and went back to chapel for adoration. I spent most of the next few days in Chapel or in choir rehearsals.

Easter Vigil ended almost exactly at midnight. It had been a long, hot four hours in the choir loft. I don’t think the Easter fun died until about 2am when I finally crashed. The Easter day that followed was a little sluggish. I had a migraine and there was a thunderstorm.

Two tylenol 3′s later, I went to Easter dinner at the ex’s apartment, with our whole group of friends. I felt fine, and completely forgot about the migraine. We were cooking, and I had a glass of champagne.
It was a celebration!

The next morning, I woke up. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be. I was in his bed.

Apparently “we had fun”.

I was the girl he couldn’t have. So much for the amicable break up.

I only remember flashes from the next few weeks.

Campus was bright and sunny. The gravel was particularly loud as I paced outside my dorm talking to my best friend from home. The panic at realizing he was on my residence hall floor, hanging out with some of our mutual friends. Seeking solace in the chapel and realizing it was too quiet. Realizing the choir loft was the last place I’d felt safe.

I couldn’t keep him away from church. I avoided Sunday mass altogether. I took to the chapel  at night, when it was almost empty, sitting on the floor in the front. Praying, sitting, and crying to the God who loved me so much as to make me His, and yet allowed this brutal act to transpire. The Eucharist was the only thing in my life that hadn’t radically shifted.

Six years later, on days when I still feel broken, I come back to chapel. He used tragedy to wrap me ever tighter in His loving arms. I just need to not run away.

Panis angelicus
Fit panis hominum;
Dat panis coelicus
Figuris terminum:
O res mirabilis!
Manducat Dominum
Pauper, servus et humilis.

The First Fall

I’m participating in The Scintilla Project.

Life is a series of firsts. Talk about one of your most important firsts. What did you learn? Was it something you incorporated into your life as a result?

(There was another prompt for the day:Who am I? I can’t answer that prompt because the only thing that comes into my head is “The question is who… are you?” as said by Rafiki. This leads to giggles and a lack of any serious thought. Oh well.)

The Friday before finals week in the spring of 2006 was quiet in a lot of regards. Several hours of staring at a word document that wasn’t filling nearly fast enough left me in need of some distraction. The townie boys I hung out with occasionally were going out because the students (for the most part) were staying in. It was someone’s birthday, but I didn’t know them and didn’t really care. I just needed a reason to be out from my writing hole.

I went out relatively early with the intention of having a couple drinks and heading home. I sat around a table with one of the girls from my dorm and five guys, waiting for the birthday girl to arrive. We had to pull up another bar stool for the girl who followed her in, and that unknown person ended up across from me.

When the anonymous girl didn’t introduce herself right away, my friend K leaned over and told me “her name is Kate”, with a strange look on her face. “You’ve heard of her, right?”…. I hadn’t.

“Chris’-lesbian-ex-Kate, they dated in high school”.

At that point, someone ordered a round of shots. I needed one. Actually, my brain felt like it needed about 12, but I participated in the birthday shot with the group and went back to my Dirty Shirley Temple. My mind swirled and whirred, trying to make sense of this information. The familiar bar might as well have been Wonderland.

As the night went on I unconsciously focused on that girl. I tried to wrap my brain around this idea of a “lesbian”. A woman who dated other women… who was happy? normal? in my group of friends? what?

After a little while in my own little world, I walked with my friend to the bar for another shot. Tequila has an odd way of helping my brain ignore the craziness and anxiety in the background and focus. I stopped trying to understand her. I went with the group to the dance floor, dancing close to her but never touching. I helped her walk the birthday girl back to the car and gave her a hug goodnight (completely socially acceptable).

She came to town every night for the next week, which coincided with finals. I went out every night that week. I knew I wanted to spend time with her, but I couldn’t bring myself to think about anything else.

The following Friday night I held her hand for the first time. The next night, I kissed her for the first time. She stayed with me. We were happy, silly, and I was more than a little bit fumbly.

The next morning, as she walked away from me, I thought about myself as a “lesbian” for the first time. At once it terrified me and I didn’t care at all. I let myself fall.

Fierce Love (and Loss)

It seems appropriate that Molly’s Fierce Love course launches today. One of the hardest things I learned while working through her course (during week two) is that self care isn’t necessarily the bright, shiny thing that I want. Self care isn’t always taking it easy. Self care is doing the things necessary to be better, not just the immediate feel better.

While waiting for the phone call from my ex yesterday, all I could think about was that I am enough. I am strong enough, intelligent enough, and caring enough. I expended all my reserves of strength. I loved her with everything I had for a long time. Even though that wasn’t enough for her, that doesn’t mean I’m not enough (and yes, I’m rocking the double negative).

22 hours ago, I said goodbye to this amazing woman for the last time. I told her we couldn’t have any  contact. I was done.

She responded by asking if I expected her to fight for contact with me, because she wasn’t going to.

That’s when I started crying. Standing on State Street, waiting for a friend to meet me for dinner. After 5 years of relationship/friendship/in between somethings, she didn’t really care if we talked.

I am absolutely devastated. I am accepting this short term (or medium term) feeling for the knowledge that it will get better. I deserve better. I will find someone who will love me and not walk away when things get hard. I am worth more.

Fierce love, today, for me, is saying goodbye.

Wine and Love v.3

Hosted by Nora!

Things that have me looking for my wine glass:

• I’m still trying to get used the fact that my ex is pregnant. I swing wildly from being happy for her to being really pissed off at the whole thing. Also, I’m agonizing about her coming to visit me this weekend.
• I haven’t slept well this week. I’m guessing it’s because of the above nervousness, but the lack of sleep makes everything a bit harder. I’m kind of a bear if I don’t get 8-9 hours of sleep, and this week I’ve been running at about 6-7. Rawr.
• Partly because I’m not sleeping well, my exercise isn’t going as well, and that just adds to the vicious circle of not feeling good about myself.

Things I’m loving this week:

• I had dinner with two friends on Monday at my apartment. It was good to see them, and just hang out a bit. They indulge the fact that I don’t really like to leave my apartment very much when I’m anxious, and came to see me. We watched the Grammy’s on dvr and had a bottle of champagne. Delightful.
• The only person to wish me a happy valentines day was a Franciscan friar, and it was just so he could show me the awesome heart socks he was rocking with his brown sandals.
• I bought my plane ticket for BiSC!!

BiSC!

In the last month I’ve gotten exponentially more excited about going to Bloggers in Sin City!

I’m about to book my flight. And while I’m excited, the actual booking of the flight seems to be rather anxiety provoking. But it’s okay. I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going a bit stir crazy in this grey city, and it’s only February. By May, I’ll be really, really glad I bought the plane ticket.

 

To make it even better, Paper’d is refunding someone’s registration fee! That would mean I wouldn’t have to spend my entire tax refund on a plane ticket. Win/win!

I’m crossing all ten fingers and toes that it’s me. I could use the boost after the week I’ve had.It’s okay, though… I’m going here:

in less than 4 months! Win!

On Sharing a Home (and a bed).

So, the woman I love is now firmly entrenched in another beautiful, permanent relationship. The one with the child growing in her stomach.

I’m still reeling. It’s been 48hoursish since I found out, and I’m still not sure how I feel about it. I must be happy for her. I must. And yet, I’m still incredibly sad. For the official death of any chance I had. For the forward progress in her life. I feel like I can’t be sad about it, and I am.

My mantra at the moment: I am enough, even in my anger. I am allowed to feel….. whatever I feel towards her. I don’t have to justify them.

I’ve never seen myself as a biological mother. That fact is a deal breaker in most straight relationships (at least the ones I’ve found myself in). I’ve known that J wanted children… and always assumed that she would have them. I’m not opposed to children…

All I can think about is that child. And how, crazily enough, all I want to do is be the other mother. The one holding my love’s hand in the delivery room, the second person to cradle that baby in her arms. The partner I always assumed I’d end up as.

She’s coming back through town next weekend. I agreed to have her crash at my place before I knew anything of this. We’ve known each other for 5 years, and only once have we seen each other and not shared a bed. {Paris, 2009, I sought refuge with her when I was dumped 2 days into my 16 day European adventure. I went back to J–because we always come back to each other. I slept on a cot in her room for 3 nights–we didn’t share her twin bed. I was grieving and she was seeing someone. And yet. She let me in. She cared for me. How can I not do the same?}

My bed is a sanctuary. Four posters, wrought iron, big fluffy pillows. I share it with my laptop and my phone. It’s a precious thing, this place where I can “rest and pray”. Can I share this with her, knowing that she is moving towards something and someone else? If I can’t, what does this say about me? Am I not strong enough to take care of her the way she has always taken care of me? Or is it out of self preservation that I can’t be there for her right now?

Am I allowed to tell her “no, I can’t see you next weekend”? Is that cowardly or a showing of strength?

She will come back to me next weekend. She always does.

She’s moving on without me. I’m not going to be that person. I don’t know how to be anything else.