Don't Be Embarrassed, We're All Learning

I haven't always struggled with fitting in. Or at least it never used to cause me anxiety.

I was bullied in elementary school and it's the cause of my social anxiety. It's why I don't feel comfortable in large groups of strangers, especially those groups made up of primarily women. Women who haven't been vetted by a person I trust.

I had a hard class in grad school tonight.

Let me back up, in case you aren't up to date. I left beloved Jersey City for Seattle, enrolling in the Couple and Family Therapy program at Antioch University. My cohort (for lack of a better word) is 95% women, 80% white. It's now week five of my first quarter.

My Communication and Counseling Skills class is the least diverse of all. I am paired with two incredible young women as a consultancy group. They are amazing, and I don't think I would have made it to week five without them. School privacy prohibits me from saying any more about that.

We had an in-class practice with everyone tonight. One woman volunteered to be the client for the counseling volunteers. I had an idea of where she might want to go where other people were having some issues. I sat down, probably overeager, and she was totally closed off. No additional information volunteering, everything needed to be dragged out of her. I tried to use attentive silence to give her space to open up a little bit more, and she wasn't responsive. It went on way too long, and I have no chill when it comes to this. I can sit for twenty minutes without speaking to a person if necessary, but that wasn't part of the exercise.

When the instructor intervened after about 90 seconds of unproductive silence, he asked her how she felt about it. She said she felt like I made her a part of a performance piece.

I feel like there was probably a gentler way to say that. I feel like feedback that abrasive should be directed at your partner, not at the instructor like your partner isn't even sitting there.

I am really sensitive about my "kooky personality." I think everyone thinks I'm trying to make them part of a Marina Abramovich piece. I think everyone hates me and is critical of my enthusiasm.

I'm used to my partners being engaged with me, trusting that I am heading towards a place of Good Work and not out to prove myself. That's what I learned from Evergreen: always say yes in a class exercise, even if you're not sure.

Instead I had two minutes of unproductive silence, and a partner who felt like she got the drop on me. And like the whole class probably feels superior to me because I am Not a good counselor, and I do not do Good Work.

I always feel like I have so much to prove. I hate it when people make me feel right about that.

Oh, hey, this exists.

It's funny how when life is going well, it's easy to forget to document it. 

The beginning of my porch garden.

When things go wrong, the first thing we do is shake our fists at the sky and ask for a reason, or at least for company.
Once the road smooths out, suddenly shouting from the rooftops is less of a priority.

So, here I am.  Life is pretty great.  I live in a beautiful and spacious apartment with friends I get along with. 

Kayley and one of my roommates.

Kayley - my cat - is healthy and has plenty of birds to chitter at from the windowsill. 

I have a wonderful boyfriend who loves me (that dancer guy from last year - /high five!!  Yeah, all the drama blew over pretty quickly). 

Mark thinks he can get away with working at my place.

I'm making ends meet by doing editing and writing freelance under my own brand.  Editing has always been my dream job, but I honestly never thought of getting paid to do something I love so much until now.  It's a weird feeling, that work doesn't have to be "work". 

My website, if you need an editor.

I'm still applying for jobs with benefits, but only the ones I really want.  I'm also still doing temp work, but those are also contracts that have more relevance to what I want to be doing.

Got a haircut for the new job and all.

So overall, I feel good.  I'm winning on my work-in-progress.

Don't say you love me

I don't need you to tell me that I'm courageous and beautiful and strong.

I already know.

The trouble was that you didn't want me whole.  You said you loved me, but you only wanted the parts that fit.  You wanted someone to talk to, someone to listen, someone to meet the needs your other relationship didn't.

I told you from the beginning that I was tearing out a part of myself for the sake of this feeling, that I wouldn't be able to sustain it forever.  You said you could not change.  You didn't know how.

I did what you couldn't.

Last week I told you I was falling apart.  I couldn't do it anymore.  You asked me what I wanted, you offered to compromise for the first time.  So I told you.  Now you were torn.  You needed time to think.

This week I asked you, what is on your mind?  You stalled.  You offered ifs and whens and years-from-nows.  I asked again.  You can't make that sacrifice for me.  You offered ... a time limit.  Another kind of limited, not-real relationship.

I could have what I needed from you, for two months.  Maybe more.  No.

Now, later, after I've had some time, that is tempting.

But that would still be a suppression of my self.

I ended it.  But I let you see how that hurt me.  You wanted to stay in my life, as a friend, as something.  You told me I was wonderful.

I don't need to hear that from you.  I can do what you can't.  I make sacrifices and I give my whole heart when I love someone.

You can't make sacrifices.  You never wanted a whole heart.  You don't know what that kind of love is.  You can say it.  But it's just another expression of affection.  You might as well be saying "I think you're lovely and want to spend time with you".  There is more to love.

One day, I might find that.  It won't be with you.

Between Night and Day

We met years ago when he looked after me for a few days as I recovered from a heat stroke at a Summer event.  We bonded and went to a Celtic music concert.  Later, we kept in touch and spent time together at the next year's Summer event.  That Fall, when I was having suicidal thoughts, he was the one I reached out to, who talked me through some of it.  This past Summer, at the same event, we fell in love.  We spent as many evenings as possible walking through the forest and the tent city just to get some time to talk alone.  We went to the same concert we'd been two the past two years.  We said "see you soon" instead of "goodbye".

I live in Boston with my cat and my roommates.  He lives in St. Louis with his other girlfriend.  I made the decision to give this a shot.  Knowing the distance, knowing that I was putting my own needs as a monoamouros person on hold for the sake of exploring something I haven't felt this strongly in a long time.  I had decided before we started dating that I would never ask him to change.  I told him from the beginning that I didn't know how long I could stand to put my values, preferences, needs aside.  He said that he loved me, and hoped it would work out.  He said that he's flattered that I would be happy with just him, but that he doesn't even know how to not be poly.  It was a given that if he'd asked me to be poly for him, I would have washed my hands of the whole thing.  Somehow, I came to him instead, and chose to compromise myself.
We text frequently and send emails.  Phone calls are weekly at best.  When I ask him what he wants out of our relationship, he can't answer me.  He barely knows what he wants for his own future.  He is working on moving to Connecticut (separating from his other girlfriend for a few months, until she moves as well), but the moving day was postponed due to work - he must stay in St. Louis until at least the 24th of October.  He'd been planning for the 15th.

Maybe it doesn't seem like much time, but 1,192 miles makes every day a little longer.

When I returned home from the Summer event, I had decided to continue my single and dating lifestyle.  I was not happy about it.  But it seemed unfair to myself to be exclusive to him if he could not do so for me.  There were a few of the usual failed dates and sweet men who wanted more than the friendship I could give them.

Then I was nearly dropped during a lift-dip at blues.  My dance partner suggested we practice the move and I agreed.  We met the next evening at my apartment, and the same day every week after that to practice dance moves, talk about philosophy, and watch YouTube videos.

Much like this, except where we may have whacked some other dancers.
Fixed it in practice.

One of these dance nights, I was upset over a drawn-out argument with my boyfriend, and my dance partner brought dinner with him.  I told him everything over dinner.  He commiserated, and said that he was disappointed; he was planning to ask me for a date that night.
We practiced our dance steps after dinner and I walked him down to let him out of the garage with his bicycle.  He paused and hugged me, and asked me out anyway.  I asked him if he was sure.  He was also monoamorous, and Roman Catholic to my practicing Pagan.  He was sure.  We went on our first date that Friday.  The next day I dropped everything and asked him to come out hiking with me.  We spent the whole afternoon walking and getting lost in the autumn woods.

Dogtown in Gloucester, MA

That was two weeks ago.  I've been seeing my dance partner steadily since then.  He says that he loves me, but doesn't want to call it a relationship because of the other man in St. Louis.  He talks about what he wants for his future; either to be a writer and die at thirty-five of excessive art, or to have seven children he can raise Catholic.

I'm musical, but not that musical.

I don't think he realizes how terrifying that second scenario sounds in a week-old relationship.
To a Pagan Feminist, with dreams of her own career, her own business, her own creations,  it is a grab-the-cat-and-run-for-the-hills signal.

Before we started seeing each other romantically, he seemed fine with my religion.  He has shared that the idea of witchcraft makes him nervous; but he is very respectful of me.  Lately, such as when he talks about his life, his religion, his future, I get the feeling he doesn't see my religion as a real thing.  But it's only been a week, and I haven't had the chance to address it with him specifically.

There's that darn "expectation vs. reality" again...

I've always had my own plans.  I don't know if I'll ever find a real partner for life and love.  What I want is to pursue my own goals, develop a steady enough income and lifestyle that I can adopt an older child, and perhaps go through one or two pregnancies at most, if I do find that partner.  The adoption I will go through with, whether I become a single parent or not.  It's been something I have wanted to do for my whole life.

I do not want a partner who tells me that I am enough for him, yet pursues other women for love and sex.

I do not want to be a stay-at-home mom worn out by too many pregnancies, whose children are raised with rigid religious ideas.

One seems to want too much of me.  The other does not want enough of me.

These issues may clear up with more communication.  But I can't shake the feeling that staying with either of them would be untrue to myself.  I am more unhappy with two men than I ever was single.  I think it is better to feel lonely for being alone rather than to feel lonely because those you love cannot love all of you.

24. Invisibility

In 24 hours, I will be standing in front of the (most recent) love of my life. Normally, the distance separating us is equivalent to 2800 miles.

A lot of people like to exaggerate and say "He lives like 4,000 miles!" or "That's an 8 hour plane ride!"

2,800 is 2,800. And it's a five-hour plane ride, thank you.

The corrections don't make it easier. It's hard to build intimacy through text message, so I'm lucky we've known each other for some time, and one of his best friends is one of my best friends; someone who has never steered me wrong or introduced me to someone I didn't like.

I'm not sure this post has a point or a moral like they usually do. I try to find a way to inspire the 40-75 people who eventually read my posts, to tell all of you something reflective.

I feel like when I tell my family and friends I'm in love, the correct response (or unsurprising response) would be, "What else is new?"

I took the six months I said I would. I dated (women) like I said I would. Got to know myself. Started exploring pieces of myself I didn't know were there. Stretched and rolled and reached for something higher. Had one of my best girl friends move in. Watched a few of my favorite couples dissolve. Got smack in the middle of one of them (god rest our souls).

And while he's 2800 miles away, I'm still exploring. So I guess the long distance is not so bad, after all. Although I'd dearly love a firm end date.

One of the first things I did in therapy was let go of narrative fantasy as entirely as possible, finally recognizing all I reaped from it over the years were a handful of fruitless relationships and broken hearts. That said, I'm having trouble breaking back into my heart and having as many feelings of romance without them. It's not that they aren't there, it's just hard to feel like me.

I suppose it's a matter of letting go and letting him in. It takes a long time.

I can try. It's all anyone can ask of me.

A shout-out to my hero

I tell other people all the time about my friend, who's also my hero. I tell her too sometimes, though probably not enough.

This is a woman who got her degree, the degree I wished I'd gotten, and moved to NYC, the city that matches my heartbeat and makes me feel alive. She was living my dream, and I was so proud of her.

Then she realized that her shitty writing job wasn't cutting it, and quit to become a full time professional dog-walker and pet-sitter. I've never seen her so happy, healthy, and fulfilled.

She is a fearless, radiant example of everything I hope to be, and I consider myself truly blessed to have her in my life.

This is a woman who can make the mundane seem fantastical through a beautifully crafted Facebook status or blog post. Someone who takes the lemons hurled at her by life, and crushes them with her bare hands, conjuring up spices, herbs and vodka and turning them into the most badass cocktail known to humanity. It's called the Hilary. It's not for the faint of heart.

Even during what can only be described as a hellish month, her online presence makes me laugh - huge, loud belly laughs - through the tears and my furrowed brow of fear and concern.

Thank you for somehow managing to make each life you touch happier and lighter. I hate to end this on such a cheesy note, but let's imagine it's the most delicious baked camembert or sharp cheddar or something else exquisite: Thank you for being you.

Hilary, you are spectacular.

xoxo

When You've Failed: Dear You

Congratulations: You!
12:00-1:00 p.m.
Biggest Conference Room in the Office

The meeting invite stares at me from the corner of my desktop. I scowl at it. My lips twist and eyes narrow. I have thoroughly failed in my planning for this meeting, and I’ve known of my failure for months. I’ve pondered this meeting in my head, rolled my choices along the roof of my mouth, worried the cracks with my tongue.

My company has a wonderful women in business group that my mentor hosts, and one of my dearest work friends is the Treasurer of Dreams. Many moons ago we had a meeting where we wrote our future selves congratulatory notes for the spring about our achieved goals and stored them in a box on her desk. I had two: moving to Seattle, and getting engaged to Lennon.

Lennon and I broke up in November. I suffered a psychotic break after I didn’t get my “perfect fit” job late this winter.

The past year has been hard on me. I have the gray hairs to prove it. But I started seeing a therapist, dyed my hair pink, and focused on my present self instead of what I thought my future should be. The box I thought I could cram myself into was not a viable future. The one I’m looking at now might not be either, I won’t know until I’m there. I have to remember this for my meeting in 70 minutes.

My friends Allen and Charli have a quote on their wall by their workstations (he's a programmer, they're a poet): Fail faster. Make better mistakes.

It's a quote about working tech; we create innovation by failing. It applies to our creative and "normal" lives too. If you're never failing, you're not pushing.

This is my new letter from present me to present me. I hope you, dear reader, get something out of it too.

Dear You,

Embrace the failure. These failures mark your survival, another groove worn into your hull of mistaken navigation and unclear signs. You are still here, and you are still fighting. Your eyes are open now, and you’re starting to understand that what you don’t agree with, you don’t have to do forever. You get an exit plan.

Now you’ve made an exit plan, and taken the very first steps towards getting there. The difference between this one and the other ones? The new plan is organically achievable; it runs into your blood like spring breezes. It grows flowers from your fingertips.

I am proud of you, even on the days when we mark high distress and shame on our Moodscope cards. Our plan may fail, more dreams may be broken, the plate might yet fall from your hands and shatter on the kitchen floor. Remember that plates and cakes are replaceable, but you are not.

You always say you never need anyone to save you - now, you’re living it.

Congratulations on avoiding trains for another year.

Congratulations on finally understanding the love song of your city, and writing yourself into it. Of wearing into your life with patience instead of hammering it like that’s going to do something besides make it weaker.

You lived. You win.

Love,
You