Sweet Nothings

It was one of those days: things in life were wrong, and I was trying to pretend they weren’t and enjoy the fact that I had the day off and was hanging out with J.  Everything started okay–I slept in, didn’t wake up too hungover, went for a run, had a little snack and a coffee, showered, and then returned to J’s house where he was watching TV.  But as I sat there, trying desperately to be interested in Motorcycle racing and the baseball game, I couldn’t seem to focus, and I was beginning to feel frustrated.  I was a little hungry, and I wanted to know what we were doing for the night, but instead of saying this to J, I just sat there, growing more and more restless.  

I have a really hard time declaring the things that I want to others.  Mostly I feel that they are unimportant or annoying, and so I wait for the feeling to either pass or be alleviated by the other person or people.  But I couldn’t do it that night because my head was so full of questions and thoughts that it was ready to burst.  

I should back up.  I was in an eight-year dysfunctional relationship that didn’t end well, and for the past year, I’ve been trying, and to some extent succeeding, to figure out what the hell happened.  The only problem is that I’m scared to death to make the same mistakes over again with J, so I keep mute about a lot of things that others might speak up about.  Not surprisingly, I also did this with N, the ex.  How do I break this cycle?  I know I need to tell J what’s on my mind, even if it’s stupid or I feel self-conscious about it, but I’m so afraid that I’ll lose him if he sees the mania that is my mind.

N accused me of being crazy more than once, and I chose to believe him.  That’s why I stayed so long: if I was that crazy, how could I possibly leave him and face the world on my own?  But he only thought I was crazy because I was different than he was, responded differently to situations, and had my own thoughts and opinions.  Instead of just telling him to fuck off, I repressed all of this, and tried to be just like him until I hit breaking points–sometimes they were small, and we would just argue, but other times, I was suicidal–I felt like I had no control, that I was not important, and that I was just another pain in the ass in a world full of whiney people.  What I really needed was a hug, but when you act a little nuts, people tend to walk away.  There seem to be so few people who can look you in the eye, accept that you’re having a tough day, and just hold you for a second.

I don’t want to be crazy any more.  I don’t want to ever think about suicide again; it’s so stupid and pointless–we’re all here, and we all need to be making the best of it. I say this, but I know how that lack of control feels–there is nowhere to turn, and nothing seems to make it feel better.  But maybe it’s just because I don’t talk stuff through enough, and if I just trusted J enough, I could start free-associating things that popped into my mind and maybe even cry, and the release itself would feel better, and he’d probably even feel better, because he’s told me a million times that I can talk to him and that he wants to know what I think, etc.  

I have to do something else: I have to kick the editor out of my head–that little voice that tells me I’m stupid and insignificant, and yes, crazy.  Because if I was born into this world, if I’m supposed to live, and make it through the shit and joy of life, isn’t it my basic right to express myself, and not worry how someone else will react?  The worst that could happen is that I lose J, which would be really awful, but the best that could happen is that we get to know each other better, and develop a relationship that isn’t based on lies or compromises of self.  It still won’t be easy, but at least it will be real.  

I want to tell him all this, but it will probably take a some beer and a shot or two.  Some habits die hard.

I love that little ding my phone makes when I’m getting a text.  I feel important, loved, and excited to see what the messager will have to say.  But mostly, it’s the relief that I have been granted a response. I don’t know why I torture myself by sending texts–it’s almost always a bad idea, because even though I tell myself I won’t, I put my phone right next to me and wait, wait, wait, for the person to acknowledge me.  When they don’t within 3-5 minutes, I start imagining all the things they might be doing, trying to convince myself that they are not ignoring me, and that I shouldn’t have texter’s remorse.  

Each of my friends has their own texting styles, and I’ve come to understand who will respond when and how. My friend A is the most considerate, and always returns messages promptly and in detail.  M might take all day, and doesn’t like to leave the last message–when she’s done, she’s done.  My boss, E, uses all sorts of abbreviations; it took me a while to figure out LMAO, especially because I didn’t feel that the subject was a laughing matter.  

And then there is J.  I love him beyond X’s, O’s, and “I heart you’s” but he drives me crazy with his delayed one-word answers to pressing questions, such as “what’s going on for tonight?”, “Do you want me to pick up beer on my way there?”, and “Do you think you’ll be done with work soon?”  His sister has complained that he does the same thing to her, so I know I can’t take it personally, but I would love to be sent a random “thinking of you” type message every once in awhile.  I should be fair–he will do this at 3am, when I’m sleeping, and he’s drunk.  And being the silly girl that I am, I get all smiley when he does.  

And so, I only text J when absolutely necessary or when I am in an emotional state that can handle not receiving an answer.  This probably makes me seem like an unfeeling girlfriend, but it’s only for self-preservation that I do it.  

Despite the anxiety it causes, I love texting because I hate things such as eye-contact, confrontation, leaving voicemails, and awkward pauses over the phone.  It allows the anti-social to be social, and gives one the ability to edit herself before she speaks, which is a very, very good thing.

For my vacation–the first I’ve had in many years, besides the annual Christmas trek back to New England, I went to Lollapalooza in Chicago.  Lolla happens every year–it’s a huge music festival with over 100 bands and 75,000 people moving back and forth across Grant Park.  It was hot, sweaty, loud, and like nothing else I’ve ever done.

J and I went together–a pretty big risk for a couple who has only been together for a few months, but we had a great time.  Going to concerts with him is one of my favorite activities; we have a similar appreciation for music, although his goes so much deeper into theory and guitar-riff analysis, while mine is more the thrill of shirtless rock stars jumping around on stage and singing all their emotions to the crowd.  

We were both looking forward to Tool, a band that ranks high with my favorites, and who I’ve wanted to see for years.  So did about 60,000 other people.  We camped by the stage for a few hours, standing body-to-body with all the others in anticipation.  At one point, I felt so sick, I had to take a knee, which created space: no one wants the little girl to puke on their feet.  But it was worth it.  I could hardly believe my luck when Tool took the stage, and I had a perfect view of Maynard–my teenage crush, and a guy who still mesmerizes me with his voice every time he sings.  The crowd pushed, and we were so close to the mosh pit that security guards pulled scared girls out so they didn’t get trampled under all the boys’ adrenaline.  J kept himself planted behind me, making sure I could see without getting knocked over–my heart raced every time Adam Jones lit into his guitar and I anticipated another push.  You couldn’t help but feel alive beneath all the energy, and we were exhausted as we walked home with sore backs and legs.

We saw other shows too; I was surprised how much I enjoyed Depeche Mode–there is something to be said for the stage presence of a band.  $190 was a bargain for all the good entertainment, and I hope I’ll be able to go in future years.  Perhaps the best thing about all of this is that it isn’t something I would have done 5 years ago.  I would have been too busy, or too cheap, or too scared to give into elements I couldn’t control–weather, massive amounts of people, travel complications, etc.  But none of those things mattered to me last weekend.  Maybe it was because I was with J, who does not stress me out, but it was probably also that I’ve let go of so much in the past couple of years that I am now able to enjoy things that are inherently fun and expressive.  Seeing musicians in their element is awesome, especially if you can relate to enjoying something that much (which I do), and the feeling of being able to share your art with others, whether they understand exactly what you mean or not.

Last night I was at J’s Dad’s house for a little birthday get-together.  This was my second time meeting A and L, J’s Dad and his Dad’s wife, and I was feeling fine.  Everything had gone really well–J and I cooked dinner for everyone, we had drinks, dessert, and good conversation.  By the time the other guests had left, it was around 10:30, and I was tired, but everyone wanted to play a game of pool, so I didn’t contest.  It was J’s sister K and A on one team, and J and myself on the other.  I wished J would let me play with K–he gets competitive, and I’m not very good, and I just end up feeling bad when I inevitably miss all but the easiest shots.  Sure enough, I was totally off.  J kept trying to give me advice, which I don’t enjoy–I need to figure things out for myself, and I didn’t want to take everyone else’s time up while I was attempting to figure out this angular game while buzzed and fatigued, so I kept telling J no, and gently pushing him away.  It started out light-hearted, but as I became more frustrated, I was positive that it was visible on my face–I could no longer pretend that I really just wanted to go home.  

I felt terrible; here I was, spoiling a great day by making it uncomfortable for everyone as I let my self-control slip.  Maybe it wasn’t a big deal, but for some reason, these situations are really difficult for me, and I tend to fixate on them and have a hard time letting it go, as if people are so unforgiving that they will let a bit of slipped humanity ruin everything else they’ve come to know and like about me.  It’s insecurity, obviously, but I think it goes a little deeper, because it isn’t necessarily someone’s bad opinion about me–I can’t control if my personality is not in someone else’s taste; rather, it’s when I’ve done or said something that has inconvenienced someone else, or hampered their enjoyment of a situation–this is when I feel most awful.  I love J, and I don’t want to be his “problem,” and I certainly don’t want to give his family the impression that we fight a lot or get frustrated with each other, because we really don’t.  On the other hand, why must I be so hard on myself?  I don’t ever do what I do to myself to other people.  

One of the hardest things about being human is the inability to get outside our own heads for a moment.  I’m going on and on, telling this meaningless story because I think that I must be the only one who has ever felt this way.  Age and good friends have taught me that this isn’t true.  And yet, I can’t help thinking back to last night and a million other times and absolutely cringing, wishing I could have just held strong for a few more moments, or let J show me a shot and then smile at him across the pool table instead of avoiding him because of my embarrassment at being a failure, both at the game and as his girlfriend. 

I have two choices here: I can either spend all my time practicing my bank shot, or I can forgive myself, get over it, and try a little harder next time.  I’ll do the latter–it’s probably a much more useful life skill anyway.

It was more than 8 years ago now, but I can still replay the scene vividly in my head.  First it is me and Mom, sitting at the dining room table over a cup of morning coffee.  She looks at me, and says she has to go.  Yes, you do, I say, not really believing that she’s uttering the words, yet agreeing with them fully in both my words and mind.  20 years of marriage has done nothing for either my mother or my father, and it was time to give it up.  My sisters, K and S, must have sensed the unholy action occurring at the table and sat to join us.  Both were quiet, and only listened as I asked questions.  Where would Mom go?  What would she do?  What would we do?  She was going to stay in her parents’ other home, she would continue with work, we could do whatever we needed to.  

Dad had gone out for a run that morning, and when he returned, the look on his face told us he sensed it too.  I felt like Judas.  This was my family, and I had just advised my mother to begin to tear it apart.  But I was tired.  There was fighting of course, but it was more the sense that they just didn’t belong together, and I was sick of watching each of them try to reach out to the other and receive nothing in return, because neither had it to give.  

Dad started yelling and Mom started crying.  Tears fell from S’s eyes, and K gazed at some far-off object.  If you’d looked at my face, you’d have seen it screwed up with anger–not at Mom, or Dad, but at the lack of control I felt now, had always felt, and at the misery that had been in me for as long as I could remember; I wanted everyone else to feel it too.  

My brother was only 7 at the time, and the most indulged child of the four of us.  K, S, and I had been put in daycare at an early age while Mom worked, but T got all the attention he demanded.  It helped that he was the youngest and the only boy among us, and the resentment ran deep.  And yet, he too sensed the doom of the day, and got up from his Saturday morning cartoons to find his family in the dining room.  He wanted to know what was going on, and when my father answered that Mom and Dad were splitting, T started screaming.  He clung onto Dad, fear in his voice, yelling, “Don’t leave Dad! Don’t leave!”  Dad sobbed too, clutching T tightly, telling him he’d never leave him.  

It was at this moment that something twisted inside of me.  The two people I blamed most for my unhappiness were in front of me, tearing my heart out on the floor. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so disconnected from my family.  I wanted to be part of that hug– that reassurance, that promise that what was would still be, but somewhere along the way, I had revoked that right.  I wasn’t what Dad had wanted me to be–terrible at sports and generally bookish.  I spent most of my time in fear of him and clinging onto my mother, looking for her attention, which was mostly useless, since she was too busy looking for her own mother’s attention.  

I was a moody teenager, and caused many fights between my parents; oddly, Dad usually took my side, but Mom would persuade him to come down hard on me, and so I ended up hating them both.  Maybe this was why I didn’t feel much sadness that day; our family was already fractured, sitting down to dinner together only to eat quickly and leave the table before somebody ended up in tears because Dad yelled at her to quit eating so much rice.  

Still, hearing my brother scream cut deep.  I wanted to hold onto him too, and say I was sorry for every mean word I had ever said, and that I wished this wasn’t happening to him.  It’s strange how the same situation can affect two family members in such different ways, and yet, it’s so obvious.  T only knew that he wanted his mom and dad to live in the same house, as they always had, doting on him, making him pancakes for breakfast, tucking him in with 3 stories at night.  I, on the other hand, wanted two parents who would stop treating each other like shit, and a home that wasn’t filled with tension.  T and I were both wrong, because as he grew up, I’m sure he noticed that Mom and Dad were so different, and that the childhood fantasy was just that, while I didn’t realize the pain and confusion I would face after my parent’s split.  

If living with my parents together was hard, living with them apart was harder.  No, I didn’t want them to get back together, but between my dad’s neglected puppy-dog expressions and my mom’s distant stares and random fits of tears, I thought I was going to go insane.  I was 19, and my parents loved to use me as a sound board to bash the other one.   Somewhere in my delusional mind, I believed that all their faults were my problem, and that I had to make it better for them.  But anyone who has ever witnessed a relationship that ended knows that the two people are mostly irrational in their feelings toward the other, and that the blame-game is incessant.  I wanted to be loyal to both parents, but I found I was only constantly betraying each.  

It’s taken me a long time to detach myself, and honestly, it was only the other day that I realized that my parent’s marital problems had nothing to do with me at all, and that I could stop feeling bad for the things they had done.  T turned out to be fine too.  He’s a well-adjusted kid who deals with different sets of rules at Mom’s and Dad’s, but so do half of his peers.  Still, I will never forget that scream, if only in the hope that I don’t cause my kids that sort of pain.