“So you’re just over it? You sound fine. Philosophical, even.” Rachel sounded dubious – the first of my friends (those who do not read the blog) with whom I’d deigned to speak. I’d sent them email – let them know basically what happened since I’d told them about him before. Regrettable, that. Next time I do something blatantly stupid, it’d be good to keep it to myself.
So after several concerned emails and missed phone calls, I sighed and picked up the cell phone last night to tell the story and answer some questions.
It’s almost surreal, to be honest.
“It’s still hard.” I told her thoughtfully. “But… I don’t know. It wasn’t real – it’s hard to mourn – openly mourn – something that was basically imaginary at best and lies at worst. I was lucky, actually. I had all these feelings for him – well, for the man I thought he was – but we didn’t meet. I don’t really remember what his voice sounded like. Have no idea how he smells. If he’d rather hold hands or put his arm around me. There were no kisses, no sex, no waking up together. Only fantasy. And even that may not have been sincere.
“I don’t know. I did love him. But what is there to do?”
“I would have thought you’d be out of it for months.” She said. “You don’t just fall in love. You’re careful and hopeful and I know how much he mattered to you.”
“Rachel, it was bad. Beyond bad at first. I lost it – lost myself. All that existed was pain. Constant, overwhelming misery because I wasn’t good enough. I was stupid. And wrong. I couldn’t do anything but writhe in agony. So maybe the intensity of that week shortened the duration? I’m not sure. But I’m OK now.”
And I smiled into the silence as she fumed.
“Well, I hate him.” She finally offered.
“I know you do.” I soothed. “I would too if I were you. But it’s OK. I understand what happened – at least as much as I ever will. I’d rather believe he’s a guy who made bad choices than accept that I made a truly terrible mistake. That the man I thought I’d love forever was truly and completely cruel. So we emailed and I forgave him and we’re moving on.”
“You still talk?!”
“No.” I quickly responded. “Not anymore. Not at all. He doesn’t read my blog and I don’t read his. No email. I don’t even know his phone number, nor would I use it if I did. It’s done, but it didn’t end as badly as it could have.”
“I wish you hadn’t forgiven him. He didn’t deserve that. He should always think of you and feel guilty and bad. Why do you have to worry about people so much? Be so nice and try to make everything better? It should only be better for you!”
“It felt right to forgive him.” I said softly. “Like something I’d want to believe I could do. And who does deserve it?”
“The chance to be happy? Lots of people! Not him. But other people!” And I laughed at her passionate response. It actually helps me when other people are dramatic – I tend to seek balance, so I tend to look for the bright side when other people are sad. Am more stable when talking to someone who is emotional. Feel sorry for myself when other people are incredibly happy.
“I don’t know. I was thinking more of forgiveness though. We all screw up – sin against God or each other. I trust that there is enough goodness out there to forgive my errors. That people will seek my heart and note the possibility of love and forgive the possibility of selfishness or cruelty. I prayed about it and felt good about wrapping things up on a more positive note.”
“You’re amazing.”
“No.” I shook my head and smiled. “Not even a little. Not at all. I don’t think I forgave him for him – I did it for me. I need forgiveness and want to know that I can offer it even when desperately hurt. I needed to find a good part of myself after that week. I wanted to do something God might like. I don’t want to be bitter or angry or plotting revenge. I want to let go.”
“And have you? Already?”
The truth? Since I’ve revealed so much already? I dream about him. My subconscious absorbs the scary feelings and in the moments where I’m able to rest, those thoughts are allowed some freedom. So when I wake, I curl into a ball, cuddle my pillow covered its silky case close, and force the dreams back. Trust that the neurochemicals will make me forget as I’m supposed to do. I’m not ready, I insist. I can’t hurt anymore. It’s too much, too hard. I don’t want to go back to the bathroom floor, lose sight of myself, drown in misery again.
I’ve spent much of today in tears. Somehow talking to a friend – telling the story and facing how I’m doing – has brought those thoughts to the surface. And they refuse to fade without some acknowledgment.
It’s mostly words, I think. I dream of text – in the Gmail font. Little lines of letters spanning my vision. I read them eagerly – trying to take it all in quickly, before I can remember that none of it is real. I want the feelings, the hope. But I don’t want the inevitable hurt – the lies. I forgave him, I lecture sternly. I’m not angry! I understand! It just happened. Stop reading. Just turn away from the words. But I’m compelled to read them – confused as to what’s real and what I'll naively insist upon believing. But I can’t remember the content when I’m awake – what I learned, what I decided. Just the feelings - the generosity of love, the sparkling hope, the dreadful shame that I wanted to believe something that wasn't true.
Apparently that was far too subtle though. So my subconscious stopped screwing around.
So the night before last, I dreamed that I was home – in my parents’ house. They weren’t there, nor was Brother. There was a dog – though I can’t remember if it was our family pet or little Chienne. But I looked around, smiling over the old portraits of Brother and me that hang in the hallway. Dusting the trivets that hang in the kitchen – they came from Grandma’s house. I’ve always loved them – heavy, black twists of metal that somehow manage to look elegant and beautiful. So I was thinking about how pretty the house was – how the past integrates so effortlessly into the present. How it was a shame that I was all alone – that nobody was around to hear me tell the stories of where items came from. That my parents used the same microwave since they got married nearly 40 years ago. Preen over a picture of the Little One – she looks like us, you see, and we think she’s rather exquisite.
I smiled when there was a knock at the door. I had just been hoping someone would come. So I walked easily through the living room toward the door, feeling a vague sense of unease, but pushing it aside to welcome the visitor. I don’t remember who it was – time skipped ahead and I found myself standing in the dining room, behind the half-wall that separates it from the living room. There were too many people, I decided. Men. Too many men. They were making too much noise, taking up too much space. And they didn’t want to hear my stories – they weren’t paying attention to me at all. Just sitting on the furniture without removing their shoes. Looking for food in the kitchen without asking permission.
One of them came over to me, raised his eyebrows and stared. I stood silently. Nervous. Upset. And completely quiet. The man smiled and turned to another woman. I hadn’t noticed them come in, but there were a few other females standing in corners. They looked moderately fearful – some beautiful, some average. But none of them spoke. So I decided that it was OK to be quiet. Perhaps my instinct to allow whatever the men wanted was appropriate.
Eventually, the women – myself included – were led to bedrooms. Mine resembled the one I have in my house. A large suite, though the closet was located in a corner of the bedroom rather than off the bathroom as it is in reality. I was alone in the room without windows, though sunlight came in through the open door to the bathroom. There must be a window in there, I decided. My feeling was that the bedroom was located near the center of the house, and I closed my eyes, trying to hear what was happening outside.
I was worried about the other women. I didn’t want them to be hurt or scared or upset. I took several quick steps toward the door, but stopped. Too fearful to move any closer to the entrance to my rooms – I was temporarily safe and I didn’t want to compromise that. Wasn’t sure how I would help the other women even if I found them in need. And maybe they were OK, I tried to comfort myself. Perhaps they didn’t mind being told what to do. It was likely easier than fighting.
I stood there, staring at the door, for a long time. I remember thinking I should lock it – make some effort at keeping people out. I decided it wouldn’t stop the men – locking the door – and would probably only irritate them. I didn’t want to provoke their anger, so I pressed my fingertips to my lips and stood frozen with indecision.
Then I turned, walked toward the bed, lay down and tried to sleep. To escape the consciousness of this strange, fearful reality. And I did rest for a while, I think. A couple of hours, perhaps.
When I realized I was awake (though still dreaming), I didn’t think anyone had been in the room with me while I rested. They’d forgotten I was there, I decided, unsure if I was insulted or relieved. Maybe it was good to escape their attention. Because I wasn’t very pretty. Or capable. Strong. Smart. Adequate. But that was OK – perhaps being of below-average desirability would keep me safe.
Feeling secure, I decided I wanted to change clothes. It seemed like a bad idea – removing the cotton garments I had on to exchange them for different ones – but perhaps I was too cold or vulnerable in my current outfit. For whatever reason, and though I was nervous, I decided to walk to the clothing in the corner of the room. I took off my pants first, deciding that my t-shirt would be covering enough should someone decide to enter. But I removed that as well, and that weird dream thing happened – when I know I should be moving quickly, making decisions, avoiding danger, but time slows and I’m frozen in place. Unable to choose new clothes with which to cover myself, though I very much did not want to be naked.
I turned to see the door opening, and grasped for a shirt. I dropped to the floor, sitting and pulling my limbs close – my body curling into a ball as I tried to cover myself with my arms and the small bit of fabric. I looked pitifully up at the man who entered – feeling at once repulsed and attracted.
He was relatively nondescript. Thick hair – reddish brown – and a full, but well-trimmed beard. Not overly tall, facial features that were average. A button down shirt. He didn’t look at all sadistic, and not all that powerful. But given that he was standing – dressed and confident – and I was cowering – naked and confused – the dominance was unmistakable. He looked at me, his expression more blank than anything.
I looked toward the open door, afraid that someone would look in and see me. They’d think I was trying to entice this man – that I wanted him to want me. Wait. Did I?
He noticed my discomfort immediately and closed the door behind him. To protect me? Or to have privacy to damage me to a greater degree? I wrapped my arms tighter around myself and continued to stare at him.
“Are you changing clothes?” He finally asked, then shrugged when I didn’t respond. Just blinked up at him, wondering what his plans were for me. “You can get dressed. If you want.”
I reached for a large shirt, trying to cover my body with one arm and my drawn up legs. I looked away from him briefly, considering pulling it over my head but not wanting to expose myself completely in order to don the protective cotton fabric. I looked up at him again, wanting him to turn around, but unable to ask.
“Go ahead. You don’t have that much time.” He said lightly. He didn’t come closer – was standing about 10 feet away. He just watched me, no strong feelings in evidence. Mildly curious - that’s how I’d describe him. So I scolded myself for sitting there, nude, and quickly struggled into the shirt. Covered, I felt slightly better. So I stood, letting the shirt cover my thighs, and met his gaze again.
“There are rules.” He said, and I remember thinking that it was my house. Why was he able to make the rules? I should get help – call someone for help. Or ask them to leave – I’d never done that. I should tell him to go. Then at least I would have tried – said I didn’t want this. Been clear about my feelings and desires. I was scared. I didn’t want him there. But I still didn’t speak and realized I’d missed his recitation of the rules as I internally debated.
“You get 2 hours each day for sleeping.” He finished. “But I assume you were in here napping?” I nodded. “So that’s over. You’ll need to come out of this room now.”
I backed away, toward the bathroom. I didn’t want to leave my room. What if it was worse in the rest of the house? What if there were men worse than this one? What if the other women were being hurt? I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want to know – just wanted to be alone and safe in my room. To try to sleep again and hope that they were gone when I woke up.
“I’ll give you a couple minutes to get ready.” He sighed, and looked back at me as I crawled into bed, pulling the covers up and closing my eyes. I peeked at him through a squint and saw his face pull into a frown. He felt badly for me – that I understood. He appreciated my fear and confusion – I somehow felt he knew me better than I knew myself. He considered, in that moment before he opened the door again, letting me go. Coming back, offering his hand, lending me his strength and power, and setting me free. He knew I wouldn’t do it myself and the desire to protect someone weaker than himself was present.
In that moment, I hoped. I desperately wanted his help – I regretted that he was torn, but he wasn’t a bad person. In that moment, he wanted to be kind. Then, as though I was in his head – seeing his thoughts – he considered what I could do for him. Work, provide financially, clean, provide sex and perhaps children. Give emotional support if I ever decided to speak, or at least the illusion of power if I continued to cower in his presence. The sex I could see most vividly – He would enter the room at night and join me as I tried to sleep. There would be pleasure, I decided, but not love. And was it rape if I never said no? If I never said anything at all?
He left the room, closing the door softly behind him, deciding to take me later rather than help me now. And as I began to emerge from the dream - still half-asleep, I urged dream Katie to get help if she was afraid. Call someone – the phone was right beside the bed! Open the window in the bathroom – it wasn’t locked! Finish getting dressed, exit the room, and demand these men leave! Help yourself, I urged as I watched her try to sleep – wanting her to escape from this situation she had done nothing to prevent. Had she encouraged it? I couldn’t remember as I opened my eyes and looked around the room, rolled toward the edge of the bed, stood up and slipped into my pink robe.
I know this is hardly good – I’m obviously very afraid and confused and lacking any real trust. Does it mean the forgiveness I prayed over then offered isn’t valid? I don’t think so. I hope not. I’m not angry at him and I’m grateful for that.
Perhaps my forgiveness shouldn’t stop with him though. I might need to offer myself the same gift – pray for me, tell myself it was OK to love someone, to encourage bad behavior, to hide the truth from him – and perhaps even myself – until the situation had disintegrated to a point where I finally was honest on my blog. I’m terrified that I accepted feeling inadequate and sad for so long. That I opened the door. I think I’m angry at myself – bitterly angry that I screwed up so badly. If I’ve damaged my ability to trust men who might be interested in me, I did so willingly.
And my thought – even now – is that had I not pulled myself from the dream and out of bed, I would have let that man in my bedroom have anything he wanted. Would have followed the rules I hadn’t heard but would later learn, would have offered him everything that I was and had. That’s a bad realization for me. One that leaves me feeling scared, confused, ashamed and terribly vulnerable.
So, am I over it? Completely OK?
Not so much. But I think I eventually will be. But for now, I’ve simply pushed it into my subconscious. Where it escapes in disturbing dreams.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Painful accountability - The Plan: Month 1
I got distracted from my infatuation with The Plan, but I'm trying to get it back. So this is going to include a little progress and a lot of "um, not so much"-ness. If you're in need of non-academic reading (because that's what I typically provide), you could offer some sympathy to someone who is breaking my heart over a truly awful variation of my recent pain (which was only pseudo-awful in comparison). Or you could go the other direction and laugh shamefully over Mulgrew.
As for me? OK, let's evaluate.
Problem 1. Location
Progress 1. The weather grows cooler in my southern locale, so my misery has eased in that regard. I can open windows on some days and let the fresh breeze blow through the house. I miss the amount of daylight that summer brings, but I’ll gladly trade it for the cooler temperatures. Fall means there are cookies to bake and sweaters to wear. And winter - with actual 'I can see my breath!' cold. Ah...
Problem 2. Health
Progress 2. Ew, not good. The physical happened and I appear to be healthy. Physically, anyway. I like my doctor and look forward to talking with her again in a few weeks. As far as mental health goes, I believe I’m doing better. I’m not where I hope to be, but the idea of therapy remains strong, though still scary.
The walks have remained consistent – I go every morning, alternately dragging or chasing my canine companion. The aerobics haven’t fared nearly as well. My new goal is 4 nights a week. I think I needed something more specific to achieve.
The food goal remains undefined. After not eating at all, then eating only what was quite tasty and comforting, I need to ease into more fruits and vegetables and away from ‘pizza, hamburgers or Chinese?’ I’m staying vague here though – it’ll give me something to deal with in month 2.
Problem 3. God
Progress 3. Oh, dear. Another not so good one. This merits another post or two on its own, but in short? I’m doing the devotionals though my prayers are not strengthening at the pace I’d like. I feel like I’m phoning it in, trying to force the focus, but changing my heart isn’t all that easy.
One problem? When I think of a choice – everlasting peace and joy versus momentary pleasure – why do I stop to deliberate? I know God’s plan is far better than one I could devise. I realize I haven’t done such a good job at finding peace of happiness for myself. But I still want to try! I recoil when I keep reading that I need to surrender my thoughts to His control. Keep the hateful, lustful or otherwise bad thoughts away so that I can focus on Heaven. Ah, I can’t get into it. It freaks me out.
I bought The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis, at the used bookstore. I think it’s going to be an important book to read, so it’s on my list of things to do soon. I can’t decide whether to continue to attend my current church, in spite of the fact that I’m less than impressed by the new preacher, or if finding a new church is worth the time and energy. Darn Methodists and their rotating clergy. I liked my old pastor!
Problem 4. Professional
Progress 4.
Project M – I have a plan, need to copy and paste said plan into a grant application, ask some questions tomorrow, then submit said application to two different groups.
Project X – Got the money. We’re under review by one more group. Recruitment should begin by January. Except I need to fill out another form. I'll do that tomorrow. If I remember.
Project P – Absolutely no progress at all.
Project H – H is apparently for Hell. The new analysis I did yielded exactly the opposite of what I expected (though the trend wasn’t significant, thank goodness.) and I’m afraid of acting on the last idea I had because I don’t understand what’s going on with the data. I’m not sure what happened with the paper that I wanted authorship on, though I just sent a gentle inquiry. (It's been ignored for other pursuits, but only briefly, I'm told.) I am presenting this data at the upcoming workshop, so perhaps someone will advise something brilliant and I’ll pull off a paper in the end. Or not. We’ll see.
Project F – 1. Published! I’m even in PubMed! 2. Submitted revisions with no new news. 3. Submitted with high hopes but clenched muscles in anticipation of rejection.
Project B – coming along. Initial work is done and needs to be checked. Then I should ask for further instructions.
Problem 5. Social
Progress 5. I went to a single football game, got a minor sunburn on only one side of my face and was largely unimpressed by the bleacher seating. Are we animals? May we not use chairs with backs? Please? I think I’ve missed 3 games now, which leaves 2 left. I don’t even know when they are. I shall endeavor to make one more, which leaves me at 33%. Oh, well. We're not so talented, so I'm fine with it. I did look at animals and see a moderately decent (really - there are better out there) museum exhibit. Unnamed Friend helps me out.
I did the eHarmony thing – it’s how I know it’s been a month since The Plan was initiated since my membership runs out today. It was fine – I answered the closed-ended questions, then the open-ended, clicked the right buttons at the right times. There was one particularly charming man and I fluttered over him the tiniest bit – enough to assure me that the flirting instinct was alive but dormant. I’m glad it’s over, but I could see trying again when I’m more ready to deal with dating again. [I wrote this yesterday - per your wise advice, I wrote a casual email to Neil today and am fine with whatever happens next. I believe this is positive.]
As far as doing things by myself? Well, there was only room for me on the bathroom floor, so if you count that, check this one off the list.
Problem 6. Family
Progress 6. My parents are coming for over a week starting Thursday. Part of the problem is missing them, so having them here is sure to be helpful. In two ways, actually. First, I’ll get to have the love and attention I miss so dearly. Second, I’ll remember that a bit of distance isn’t always a bad thing. The noise and mess and constant talking – it’s going to get old, much as I eagerly anticipate it.
I talked to Brother the other day. I went for dinner at Cousin’s. I want to do much, much more, but as the holiday season approaches, I’ll get to spend time with them. I look forward to that.
Problem 7. Selfish
Progress 7. I am. It’s a bit shameful still, but I wasn’t doing so well for a little while, and things got pushed aside. It’s not completely my fault – it’s been terrible trying to schedule a meeting to pick up the tutoring materials. We’ve been trying and canceling all month. I’ll either find time when I return from my trip or start tutoring without the handy lesson plans – we can go over homework problems and talk if nothing else. Deadline for beginning? The week of October 23. Enough screwing around with that one. [I scheduled a meeting for next Wednesday. Cross your fingers.]
Overall? I survived. There were moments - many of them - that I just wanted to endure a particular day. I did that. But I hope to see much more "check! Did that!" next month. We'll see.
As for me? OK, let's evaluate.
Problem 1. Location
Progress 1. The weather grows cooler in my southern locale, so my misery has eased in that regard. I can open windows on some days and let the fresh breeze blow through the house. I miss the amount of daylight that summer brings, but I’ll gladly trade it for the cooler temperatures. Fall means there are cookies to bake and sweaters to wear. And winter - with actual 'I can see my breath!' cold. Ah...
Problem 2. Health
Progress 2. Ew, not good. The physical happened and I appear to be healthy. Physically, anyway. I like my doctor and look forward to talking with her again in a few weeks. As far as mental health goes, I believe I’m doing better. I’m not where I hope to be, but the idea of therapy remains strong, though still scary.
The walks have remained consistent – I go every morning, alternately dragging or chasing my canine companion. The aerobics haven’t fared nearly as well. My new goal is 4 nights a week. I think I needed something more specific to achieve.
The food goal remains undefined. After not eating at all, then eating only what was quite tasty and comforting, I need to ease into more fruits and vegetables and away from ‘pizza, hamburgers or Chinese?’ I’m staying vague here though – it’ll give me something to deal with in month 2.
Problem 3. God
Progress 3. Oh, dear. Another not so good one. This merits another post or two on its own, but in short? I’m doing the devotionals though my prayers are not strengthening at the pace I’d like. I feel like I’m phoning it in, trying to force the focus, but changing my heart isn’t all that easy.
One problem? When I think of a choice – everlasting peace and joy versus momentary pleasure – why do I stop to deliberate? I know God’s plan is far better than one I could devise. I realize I haven’t done such a good job at finding peace of happiness for myself. But I still want to try! I recoil when I keep reading that I need to surrender my thoughts to His control. Keep the hateful, lustful or otherwise bad thoughts away so that I can focus on Heaven. Ah, I can’t get into it. It freaks me out.
I bought The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis, at the used bookstore. I think it’s going to be an important book to read, so it’s on my list of things to do soon. I can’t decide whether to continue to attend my current church, in spite of the fact that I’m less than impressed by the new preacher, or if finding a new church is worth the time and energy. Darn Methodists and their rotating clergy. I liked my old pastor!
Problem 4. Professional
Progress 4.
Project M – I have a plan, need to copy and paste said plan into a grant application, ask some questions tomorrow, then submit said application to two different groups.
Project X – Got the money. We’re under review by one more group. Recruitment should begin by January. Except I need to fill out another form. I'll do that tomorrow. If I remember.
Project P – Absolutely no progress at all.
Project H – H is apparently for Hell. The new analysis I did yielded exactly the opposite of what I expected (though the trend wasn’t significant, thank goodness.) and I’m afraid of acting on the last idea I had because I don’t understand what’s going on with the data. I’m not sure what happened with the paper that I wanted authorship on, though I just sent a gentle inquiry. (It's been ignored for other pursuits, but only briefly, I'm told.) I am presenting this data at the upcoming workshop, so perhaps someone will advise something brilliant and I’ll pull off a paper in the end. Or not. We’ll see.
Project F – 1. Published! I’m even in PubMed! 2. Submitted revisions with no new news. 3. Submitted with high hopes but clenched muscles in anticipation of rejection.
Project B – coming along. Initial work is done and needs to be checked. Then I should ask for further instructions.
Problem 5. Social
Progress 5. I went to a single football game, got a minor sunburn on only one side of my face and was largely unimpressed by the bleacher seating. Are we animals? May we not use chairs with backs? Please? I think I’ve missed 3 games now, which leaves 2 left. I don’t even know when they are. I shall endeavor to make one more, which leaves me at 33%. Oh, well. We're not so talented, so I'm fine with it. I did look at animals and see a moderately decent (really - there are better out there) museum exhibit. Unnamed Friend helps me out.
I did the eHarmony thing – it’s how I know it’s been a month since The Plan was initiated since my membership runs out today. It was fine – I answered the closed-ended questions, then the open-ended, clicked the right buttons at the right times. There was one particularly charming man and I fluttered over him the tiniest bit – enough to assure me that the flirting instinct was alive but dormant. I’m glad it’s over, but I could see trying again when I’m more ready to deal with dating again. [I wrote this yesterday - per your wise advice, I wrote a casual email to Neil today and am fine with whatever happens next. I believe this is positive.]
As far as doing things by myself? Well, there was only room for me on the bathroom floor, so if you count that, check this one off the list.
Problem 6. Family
Progress 6. My parents are coming for over a week starting Thursday. Part of the problem is missing them, so having them here is sure to be helpful. In two ways, actually. First, I’ll get to have the love and attention I miss so dearly. Second, I’ll remember that a bit of distance isn’t always a bad thing. The noise and mess and constant talking – it’s going to get old, much as I eagerly anticipate it.
I talked to Brother the other day. I went for dinner at Cousin’s. I want to do much, much more, but as the holiday season approaches, I’ll get to spend time with them. I look forward to that.
Problem 7. Selfish
Progress 7. I am. It’s a bit shameful still, but I wasn’t doing so well for a little while, and things got pushed aside. It’s not completely my fault – it’s been terrible trying to schedule a meeting to pick up the tutoring materials. We’ve been trying and canceling all month. I’ll either find time when I return from my trip or start tutoring without the handy lesson plans – we can go over homework problems and talk if nothing else. Deadline for beginning? The week of October 23. Enough screwing around with that one. [I scheduled a meeting for next Wednesday. Cross your fingers.]
Overall? I survived. There were moments - many of them - that I just wanted to endure a particular day. I did that. But I hope to see much more "check! Did that!" next month. We'll see.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Stupid Transitional Relationships
If you want to irritate me, mention transitional relationships. I’ve had multiple discussions with several people and there are varied opinions. So the hatred toward the concept is not mine alone. But you’ll notice I said I don’t like the idea, not that I don’t believe in it.
The premise, basically, is as follows: Let’s say there’s a woman – we’ll call her Emily. Now we like Emily, though she is hypothetical. She’s smart, funny, very sweet and completely in love with her husband. As time passes, the relationship changes. Perhaps she grows a little bored. Maybe he’s not very attentive. They might fight more than either of them expected. For many reasons, many of which have nothing to do with him, she’s unhappy. So she ends the relationship – whether by cheating and having him discover her betrayal, suggesting a separation that eases into divorce, becoming impossible to live with so that he leaves her – and her husband (um, let’s say his name is Joe) is devastated. He didn’t expect his marriage to fail and it throws his entire worldview into chaos.
I’m interested in the more innocent of the two parties, though it’s a gross oversimplification of the situation, I’m sure. So we’ll focus on poor Joe because he’s hurt and alone and struggling to escape his depression over this miserable turn of events. Maybe Joe spends some time on the bathroom floor. Goes to therapy to try to understand where he went wrong. Wants badly to avoid future pain of this sort. Is trying to move on.
Transitional relationships enter the picture here. The theory I’ve heard is that it’s necessary to find a person who is by definition temporary. Someone who will nurse Joe back to relationship-y health – make him feel sexy, confident, strong and very loved. Joe would treat this person badly – though likely not right away – as he works through his anger and confusion over his own hurt feelings. He’ll know on some level that this new person doesn’t deserve anything negative – she only wants to love and help him – but he’ll be unable to help himself. He’ll use her, hurt her, then have to move on with deep regret because he’s not a bad guy. He’s just having a bad time.
Proponents of this theory indicate it is vital once hurt feelings reach a certain threshold. When marriages dissolve, for example. If a breakup is particularly devastating for one of the participants. The pain has to go somewhere, so it will go to the transitional relationship. Or so it was explained to me.
“... I understand that when you speak of transitional relationships, you see them as something beautiful and real and lovely. I don't. I can't." I wrote to my friend. "I think it's selfish and awful and repugnant. I also understand that my thinking is painful to you and that bothers me. But this is going to be one of these points where I can't understand you and you can't understand me. Because I do, quite honestly and meaning absolutely no offense, see it as using someone to heal yourself. And that's something that I can't accept.”
I made her cry, I think. She was sad that I saw love as such a limiting experience, and didn’t appreciate that helping someone heal was a valid use of time and resources. And there were examples – oh, the anecdotal evidence that backed up this theory from any number of different people.
There was the couple who got married after Janet left Steve. Steve quickly met and married Mandy and they were quite happy for eight years, though he continued to confess his feelings for Janet to close friends. Janet got married at some point, and Steve and Mandy attended the ceremony. Steve abruptly divorced Mandy mere months later – he realized she wasn’t right for him if he retained such feeling for Janet. Mandy was miserably depressed. Steve quickly found someone else, married and is blissfully happy.
Rachel had an intense crush on Matt. He was seriously dating another girl, but encouraged Rachel’s attention to the point where they were quite serious as well. Rachel – aware of his girlfriend - was certain he’d leave said girlfriend in due time. He didn’t. Rachel – after clinging to email contact for months after graduation – met up with an old friend. He moved in within weeks, they married very quietly about a year later. She has contemplated not only divorce, but affairs. She’s just not happy with him.
Carrie and Aiden. Ross and Emily. Felicity and Noel. TV doesn’t lie, people.
“Eventually,” my friend advised, “transitional relationships fall apart. It’s just how they work. And if you're not careful, you will get hurt.”
I continue to reject the idea that this transition is necessary though. I prefer to think of them as a miserable option in the healing process. One that must be recognized and avoided, at least for me. I have no desire to pass the hurt around – send someone reeling from the knowledge that I didn’t care about him very much after all. I was just using him to work my way past pain that someone else had caused.
Why bring it up, especially when I abhor the very topic?
There’s a guy.
The eHarmony plan was put into play before things went terribly wrong here recently. I was in contact with a few different men, but it was mostly stilted and awkward – unimpressive. This could have been why I continued to cling to Peter. He was so good at the email – so easy and confident and right. I felt smart, funny and sexy when responding to him (well, sometimes. Others I felt needy and pathetic and miserable.) and I missed that.
Then there was Neil. Neil is quite cute, actually. My age, professional degree. Recently moved to the area. His profile was adorable – I smiled involuntarily several times after he initiated communication with me. We moved quickly through guided communication, then started to send email. But he scared me – I liked him much more than anyone else and knew – even a month ago – that I wasn’t in a place to start something. I was too confused and hurt and sad. This was just supposed to be a mild distraction.
So I sent an email in our first open communication. Said that he was very cute and I appreciated his interest, but his little short answer about flirting while dancing? Being dressed up and out at a club and moving together and knowing that things clicked? Ah, no. I don’t do that. I don’t even dance at weddings. So the mental picture of me, dressed up, in a dark, loud club, moving with some guy? Even a handsome one? I giggle. It’s just not me. I’m more the stay at home type, I explained. I like small groups, quiet rooms, coffee and conversation. Cooking dinner and cleaning the kitchen together. Reading books while snuggled under a blanket. So I wished him luck, predicted he’d find someone very quickly and prayed I’d start to move on eventually. Because the guy I wanted to do all those things with was not interested in playing his part.
But Neil wrote back – started with a “Dearest Katie” and ended with a “I really look forward to talking with you soon. Please don’t disappoint me.” And threw a bunch of text in the middle. Charming words about how he tended to make people feel comfortable – he thought he could get me to dance at some point, even if it was in the kitchen as we cleaned up after dinner. Talked about how he loved coffee, books, conversation, cuddling under blankets. People are multi-faceted and he hoped I wouldn’t judge him too harshly for liking to dance.
I allowed myself the flutter – I missed the tingle in my stomach so very much. So I wrote back, flirted shamelessly, and waited to hear back. I didn’t – not for over a week, I think. Then, well, stuff happened. Bad stuff. And I didn’t really think about Neil anymore.
My eHarmony membership runs out tomorrow. So today I checked one of my email accounts with the absolute expectation that someone would want my attention from the dating site. Because that’s how things like this work – I’m ready to get my hair cut, so it looks adorable every single day from the second I make the appointment. I want to quit online dating? I hear from the only guy who captured much of my attention.
“Neil…” I sighed as I clicked over to see what he said. “What are you doing to me?”
“Sorry for my delayed response.” He wrote. “[Insert grown-up excuse.]” And I was hooked. There’s something about confident men who are vaguely apologetic yet fully expect that they’re special enough that you’ll forgive them any lapse in polite behavior. He was busy with professional stuff. That’s fine – I was quite occupied with being crazy. I read his short note - he apologized for the lack of charm in the email, and promised to make it up to me. I smiled, shook my head and went for a walk. And found myself – not unusually – composing email in my head as I tugged Chienne around the neighborhood.
I came back, responded to some of his other topics, then wrote as honestly as I could manage without looking overly weird.
And a couple hours later, I got his reply. He empathized with my exhaustion and frustration. But he was intrigued with me, very much wished he could get to know me better. So perhaps if I made it through my mountain of paperwork and back to my keyboard, I’d consider sending him email at his personal account. If not, he’d understand. He’d very much enjoyed reading my email and “getting a glimpse of this mystery woman I might never meet.”
Is he – in a typical, male move with which I’m very familiar – just chasing because I keep backing away? Is it wrong to flutter over him a little? Send email from my personal account and offer up my name?
It just feels so good – so validating – to have someone interested in me. Even in a very casual way. He seems good – charming and sweet. And I would very much like for someone like that to genuinely like me. Even if we never make it out of email. Just to soothe my poor heart. Give my mind another man to think about when I need a break from work. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I could think about Neil – a possibility – rather than squeezing my eyes closed because thinking about love – or the lack thereof – aches.
After all, I would never have a transitional relationship for my own benefit, right? Because that would just be wrong. Very, very tempting. But wrong.
Right?
The premise, basically, is as follows: Let’s say there’s a woman – we’ll call her Emily. Now we like Emily, though she is hypothetical. She’s smart, funny, very sweet and completely in love with her husband. As time passes, the relationship changes. Perhaps she grows a little bored. Maybe he’s not very attentive. They might fight more than either of them expected. For many reasons, many of which have nothing to do with him, she’s unhappy. So she ends the relationship – whether by cheating and having him discover her betrayal, suggesting a separation that eases into divorce, becoming impossible to live with so that he leaves her – and her husband (um, let’s say his name is Joe) is devastated. He didn’t expect his marriage to fail and it throws his entire worldview into chaos.
I’m interested in the more innocent of the two parties, though it’s a gross oversimplification of the situation, I’m sure. So we’ll focus on poor Joe because he’s hurt and alone and struggling to escape his depression over this miserable turn of events. Maybe Joe spends some time on the bathroom floor. Goes to therapy to try to understand where he went wrong. Wants badly to avoid future pain of this sort. Is trying to move on.
Transitional relationships enter the picture here. The theory I’ve heard is that it’s necessary to find a person who is by definition temporary. Someone who will nurse Joe back to relationship-y health – make him feel sexy, confident, strong and very loved. Joe would treat this person badly – though likely not right away – as he works through his anger and confusion over his own hurt feelings. He’ll know on some level that this new person doesn’t deserve anything negative – she only wants to love and help him – but he’ll be unable to help himself. He’ll use her, hurt her, then have to move on with deep regret because he’s not a bad guy. He’s just having a bad time.
Proponents of this theory indicate it is vital once hurt feelings reach a certain threshold. When marriages dissolve, for example. If a breakup is particularly devastating for one of the participants. The pain has to go somewhere, so it will go to the transitional relationship. Or so it was explained to me.
“... I understand that when you speak of transitional relationships, you see them as something beautiful and real and lovely. I don't. I can't." I wrote to my friend. "I think it's selfish and awful and repugnant. I also understand that my thinking is painful to you and that bothers me. But this is going to be one of these points where I can't understand you and you can't understand me. Because I do, quite honestly and meaning absolutely no offense, see it as using someone to heal yourself. And that's something that I can't accept.”
I made her cry, I think. She was sad that I saw love as such a limiting experience, and didn’t appreciate that helping someone heal was a valid use of time and resources. And there were examples – oh, the anecdotal evidence that backed up this theory from any number of different people.
There was the couple who got married after Janet left Steve. Steve quickly met and married Mandy and they were quite happy for eight years, though he continued to confess his feelings for Janet to close friends. Janet got married at some point, and Steve and Mandy attended the ceremony. Steve abruptly divorced Mandy mere months later – he realized she wasn’t right for him if he retained such feeling for Janet. Mandy was miserably depressed. Steve quickly found someone else, married and is blissfully happy.
Rachel had an intense crush on Matt. He was seriously dating another girl, but encouraged Rachel’s attention to the point where they were quite serious as well. Rachel – aware of his girlfriend - was certain he’d leave said girlfriend in due time. He didn’t. Rachel – after clinging to email contact for months after graduation – met up with an old friend. He moved in within weeks, they married very quietly about a year later. She has contemplated not only divorce, but affairs. She’s just not happy with him.
Carrie and Aiden. Ross and Emily. Felicity and Noel. TV doesn’t lie, people.
“Eventually,” my friend advised, “transitional relationships fall apart. It’s just how they work. And if you're not careful, you will get hurt.”
I continue to reject the idea that this transition is necessary though. I prefer to think of them as a miserable option in the healing process. One that must be recognized and avoided, at least for me. I have no desire to pass the hurt around – send someone reeling from the knowledge that I didn’t care about him very much after all. I was just using him to work my way past pain that someone else had caused.
Why bring it up, especially when I abhor the very topic?
There’s a guy.
The eHarmony plan was put into play before things went terribly wrong here recently. I was in contact with a few different men, but it was mostly stilted and awkward – unimpressive. This could have been why I continued to cling to Peter. He was so good at the email – so easy and confident and right. I felt smart, funny and sexy when responding to him (well, sometimes. Others I felt needy and pathetic and miserable.) and I missed that.
Then there was Neil. Neil is quite cute, actually. My age, professional degree. Recently moved to the area. His profile was adorable – I smiled involuntarily several times after he initiated communication with me. We moved quickly through guided communication, then started to send email. But he scared me – I liked him much more than anyone else and knew – even a month ago – that I wasn’t in a place to start something. I was too confused and hurt and sad. This was just supposed to be a mild distraction.
So I sent an email in our first open communication. Said that he was very cute and I appreciated his interest, but his little short answer about flirting while dancing? Being dressed up and out at a club and moving together and knowing that things clicked? Ah, no. I don’t do that. I don’t even dance at weddings. So the mental picture of me, dressed up, in a dark, loud club, moving with some guy? Even a handsome one? I giggle. It’s just not me. I’m more the stay at home type, I explained. I like small groups, quiet rooms, coffee and conversation. Cooking dinner and cleaning the kitchen together. Reading books while snuggled under a blanket. So I wished him luck, predicted he’d find someone very quickly and prayed I’d start to move on eventually. Because the guy I wanted to do all those things with was not interested in playing his part.
But Neil wrote back – started with a “Dearest Katie” and ended with a “I really look forward to talking with you soon. Please don’t disappoint me.” And threw a bunch of text in the middle. Charming words about how he tended to make people feel comfortable – he thought he could get me to dance at some point, even if it was in the kitchen as we cleaned up after dinner. Talked about how he loved coffee, books, conversation, cuddling under blankets. People are multi-faceted and he hoped I wouldn’t judge him too harshly for liking to dance.
I allowed myself the flutter – I missed the tingle in my stomach so very much. So I wrote back, flirted shamelessly, and waited to hear back. I didn’t – not for over a week, I think. Then, well, stuff happened. Bad stuff. And I didn’t really think about Neil anymore.
My eHarmony membership runs out tomorrow. So today I checked one of my email accounts with the absolute expectation that someone would want my attention from the dating site. Because that’s how things like this work – I’m ready to get my hair cut, so it looks adorable every single day from the second I make the appointment. I want to quit online dating? I hear from the only guy who captured much of my attention.
“Neil…” I sighed as I clicked over to see what he said. “What are you doing to me?”
“Sorry for my delayed response.” He wrote. “[Insert grown-up excuse.]” And I was hooked. There’s something about confident men who are vaguely apologetic yet fully expect that they’re special enough that you’ll forgive them any lapse in polite behavior. He was busy with professional stuff. That’s fine – I was quite occupied with being crazy. I read his short note - he apologized for the lack of charm in the email, and promised to make it up to me. I smiled, shook my head and went for a walk. And found myself – not unusually – composing email in my head as I tugged Chienne around the neighborhood.
I came back, responded to some of his other topics, then wrote as honestly as I could manage without looking overly weird.
Do you mind if I ask you something? Or maybe I just want to talk through something. Does dating ever make you tired? It's just... not miserable - I find it entertaining and funny for the most part, and it's kind of a rush to go through the nervous/exciting parts. And being serious with someone - from what I remember - is really nice. But there's so much stilted awkwardness with some men. And I try to guess at motives and what men are looking for - I even wonder what I'm trying to gain here sometimes. I read emails that are misspelled and lack capital letters (not sexy). Or go on dates where I listen to monologues or try to figure out what the hell D&D means or look at someone who's bright and charming but realize he's not all that attracted to me. In all honesty, my average is about 50/40/10 (I don't like him/he doesn't like me/there's mutual like or dislike). Which isn't the greatest average, right? So going out with friends or visiting my cousin and her family for dinner or having a glass of wine and writing Matlab code for work starts to sound more appealing than answering short answer questions and reading personality profiles.[The links were added for you guys. I did not direct the poor guy to my blog.]
The point of the whining is that my month of eHarmony is up - tomorrow, I think. And - sporadic email from cute, charming men notwithstanding, of course - the thought of another month makes me sigh. Not a good sign, right? As tempting as it is to find out how you'd make it up to me (though the charm still comes through, my dear. You're good at what you do.), I think I'm sticking with my plan to not renew at the moment. Which means I think you'll have to contain your extreme disappointment at not getting to know me better. Sad day for you, I'm sure. :)
I'm not sure if I'm glad you replied to my reply or not, Neil. It was good to hear from you, but I had to go through my 'look for someone else and good luck with that' speech again. I really am tired though - with manuscript revisions needing to be submitted and upcoming travel for work and my parents are arriving late this week to stay for 7 days or so (they watch my dog when I'm out of town) - I find myself looking away from my pile of paperwork and toward my couch, longing for a quick nap. So, again, congratulations. I'm happy for you. And I very much hope you don't get tired yourself before finding someone wonderful.
Katie
And a couple hours later, I got his reply. He empathized with my exhaustion and frustration. But he was intrigued with me, very much wished he could get to know me better. So perhaps if I made it through my mountain of paperwork and back to my keyboard, I’d consider sending him email at his personal account. If not, he’d understand. He’d very much enjoyed reading my email and “getting a glimpse of this mystery woman I might never meet.”
Is he – in a typical, male move with which I’m very familiar – just chasing because I keep backing away? Is it wrong to flutter over him a little? Send email from my personal account and offer up my name?
It just feels so good – so validating – to have someone interested in me. Even in a very casual way. He seems good – charming and sweet. And I would very much like for someone like that to genuinely like me. Even if we never make it out of email. Just to soothe my poor heart. Give my mind another man to think about when I need a break from work. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I could think about Neil – a possibility – rather than squeezing my eyes closed because thinking about love – or the lack thereof – aches.
After all, I would never have a transitional relationship for my own benefit, right? Because that would just be wrong. Very, very tempting. But wrong.
Right?
Monday, October 09, 2006
Random - swearing, Sprout, submitting, and Celexa
Stupid, sucky situation
I was halfway done with a post when I got a phone call detailing a situation I found really upsetting. On the big, the-academic-world-rather-sucks level. But providing details would not only be inappropriate, but would involve more water animals than even I know and love. But there was much profanity (from me) and some disagreement on what was right and I’m all irritated now. I see myself on a playground, watching everyone playing inappropriately, then stomping off, folding my arms and pouting while I tell the teacher supervising recess that “I’m not playing anymore! People are mean! And stupid. So there.”
Poor, little Sprout
In other news, and in the absence of focus to complete the post I started, Sprout is soon going to be without food and water in preparation for his procedure tomorrow. So off to the vet he will go, because animals in my family aren’t allowed to reproduce. I’m worried about him, which actually reassures me. I do fret about creatures I love, so the pretty kitty has worked his way into my heart. Oh, and Chienne has figured out where to lie in wait where the cat can’t see her from his normal “check the hallway before deciding to hide” position. She almost got him today – sneaky dog.
Submit! Just approve and submit!
My paper is coming along – I’m going to try to read it (really, really try) one more time before that euphoric moment when I press the approve and submit button. It’s pretty good – I’m hopeful. Pride goeth before the fall though, so we’ll have to see what they think of my pretty revisions.
And Celexa
Oh, the pills. It should come as no surprise that I very much want to take them now. Not only out of fear of what I was when the depression got particularly overwhelming, but because I take to habits quite easily. I was out one night and realized I was really antsy to get home. As I started to say my goodbyes earlier than I had planned, I realized I normally took Celexa around 9PM. Once it gets later than that, I become preoccupied about having access to my tiny prescription bottle. While I know missing a day wouldn’t be that big a deal – and waiting a few hours is completely fine – I have a pretty strong attachment to swallowing that little pill. Trusting that it will provide some stability and allow me to continue to improve.
I’m uncomfortable with the degree I like taking it, though I know I needed it and it was a good idea to start the medication. I haven’t had a migraine since starting, which is a delightful benefit. Nor have I suffered even mild side effects (of which I’m aware, anyway). I don’t feel flat – I just got quite passionate about a situation which affects me in no way whatsoever. I still feel sad sometimes, but it’s not the hopeless despair that so alarmed me before. I don’t hang out on my bathroom floor. I’m sleeping better, though it’s still not great. (When people ask me what I’d ask if given three wishes, the ability to sleep well is always one of them. Selfish? Of course. I don’t care. I would be a much better person if I could get some rest with some regularity and ease.)
The point – and I bring it up because I had a great deal of illogical resistance to taking anything – is that I’m glad I started. I needed the help and it gave me comfort to know I was trying something to improve. I am perhaps overly fond of that comfort and hope that eventually I’m less attached to having access to the medication.
I think that’s all I can write. I’m getting sleepy and the goal really is to submit the paper this evening. It’s not good to do that without a final reading, so I need to go through the paper one last (tired) time.
I was halfway done with a post when I got a phone call detailing a situation I found really upsetting. On the big, the-academic-world-rather-sucks level. But providing details would not only be inappropriate, but would involve more water animals than even I know and love. But there was much profanity (from me) and some disagreement on what was right and I’m all irritated now. I see myself on a playground, watching everyone playing inappropriately, then stomping off, folding my arms and pouting while I tell the teacher supervising recess that “I’m not playing anymore! People are mean! And stupid. So there.”
Poor, little Sprout
In other news, and in the absence of focus to complete the post I started, Sprout is soon going to be without food and water in preparation for his procedure tomorrow. So off to the vet he will go, because animals in my family aren’t allowed to reproduce. I’m worried about him, which actually reassures me. I do fret about creatures I love, so the pretty kitty has worked his way into my heart. Oh, and Chienne has figured out where to lie in wait where the cat can’t see her from his normal “check the hallway before deciding to hide” position. She almost got him today – sneaky dog.
Submit! Just approve and submit!
My paper is coming along – I’m going to try to read it (really, really try) one more time before that euphoric moment when I press the approve and submit button. It’s pretty good – I’m hopeful. Pride goeth before the fall though, so we’ll have to see what they think of my pretty revisions.
And Celexa
Oh, the pills. It should come as no surprise that I very much want to take them now. Not only out of fear of what I was when the depression got particularly overwhelming, but because I take to habits quite easily. I was out one night and realized I was really antsy to get home. As I started to say my goodbyes earlier than I had planned, I realized I normally took Celexa around 9PM. Once it gets later than that, I become preoccupied about having access to my tiny prescription bottle. While I know missing a day wouldn’t be that big a deal – and waiting a few hours is completely fine – I have a pretty strong attachment to swallowing that little pill. Trusting that it will provide some stability and allow me to continue to improve.
I’m uncomfortable with the degree I like taking it, though I know I needed it and it was a good idea to start the medication. I haven’t had a migraine since starting, which is a delightful benefit. Nor have I suffered even mild side effects (of which I’m aware, anyway). I don’t feel flat – I just got quite passionate about a situation which affects me in no way whatsoever. I still feel sad sometimes, but it’s not the hopeless despair that so alarmed me before. I don’t hang out on my bathroom floor. I’m sleeping better, though it’s still not great. (When people ask me what I’d ask if given three wishes, the ability to sleep well is always one of them. Selfish? Of course. I don’t care. I would be a much better person if I could get some rest with some regularity and ease.)
The point – and I bring it up because I had a great deal of illogical resistance to taking anything – is that I’m glad I started. I needed the help and it gave me comfort to know I was trying something to improve. I am perhaps overly fond of that comfort and hope that eventually I’m less attached to having access to the medication.
I think that’s all I can write. I’m getting sleepy and the goal really is to submit the paper this evening. It’s not good to do that without a final reading, so I need to go through the paper one last (tired) time.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Lessons Left Unlearned
I was looking for jobs in Spring, 2005. We happen to have a large conference when the weather begins to warm, so there are few better opportunities to network, read job boards, and begin initial conversations with people who should definitely want to hire me.
I tracked down one such individual, not completely focused on finding a job, but rather on getting a question answered so I could finish the last section of my dissertation. His papers using a particular technique in a disease state that was semi-related to my own were vital to defining some of my validation project. Except I couldn’t get the validation to work. At all. Armed with a carefully worded question and lists of solutions tried and failed, I approached Mike timidly and waited for his conversation when an older scientist to end.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” I began when he glanced over at me and smiled. “I actually have a quick question for you when you're finished.”
“We’re just catching up.” He said with a quick shake of his head that matched the insane speed of his speech. “I always have time for questions.”
So we volleyed back and forth for a couple minutes, alternating questions and answers and ideas. He finally smiled, admitted he knew what my problem was, but they hadn’t finished the paper yet. Leaning closer to confide the secret, he told me exactly how to fix the very issue I faced. It worked perfectly, and I was pleased that I had been polite yet prepared enough to get what information I needed.
“We got scooped before.” He said on a sigh as we started to walk away from the session room to head toward coffee. “Did you read Jones? In Journal 1?”
“Oh.” I said, smiling sympathetically. “With the different distance algorithm? I did read it. Good idea.”
“It is a good idea. We had it too, but we didn’t jump on it fast enough. Damn it all.” But he shrugged good-naturedly. It happens. “You know what else you should read? With your specific interest? Smith – Journal 2.”
“From last month? I saw that! Their specificity was insane – nearly 100%, right? But that dataset is nearly impossible to get. Do you think it’d work if I acquired at a different time point?”
And I basked in how impressed he looked. I knew the literature! I had a good discussion where not once did I have to say, “I haven’t seen that. I’ll have to do some reading and check back with you. Thanks for the tip.” Instead I had searched, printed and carefully read. Understood and memorized facts, authors and journals so when someone asked a question – whether in a meeting with a committee member or in an interview or in a random discussion at a conference – I knew the answer. Not just from my work, but from major contributors to the field.
In that moment, I realized that keeping up with reading was vital. My impression of my particular field is that many ideas are out there already – they just need to be found and applied. So I try to attend seminars across disciplines, collaborate in disparate areas of interest, listen when people talk because I can’t predict when your knowledge will magically apply to my problem. But the major lesson? Read. Keep up with lit searches, don’t get buried in old stacks of papers, make sure I'm at least vaguely familiar with what’s going on so I can keep moving forward in knowledge if not original work.
So I do read. Blogs, mostly. What you guys think and feel and worry over. And it helps me figure some things out personally. And my writing has developed appropriately (though it’s hit or miss) in terms of articulating emotions, being honest about who I am and who I hope to be. I’ve learned a lot writing this blog – will likely continue to do so.
But professional reading? Not so much. In fact, rarely do I even search to see what’s up. Read tables of contents to see what I’m missing. Unless I have a very specific problem or am writing an abstract or polishing one of my years-old papers, I’m not doing the reading. I’m bringing out excuses and thanking people for citations because I can’t do much discussing. I probably haven’t read whatever it is you’re talking about. Which sucks. I learned this already! But as I went through a stack of papers today (slowly. Painfully slowly. With breaks for TV and a nap and much moaning about how hard it is to read technical papers), I realized that the valuable lesson on keeping on top of the most relevant literature had been lost on me.*
I don’t want to write this next part because it’s rather embarrassing. But, OK. On a more personal note, I was talking to Unnamed Friend as she frowned at me from my couch as I perched on my loveseat.
“I’m still trying to make it work in my mind.” I said.
“How so?”
“I still want it to be right. I want to figure out a way that it was OK that he lied. That he didn’t really care about me very much at all. That there’s a way that I wasn’t really wrong and that it can work out in the end.”
“Work out how?”
“I get to have him.” I said boldly, then ducked my head. “I know. I do. But it’s him or nobody. And I don’t want to end up alone. I’d rather have someone who’s not quite right. A part of something rather than nothing. Because there won’t be anyone else.”
I think she shook her head at me, not unkindly. Probably told me that there was someone else out there for me. I don’t believe her – I’m not capable of it right now. In my mind, it’s still him. I’m so used to hoping and thinking and wishing that it’s hard to stop in some moments.
I didn’t quickly get over Gabe – my undergrad crush that started something like 8 years ago. Though I dated extensively after he was gone, even had a relationship that was quite serious, I was always aware that nobody quite measured up to him. Was as smart, sensitive or sexy. Made me feel as much trembling hope that someone that amazing existed and if I could find him, perhaps I’d get to keep him. I still dreamed about him years later. Immediately broke up with a guy I’d dated for a couple months when Gabe sent a casual email after two years without contact. I wanted that – those feelings, the intensity – and I’d only found it with Gabe. It's not that I expected him to suddenly decide to leave his wife and move to be with me – it was never a consideration at all. But I couldn’t settle for someone who couldn’t inspire such passionate hope, and despaired that I’d grow old, still wishing for a young man I knew for a couple years in college.
I remember reading an alumni magazine in my current home within the past year or so – far after the time I felt any feelings for Gabe should have died – and closing my eyes against tears when I read he’d had a child. It was, for me, the final end. The time when any hope or fleeting fantasy became unforgivably inappropriate. I missed that though – the idea that maybe she was wrong for him, that perhaps I’d been right all along and had found my partner and not having him was just a mistake. Because the terror that I wouldn’t get to feel like that again, the pain that I’d had a sense of what could be but would never know the complete sensation – it was sad. Really lonely and achingly sad.
So it’s not like I’ve never felt my current feelings before. Thought that it was that guy and the loss of him was terribly hard, even when it was perfectly clear that things had to work out this way. The lesson – I think – is that when I gave myself over to the next love, the old one was gone. I’m happy for Gabe – remember thinking that I was so grateful that he found his wife so that I was open to meet this guy who was better for me. So much more of what I wanted. That had I ended up with Gabe, I’d have unwittingly settled for someone – something – that was less than the possible happiness I’d found from a man who read my blog.
But, well, that didn’t turn out so well. But the feelings for Gabe remain gone. There is greater happiness out there for me than he could have provided. I’m more without him than I would have been with him. And I know that I’ll eventually say the same of Peter. I am grateful that I know the truth – it’s forced the process of letting go. Anything valid that might have otherwise remained – hope or questions or fantasies of which I was so fond – has shattered. I wrinkle my nose over it sometimes – try to work some reasonable scenario around the facts I’ve accepted that indicates there’s still something over which to think. There isn’t. I know that.
But in moments where I close my eyes in sadness – feeling certain that there’s nobody out there who could be honest and still make me feel like that? I wonder if that’s really true. If this is just Gabe, redux. If the next man who comes along might be the right one – the one who makes me wish the other men very well, leaves me profoundly grateful that I waited for the man who was really right, and gives me the sense that there is a complete love – one that makes me feel safe, happy, part of something true, strong and enduring.
But.
I still want the last one to have worked. Still feel inadequate and pathetic when I think of the other women with whom he was involved. Wonder what I did wrong and my motivation for doing so – in choosing him, hanging on for so long, and not being enough to hold his interest. And though I know professional literature provides motivation, answers to vital questions, topics of conversation, I have fallen woefully behind.
There’s rarely an alternative to going on from here. Reminding myself of things I know - because I've already learned them - yet still don’t completely believe. Relying on my understanding of the past to shape my future in a smarter way. Accepting that when I screw up – repeat the same freaking mistakes and insanely expect different results – perhaps the most recent lesson will be the one that sticks.
*Unnamed Friend taught me the coolest trick, and I wanted to share it. Since I do enjoy bloglines so much, she suggested I put lit searches in there as well. A bit of a "I love bloglines!" + "I don't love lit searches" = "OK, I'll read stuff for work." So if you use PubMed, you'll want to create a good list of search terms, then click go. From the page that lists citations, you'll see a pull-down menu that says "Send to" and if you pick "RSS feed" you'll get a page where you can set some limits and name your fancy new friend. After you "Create feed" then click on the XML button, you can copy and paste that address into your feed reader of choice or use the little "Sub with Bloglines" button. I set up about 10 of these this morning in hopes that I'll at least be familiar with what I should be reading. This is, after all, a thrilling development of which I was unaware until recently. We'll have to see how it goes.
I tracked down one such individual, not completely focused on finding a job, but rather on getting a question answered so I could finish the last section of my dissertation. His papers using a particular technique in a disease state that was semi-related to my own were vital to defining some of my validation project. Except I couldn’t get the validation to work. At all. Armed with a carefully worded question and lists of solutions tried and failed, I approached Mike timidly and waited for his conversation when an older scientist to end.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” I began when he glanced over at me and smiled. “I actually have a quick question for you when you're finished.”
“We’re just catching up.” He said with a quick shake of his head that matched the insane speed of his speech. “I always have time for questions.”
So we volleyed back and forth for a couple minutes, alternating questions and answers and ideas. He finally smiled, admitted he knew what my problem was, but they hadn’t finished the paper yet. Leaning closer to confide the secret, he told me exactly how to fix the very issue I faced. It worked perfectly, and I was pleased that I had been polite yet prepared enough to get what information I needed.
“We got scooped before.” He said on a sigh as we started to walk away from the session room to head toward coffee. “Did you read Jones? In Journal 1?”
“Oh.” I said, smiling sympathetically. “With the different distance algorithm? I did read it. Good idea.”
“It is a good idea. We had it too, but we didn’t jump on it fast enough. Damn it all.” But he shrugged good-naturedly. It happens. “You know what else you should read? With your specific interest? Smith – Journal 2.”
“From last month? I saw that! Their specificity was insane – nearly 100%, right? But that dataset is nearly impossible to get. Do you think it’d work if I acquired at a different time point?”
And I basked in how impressed he looked. I knew the literature! I had a good discussion where not once did I have to say, “I haven’t seen that. I’ll have to do some reading and check back with you. Thanks for the tip.” Instead I had searched, printed and carefully read. Understood and memorized facts, authors and journals so when someone asked a question – whether in a meeting with a committee member or in an interview or in a random discussion at a conference – I knew the answer. Not just from my work, but from major contributors to the field.
In that moment, I realized that keeping up with reading was vital. My impression of my particular field is that many ideas are out there already – they just need to be found and applied. So I try to attend seminars across disciplines, collaborate in disparate areas of interest, listen when people talk because I can’t predict when your knowledge will magically apply to my problem. But the major lesson? Read. Keep up with lit searches, don’t get buried in old stacks of papers, make sure I'm at least vaguely familiar with what’s going on so I can keep moving forward in knowledge if not original work.
So I do read. Blogs, mostly. What you guys think and feel and worry over. And it helps me figure some things out personally. And my writing has developed appropriately (though it’s hit or miss) in terms of articulating emotions, being honest about who I am and who I hope to be. I’ve learned a lot writing this blog – will likely continue to do so.
But professional reading? Not so much. In fact, rarely do I even search to see what’s up. Read tables of contents to see what I’m missing. Unless I have a very specific problem or am writing an abstract or polishing one of my years-old papers, I’m not doing the reading. I’m bringing out excuses and thanking people for citations because I can’t do much discussing. I probably haven’t read whatever it is you’re talking about. Which sucks. I learned this already! But as I went through a stack of papers today (slowly. Painfully slowly. With breaks for TV and a nap and much moaning about how hard it is to read technical papers), I realized that the valuable lesson on keeping on top of the most relevant literature had been lost on me.*
I don’t want to write this next part because it’s rather embarrassing. But, OK. On a more personal note, I was talking to Unnamed Friend as she frowned at me from my couch as I perched on my loveseat.
“I’m still trying to make it work in my mind.” I said.
“How so?”
“I still want it to be right. I want to figure out a way that it was OK that he lied. That he didn’t really care about me very much at all. That there’s a way that I wasn’t really wrong and that it can work out in the end.”
“Work out how?”
“I get to have him.” I said boldly, then ducked my head. “I know. I do. But it’s him or nobody. And I don’t want to end up alone. I’d rather have someone who’s not quite right. A part of something rather than nothing. Because there won’t be anyone else.”
I think she shook her head at me, not unkindly. Probably told me that there was someone else out there for me. I don’t believe her – I’m not capable of it right now. In my mind, it’s still him. I’m so used to hoping and thinking and wishing that it’s hard to stop in some moments.
I didn’t quickly get over Gabe – my undergrad crush that started something like 8 years ago. Though I dated extensively after he was gone, even had a relationship that was quite serious, I was always aware that nobody quite measured up to him. Was as smart, sensitive or sexy. Made me feel as much trembling hope that someone that amazing existed and if I could find him, perhaps I’d get to keep him. I still dreamed about him years later. Immediately broke up with a guy I’d dated for a couple months when Gabe sent a casual email after two years without contact. I wanted that – those feelings, the intensity – and I’d only found it with Gabe. It's not that I expected him to suddenly decide to leave his wife and move to be with me – it was never a consideration at all. But I couldn’t settle for someone who couldn’t inspire such passionate hope, and despaired that I’d grow old, still wishing for a young man I knew for a couple years in college.
I remember reading an alumni magazine in my current home within the past year or so – far after the time I felt any feelings for Gabe should have died – and closing my eyes against tears when I read he’d had a child. It was, for me, the final end. The time when any hope or fleeting fantasy became unforgivably inappropriate. I missed that though – the idea that maybe she was wrong for him, that perhaps I’d been right all along and had found my partner and not having him was just a mistake. Because the terror that I wouldn’t get to feel like that again, the pain that I’d had a sense of what could be but would never know the complete sensation – it was sad. Really lonely and achingly sad.
So it’s not like I’ve never felt my current feelings before. Thought that it was that guy and the loss of him was terribly hard, even when it was perfectly clear that things had to work out this way. The lesson – I think – is that when I gave myself over to the next love, the old one was gone. I’m happy for Gabe – remember thinking that I was so grateful that he found his wife so that I was open to meet this guy who was better for me. So much more of what I wanted. That had I ended up with Gabe, I’d have unwittingly settled for someone – something – that was less than the possible happiness I’d found from a man who read my blog.
But, well, that didn’t turn out so well. But the feelings for Gabe remain gone. There is greater happiness out there for me than he could have provided. I’m more without him than I would have been with him. And I know that I’ll eventually say the same of Peter. I am grateful that I know the truth – it’s forced the process of letting go. Anything valid that might have otherwise remained – hope or questions or fantasies of which I was so fond – has shattered. I wrinkle my nose over it sometimes – try to work some reasonable scenario around the facts I’ve accepted that indicates there’s still something over which to think. There isn’t. I know that.
But in moments where I close my eyes in sadness – feeling certain that there’s nobody out there who could be honest and still make me feel like that? I wonder if that’s really true. If this is just Gabe, redux. If the next man who comes along might be the right one – the one who makes me wish the other men very well, leaves me profoundly grateful that I waited for the man who was really right, and gives me the sense that there is a complete love – one that makes me feel safe, happy, part of something true, strong and enduring.
But.
I still want the last one to have worked. Still feel inadequate and pathetic when I think of the other women with whom he was involved. Wonder what I did wrong and my motivation for doing so – in choosing him, hanging on for so long, and not being enough to hold his interest. And though I know professional literature provides motivation, answers to vital questions, topics of conversation, I have fallen woefully behind.
There’s rarely an alternative to going on from here. Reminding myself of things I know - because I've already learned them - yet still don’t completely believe. Relying on my understanding of the past to shape my future in a smarter way. Accepting that when I screw up – repeat the same freaking mistakes and insanely expect different results – perhaps the most recent lesson will be the one that sticks.
*Unnamed Friend taught me the coolest trick, and I wanted to share it. Since I do enjoy bloglines so much, she suggested I put lit searches in there as well. A bit of a "I love bloglines!" + "I don't love lit searches" = "OK, I'll read stuff for work." So if you use PubMed, you'll want to create a good list of search terms, then click go. From the page that lists citations, you'll see a pull-down menu that says "Send to" and if you pick "RSS feed" you'll get a page where you can set some limits and name your fancy new friend. After you "Create feed" then click on the XML button, you can copy and paste that address into your feed reader of choice or use the little "Sub with Bloglines" button. I set up about 10 of these this morning in hopes that I'll at least be familiar with what I should be reading. This is, after all, a thrilling development of which I was unaware until recently. We'll have to see how it goes.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Perspective
“It’s so humid here!” praised the interviewing student from Arizona. The discussion of the weather that included myself, Boss, and two other postdoctoral fellows ceased abruptly as we all stared at her.
I had been discussing how delightful the coolness felt – how the sunshine was to be sought, face raised to take in the warmth that contrasted so perfectly with the chill that lingered in the air. The dry air.
I now carry lotion in my car, moisturize my face again, drink more water, feel my throat get scratchy on my walks because the customary humidity has gone the way of the region’s normal heat. They’ve eased. It’s cooler and drier. Not humid at all!
“It’s actually pretty dry for us.” Boss said as I continued to stand silently, dumbfounded by the fact that I might be acclimating to southern weather. When I head back north, will I be bundled up in 40° weather? Oh, the shame. The bitter, bitter shame.
Boss and I have previously discussed perspective – mostly in relation to the jobs we do. I’ve said I could train anyone to do my job, and he’s nodded along. It’s not that hard – you read the papers and derive some equations. Write a bit of code based on what other people have done for similar projects. Ask questions, fill out paperwork, write proposals (get stuck writing proposals for over a year). It’s just work.
“I always think of my daughter.” He said fondly as I sat with him and his wife over dinner once. “We went to the beach for vacation and decided to get breakfast at this place right on the water. She wanted orange juice – she was probably only 3 or 4 – so they brought this glass of Florida orange juice. Probably the best orange juice you could get.
“And she looked at it, made a face, and pushed it away. Said it had “stuff” in it and she wanted the orange juice from home.” He laughed and his wife explained.
“I always made it from concentrate – in the little tubes, where you add water. There’s no pulp in the juice I made – the good stuff grossed her out.” And they shook their heads.
“I feel the same way about macaroni and cheese.” I offered. “If it’s not bright orange out of the blue box, I’ll likely be disappointed.”
“What you’re used to.” Boss nodded and his wife smiled kindly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Except there can be something wrong with that, I think. As I’ve settled into heat and humidity and now frown over mildly dry days though I rejoice in the cool temperatures, so have I adapted to being sad. To feeling inadequate and somehow wrong for wanting to be loved, appreciated, successful. I generally feel bad – I believe it was the primary reason I slipped so effortlessly into such a dark place here recently. My resources had evaporated in my emotional environment. I was already in ‘just cope’ mode, so when things went to hell, there was no strength left to fight.
I’m trying to learn to be happy again. It sounds ridiculous, but when Unnamed Friend said – a few weeks ago - that she hadn’t met the real Katie yet, I was shocked to agree. I’ve been buried under a film of sadness for so long that anything other than superficial cheer feels a bit forced and foreign. And that, my friends, isn’t good. I’ve never wanted to have a new friend who only knew me as distant, withdrawn, and depressed. It’s not the real Katie, so I’m struggling out of it.
“I wasn’t so productive today.” Noted Unnamed Friend as we wandered to a used bookstore before our evening outing yesterday. I considered for a moment before responding.
“I did OK. Turned a few things in, went to a meeting and seminar – I stared at walls, but still. I looked over some revisions – it should end up being a good paper.
“I guess I wasn’t that productive either, but given my recent professional performance, today went well. You just need a different frame of reference!” I decided happily, and she nodded and smiled.
I believe I’m trying to change my frame of reference. Expecting more of myself in some areas, giving myself a break in others. I’m eager to work on my paper – it would be a big deal if this journal accepted the revisions. The shift in weather has made my morning walks much more pleasant. Even Chienne sprints from her stops to sniff for animals instead of trudging along while panting. I’m trying to make myself think about God and my approach in living with Him. I want to readjust – to have the morose attitude feel weird rather than appropriate.
And there are certainly steps to do that. After I tried other kinds of macaroni and cheese, I realized they really were quite good. I personally like orange juice pulpy, though I can live without it if need be. When it’s dry – or at least dry to me? I drink more water, put on lotion, start the humidifier. There are ways to be comfortable – no, not just comfortable or content, but happy – even when life isn’t perfect. To enjoy the challenges and giggle over the mistakes. To seek out interesting people not necessarily because I deserve them, but because they’re so much fun. To do work not because my skills and intelligence are superior, but because it gives me a sense of accomplishment to try.
It’s a process – learning to be happy again, adjusting to changes. But there are unexpected benefits too. The lotion I'm using to combat my dry skin? It smells really nice.
I had been discussing how delightful the coolness felt – how the sunshine was to be sought, face raised to take in the warmth that contrasted so perfectly with the chill that lingered in the air. The dry air.
I now carry lotion in my car, moisturize my face again, drink more water, feel my throat get scratchy on my walks because the customary humidity has gone the way of the region’s normal heat. They’ve eased. It’s cooler and drier. Not humid at all!
“It’s actually pretty dry for us.” Boss said as I continued to stand silently, dumbfounded by the fact that I might be acclimating to southern weather. When I head back north, will I be bundled up in 40° weather? Oh, the shame. The bitter, bitter shame.
Boss and I have previously discussed perspective – mostly in relation to the jobs we do. I’ve said I could train anyone to do my job, and he’s nodded along. It’s not that hard – you read the papers and derive some equations. Write a bit of code based on what other people have done for similar projects. Ask questions, fill out paperwork, write proposals (get stuck writing proposals for over a year). It’s just work.
“I always think of my daughter.” He said fondly as I sat with him and his wife over dinner once. “We went to the beach for vacation and decided to get breakfast at this place right on the water. She wanted orange juice – she was probably only 3 or 4 – so they brought this glass of Florida orange juice. Probably the best orange juice you could get.
“And she looked at it, made a face, and pushed it away. Said it had “stuff” in it and she wanted the orange juice from home.” He laughed and his wife explained.
“I always made it from concentrate – in the little tubes, where you add water. There’s no pulp in the juice I made – the good stuff grossed her out.” And they shook their heads.
“I feel the same way about macaroni and cheese.” I offered. “If it’s not bright orange out of the blue box, I’ll likely be disappointed.”
“What you’re used to.” Boss nodded and his wife smiled kindly. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
Except there can be something wrong with that, I think. As I’ve settled into heat and humidity and now frown over mildly dry days though I rejoice in the cool temperatures, so have I adapted to being sad. To feeling inadequate and somehow wrong for wanting to be loved, appreciated, successful. I generally feel bad – I believe it was the primary reason I slipped so effortlessly into such a dark place here recently. My resources had evaporated in my emotional environment. I was already in ‘just cope’ mode, so when things went to hell, there was no strength left to fight.
I’m trying to learn to be happy again. It sounds ridiculous, but when Unnamed Friend said – a few weeks ago - that she hadn’t met the real Katie yet, I was shocked to agree. I’ve been buried under a film of sadness for so long that anything other than superficial cheer feels a bit forced and foreign. And that, my friends, isn’t good. I’ve never wanted to have a new friend who only knew me as distant, withdrawn, and depressed. It’s not the real Katie, so I’m struggling out of it.
“I wasn’t so productive today.” Noted Unnamed Friend as we wandered to a used bookstore before our evening outing yesterday. I considered for a moment before responding.
“I did OK. Turned a few things in, went to a meeting and seminar – I stared at walls, but still. I looked over some revisions – it should end up being a good paper.
“I guess I wasn’t that productive either, but given my recent professional performance, today went well. You just need a different frame of reference!” I decided happily, and she nodded and smiled.
I believe I’m trying to change my frame of reference. Expecting more of myself in some areas, giving myself a break in others. I’m eager to work on my paper – it would be a big deal if this journal accepted the revisions. The shift in weather has made my morning walks much more pleasant. Even Chienne sprints from her stops to sniff for animals instead of trudging along while panting. I’m trying to make myself think about God and my approach in living with Him. I want to readjust – to have the morose attitude feel weird rather than appropriate.
And there are certainly steps to do that. After I tried other kinds of macaroni and cheese, I realized they really were quite good. I personally like orange juice pulpy, though I can live without it if need be. When it’s dry – or at least dry to me? I drink more water, put on lotion, start the humidifier. There are ways to be comfortable – no, not just comfortable or content, but happy – even when life isn’t perfect. To enjoy the challenges and giggle over the mistakes. To seek out interesting people not necessarily because I deserve them, but because they’re so much fun. To do work not because my skills and intelligence are superior, but because it gives me a sense of accomplishment to try.
It’s a process – learning to be happy again, adjusting to changes. But there are unexpected benefits too. The lotion I'm using to combat my dry skin? It smells really nice.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
His Sprout-ness
“So I heard you got a cat.”I smiled when I heard Brother’s voice. It surprises me still – that he’s an adult, his deep voice matching the maturity of some of his thoughts. His grace under pressure, the kindness with which he treats the elderly people he serves at work. How he’s married. Has a child. The kid grew up at some point. I wonder how I missed it.
“Yes. I do have a cat. It was sort of an accident though.” So I told him the story, listened to him laugh at the right parts, express understanding at others.
“Mom called me today.” He noted after I was done. “Asked about Little One and told me you had another child as well.”
I closed my eyes briefly at that. I wished my own little one was playing and babbling in the background as we talked. That I could achieve what the rest of the family seemed to easily accomplish. Settle on someone to love – a man who would love me in return. Ease into moderate professional success that was secondary to family life. Laugh and argue and share stories. Watch cartoons with my children and push them on the swing set my parents purchased at dramatic savings. Teach them to pet Sprout gently and not to tug on Chienne’s ears. Maybe it’s not meant to be. I try not to dwell on it, but there are moments where it’s a startling pain.“Would you like a cat?” I asked. “Little One likes kitties.”
“We’re good.” He said quickly. “Between the dog that won’t quit fetching stuff (and she really will chase a ball for hours on end. It's impressive.) and Little One, I don’t think we need another creature right now. Is he a nice cat? How old?”
“He is a nice cat. About 5 months old and very friendly. Well, not with Chienne – she just wants to chase him and he just wants to hiss at her. But he’s a sweet animal – very loving.”
“How do you litter train them?”
“Don’t know. He just knew. He had a family too – I really thought they’d ask for his return. But it didn’t happen. So now he’s mine.”
I talked to the Little One – she got a pumpkin bag at school and is quite fond of this new word. I thought it was "pumpkin" she was saying, but was grateful for Brother’s confirmation in the background. “Are you telling Aunt Katie about your pumpkin?” It helped me out.
Then, as her parents both do, she said, “Love you.” and went to hang up the phone before Brother said, “Wait! I wasn’t done!” So we talked for a few more minutes – work is going well for him, one event he planned was particularly successful, Little One and Brother’s Wife are getting over colds and doing well now.
I told Mom – via email – that I had a cat just last night. Asked that she not be critical because I didn’t mean to get a cat. It just sort of happened. And I didn’t feel like dealing with her and Dad telling me all the reasons another pet was a bad idea.
Then I sent her email at work this morning, thanking her for being so supportive in her original response to my news. She’s a good mom. I love her a great deal. It was likely silly to put off telling her for so long, worrying about her opinion.
So I went down to play with and pet the Sprout. He is a sweet cat, and very pretty besides. After some focused attention, I opened the door, Chinne got up from her sprawl on the floor, and sat politely while I stood guard at the door between them. She set one paw over my leg while Sprout was on the bed, sniffed at his scratching toy. He came over and despite my gentle warnings to play nice, swatted at her paw so she’d remove it from his room. Then he tried to sneak past her as she blocked the exit to his room.
She didn’t lunge – sat quietly and let me scratch her neck, moved her nose closer to him to smell.
And he looked up at her, took one step closer, and swatted her nose with his claws.At which point I gasped with indignation and scolded him. So he scampered to his corner, put his ears back and glared at me. So I’ll take advice here, but my first loyalty is to the dog. That cat made an unprovoked attack! He’s certainly entitled to protect his room, but I also see her point in guarding her hallway. I’m not sure what to do here – she’s getting better as he’s getting worse. And the likelihood of her playing some passive-aggressive game with him is pretty high – I just haven’t seen evidence of it yet.
It – like so many other things – is a freaking process. Takes time. Plus, Mom’s not going to tell Dad about the cat yet. She has to work up her nerve to share the news and explain that he can’t offer negative opinions. So… this too shall pass. I guess. In the meantime, I guess the lesson is that Sprout doesn't screw around. Perhaps he's irritable lately too.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Bad day. Again.
To: Boss
From: Katie
Subject: Today
Boss,
I'm not sure if Jill mentioned it or not, but I had a pretty major depressive episode recently. It was triggered by personal issues, but I was left really quite ill. So I'm taking medication and getting help and I'm slowly getting better. I'm at the stage where it's hard to be around people, which is so strange - even to me - but I get shaky and upset at any small situation.
I'm fine - and I really am getting better - and I wouldn't mention it at all, but I'm not doing so well today. I keep trying to get ready to come in, but I'm just not able to do it right now. I hate to miss seminars, but I wondered if I could just work from home today and try to get settled.
I'm sorry. I wish I could explain it better, but I'm not sure I completely understand what's going on with me right now. I do know it's getting better, but there are still days that just feel impossibly difficult.
Thanks, Katie
So today wasn’t good. I had this whole analogy with driving and flickering headlights… It didn’t really fit, and I got tired trying to decide what to say, so I think simplicity works here. I’ll just tell you what happened.
I didn’t sleep last night – I was in bed for a vast majority of the hours of darkness, but I believe I was conscious through most of it. Trying to relax. Grateful for the lack of extreme panic, dismayed at the moments of nausea. But in bed I stayed – no time on the bathroom floor, little time on the loveseat looking for distractions in the form of updated feeds on bloglines.
It was OK, I told myself. I didn’t have to be in early. If I made it to the office by 11 or so, I was still in good shape. I could sleep late. Do my devotional. Take a walk. Watch television. Decide what to wear. Give myself a little pep talk, then pretend I was a functional human being and go to work. I made it yesterday, after all. Got a few things done. Talked to people. Acted normal for several hours before scurrying home so I could breathe again.
So I finally left the bedroom around 7, deciding sleep wasn’t coming though I was tired. I sat on the loveseat and turned on TNT, watched a bit of Charmed and wondered if I could fight demons if need be. Probably not, I decided, I’d just keep freezing time so I could try to sleep. Stare at walls. Not deal with anything. It’d be nice to freeze time. Almost as good as being able to teleport yourself anywhere you wanted to go.
I decided I’d watched enough and closed the laptop when I finished reading all that people had written, so I sighed and looked toward my kitchen. Glanced at the clock and decided that staying on some sort of schedule required movement. So I walked to the dining room table, wrinkling my nose at the messy kitchen but leaving the dishes and clutter as they were. I tried to get through my devotional, but felt my muscles clench as I worked my way through Romans 8. Paul was bugging me, I decided. Stupid ‘guard your thoughts against anything God wouldn’t like’ philosophy. That’s asking a lot! I can try to control my actions, but my very thoughts? I can’t even retain control of those without feeling guilty?
Not today, I decided. And I was hot, sitting in the sunshine coming in the kitchen windows. Chienne was eager to walk, so I sighed at her, abandoned my Bible, and went to get socks. She bounced along eagerly, I politely asked her to stop bumping me. As soon as I left the house, I realized every step was painful. There was a twinge in my left hip – likely from the way I sit on the loveseat – all scrunched up into my corner. And I had sore spots on my feet from the pumps I wore yesterday at the office. I didn’t want to walk, but I forced myself forward. I reached the halfway point, paused to let Chienne sniff for squirrels, warning her sternly against pulling on my arm again, and realized I didn’t know if I could get home.
After a moment of panic, I calmed myself and began to move again, sweating in the warmth that should have been a crisp, cool morning. I was tired, I decided. Lethargic, exhausted, and… Dammit, I can’t even think of a third adjective for tired! I just couldn’t today. Couldn’t pull it together. Wasn’t in a state of despair, but definitely wasn’t happy. But this sort of depression is familiar – the irritation and desire to sleep. The extreme desire to avoid people. The inability to get myself to work.
So I sent that email to my boss, another to Unnamed Friend that said I wasn’t doing so well today. I’ve been subconsciously avoiding her calls lately and I didn’t want her to think I was ignoring her out of anything other than my need for solitude. Good, I decided. No more leaving the house – I have food and water and a place to try to rest. I’d go to work tomorrow – when I was stronger. I’d return calls and answer email and deal with life. Later. After I slept. After I gathered my resources. Did some protocol writing from my laptop so I wasn't avoiding all professional responsibility.
The phone started to ring and I sent it a look. Wondered when I’d turned the ringer back on. Considered some excuse about how I lost the charger and had to leave the phone dead, but couldn’t retain enough focus to make it plausible. It rang again immediately and I made my impressed face at Unnamed Friend’s persistence. Then I got up and turned off the ringer. I wasn’t going to answer it – no reason to be irritated by the noise.
So I sent her email. Told her not to worry, that I very much did not want to talk, and that she could now consider herself to be a friend. (It’s a rather dubious honor, especially lately, but there you go.) I don’t ignore acquaintances – I’ll answer those calls and pretend normalcy. But friends are relegated to email and email alone. Except when they threaten to drive to my house unless I answer the phone.
The only thing worse than talking on the phone is someone invading my space, so I called her back. Was terse because the very effort of talking was torture. There were a lot of fines, OKs, I don’t knows. I was reminded of the time M came over – much as I love the person involved, I want to be alone. I’m actually harder to deal with now than I was at my worst. I was scared then – wanted someone to save me. And I’ll get better from here – enjoy this friend I’m so lucky to have, ask the questions that occur to me when I think of her stories when she’s not around, be a friend. But now? I’m not good. I’m used to it, but inflicting it on other people is most unpleasant. [Edited to add: We just talked for a couple hours about her life, which was good. I do like hearing stories - it overcomes my blah feelings about the phone in general. But no talking about me. I don't want that.]
Then I slept. Woke up to an email. One saying she felt a bit guilty for forcing me to talk, but we’d talk again tomorrow. I smiled – I would have left me alone. She’s gutsy, my Unnamed Friend. I like and admire gutsy. And one from work.
To: Katie
From: Boss
Subject: Re: Today
Katie:
Please remember that we are here to support you.
First priority is to take care of yourself and let us know if there is something we can do.
I have suggestions on the [paper I’m rewriting with his help]. We can discuss them whenever you want.
They are currently hand-written notes. Would you like for me to have Jill take a stab at putting them in?
Boss
And I sighed. I managed to find a position that allows me to be weak. He’s much more worried than upset, though I expected as much. It should inspire me to try harder – these people who are so kind, understanding and gentle. They want what’s best – know what’s best. And I can’t make myself do it. It’s frustrating as all hell.
To: Boss
From: Katie
Subject: Re: Today
Boss,
I know the support system is there and I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.
I'm trying to schedule meetings to make sure I make it to the office as much as possible. So tomorrow and Friday are guaranteed to see me there for several hours. Which is good - being there and around people is good for me. I know that, even when I'm struggling.
I actually like reading your written notes. They help me restructure my own thoughts and see where I still need to improve. I really am pleased with the progress that's happened with my writing since working with you so I'll continue to use your notes and correct text myself. I'll look forward to doing that, actually.
Thanks very much. I wish I wasn't asking you to understand something I don't really comprehend myself, but I hope it will ease soon.
Katie
And about 10 minutes later.
To: Katie
From: Boss
Subject: Re: Today
Katie:
Continue to rest and we will get together when you come in.
Boss
I’m resting. I’m eating. I'm doing work from home. There are moments of panic, though they’re indistinct. I can’t articulate them because I don’t know where they’re coming from or what they’re about. I expected the lethargic feelings, but I didn’t want them to be so overwhelming. So encompassing that I’m really unable to function in any real way, though I really wish I could.
I don’t want people to worry. I don’t want to ask for special consideration because I can’t do what I should be doing. I don’t want to ignore phone calls because I cringe at the thought of answering. I don’t want to write more blog entries about how unhappy I am lately.
I want to be better. I’d like to feel cheerful and hopeful and grateful for all the wonderful things in my life. It’d be good to go to work, though I am quite productive at home. There's lots of writing and data analysis to do from here. I'd like to write something and think “cute” rather than “depressing.” Initiate phone calls and offer invitations because I love spending time with beautiful, fascinating, funny people.
I’m tired of feeling like this, though I know I’m getting better. I’m tired of not sleeping – I miss sleep. I’m just tired. Either tomorrow is better or I’m going to start drinking coffee again. Something has to give.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Fear, my future, and this story I heard
“I’m a grad school drop out.” He smiled up at me from his chair as I stood next to him in a dimly-lit room. I offered a shrug and smile of my own.
“There are days I wish I could say the same.” I noted, and waited for the story to continue. I didn't go to work yesterday. Spent some time thinking of excuses over why I couldn't go today. But I made it - gritted my teeth and forced myself into the car, out of the garage and back into the world of work.
“It started out OK. I was part of a large class – about three times what the expected for that particular department. So when faced with something so new – such a big group of students – there was turmoil in the department.
“Some faculty wanted to do the right thing – honor what they’d told us during recruitment, adhere to the guidelines that had previously been in place. But others wanted to change the rules, take advantage, switch everything around. There just happened to be more people in the latter group. So, as a student, there was no feeling of certainty or power.”
I nodded – that’s not just true of students. I’m lately left feeling helpless a good deal, watching the world with a mixture of fear and confusion, trying to determine if my perceptions match reality, if someone’s going to hurt me, how I can protect my bruised heart from more pain.
“So what happened?” I asked. Grad school – life – can be unpleasant. I vividly recall bringing a handbook to a meeting near the end of my graduate career and saying, “This isn’t right! You can’t just make up rules at the end!” But you can. If you hold the upper hand when it comes to power, you can devise new rules, disregard old ones, ruthlessly play with someone’s life.
“Well, there was an exam. I took it at the end of my second semester. Failed.”
I made a sympathetic face, but waited for him to continue.
“I studied more, took another semester of classes, then took it again. Thought I did pretty well. Knew the material. But my advisor called me in and told me two things. No, three things.” He corrected himself, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.
“First, I failed. But I’d been very close. Second, if he’d known how the other professors were going to score the remainder of the exam, he would have scored his portion higher to make sure I passed. He didn’t feel that overall exam was fair and regretted that he hadn’t done something to help me. And third,” He finished, looking down at his index finger before curling it into his palm, “one of my classmates had my same score, but for a couple of reasons, she had been granted a conditional pass. I would not be afforded the same favor.”
It’s difficult, I decided – then (at my defense) and now (after this personal thing). I’m driven by an obsessive need to understand, to know, to talk. I don’t shy away from conflict – it’s how I figure things out. I like to argue – when there’s mutual respect but disparate opinions, there’s an exquisite place where you can hear and be heard, where the exchange of information can be passionate yet loving. Where – especially as I get older – I don’t need you to change your mind, think the way I do. I just need you to acknowledge my feelings, indicate you can see why I feel this way. That you like me anyway.
Of course, I want you to change your mind, see life the way it appears to me. That way I can get what I want, and I do enjoy that. I understand as much as I’m going to about my recent personal situation. I’ve considered my motivation in even greater detail that what I’ve written. The final email exchange illuminated several points which had been muddy. I get it, I think. As did I understand what happened around my defense. I saw their points – I didn’t agree – but I understood. And it gives me a basis for moving on, for letting go. It doesn’t make the process easy or painless – it still sucks and hurts – but there’s a certain power in at least comprehending why things didn’t go my way.
“So I took the test again,” he continued, “and finally passed. I was relieved more than anything – done with classes, moving forward with research, doing literature reviews to complete this plan for my thesis work.
“Then my wife – somehow – got herself pregnant.”
“Women.” I said, with a shake of my head and giggled when he laughed. “We can be so difficult sometimes.” He made a face of what I took to be strong agreement, then went back to his story.
“So I took a leave of absence when she wasn’t able to work anymore – I needed to make more money and we agreed that I’d leave the lab, work for a couple months, then return to start research for real.”
“And?” I said.
“And,” he said, letting his eyes focus over my shoulder as he remembered events that had unfolded before I’d been born, “I got a letter a week later saying that my fellowship had been terminated. That I could return to have my tuition and fees paid, but that my stipend was gone. Obviously we needed money – we had the baby then – so I was working full-time, and trying to finish up this literature review so that I knew my proposed research would work.
“I was tired,” he shook his head. “Unhappy. I didn’t know what I was doing this for. But I’d started it, so it seemed like I should finish.”
I understand that too. There’s a certain pride and focus that’s admirable in that. Once I’ve chosen a path, I’m walking the darn thing until it’s impossible to do so. I try to control that urge to stubbornly cling to the route I originally chose, but, well, that obviously doesn’t go so well. The will to believe that I was correct, that other people will see the wisdom and overwhelming desire in my decisions and partake of their roles in my plan, is incredibly strong.
But I also know that I can push myself too far. Offer more than I have to spare. Both with the defense and this recent personal matter, I had no idea how far I could fall. How badly it would hurt when I hit the ground. The pain was beyond my scope of experience, and my confidence – the stubborn nature, the cheerful willingness to continue on in the face of disappointments, the belief that things work out for a reason – shattered. First professionally – I’m paralyzed by self doubt at work, folks. And now personally.
“So I was two weeks into my lit search, almost finished, and I found a paper that solved the problem I had proposed.” He cleared his throat, shook his head. “They did it differently than I would have, but the question had been answered and published. It was over. So I sat and thought, then told my advisor. He said I’d have to reformulate a focus and plan from scratch. So I looked at what I’d done so far – all the courses and tests and departmental politics – then all the literature searching and writing and planning – and realized it’d be another year until I could start experimental work.
“It wasn’t worth it. I just didn’t want it that badly. So I left. Got a job. Worked. Had my family.”
I looked down at the paper he’d handed me. I’d come to see him about some administrative issue, and since I’d respectfully arrived far earlier than I could have, he took care of me right away. But as we waited for paperwork to process and print, we talked. And though I’ve met him before, I’d never been invited in his office. We’d never exchanged much more than a polite nod in the hallway. I’m not sure why he invited me in today – perhaps he had time, maybe he had a story I needed to hear, perhaps my face is the equivalent of a sign that says “I’m fragile. Please be kind to me.”
There’s no shame in taking another path. I know that – it’s better to act when you’re really sure part of your life isn’t working. My life isn’t working. But I’m so afraid that I can’t figure out what to do about it – I just keep doing what I’ve always done. Being unhappy and worried. Wondering where I’m going from here. Trying to find motivation and focus where there is none. Working to feel pleased with the accomplishments – the first of my thesis papers was published online recently and I looked at it today. Accepted the congratulations of my co-authors. Made a mental note to add it to my CV. – when I really feel curiously numb. I have to schedule meetings to trick myself into going to work. I’m buried in documents – all these words on paper that describe these grand plans – and I just don’t care.
And personally? I’m closing my eyes and shaking my head here. The bright side is that I’m letting go – my heart released its grip on him and while I’m not completely over it – there are times I miss him or wish it had been different – I’m getting there. While it’s nice to think we might someday be friends, the likelihood is that I’ll become a cringe-inducing memory for him, and he’ll become… something else for me. I don’t know, actually. I can’t tell from here. And it’s depressing – that I loved someone with this genuine intensity and it’ll just... go away. It’s gently easing back. I understand I’m done with that. There’s not a lot more to say.
Except I’m scared here too. People are supposed to like me! Especially those I get to know – those I love. So now I feel pitiful as I view each new person, timid because I don’t want to overstep. I don’t want to assume people like me, as was my habit, because it’s so humiliating to be wrong. I don’t want to get hurt again. I don’t know that I can cope with another failure. I’m not sure it’s worth it.
But I don’t know what to change. My personal views now mirror my professional problems and I feel like a little mouse in a cage. When threatened – even if the perceived threat is ever so slight – I find a corner, bury myself in the bedding material and stay very still. Hope nobody notices me as I just wait and hope to avoid attention – positive or negative – because it seems safer. And I need more than anything to be safe.
So it’s not so much that I’m lost. I’m hiding. Almost all the time – carefully considering my steps, feeling suspicious over people and motives though said feeling is foreign to me, wondering when the next blow will come and what will become of me when it does. I’m stable – or rather more stable than I was. The pills are helping and I’m recovering more every day. But leaving my house is hard. I just want to stay here, locked inside, in complete control of who and what enters.
But I went to work, interacted with people, had meetings, answered questions, accomplished some research tasks. And heard stories, only to return home and wonder what it all means. Where to go from here. I won’t hide forever – I promise. But it’s almost unbearably appealing right now.
Yet I also can picture a day - perhaps far in the future - speaking to a student who may not be born yet. Talking over my own struggles - whether professional or personal - and knowing that while it was miserable, confusing and scary at the time, it all worked out in the end. I found my way through it. I know that life is rather exquisite and ends up pulling together - our decisions eventually make sense, the fear eases back, and we find a path that is perhaps a bit easier to walk. Or at least that's the hope.
“There are days I wish I could say the same.” I noted, and waited for the story to continue. I didn't go to work yesterday. Spent some time thinking of excuses over why I couldn't go today. But I made it - gritted my teeth and forced myself into the car, out of the garage and back into the world of work.
“It started out OK. I was part of a large class – about three times what the expected for that particular department. So when faced with something so new – such a big group of students – there was turmoil in the department.
“Some faculty wanted to do the right thing – honor what they’d told us during recruitment, adhere to the guidelines that had previously been in place. But others wanted to change the rules, take advantage, switch everything around. There just happened to be more people in the latter group. So, as a student, there was no feeling of certainty or power.”
I nodded – that’s not just true of students. I’m lately left feeling helpless a good deal, watching the world with a mixture of fear and confusion, trying to determine if my perceptions match reality, if someone’s going to hurt me, how I can protect my bruised heart from more pain.
“So what happened?” I asked. Grad school – life – can be unpleasant. I vividly recall bringing a handbook to a meeting near the end of my graduate career and saying, “This isn’t right! You can’t just make up rules at the end!” But you can. If you hold the upper hand when it comes to power, you can devise new rules, disregard old ones, ruthlessly play with someone’s life.
“Well, there was an exam. I took it at the end of my second semester. Failed.”
I made a sympathetic face, but waited for him to continue.
“I studied more, took another semester of classes, then took it again. Thought I did pretty well. Knew the material. But my advisor called me in and told me two things. No, three things.” He corrected himself, holding up the appropriate number of fingers.
“First, I failed. But I’d been very close. Second, if he’d known how the other professors were going to score the remainder of the exam, he would have scored his portion higher to make sure I passed. He didn’t feel that overall exam was fair and regretted that he hadn’t done something to help me. And third,” He finished, looking down at his index finger before curling it into his palm, “one of my classmates had my same score, but for a couple of reasons, she had been granted a conditional pass. I would not be afforded the same favor.”
It’s difficult, I decided – then (at my defense) and now (after this personal thing). I’m driven by an obsessive need to understand, to know, to talk. I don’t shy away from conflict – it’s how I figure things out. I like to argue – when there’s mutual respect but disparate opinions, there’s an exquisite place where you can hear and be heard, where the exchange of information can be passionate yet loving. Where – especially as I get older – I don’t need you to change your mind, think the way I do. I just need you to acknowledge my feelings, indicate you can see why I feel this way. That you like me anyway.
Of course, I want you to change your mind, see life the way it appears to me. That way I can get what I want, and I do enjoy that. I understand as much as I’m going to about my recent personal situation. I’ve considered my motivation in even greater detail that what I’ve written. The final email exchange illuminated several points which had been muddy. I get it, I think. As did I understand what happened around my defense. I saw their points – I didn’t agree – but I understood. And it gives me a basis for moving on, for letting go. It doesn’t make the process easy or painless – it still sucks and hurts – but there’s a certain power in at least comprehending why things didn’t go my way.
“So I took the test again,” he continued, “and finally passed. I was relieved more than anything – done with classes, moving forward with research, doing literature reviews to complete this plan for my thesis work.
“Then my wife – somehow – got herself pregnant.”
“Women.” I said, with a shake of my head and giggled when he laughed. “We can be so difficult sometimes.” He made a face of what I took to be strong agreement, then went back to his story.
“So I took a leave of absence when she wasn’t able to work anymore – I needed to make more money and we agreed that I’d leave the lab, work for a couple months, then return to start research for real.”
“And?” I said.
“And,” he said, letting his eyes focus over my shoulder as he remembered events that had unfolded before I’d been born, “I got a letter a week later saying that my fellowship had been terminated. That I could return to have my tuition and fees paid, but that my stipend was gone. Obviously we needed money – we had the baby then – so I was working full-time, and trying to finish up this literature review so that I knew my proposed research would work.
“I was tired,” he shook his head. “Unhappy. I didn’t know what I was doing this for. But I’d started it, so it seemed like I should finish.”
I understand that too. There’s a certain pride and focus that’s admirable in that. Once I’ve chosen a path, I’m walking the darn thing until it’s impossible to do so. I try to control that urge to stubbornly cling to the route I originally chose, but, well, that obviously doesn’t go so well. The will to believe that I was correct, that other people will see the wisdom and overwhelming desire in my decisions and partake of their roles in my plan, is incredibly strong.
But I also know that I can push myself too far. Offer more than I have to spare. Both with the defense and this recent personal matter, I had no idea how far I could fall. How badly it would hurt when I hit the ground. The pain was beyond my scope of experience, and my confidence – the stubborn nature, the cheerful willingness to continue on in the face of disappointments, the belief that things work out for a reason – shattered. First professionally – I’m paralyzed by self doubt at work, folks. And now personally.
“So I was two weeks into my lit search, almost finished, and I found a paper that solved the problem I had proposed.” He cleared his throat, shook his head. “They did it differently than I would have, but the question had been answered and published. It was over. So I sat and thought, then told my advisor. He said I’d have to reformulate a focus and plan from scratch. So I looked at what I’d done so far – all the courses and tests and departmental politics – then all the literature searching and writing and planning – and realized it’d be another year until I could start experimental work.
“It wasn’t worth it. I just didn’t want it that badly. So I left. Got a job. Worked. Had my family.”
I looked down at the paper he’d handed me. I’d come to see him about some administrative issue, and since I’d respectfully arrived far earlier than I could have, he took care of me right away. But as we waited for paperwork to process and print, we talked. And though I’ve met him before, I’d never been invited in his office. We’d never exchanged much more than a polite nod in the hallway. I’m not sure why he invited me in today – perhaps he had time, maybe he had a story I needed to hear, perhaps my face is the equivalent of a sign that says “I’m fragile. Please be kind to me.”
There’s no shame in taking another path. I know that – it’s better to act when you’re really sure part of your life isn’t working. My life isn’t working. But I’m so afraid that I can’t figure out what to do about it – I just keep doing what I’ve always done. Being unhappy and worried. Wondering where I’m going from here. Trying to find motivation and focus where there is none. Working to feel pleased with the accomplishments – the first of my thesis papers was published online recently and I looked at it today. Accepted the congratulations of my co-authors. Made a mental note to add it to my CV. – when I really feel curiously numb. I have to schedule meetings to trick myself into going to work. I’m buried in documents – all these words on paper that describe these grand plans – and I just don’t care.
And personally? I’m closing my eyes and shaking my head here. The bright side is that I’m letting go – my heart released its grip on him and while I’m not completely over it – there are times I miss him or wish it had been different – I’m getting there. While it’s nice to think we might someday be friends, the likelihood is that I’ll become a cringe-inducing memory for him, and he’ll become… something else for me. I don’t know, actually. I can’t tell from here. And it’s depressing – that I loved someone with this genuine intensity and it’ll just... go away. It’s gently easing back. I understand I’m done with that. There’s not a lot more to say.
Except I’m scared here too. People are supposed to like me! Especially those I get to know – those I love. So now I feel pitiful as I view each new person, timid because I don’t want to overstep. I don’t want to assume people like me, as was my habit, because it’s so humiliating to be wrong. I don’t want to get hurt again. I don’t know that I can cope with another failure. I’m not sure it’s worth it.
But I don’t know what to change. My personal views now mirror my professional problems and I feel like a little mouse in a cage. When threatened – even if the perceived threat is ever so slight – I find a corner, bury myself in the bedding material and stay very still. Hope nobody notices me as I just wait and hope to avoid attention – positive or negative – because it seems safer. And I need more than anything to be safe.
So it’s not so much that I’m lost. I’m hiding. Almost all the time – carefully considering my steps, feeling suspicious over people and motives though said feeling is foreign to me, wondering when the next blow will come and what will become of me when it does. I’m stable – or rather more stable than I was. The pills are helping and I’m recovering more every day. But leaving my house is hard. I just want to stay here, locked inside, in complete control of who and what enters.
But I went to work, interacted with people, had meetings, answered questions, accomplished some research tasks. And heard stories, only to return home and wonder what it all means. Where to go from here. I won’t hide forever – I promise. But it’s almost unbearably appealing right now.
Yet I also can picture a day - perhaps far in the future - speaking to a student who may not be born yet. Talking over my own struggles - whether professional or personal - and knowing that while it was miserable, confusing and scary at the time, it all worked out in the end. I found my way through it. I know that life is rather exquisite and ends up pulling together - our decisions eventually make sense, the fear eases back, and we find a path that is perhaps a bit easier to walk. Or at least that's the hope.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Preliminarily
I remember taking my preliminary exam quite vividly. It wasn’t all that long ago, first of all, but it does stand out as one of the hoops I dreaded jumping through in grad school. I recall reading through the handbook before starting courses first year, plan to leave with a Masters resting easily in my little head, and wondered who would put herself through such nonsense. An oral exam? For up to three hours? Not for me, I scoffed. A PhD is simply not worth such stress.
But, well, it happened somehow – I fell into research I found fascinating and turned down the very job which I’d hoped to obtain. So, after three years of courses, a bit of research, a fellowship application to the NIH, and a tremendous amount of journal reading, I was preparing to take my prelim.
“Relax.” Advised χ , then shook his head at my expression of exasperation. The very thought is ridiculous – I have a stressful event coming up? I’m stressed. I don’t remember completely flipping out, though I probably did. My worry over the qualifying exam years earlier was much more extreme though.
My plan was pretty simple. Rock the presentation – the slides were gorgeous, the background complete, the plan set out in color-coded timelines. I had even highlighted my service activities so that there was some excuse as to why I hadn’t done more research to that point.
The second part of the plan? Play it pathetic and sweet – eager for my knowledge, and ever so sad that I didn’t know all the answers. So if they asked a question I didn’t know, I’d create a discussion. I knew and liked the men on my committee – had selected them not only for knowledge, but for personality. So though I was shaky, their easy smiles and gentle demeanors soothed me.
Steve, the elder of the gentlemen, started things off. At Advisor’s nod, I began with some personal introductory remarks, then began going through my slides. I speak quickly when nervous – I think of my numerous interview talks, only the final 2 matched my estimated duration. So pacing is a bit of a problem, but I watch the audience closely enough (having memorized the material. Obviously.) that I can tell if I’m resembling a chipmunk on speed.
I finished the presentation, sighed in relief over the nods of approval and Advisor’s smile of pleasure. The audience was dismissed, and the questions began.
“Tell me how this is original and important.” Steve said, once again taking control from his seat at the head of the table. I smile when I think of him, even considering the defense debacle, because he took care of my prelim for me. “How it will prepare you for your next job. How it will benefit the field in general.”
My response? “Wow. Good question.” Luckily, the stress of making the actual presentation had worn me out, so I was able to calmly consider my answer, taking a moment to think, then offer something reasonably valid.
It went on – “Yes, I am aware of technique Q. Though method M is more simple from a technical standpoint, I also feel that with the proposed population, there is less room for error.”
And on – “It’s a rather circular question, actually. The system isn’t completely understood – at least to my knowledge – so I don’t believe it to be a cause/effect situation. While the two concepts are obviously related – and their relationship does at first seem counterintuitive – it’s not unusual to see increases in X and Y, though it would seem that X would provide Z which would depress Y. Experimental evidence – I’m thinking Smith, 2001, in Journal A and Jones, 1998 in Journal B, indicates the opposite case is true.
And on – “I see your point. It definitely seems to be a potential problem, but I honestly haven’t considered it before. Do you have thoughts?”
I realized, after only an hour of questions that were designed to generate discussion more than quiz me on knowledge – general or specific – that I was hiding behind a chair. We were in a long, dimly-lit conference room with this pretty gray table that had a marble-like finish. There were blue office chairs that would adjust and swivel. At a table that could seat 20, but only held 6 once I took a chair at the far end of the table, there were many seats separating me from those who held my academic future.
I happened to take one of these chairs and turned it to face them, then rested both hands on the back, fingers peeking over the top of the chair at them, then rested my chin between my hands. So all they could see was a face and fingertips. It wasn’t even bad! They weren’t at all aggressive, didn’t cover any general material – every question that I was expected to answer was specific and simple. They wanted me to do well. It was a good experience.
So as three men flipped through my prospectus again, looking for more questions, Advisor looked at Steve, and he said, “I’m satisfied now.” And with a look around to ensure nobody would resist, smiled and asked me to excuse them for a moment.
I returned to my cubicle, turning to see the group members congregate outside the door.
“Good. It went well.” I replied in response to their questions. “Except…I think I hid behind a chair for most of the questions.” Then I shrugged when they looked confused. I shared that feeling.
So when η wrote with news of her upcoming exam and a request that I read a draft of her prospectus document, I was rather flattered. Not surprised – I try to stay in touch and abreast of her progress – but pleased that she wanted my opinion.
My notes included the following*:
Diverse not "divers" in your meta-analysis second paragraph.
"information can be found in the literature." Just for my information, from what model is it based? How do people know what [things] connect in what order? Carrie's working on studies that actually follow [some thing] and defines the system based on what's actually happening rather than a theory. It might be worth asking her for a draft of that paper when it gets in press. I think they're still writing it at this point.
Are references recent? It's sometimes hard in reviews like this, but it looks like you have some recent work included. I know you’re pulling from a grant application, but try to know the most recent literature to some extent.
Would it help to use [different data acquisiton system]? Do you have a plan for assessing problems from the older system?
Any advantage to switching/upgrading your software?
OK - the introduction/significance is obviously important. Steve's first question to me was regarding why my work was novel and how it would contribute to the field. I stumbled there, so just be ready to emphasize why you chose this topic and how it will be important overall. Then consider how it's important to you - how it trains you, what you're learning, what you hope to gain.
A timeline is helpful not only for the committee but for your own benefit as you try to figure out what you want to have done by when. So you'll know for sure when you want to have data acquisition completed. When you're evaluating new software. You can even include lists of abstracts/papers you plan to submit at specific times and look all kinds of cool and impressive. It might even be good to keep a list of labs in which you'd like to work - impressive papers, good conference presentations. All pieces of information to keep you on track as you move toward the end.
Now for my worst stuff, and please keep in mind that I struggle mightily with these issues myself so I'm trying to save you a lot of time and energy in the future trying to figure out why papers aren't getting accepted.
So - either in the methods or just in your mind - consider how you'll prove/disprove your hypotheses, hopefully in a statistically significant way so you can publish this stuff.
I'd number you specific aims so you can refer to them in the body of the document - or later in your thesis.
SA1. [Specific questions I’m too tired to reword for generality] It's an interesting hypothesis but I don't see how you can make a definitive statement on it at the end of your study. Think carefully here.
SA2. How do you define "strong"? Above a certain numerical value? Can you test for significant differences in these values between groups? (Seems that you could. Some 2 sample nonparametric stat, perhaps?) If you set this plan and rationale out in the prelim, you might get some feedback from your committee as to whether they'd buy that test or not. Then you'll know if you have more work to do.
SA3. So my understanding here is that you'll have 2 sets of values that you're going to compare. If you find connections using Method1, can you use them to alter your Method2 model? Then you're looking again at some stat test for differences?
The background is well done - I think you've done a beautiful job with that. I followed it pretty well, I think, and it should be easy to expand into the appropriate sections of your thesis. Yay for that.
The methods will be of particular interest. I assume your committee will want to know - especially after my thesis struggle - how you're going to do this stuff, if you have the tools you need, if you can finish in time, when you're going to publish, etc.
Oh! Why don't you add [unrelated method] to check [slightly correlative fact]? That seems like a big deal to many people at conferences, yes? It'd be a nice addition to the study, I think.
Congratulations on the document this far! Feel free to roll your eyes at me and disregard any of this - I just wanted to give you my thoughts as they came to me. :)
My advice overall? Be as confident and relaxed as possible - they want what's best for you, and that might be comforting. Give a good presentation - it'll give you time to relax into material you know well and boost confidence for doing so well with it. Then take questions as they come - try not to get defensive or upset. Answer what you know and ask follow-up questions for those topics that confuse you. Take notes - the stress then the euphoric relief might erase parts of this from your memory. After all, my most vivid recollection is hiding behind a chair.
* I'm documenting this, though I realize it might be boring, because it was a good professional feeling. That I could analyze her document and offer feedback. I'd be comfortable sitting on her committee, actually. And on days where I feel like I've regressed here in the postdoc, it's important to remember the moments of clarity and understanding.
Plus, I rather like the boring turn we've taken here in the last few days. It's a nice change, I think.
But, well, it happened somehow – I fell into research I found fascinating and turned down the very job which I’d hoped to obtain. So, after three years of courses, a bit of research, a fellowship application to the NIH, and a tremendous amount of journal reading, I was preparing to take my prelim.
“Relax.” Advised χ , then shook his head at my expression of exasperation. The very thought is ridiculous – I have a stressful event coming up? I’m stressed. I don’t remember completely flipping out, though I probably did. My worry over the qualifying exam years earlier was much more extreme though.
My plan was pretty simple. Rock the presentation – the slides were gorgeous, the background complete, the plan set out in color-coded timelines. I had even highlighted my service activities so that there was some excuse as to why I hadn’t done more research to that point.
The second part of the plan? Play it pathetic and sweet – eager for my knowledge, and ever so sad that I didn’t know all the answers. So if they asked a question I didn’t know, I’d create a discussion. I knew and liked the men on my committee – had selected them not only for knowledge, but for personality. So though I was shaky, their easy smiles and gentle demeanors soothed me.
Steve, the elder of the gentlemen, started things off. At Advisor’s nod, I began with some personal introductory remarks, then began going through my slides. I speak quickly when nervous – I think of my numerous interview talks, only the final 2 matched my estimated duration. So pacing is a bit of a problem, but I watch the audience closely enough (having memorized the material. Obviously.) that I can tell if I’m resembling a chipmunk on speed.
I finished the presentation, sighed in relief over the nods of approval and Advisor’s smile of pleasure. The audience was dismissed, and the questions began.
“Tell me how this is original and important.” Steve said, once again taking control from his seat at the head of the table. I smile when I think of him, even considering the defense debacle, because he took care of my prelim for me. “How it will prepare you for your next job. How it will benefit the field in general.”
My response? “Wow. Good question.” Luckily, the stress of making the actual presentation had worn me out, so I was able to calmly consider my answer, taking a moment to think, then offer something reasonably valid.
It went on – “Yes, I am aware of technique Q. Though method M is more simple from a technical standpoint, I also feel that with the proposed population, there is less room for error.”
And on – “It’s a rather circular question, actually. The system isn’t completely understood – at least to my knowledge – so I don’t believe it to be a cause/effect situation. While the two concepts are obviously related – and their relationship does at first seem counterintuitive – it’s not unusual to see increases in X and Y, though it would seem that X would provide Z which would depress Y. Experimental evidence – I’m thinking Smith, 2001, in Journal A and Jones, 1998 in Journal B, indicates the opposite case is true.
And on – “I see your point. It definitely seems to be a potential problem, but I honestly haven’t considered it before. Do you have thoughts?”
I realized, after only an hour of questions that were designed to generate discussion more than quiz me on knowledge – general or specific – that I was hiding behind a chair. We were in a long, dimly-lit conference room with this pretty gray table that had a marble-like finish. There were blue office chairs that would adjust and swivel. At a table that could seat 20, but only held 6 once I took a chair at the far end of the table, there were many seats separating me from those who held my academic future.
I happened to take one of these chairs and turned it to face them, then rested both hands on the back, fingers peeking over the top of the chair at them, then rested my chin between my hands. So all they could see was a face and fingertips. It wasn’t even bad! They weren’t at all aggressive, didn’t cover any general material – every question that I was expected to answer was specific and simple. They wanted me to do well. It was a good experience.
So as three men flipped through my prospectus again, looking for more questions, Advisor looked at Steve, and he said, “I’m satisfied now.” And with a look around to ensure nobody would resist, smiled and asked me to excuse them for a moment.
I returned to my cubicle, turning to see the group members congregate outside the door.
“Good. It went well.” I replied in response to their questions. “Except…I think I hid behind a chair for most of the questions.” Then I shrugged when they looked confused. I shared that feeling.
So when η wrote with news of her upcoming exam and a request that I read a draft of her prospectus document, I was rather flattered. Not surprised – I try to stay in touch and abreast of her progress – but pleased that she wanted my opinion.
My notes included the following*:
Diverse not "divers" in your meta-analysis second paragraph.
"information can be found in the literature." Just for my information, from what model is it based? How do people know what [things] connect in what order? Carrie's working on studies that actually follow [some thing] and defines the system based on what's actually happening rather than a theory. It might be worth asking her for a draft of that paper when it gets in press. I think they're still writing it at this point.
Are references recent? It's sometimes hard in reviews like this, but it looks like you have some recent work included. I know you’re pulling from a grant application, but try to know the most recent literature to some extent.
Would it help to use [different data acquisiton system]? Do you have a plan for assessing problems from the older system?
Any advantage to switching/upgrading your software?
OK - the introduction/significance is obviously important. Steve's first question to me was regarding why my work was novel and how it would contribute to the field. I stumbled there, so just be ready to emphasize why you chose this topic and how it will be important overall. Then consider how it's important to you - how it trains you, what you're learning, what you hope to gain.
A timeline is helpful not only for the committee but for your own benefit as you try to figure out what you want to have done by when. So you'll know for sure when you want to have data acquisition completed. When you're evaluating new software. You can even include lists of abstracts/papers you plan to submit at specific times and look all kinds of cool and impressive. It might even be good to keep a list of labs in which you'd like to work - impressive papers, good conference presentations. All pieces of information to keep you on track as you move toward the end.
Now for my worst stuff, and please keep in mind that I struggle mightily with these issues myself so I'm trying to save you a lot of time and energy in the future trying to figure out why papers aren't getting accepted.
So - either in the methods or just in your mind - consider how you'll prove/disprove your hypotheses, hopefully in a statistically significant way so you can publish this stuff.
I'd number you specific aims so you can refer to them in the body of the document - or later in your thesis.
SA1. [Specific questions I’m too tired to reword for generality] It's an interesting hypothesis but I don't see how you can make a definitive statement on it at the end of your study. Think carefully here.
SA2. How do you define "strong"? Above a certain numerical value? Can you test for significant differences in these values between groups? (Seems that you could. Some 2 sample nonparametric stat, perhaps?) If you set this plan and rationale out in the prelim, you might get some feedback from your committee as to whether they'd buy that test or not. Then you'll know if you have more work to do.
SA3. So my understanding here is that you'll have 2 sets of values that you're going to compare. If you find connections using Method1, can you use them to alter your Method2 model? Then you're looking again at some stat test for differences?
The background is well done - I think you've done a beautiful job with that. I followed it pretty well, I think, and it should be easy to expand into the appropriate sections of your thesis. Yay for that.
The methods will be of particular interest. I assume your committee will want to know - especially after my thesis struggle - how you're going to do this stuff, if you have the tools you need, if you can finish in time, when you're going to publish, etc.
Oh! Why don't you add [unrelated method] to check [slightly correlative fact]? That seems like a big deal to many people at conferences, yes? It'd be a nice addition to the study, I think.
Congratulations on the document this far! Feel free to roll your eyes at me and disregard any of this - I just wanted to give you my thoughts as they came to me. :)
My advice overall? Be as confident and relaxed as possible - they want what's best for you, and that might be comforting. Give a good presentation - it'll give you time to relax into material you know well and boost confidence for doing so well with it. Then take questions as they come - try not to get defensive or upset. Answer what you know and ask follow-up questions for those topics that confuse you. Take notes - the stress then the euphoric relief might erase parts of this from your memory. After all, my most vivid recollection is hiding behind a chair.
* I'm documenting this, though I realize it might be boring, because it was a good professional feeling. That I could analyze her document and offer feedback. I'd be comfortable sitting on her committee, actually. And on days where I feel like I've regressed here in the postdoc, it's important to remember the moments of clarity and understanding.
Plus, I rather like the boring turn we've taken here in the last few days. It's a nice change, I think.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Dinner, and the discussion of dating
“Was I invited because I’m struggling?” I finally asked, having made easy small talk since my arrival several minutes before. Jay and Little Cousin were at the store, so Cousin and I were alone in the kitchen as she peeled potatoes.
“Nope.” She said, turning to glance at me. “We just wanted to see you. Are you struggling?”
“A bit.” I said, pleased when I realized I wasn’t going to cry. I felt strong somehow – loved and settled. “I got depressed. Pretty badly.”
“How come? Work?” She waited for me to shake my head. “Being here? Personal?”
I shrugged at personal, and nodded when she asked if I was OK.
“I am, I think. It was so bad – the moods – but the actual situation might have been kind of...” I trailed off, filling my glass with water and taking a seat at the table.
“Well, hello.” I said, smiling as Little Cousin toddled in at top speed. She’s beautiful – all big eyes and wide smile and softly curling hair. She clung to Cousin’s leg and accepted her mother’s greetings as well.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Cousin asked. Fair question, since I’d brought it up.
“What are we talking about?” Jay looked between us after emerging from the basement stairs, trying to catch up.
“Nothing. It’s… There was a guy and I liked him, and it didn’t work.”
Cousin shook her head and returned to her potatoes. “Men are assholes.” Jay nodded his agreement when I looked at him, so I laughed. They’re such a sweet couple. Balanced and easy, loving but not cloyingly sweet. I remembered meeting him for the first time – I think I was still in high school – and Cousin said they were not dating. He was too young, too silly, not her type. She hadn’t been divorced for long enough. Sometimes people you desperately want end up not working. And sometimes the ones you don’t realize you want end up working out perfectly. It keeps life interesting.
“How’d you meet him?” Jay asked, curious yet happily gentle. He waited only a moment while I considered how to tell the story before continuing to prod. “Bar? Online? Work? Friends?”
“Online.” I said with a smile, reminded of my Pictionary strategy. I just keep naming words, any words – I tend to eventually find the correct answer.
“Does he know where you live?” He continued, and I pictured him mentally reviewing the security measures put in place when I moved in last year.
“Um…maybe. I don’t know, actually. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s definitely not coming.” I said, laughing because I’d once lamented the opposite problem.
We covered some of the details. “I keep an online journal of sorts.” I tried to describe, then watched them try to look like that was a normal thing to do in their world.
“Like MySpace?” Jay confirmed, and I shook my head, ridiculously offended before I realized what I was doing. Why in the world would I think having a Blogger account somehow makes me cooler or more sophisticated than having one on MySpace? So I giggled a bit at myself again before offering a more detailed explanation of what I do here. Finally decided it’d help if I actually knew.
“The plan was perfect!” I insisted, watching them smile back at me. “I was honest and open and tried for charming. So when someone read and liked what he wrote, he’d already know me. It sort of weeds out the ones who aren’t interested in all the trouble. So then he was supposed to email, we’d fall madly in love, then everything would shift into place!”
“But…” Jay said, smiling easily since I didn’t appear to be upset at all.
“Yeah, I know.” I frowned playfully. “The plan was good though. There was something left to be desired in the execution.”
The truth is that it’s over. It ended, then it ended again, then I wrote about it on my blog. Then I forgave him, because – let’s face it – I’ve hardly behaved well here lately. I took a private situation and made it public. Told a one-sided series of events. I prayed about it, then realized I wasn't angry anymore. "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors" and all that. I take it seriously, so we wrote a few emails, and this final ending feels right to me.
I’m getting through it – there are weird moments where I forget that I don’t have someone to think about. That I was thinking about the wrong person for a really long time. So when I drift there accidentally, I offer a gentle rebuke. And my brain sheepishly says, “Oops. Habit. Sorry.” And we move on.
People make questionable decisions. Dating is hard. Sometimes I hurt someone – we discussed Ryan at dinner – and sometimes I get hurt. It is, for me, the cost of playing the game. Men haven’t been – and likely won’t ever be – simple for me. I’m certainly not gorgeous and I tend toward dramatic and complicated. While I hope to find the person who appreciates all my traits and quirks, I’m content for now to not hurt so badly after the last one. To look at the situation and think, “Goodness. I hope he turns out OK. I hope I find someone who can love me.” Rather than falling into a pit of despair over how soul-crushingly awful this experience was.
My feeling is that regardless of the end, losing someone is hard. But tonight? I had grilled steak and the promised mashed potatoes. Nibbled corn off the cob and carefully spooned up apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Watched Little Cousin run, talk, eat and play. Took dating advice, pleased that I could say, “I tried that.” to some of it. Realized I’m not bitter or angry or anything other than a bit sadly relieved. I know how to be single. I’ve been alone far more often than attached, and, to be fair, my recent attachment was all in my head. I heard horror stories about married couples who were painfully wrong together, and smiled.
No, I told them, I've never gotten drunk with a man, then went in to get a pizza only to return to the parking lot to find he'd forgotten not only about me but why he was in the parking lot at all. Never stood on a curb, pizza box in hand, looking for someone who'd gone home without me.
"Did she walk home?" I asked after hearing of their friend, and Cousin shook her head.
"He went back to get her. After she called." She offered.
"And then they fought." Jay sang, and we laughed and laughed.
I got ready to leave, taking a bag of candy I’d bought for Little Cousin’s playground fundraiser, and thanked them for dinner and the company. I was quickly invited back because we do have fun together – there’s conversation and laughter and warmth.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Cousin said softly as she hugged me, Little Cousin perched on her hip since she’d just given me a kiss goodbye. I whispered I loved her in return, ever so proud that I didn’t want to cry.
“I’m sorry it ended.” Jay said, giving a hug of his own before opening the front door and turning on the porch light.
“No.” I said thoughtfully. “The beginning was fantastic. The ending was inevitable. I think you should just be sorry that it lasted so long.”
“Nope.” She said, turning to glance at me. “We just wanted to see you. Are you struggling?”
“A bit.” I said, pleased when I realized I wasn’t going to cry. I felt strong somehow – loved and settled. “I got depressed. Pretty badly.”
“How come? Work?” She waited for me to shake my head. “Being here? Personal?”
I shrugged at personal, and nodded when she asked if I was OK.
“I am, I think. It was so bad – the moods – but the actual situation might have been kind of...” I trailed off, filling my glass with water and taking a seat at the table.
“Well, hello.” I said, smiling as Little Cousin toddled in at top speed. She’s beautiful – all big eyes and wide smile and softly curling hair. She clung to Cousin’s leg and accepted her mother’s greetings as well.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Cousin asked. Fair question, since I’d brought it up.
“What are we talking about?” Jay looked between us after emerging from the basement stairs, trying to catch up.
“Nothing. It’s… There was a guy and I liked him, and it didn’t work.”
Cousin shook her head and returned to her potatoes. “Men are assholes.” Jay nodded his agreement when I looked at him, so I laughed. They’re such a sweet couple. Balanced and easy, loving but not cloyingly sweet. I remembered meeting him for the first time – I think I was still in high school – and Cousin said they were not dating. He was too young, too silly, not her type. She hadn’t been divorced for long enough. Sometimes people you desperately want end up not working. And sometimes the ones you don’t realize you want end up working out perfectly. It keeps life interesting.
“How’d you meet him?” Jay asked, curious yet happily gentle. He waited only a moment while I considered how to tell the story before continuing to prod. “Bar? Online? Work? Friends?”
“Online.” I said with a smile, reminded of my Pictionary strategy. I just keep naming words, any words – I tend to eventually find the correct answer.
“Does he know where you live?” He continued, and I pictured him mentally reviewing the security measures put in place when I moved in last year.
“Um…maybe. I don’t know, actually. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s definitely not coming.” I said, laughing because I’d once lamented the opposite problem.
We covered some of the details. “I keep an online journal of sorts.” I tried to describe, then watched them try to look like that was a normal thing to do in their world.
“Like MySpace?” Jay confirmed, and I shook my head, ridiculously offended before I realized what I was doing. Why in the world would I think having a Blogger account somehow makes me cooler or more sophisticated than having one on MySpace? So I giggled a bit at myself again before offering a more detailed explanation of what I do here. Finally decided it’d help if I actually knew.
“The plan was perfect!” I insisted, watching them smile back at me. “I was honest and open and tried for charming. So when someone read and liked what he wrote, he’d already know me. It sort of weeds out the ones who aren’t interested in all the trouble. So then he was supposed to email, we’d fall madly in love, then everything would shift into place!”
“But…” Jay said, smiling easily since I didn’t appear to be upset at all.
“Yeah, I know.” I frowned playfully. “The plan was good though. There was something left to be desired in the execution.”
The truth is that it’s over. It ended, then it ended again, then I wrote about it on my blog. Then I forgave him, because – let’s face it – I’ve hardly behaved well here lately. I took a private situation and made it public. Told a one-sided series of events. I prayed about it, then realized I wasn't angry anymore. "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors" and all that. I take it seriously, so we wrote a few emails, and this final ending feels right to me.
I’m getting through it – there are weird moments where I forget that I don’t have someone to think about. That I was thinking about the wrong person for a really long time. So when I drift there accidentally, I offer a gentle rebuke. And my brain sheepishly says, “Oops. Habit. Sorry.” And we move on.
People make questionable decisions. Dating is hard. Sometimes I hurt someone – we discussed Ryan at dinner – and sometimes I get hurt. It is, for me, the cost of playing the game. Men haven’t been – and likely won’t ever be – simple for me. I’m certainly not gorgeous and I tend toward dramatic and complicated. While I hope to find the person who appreciates all my traits and quirks, I’m content for now to not hurt so badly after the last one. To look at the situation and think, “Goodness. I hope he turns out OK. I hope I find someone who can love me.” Rather than falling into a pit of despair over how soul-crushingly awful this experience was.
My feeling is that regardless of the end, losing someone is hard. But tonight? I had grilled steak and the promised mashed potatoes. Nibbled corn off the cob and carefully spooned up apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Watched Little Cousin run, talk, eat and play. Took dating advice, pleased that I could say, “I tried that.” to some of it. Realized I’m not bitter or angry or anything other than a bit sadly relieved. I know how to be single. I’ve been alone far more often than attached, and, to be fair, my recent attachment was all in my head. I heard horror stories about married couples who were painfully wrong together, and smiled.
No, I told them, I've never gotten drunk with a man, then went in to get a pizza only to return to the parking lot to find he'd forgotten not only about me but why he was in the parking lot at all. Never stood on a curb, pizza box in hand, looking for someone who'd gone home without me.
"Did she walk home?" I asked after hearing of their friend, and Cousin shook her head.
"He went back to get her. After she called." She offered.
"And then they fought." Jay sang, and we laughed and laughed.
I got ready to leave, taking a bag of candy I’d bought for Little Cousin’s playground fundraiser, and thanked them for dinner and the company. I was quickly invited back because we do have fun together – there’s conversation and laughter and warmth.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Cousin said softly as she hugged me, Little Cousin perched on her hip since she’d just given me a kiss goodbye. I whispered I loved her in return, ever so proud that I didn’t want to cry.
“I’m sorry it ended.” Jay said, giving a hug of his own before opening the front door and turning on the porch light.
“No.” I said thoughtfully. “The beginning was fantastic. The ending was inevitable. I think you should just be sorry that it lasted so long.”
Minor Victories
I woke up early yesterday morning – around 2:30, I think – absolutely panicked at the thought of leaving my house during the day. Convinced that I was only safe here – there was no controlling the environment outside and if my mood shifted at all, I had no idea if I could keep it together – I decided that if I was still frightened after dawn, I’d cancel my plans.While lying around all day sounded nice, I understand that it’s not all that good for me. And I do enjoy Unnamed Friend. So I got out of pajamas and into clothes a little after 10AM and went off for a day at the museum. Obviously, since giraffes rarely live in museums, plans changed.
I've been to several zoos, though none in recent memory. It bums me out, to be honest. All the poor animals, removed from their habitats to be stared at (and screamed at - honestly, children. Hush.) in some weird imitation of their home. But zoos are a good thing in some cases, and I was actually impressed with this particular example. It was soothing somehow - wandering the pretty paths and stopping to look at the animals. There were many water features, and I do like the sound of running water. The day was a bit warmer than I wanted.
"A couple degrees cooler would be nice." Unnamed Friend tried to agree with me as I continued to wipe perspiration away from my forehead.
And with a mild look, I said, "Or 10. But whatever."
For as my focus and interest in other people increases, I find my irritation threshold problematic. Not with my friend - she's actually very funny and smart. I've been letting myself think about several stories she told, and the mental energy spent on someone else is familiar and delightful. But many other people? Wow.
"I think I hate kids now." I told her with only a small amount of dismay. Because, really. The screaming and crying and whining. I'm going through a very difficult time right now. If anyone needs to scream, cry or whine, I'll go ahead and do it myself. If I'm keeping it together, I think they should make more of an effort as well.
So. That little boy who said he saw it! Saw the elephant! He lied. The elephant was decidedly not there, because I looked. People shouldn't lie. (I did see elephants eventually - but not from the site of his exclamation.)
I have more examples of the children that caused me to clench my teeth and roll my eyes, but the point isn't that children are annoying (though, to be fair, they really can be), it's that I was disporportionately bothered by them yesterday.
Though right after I confessed my annoyance, an adult male said something like, "Why won't he come out? Somebody needs to get a hot stick and show him his job." when referring to some poor creature. I quickly decided it was a hatred of stupid people in general that I've developed. Since it's not directed at the young after all, I shrugged and moved on.
"You always see the hard ones first." Unnamed Friend told me after I'd picked out a tree frog then a tiger that were more hidden than some of their friends. Probably a lesson there, I decided, then scowled as I almost tripped over a running child.
I requested Thai food and got it. Thrilled with the prospect of panang curry, I happily waited in an empty restaurant while a man told us about the soup he's going to make next week - "you should come back" he advised - and took super-sweet iced coffee from the woman who took our orders. The food was good. The people were fantastic. They appeared to like me, and I'm drawn to affection in people of late with an almost startling intensity. Though I normally smile over anyone who appears to like me, I find myself craving any sort of validation that I'm worthwhile.
If said validation was offered at the Thai place, it continued as I sat with two beautiful cats in my lap, absorbing their silky warmth and soothing purrs. When my friend was surprised at their affection, I let myself relax into drowsiness. I must be lovely, I decided. That cats think so.
So I'm getting there. It's easier to convince myself that the bad moments will pass. It's still - in all honesty - stressful to leave my house. I can control myself when I'm here, but I'm so susceptible to outside irritants and stresses that I'm afraid that something will nudge me back into misery again. I suspect time will help that.
One test will come tonight. Cousin called this morning - she must have talked to Aunt who has been spending a lot of time with Mom. I was invited for dinner and will head over this evening.
"I'm going to make something," she said, stopping to answer her husband's question. "And mashed potatoes." When I laughed, she said that the potatoes were the only real certainty at this time.
I love my family completely and am very comfortable in Cousin's home. It's relaxed and easy - I always feel happy I went. But my rule of crying in front of people gets shot to hell when it comes to family. I always cry in front of them and don't relish the idea of breaking down this evening. But I'll either be relatively stable, or I'll receive comfort. Neither is so awful. I'll probably let you know either way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
