Fear and Trembling

Tomorrow, I cut the umbilical cord (curled with my teeth against my knees/scratching at my consciousness/like a bitch/with flees--Ani D). I come out of a six month long coma. Actually, a twenty something year coma. I have to both give my dad the letter, which will break his heart, and break up with R, which will break her heart. Tomorrow, I also go back to classes in which I shot myself in the foot and will have to tell my professor(s) that for three weeks I was tired. Not sick, just physically tired. For no good reason except, well, being female.

UGH, the curse. 

However, the good news is that everything will be out in the open after tomorrow.

The years I hid my anger at my dad will be uncovered and exposed; along with it, I'm sure, broken pieces of my heart that were scattered. At least with time. Part of the problem, it's been said, for those who have been molested, is the secrecy; the shame at being an "accomplice", yes; but also, the stress of keeping it together. Being the "good little girl". Not making waves. Not hurting somebody at one's own expense.

This type of deception, self-destructive compliance, has been the problem for me. Even though I was never molested. I was hurt badly and was forced to hide the pain and stuff the pain and try to forget about the pain. So much now, half the time, I'll start crying for no reason with no clue why. It seems crazy on the outside, and I want to tell people, (god forbid anyone else is around) there is a good reason for this. Or, it was good at one time. Every shadow is cast by something...

Giving dad the note will be the first step toward open and honest relationships, and the expulsion of this freaking shame; (which will hopefully help me in classes, what with the holy terror I feel with my professors.) Also, clearing away the months of wild ambivalence about loving R will help this as well.

Coming clean. To quote, well, you know who, "the truth will set you free."

Before now, it has been a struggle to believe this itself is true, and life has been mired in compromise, enmeshed in compromise. And, compromise is worse than death. In the Bible, Jesus talks about not being ashamed of Him. In a weird way, I think this was for our sake more than His honor. Because being strong and standing up for what you believe is always more liberating; certainly more liberating than capitulating to things one knows in her soul are wrong. Hiding. Lying. Running away. 

The marks of the slow murder of the soul. I should know. 

Right now, I'm scared shitless.

I'm terrified, honestly, at having to face this stuff; this incredibly real stuff, instead of being able to retreat into hiding or fantasy. The Vyvase isn't helping the situation right now, is making me shaky and nervous. 

Last night, Tommie came by and at first, it was really cool. We talked about Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Mao and even Jim Jones. But then, my dad and he started talking, and the poor guy got lectured to death, I'm not sure if dad overheard us discussing communism, Tommie's new paramour, though it certainly felt like it with his intensity. Karen Horney would say my dad's insistence was "arbitrary rightness." Then, my mother, Tommie and I had a shot of Goldshlager (and I hadn't eaten). This was my first mistake, because then, my mouth started going faster than the mental filter could shut me the freak up. The second mistake was inviting him to hang out at Wesleyan sometime.

I sense a problem brewing. Tommie stayed until nine, even though his girlfriend kept calling him to come over. Instead, he stayed, saying that he didn't feel like going anywhere and we talked Trotsky and Hinduism. He repeatedly said me he was so happy to see me, hugged me many times, and at one point, cried in my arms(!). Like the old days. He says he and his girlfriend fight a lot, and were at the verge of a break up at one point. And, there were "looks", looking too long, too often. Looks too intimate between friends. 

This morning, I woke up feeling dirty, and, honestly, a little used. Like he needed me to be something I can't; like he needed someone to act as confidant when he should have talked to his girlfriend instead, should have cried in her arms. Maybe even that he's interested again. My inner light is screaming: RUN! DANGER! DANGER!

I'm not even out of this relationship, though he doesn't know about this one. (One which will undoubtedly have a scathingly bitter end.) If he even so much as flirts with, I will buy mace, I swear. 

In good news, however, I messaged some guy on Okcupid who has potential. He's a Christian, but on the liberal side; he likes music and Kierkegaard, and is sometimes "completely broken by the moon." That line alone, coupled with his apparently strong faith, was enough to seriously pique my interest. When he wrote back, he sounded really happy to hear from me. Even if we only become friends, it would be really cool to get to know him. At the very least, it would be cool to talk religion, music, and Kierkegaard. At the very most...

Well. 

Actually, lately, I've broken a feminist no-no and prayed to find a guy. All the anger has come to a head, the rejection, mistrust. Now, clear it's not "men" but "man", a very specific man, I've decided to dig my heart out of storage. 

I asked God for a good, Christian. One who is preferably indie enough to appreciate subculture but is also grounded in faith; someone kind, compassionate, smart, etc... This one, well, has potential. 

Prayer has to work better than other things since, the tortured longing thing hasn't been working. And, the attempted Julieteeism with that other musician went terribly bad, I mean, the guy was terrified of the wheelchair, as evidenced by excessive kindness. Online, hopefully, the wheels will be less distracting. I just messaged him again, three or four days late, under duress. I scared myself, thinking I'd procrastinate and never reply.

I REFUSE to pass up this risk, to hide out of fear. It's time to try. With everything. And trust that in the end, all shall will be well.

"A trusting life won't topple."

Things I've Been Thinking About Lately...

(same day, different post to break up unbearably long chunks of reading for the ADD...)

The Phone:

and my phone phobia. I was wondering if, in a twisted way, the phone (a modern "convenience") itself is a failure because it facilitates isolation. On the phone, you cannot see nor touch the person your talking to. And, (I think) experts say, a lot of communication is nonverbal. Much is said with a glance, a touch on the arm, a reassuring smile. On the phone, two people become disembodied voices and you lose much of the human aspects in interaction. A study done in 2004 found that people reported three times the isolation than in 1985; What if the popularity of the phone is a symptom of this growing isolation? It might make it easier for one to objectify others, separates person and voice and being? Less face-to-face time? 

Nabokov:

In my novel, there is a scenario involving an unethical romance and though it is nowhere as terrible as that in Lolita, it still brings little lo to mind. It's disturbed me, lately, that a writer would treat a story like this for it's own sake; as Nabokov has said, he just wanted to get inside Humbert Humbert's head. Granted, literature generally shouldn't have to moralize (and thus, becomes propaganda) but, at the same time, it's disturbing to think a middle aged man sat down to write this story "just because." Why do that one to oneself? And, well, others too, who will be fascinated by the "monster" and will engage in literary rubbernecking...

And, this on an unrelated note; Somehow, now, a sexually precocious young girl is called a "Lolita" even though, in the original story, Dolores Haze is a young girl victimized by a middle aged pedophile. How did we flip the script and lay the responsibility of  "seduction" into the lap of the twelve year old girl? It might be comparing apples and oranges, but this seems another insidious tentacle of sexism or, at least, "blaming the victim". Somehow, if it's involving sex, we still blame the girl, even unintentionally, by excusing the man. He is, after all, only a man and at the mercy of his own desires. (of course, pedophilia has been shown to be an notoriously difficult disorder to treat...) It must be the girl at fault here...

One Hour Photo:

a creepy movie. Granted, Sy wasn't right. But, did anyone else really identify with, have sympathy for, Sy Parrish?  At the end,  he confesses he was abused by his father and, suggested by the sparse, washed out cinematography, the wounding was only compounded by a cold, alienating consumer culture. The limbic systems of the isolated, I would image, are less regulated by human company and are "off". His is a catch-22: you can't be normal until you're with other people but, you can't be around other people until you're normal. The way I see it, the poor guy never had a chance.

I Heart Huckabees:

Existential detectives!?! 

'nuff said.

Graham Greene:

according to an acrimonious article written by an angry Catholic, Graham Greene was a closeted bisexual, adulterous, alcoholic atheist who did not die in a state of grace. (His behavior is not excused by a bipolar diagnosis, and yet, the diagnosis makes sense) If all this is true, I love Greene's lapsed Catholic ass. He may have been a sinner, but if you read any of his work, it is obvious he also grappled with the meanings behind things. (See I Heart Huckabees)

I Heart Graham Greene.

Babies Cry in the Womb...

After 28 weeks a study suggests. And our bodies oxidize. 

We cry before we are born. And rust afterward.

Oh, the poetry implicit in natural processes. It's as beautiful as it is sad. 

Tonight is so odd. I feel off kilter, the day littered with friends and old flames drifting through again. Last night, Rachel and I stuffed ourselves with challuh bread, Coldstone, macaroni and cheese (Yum!). Today, Tommie called, then Cindy came over. I feel weird being alone now. And even weirder being thrust back into human company.

Tommie, it turns out, is a card carrying communist now. Literally. Card carrying. And, as I type, my dad is yelling at his TV about a "damn commie marxist socialist" character from a movie during the Mccarthy era. Redundant, maybe. Uncalled for, definitely. 

Tommie is no villain, passionate about universal health care and peace and compassion. It's refreshing. I mean, when it comes to Republicans the kid is cynical as they come, but when you mention Che, his voice gets higher and he asserts, in so many words, "change is coming" and "we can fix the world."

I'm not ready to join the "reds", or the "pinkos", or "whatever derogatory moniker is currently assigned" to communists and their sympathizers but it's refreshing to hear someone who doesn't equate "capitalism with godliness"; That "cynical-dog-eat-dog, may-the-best, most-well-fed-rich-white-guy-buy-it, system (er, I mean, win system)". As far as I'm concerned, being republican is scarily close to being a fatalist. "If we care for people, we'll get screwed over. Let's privatize it." (Never mind that 30% of those on welfare are children!)

Communism has had it's problems, obviously. What system hasn't? But, it really bugs me that those so enamored of our "democracy" conveniently forget that it hasn't been a rosy past. For one, our "democratic" forefathers meant "freedom for all men"; i.e, sola penisium. lol. Rights were originally only conferred to rich, land owning men (the white was implicit here); those with personal stakes in the governing. Oh, the endless possibilities for feminist critique here. Now, the same people so in love with dead white men cry: "freedom (to screw up) for every (wo)man" ... This might explain why being "capitalist" also means one must also be racist, classist, or sexist. Don't tell me I'm using gross generalities here. I know. It's unfair. 

Really, though, how many communist leaning folks would you find in the KKK? 

But, eh, live and let live. (Until the uprising of the proletariat, hehe.)

And, as a white, middle class female I'm part of the problem, my life pervaded by a commercialism. Every time I buy anything from Wal-mart or Target or whenever spend an extra dollar for something unnecessary. I feel glutted on the dime and dollar, what with my precious ipod, cigarettes, and reverse classism. The only thing I've ever known of want is for the immaterial; and really, those living in abject poverty never get the luxury of having existential crises. 

Live and let live, I guess. And if possible, lend a hand?

Relationalimbo

Tomorrow, R and I are having shabbat. Granted, it's Thursday (sabbath meal is Friday), neither of us are Jewish, and she probably should hate me but we're still drinking Manischewitz and breaking challuh bread together. Actually, with these past few months of silence (mine) it seems an perfect way to engage one another in the "Story" and in our friendship's troubled subplot.

This morning she shows up at the front door, crying, asking why I do not pick up the phone, why we have not spoken in months. Why, at times, I am cold as ice and others, happy and eager to see her. 

Why? 

I remember the exact moment the telephone became a feared and hated object; it was the moment Mark and I started the slow fade, after Liz and our two year fade. After the Badawi fiasco of 2001. Somewhere, in that constellation of moments (just moments that seem too banal to impact anything at all!) is the fear of abandonment. I am so tired of this self-inflicted exile. 

Why? Because.

Love hurts. It always has and always will; these days loneliness seems superior to the agony implicit in love...

  

It is good she came, that she cried and showed me to my face how I've hurt her.  She said: "you have such an open heart but something's fucked up in it..." 

Yup, it's stuck in relationalimbo...