Feeling old

In the course of catching up with Bob, I found out a formerly close friend of mine had gotten married, that one couple I'd always looked up to (relationship-wise) was divorcing, and that another couple was plagued by the husband's drug use and fondness for high class hookers (a particularly devastating betrayal, as the wife is a social worker who works with prostitutes).

I'm just getting used to the idea that I am old enough to have a lot of married friends--I barely feel old enough to be married myself but the life is growing on me. It's hard to comprehend that now some of those marriages are failing.

I think what is hard for me is that both relationships I really did look up to and respect (from an observer's perspective). For the husband with the taste for call girls, I remember how softly he'd look at his wife, like she was a precious jewel he couldn't take his eyes from. At that time, I didn't have anyone looking at me like that, and I longed for it. The other couple, they seemed so in tune with each other. At the time, I didn't see the side of that husband others have told me was verbally abusive.

It's also hard to look up to (and in some ways try to emulate) relationships only to figure out later how wrong they really were. I want to believe anyone/anything I look up to is worth looking up to.

Getting to know you

When I was a freshman in college, I was hanging out a lot with a guy named Tony who got a new roommate halfway through the first semester, Gene. Tony spent a lot of time away from the room, because he didn't know the guy--thought he was weird. One night I went over there when both of them were home, and instead of going out, I had both of them settle in, and I gave Gene the third degree. For the next few hours, he talked about himself and answered every question I could think to ask. (It was fairly easy; I quickly discovered Gene really liked to talk about himself.) By the end of the evening, Tony knew Gene inside and out, and Gene was my new best friend.

College was conducive to getting to know people. Everyone seemed eager to throw everything they were at everyone they met, "this is me, this is me!". I remember hours and hours of bad poetry (most of it mine), shared in cramped dorm rooms. For a long time, that's how I began relationships (what did I know? Then I was a novice.)--by reading all my tortured poetry, and listening to theirs. Once an entire (albeit shortlived) relationship revolved around sharing Jim Morrison lyrics.

I felt I'd miss out on friendship and relationship opportunities if I didn't spill everything. Or that there couldn't be any secrets; someone couldn't really get to know me unless they knew everything.

The older I get, the less comfortable I am with that. Who I really am is a protective layer, and I feel too exposed to share it all too soon. Thus, I am somewhat taken aback by people who share (what I think is) too much, who become friends too quickly. Sometimes I find people with whom I am immediately comfortable. I talk and talk, and while I should take that as a sign that I've met a compatible soul, later, I'm still a little embarrassed, to realize how much I've revealed.

I'm drawn to the quieter, more reticent people. (It's a trap I fell into all too easily when dating, believing it was the shy boys who held the real mystery. My friend Bob said, "maybe they're just boring," but I always believed I was the one to whom they'd open up.) It does seem more exciting, finding things out slowly, and infinitely more satisfying. It's getting to gradually form an entire picture bit by bit in your mind yourself, rather than being presented at once with the entire thing.

But sometimes it makes for surprises. I have a friend from school whom I adore. It's taken a while to get to know her, but now we are fairly close. The only thing about her that I can't reconcile is that she hates cats and dogs. The idea I have in my head of her, the one that's been constructed by slowly getting to know her (and other friends agree) is that she most definitely would be a cat lover. It baffles me that my assessment was wrong. But I suppose that's the interesting part of it, too, reconfiguring who I believe she is.

Tired

I have mentally checked out of my job. The unfortunate thing is that I still have three months to go. I know a lot of my burnout probably has to do with knowing I'm leaving soon, and being ready to move on. But I think a lot of it just is burnout; I'd be ready for something new even if I didn't already have something new to move onto.

Today I got so irritated with a client that I ended our session early. She's just waiting for her husband to get help so she can go back to him. I just don't want to deal with that kind of stuff anymore. I have very little patience for people who stay in bad relationships in general. I'm able to put that judgment on hold for abusive situations, though. I know that it's not a black-and-white situation, that there's so much complication, that the power dynamic keeps the woman from leaving, but I'm tired of it. I'm most tired of people who refuse to see truth in their lives. Who fail to understand what I think is the simplest of all concepts: you're the one who can change yourself, and other people change themselves. You can't do a damn thing about someone else if they don't want to change.

I'm also tired of people who excuse things by saying, "but he's such a good father!" If he was even a half-way decent father, he wouldn't hit his children's mom in front of them.

Dignity

Thinking about the occurrences I wrote about in the previous entry. Of someone becoming unhinged and delving into the illegal behavior of phone harrassment. Proving that no one but herself was responsible for her termination.

Is it just me, or would you also try to maintain as much dignity as possible in that situation? I've only been fired once (rather apologetically, after the second time I forgot to go to an infrequent afternoon of art modeling) so most of my experiences with dignity come from relationships.

In the shards of the end, if the breakups were not at my prompting, no matter how upset I was, the guys would rarely see the effects of it. Sure I'd cry during our discussion. Who wouldn't? But afterward, the bulk of my grieving would be done in private.

Maybe I have control issues (maybe? HA.), but I didn't see the point of letting someone know how much he had gotten to me.

For the most part. There was once when, at a friend's suggestion, I did talk to an ex about my feelings. I didn't know what I wanted out of the conversation, but after I told him I missed him, the words took wing, and that seemed to be enough. I didn't want him back. But he was a good, kind fellow, and I knew he wouldn't use my words against me. The words just needed to be out there.

So maybe my opinions on dignity are borne of a fear of losing control, of giving someone the upper edge. And perhaps a concern of how others view me. I don't care. I still think maintaining dignity is important.

Obsession

I wonder if part of the below problem is the obsession I've developed with this mix tape. It's pulling me away from my life.

It's odd, really. I've always wanted to recreate it on CD, to preserve it. But I didn't seriously decide to do it until a month ago or so. And in the beginning, it seemed an almost insurmountable task. Trying to track down some song titles only identified by artists with whom I am unfamiliar. Finding songs among my own collection, and online. Deciding where to purchase them, or whether I could fly under the radar and download them for free--or from Russia.

It's become my evening task, to work on this CD. Our slow Internet connection has stretched this into a many-days project. I am absorbed in the downloading, the searching, the categorizing, and organizing.

And yet so quickly, I realized last night that there are but two songs left before I am finished. I could have continued working to complete the disc, but I didn't. I couldn't bring myself to. I don't know why. But I wouldn't be surprised if this compilation--previously a matter of life and death (ish) and immediacy--languishes for a while.

It suddenly occurs to me that I'm trying to bring my past into my now. Fitting, because I'm reconnecting with old friends, but at the same time, I'm forging new relationships with them. This CD is just a symbol, a party favor for a specific, smoky, friend-filled moment in my life.

What will it even be like to hear those songs, those memories, blaring in my car, in my home, instead of piping directly in my ear from a rickety Walkman, from a worn-out tape? (There's something so secretive and private about listening to music through headphones.) What will it be like sharing (what I'm now realizing is) an intimate part of myself with people who didn't know me in the moment these songs became connected? Do I even remember who I was in that moment?

Church, again

Church has become a chore. I hate that a little bit. I want that special place to go feel connected to others and something bigger, but since Tim has stopped pushing for it (and since we heard someone we really liked and wanted to get to know has mysteriously stopped attending as well) I don't have much inclination to go. And if I'm being honest, as much as I liked attending this summer, at the heart of it, I only went because it was important to Tim.

He somehow has the ability to put on his filter so he can interpret the Christian-speak and apply the feeling and overreaching ideas to his pagan sensibilities. I am not so inclined.

When I think of church, it's the little church on the hill in Kansas, an old gracious building with stone walls, soaring stained glass windows, and a quiet sanctuary. The dusty basement where I went to Peace Meetings with my parents as a child, and attended youth group as a teen. I have trouble finding any sense of presence in a movie theatre, where they don't sing stately hymns, and there is no choir for me to join, because instead they sing new Christian soft rock.

One of my favorite movies is Saved! because of my experience at church camp, but the new movement in Christianity that makes it so hip is really not my speed.

I want quiet and stately, not raised arms and personal relationships with Jesus.

I think it's because I can get what I need from a quiet moment, and I call that spirituality, but Jesus doesn't figure into it.

Not in love

I got a massage last night. Tim took me so he could get an adjustment first, and when we got there, the chiropractor was on the phone. For a while. After, she told us she had tracked down an old boyfriend whom she hadn't talked to in eight years.

I could tell she was slightly giddy about reconnecting with him, because she talked about him and their conversation during the entire massage, and she usually doesn't say that much to me. I was "uh-huh"-ing and asking questions as she told me how they'd had a tempestuous relationship when she was 18 and he was 31, and how he broke her heart by letting her go, and how later his wife made him give up all friendships with women, so she couldn't even have that friendship in her life.

He asked her, during this last conversation, if there was anything she would have done differently. It was clear that he was angling for her to say she wished they had never broken up, or that they had gotten back together later. She said, no, that she was happy with where she was, and what life had brought. And I murmured an affirmation to that.

Then she said, "I'm not in love. I wish I was."

I didn't have a response.

I'm not sure how you respond to something like that. If I had voiced the thoughts in my head, it would have been, "I am so very sorry." Sorry because I knew she was married, and knew she was settling for comfort and stability instead passion.

Is it naive of me to think that? The only thing I know for certain is that I instantly felt trapped for her. In my experience of being with people I was not in love with, that's the claustrophobic feeling I always had when I thought about being with any of those people for the rest of my life.

In fact, I had always been scared of marriage and any sort of "forever" ideas because I would fantasize about my life with whatever current boyfriend I had. After an envisioned five years in the future, a blackness would rise up and I couldn't even daydream about it. I wanted to run, to shake off the feeling of doom that I saw settling into my life.

I suppose it goes without saying that with Tim, I saw light there, in my future.

I told him about this, how I understand that relationships change, and can cool, and--he cut me off with a raised eyebrow. I need him to remind me, for I forget, and sometimes worry, but at the heart, I know, regardless of its manifestation, we will always have a passionate connection.

But my chiropractor, I think it hurt me so much because of the I wish I was. Regardless of what kind of awareness one might have (maybe some have decided passion isn't worth as much as stability, so they wouldn't regret their choice), the longing has to be the hardest part.

My friend K

Thinking about music, I dug out an old tape, dusted off my Walkman, and started listening to the mix tape that changed my life. Well, the person who did.

I met K at my first job out of college. Six months into it, and two girls started inviting me to eat lunch with them in the staff lounge. They were sweet, and I was lonely, but we didn't have a lot in common besides being the entirety of young people at ALA. One day, a new girl sat with us. One of the girls (a Polish girl whose name I have long since forgotten) usually dominated the conversations, and this day talked about her neighborhood, Hyde Park, in slightly derogatory racial terms. I don't remember exactly what, but it was the sort of talk that made me feel uncomfortable immediately, but nothing so outragiously heinous that you could pinpoint it and say something against it. Or, nothing I could. But K called her on it. She challenged what the girl was saying, and eloquently debated her side. I was horrified to be part of the group, and thrilled at her arguments. I wanted to tug on her sleeve and say, "I'm not with them. I don't agree with what she says. I'm different."

Somehow she must have known already, for in the next week or month, we ran into each other again; she put her hand on my arm, looked into my eyes, and asked how I was in a way that made me believe she really wanted to know, and did I want to have lunch. I fell partway in love with her.

She was completely free of artifice or casual office chitchat. She could talk to anyone about anything, and our conversations, stolen throughout the day through instant messages and afternoon breaks to the cafe next door to work, slid immediately into the deep end of pool: relationships, hopes, and dreams. When we met, she had just been dumped, cheated on by a suave, beautiful, dreadlocked reggae musician who was well known in the Chicago music scene. I never understood how any sane man could treat her badly, or why she would put up with it. If I hadn't heard the stories, I would have envisioned her in a really healthy, loving relationship with an incredible guy.

She was the person we all wanted to have a drink with. To have K come to one of your parties was a coup. At one of mine, she came late and spent most of the time drinking and smoking on the back porch (she claimed shyness and being uncomfortable at parties), but with her came an entourage of interesting people. Her beautiful, Peruvian not-boyfriend cleared a space in the living room for dancing and broke several hearts that night. I fell for another of her beautiful friends, a Mexican man with long silky hair and a shy smile, whose undocumented status allowed him only to work as a restaurant advertiser, or, the person who drives around stuffing building foyers with restaurant menus. She laughed and smiled and taught me what to say to him. It was always startling and slightly exotic to hear fluent Spanish come out of her, for she was a blonde Swedish giantess.

Once after work, we walked to the House of Blues to catch a free Indigo Girls early concert. Half the city must have known about it, because people lined up for blocks to get in. K was always affectionate, holding arms, a kisser-goodbye. As we walked, she grabbed my hand, and we walked for blocks like that. Given the large turnout of lesbians in the line, I wondered if it had something to do with that, but it also seemed so innocent; there were no conspiratorial glances, yet I secretly hoped people thought we were together.

About kissing girls, though, she always said, "Don't do it. It just gets you into trouble," and quit drinking tequila because of that.

She taught me to accessorize. I was still an awkward country girl who suddenly had to dress for the office, for drinks out, for parties, for meeting cool and interesting people. I've never been able to pull off a sarong like her, and I realized that nothing I did or wore would be as cool as her, for it wasn't even the dress, the accessories, chunky necklaces, flowing scarves; it was the air that K exuded.

The mix tape came from an evening of wine, candlelight, and the perfect joint. We were laying around her living room, listening to music, and she found out I loved folk. So she made me the mix of Greg Brown, Ricki Lee Jones, Shawn Colvin, and so on. I listened to it so much that I could hear one line from a song, and know what song followed.

We didn't hang out as much as I would have liked to--part of that was an abusive boyfriend who hated me spending time with her--but when she'd hear about a feminist art show, she'd invite me. In the fall, we drove up to Wisconsin for a stretch of country road filled with potters' open houses, antique barns, and fall festivities: pumpkins for sale, hot apple cider.

One Friday, she invited me to the Flat Iron building in Wicker Park for their First Friday open house. K had caught the attention of a lesbian artist at a street festival who invited her to the opening, and she didn't want to go alone. We drank beer and walked in and out of artists' living rooms and studios. She found her artist friend and they went off to talk. I was left to make friends myself in whatever studio I had been left. Something I both feared and appreciated was being with her--or not with her--at parties. She didn't pander to my shyness, but expected that I could make my own way and meet people the way she could. I wandered into a huge loft space where a rave was taking place, and out onto the metal fire escape that hung over the intersection of Milwaukee and Damen. I shared a joint with the boys out there, and, warmed by the high, I felt myself melt into the city night.

What I have always loved about drugs and large parties is the insularity, the perfect aloneness. I can't remember a thing about the rave, nor the guys who shared their smoke with me. I only remember myself and my thoughts, how the orange glow from the street signs and bar lights created a new world for me.

Eventually I stumbled out of the party, and somehow found K. We drove to Clark's, open all night, for breakfast, and she laughed at my wide smile and love for everything, and chided me for not finding her when they were passing around the joint.

After a year or two, she left Chicago to run a school in Mexico. My problem back then was not understanding why she wanted to be my friend. In the face of her friendship, I wanted to be confident, an equal counterpart, but I never believed someone like her could truly want or need the friendship of someone like me. So I fell out of touch. How much would I like to have done things differently?

But perhaps she existed in my life so shortly for a specific reason, to show me the person I wanted to be.

Oh stunning day

I had my performance evaluation today. It couldn't have come at a worse time, since I have one client raging out of control and going to the executive director to complain about what a horrible case worker I am, and another bullying the hell out of other clients. However, my boss was incredibly generous. I even scored Almost Perfect on two or three things, the only one of which I remember being "Remains calm and non-judgmental in all circumstances." In light being being the target for some vicious hatred and disrespect, I think my boss was inclined to bump that up to Perfect after hearing about my latest run-in with That Client. It was good to talk about it; my boss very tactfully stated that she'd like to see me learn how to be more assertive.

So would I. So would I. But I feel very empowered and confident from the very positive review. It is really fantastic to feel appreciated and supported, and to hear constructive criticism on the job. It's been, egads! nine months, and I feel settled in my job, but I didn't know objectively how I am doing.

And I discovered one of my favorite parts about the job is one completely incongruent with my meek personality: leading support group. I, strangely, feel in my element in front of a group of clients, leading discussion. Last week we discussed the Power and Control Wheel of Domestic Violence relationships; today I brought homemade treats, a CD of piano music, and led a quiet hour of reflection and writing. I had the women write a letter to themselves from three perspectives: to the self they were when in their battering relationship; to themselves now; and to who they want to be in the future. After a while, we discussed what it was like to reflect on their lives and experiences. Hard, most people said. But good.

I get all excited when I hear quiet, shy, or traumatized women share something personal and hear others saying, "Me, too," and supporting each other. I know it's about getting comfortable with each other, but I can't help but think that my quiet, comforting, safe presence also is a reason for that, too.

And more on the stunning day: as I write this, thunder rolls, crashes, and, well, thunders above my head. The weather phenomena here are spectacular. Each night this week there have been gorgeous lightning storms in the sky.

Tim and Meghan were featured in the Lifestyle section of the paper today: an interview about their roles in "Winter's Tale," and darling pictures of them dancing. I showed the spread to all my co-workers and clients; I even sent an all-staff e-mail around bragging about it.

I am came home to a big Crate & Barrell package. Evidently it's customary to send anniversary presents? (Pony up, bitches. Our one-year is in nine days.) One of my parents' friends sent an orange glass vase and matching platter. And a friend sent me a kick-ass Wilco, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot concert shirt.

What a good day.

Relationships

This week has been a treat. I had all of Monday to spend with Tim, and then we went to a preview of Tom Stoppard's The Real Thing on Tuesday night. He's in tech for Coriolanus right now, busy as hell, so it was really nice to get some time together. And since the beginning of the week, and getting to spend so much time together, we've been more thoughtful and loving towards each other. Which leads to me to have to admit: it's been hard lately.

I think I assume there's a handbook on how to be married out there that I haven't consulted. When at first, it seemed too easy, I wondered what I was missing. Then it got hard, and I wondered how you dealt. I don't mean how do you deal without breaking up, but how do you get through to the other side intact?

I've not had much long-term relationship experience. While I believe that we can get through anything together, it's not until now that there's really been anything to get through. I hate the way my depression affects both of us. And his stress.

The nice thing, though, is that we've always talked through everything. When sometimes even the talking doesn't help (when I'm super depressed), it's still good to be able to talk about it.

Therapy

I finally got to see the psychologist today. Finally.

At first I didn't know what to think, because she was young, and perky, and all Junior League. I generally prefer my therapists to be older. It makes me assume they've had a lot of experience. Plus, I did once see a social worker who seemed to be fresh out of school, and she just wasn't good.

But this one knows her stuff. At first, we talked about how I could feel more comfortable here, so it was really her coming up with extra-curricular ideas of things I could do (which is how I found out she was in Junior League and thinks I'd be good for it, too).

She was surprised--a reaction I don't understand yet get from a lot of people--when I told her I had difficulty making friends. She said that she enjoyed our conversation more than most therapy sessions, and figured I'd be a gentle presence for one-on-one interactions. (She seemed to say all this in a genuine way, not a creepy "I'm a therapist having trouble defining my boundaries" kind of way.) And I suppose she's a good judge of character, so she's got to be right--I just don't have the self-esteem right now actually act like that in my (nonexistent) personal relationships here. (At least my clients should be basking in my gentle calmness, I guess.)

On the other hand, she seemed to base some of those assumptions on our interactions, and talked a lot about the risk involved in making connections with other people, and I had to stop her and say, "but this isn't how I am with most people. Opening up to you is absolutely no risk for me." (I suppose that's actually unusual. Maybe therapy is hard for some people to get into. But I am so used to it, and believe so much in it, that I only need a little while to get comfortable with new therapists. It is terribly easy for me.)

Then we also delved into history, and she detected intimacy issues. It almost seems flip to say that, and to think she's just spouting psychobabble without really knowing me, but . . . I've been in enough therapy to not take every single word a counselor says as gospel. I think there's something to it, and I'm interested to see how she wants to explore it. If working through my intimacy issues helps me make friends more easily, I am all for it.

Sharing

I never know how much to share of myself. (I guess I'm speaking primarily of work, because if I'm nervous around someone new, I have a tendancy to babble about myself way too much.)

This week in my support group, I did a creative exercise to get my clients to think about their lives, where it's been, what they're proud of, where they want it to go. Since this group has a bunch of new people, I thought it would be a good way to get them comfortable with sharing and opening up about themselves. And I participate, too, so they can get comfortable with me. One of the parts of the activity was drawing a representation of something that others could do for you to make you happy. Most everyone drew dollar bills, for money. I drew a sink full of dishes, and I explained how much I hate doing dishes, so my husband always does them for us. You would have thought I'd won the lottery, by the reaction of the ladies. I felt ridiculous, because what's a dirty dish to wash compared to trying to survive your life of abuse and poverty?

One of my clients said, "See how much I knew about my counselor! I didn't even know you were married!" And I thought, why would I advertise to battered wives that I have an amazing husband and relationship? Or am I some kind of good example, that there are good relationships and good men out there?

In Chicago, when I worked at the shelter, clients never learned my last name, or what career I had outside of that part-time job. I was very tight-lipped, and a little paranoid about it. Of course, 75% of each shift was spent trying to catch some sleep, so I only rarely listened to clients talk about their lives. Now they have to tell me about their life. I really need to know everything about them, so I can figure out the best way to help them individually. And then I feel bad for it--that they have to be so open and vulnerable--so I share more with them.

I remember chatting with three of my ladies at the beginning of the year (three of my favorite clients ever, so the dynamic was probably different), and admitting to them how hard it was to move down here not knowing anyone, and to find a job and make friends. And I was surprised to discover after the words came out of my mouth, I didn't regret them. And they were greeted with nods and affirmations. It felt good to let them know I was human, too.

I still register the phone number until Tim's name, not mine. I'm not completely naive.

People skills

I get a crazy rush out of putting people at ease, making them feel safe, knowing when to ask the right questions and when to listen, and giving them hope. It's weird. Today I did walk-in counseling for a woman, and by the end of our conversation, she said she felt relief knowing what options she had to keep herself safe. I left, and almost did my own version of a touch-down dance in the hallway. I feel so great knowing I am a good listener, and counselor, and that people feel comfortable talking to me. I can't believe the empowerment I feel, loving my job like I do. I feel like I am capable of anything it throws at me, and I've never felt that way about anything in my life.

Sometimes I wonder if my job has hidden stressors, that how much I put into it is taking unknown tolls on me emotionally or physically. But I also have a hard time believing it could hurt me when I have such crazy love for it.

Last night, though, I was thinking about a woman who has to encounter her husband occasionally over matters of their children, and how she told me the only reason he probably wouldn't kill her was that he believed in God and the afterlife. I'm scared for her safety anyway. Men can be really fucked up even if they believe in God. But I had to stop myself from thinking about her after hours, because I know that's when the caring gets dangerous.

But on a happier note, I led a fun support group yesterday; we made stress balls out of balloons and sand. Sometimes I worry that I relate too much on a client-counselor basis, and that I might start having a hard time in personal relationships because I'd do the same with those. But I've found that support groups I lead usually end up with everyone chatting off-topic after we're done with the educational parts, and it's a good way to get to hang out with the women on a more casual basis. At any rate, it's a nice reminder that everyone is human like me.