Couldn’t Keep It to Myself

Leanne's purchase of Couldn't Keep It to Myself reminded me of how much I used to hate Wally Lamb. I read She's Come Undone when I was in college (or so), right when I was discovering feminism. Neophyte feminists--hell, neophyte anyones--are always the worst. Railing against the injustices of the world with a blind eye to nuance. "Women in angst" books bothered me, period. But when a man thought he could write about the female experience, about the intricacies of being an exploited, traumatized, overweight teenage girl? In my angry mind, I thought, "How dare he?" Men already held the power to most things in the world, and now they were trying to take over the female experience, too?

(And my feelings were intensified by the fact that I also just plain disliked the book.)

From the writer side of me, I realized that writing solely from one's own experience would greatly stifle creation. And while I personally have never had luck writing beyond my experience, that's probably due more to my limitations as a writer, and not the fact that one shouldn't write beyond her experience.

So I recognized my irrationality regarding Wally Lamb, but then I decided he just wasn't a very good writer.

But then one day, a friend gave me Couldn't Keep It to Myself: Testimonies from Our Imprisoned Sisters, short stories from a women's writing group that Wally Lamb led in a prison in Connecticut. The stories were amazing, heart-breaking, well-written. The work that he did with the women gave me new respect for him, and I realized that maybe he did have enough cred to write about the female experience. Or maybe, now that I'm older, I can see the world in a little more grey, and not so much black and white. Or maybe I just like it when anyone is an advocate for women, regardless of their gender.

But he's okay by me.

Nobody Knows Me

And I like cream in my coffee
And I like to sleep late on Sunday
And nobody knows me like my baby
And I like eggs over easy
With flour tortillas
And nobody knows me like my baby

And nobody holds me
And nobody knows me
Nobody knows me like my baby

But it was a dream made to order
South of the border
And nobody knows me like my baby
And she cried man how could you do it
And I swore that there weren't nothing to it
But nobody knows me like my baby

And nobody holds me
And nobody knows me
Nobody knows me like my baby

And I like cream in my coffee
And I hate to be alone on Sunday
And nobody knows me like my baby

When I was 17, I met my boyfriend at a church youth rally. He was tall, lanky, with a shock of dark hair hanging in his eyes and a deep scar on his cheek. He spoke French to me and tucked me into his beat-up motorcycle jacket, and when I found out how embarrassingly too young for me he was, it was too late. I was already smitten.

We lived two hours from each other, so our relationship was a torrid, letter-writing affair that lasted for a month or two. I invited him to my senior prom, and he was excited about wearing a thrift-store suit with giant safety pins instead of cuff links. I was a grunge girl; I should have rejoiced in my hip, hot boyfriend, but instead I was mortified by the idea, and soon we broke up.

The one thing I got out of the relationship was this Lyle Lovett song. I bet somewhere at my parents' house, in my old bedroom, I could still find the mix tape he made me, stuck between yearbooks and old prom pictures. There was no play list; the song came on between folky alternative songs, and in the context of those, I assumed it was a folk or acoustic rock song.

Four or five years later, I was getting to know my classmates during my stint in a creative writing program in Ireland. Someone brought a Lyle Lovett CD and put it on the stereo. His big-band country sound gave no indication that the album contained this song. In my vodka and orange juice-induced daze (a typical state that summer), I may have started crying at the song. It reminded me of my past, and a song long forgotten.

So then I knew who performed it. Yet I never made any attempt to own the CD. I still don't. I have tracked down a copy once or twice to put on mix CDs, but it's not a song I want to own. It's one I want to be surprised with in unexpected moments.

Like at roadhouses in the middle of Iowa, during road trips with Tim, when we knew nothing of our future, only that we loved each other fiercely. He put a few coins in the old jukebox, and the song came on. We sat in the sticky bar booth, looking at each other, tears prickling our eyes as we listened together, and part of our future together fell into place.

On that note I'd like to end, but I have to add, it wasn't until Tim that I actually listened to the lyrics in the second verse. I was so smitten with the beautiful melody, Lyle's lonesome voice, and the beauty of the idea of knowing someone so well that I didn't realize the song was actually about infidelity. I wondered why I have always been so drawn to songs about pain and heartbreak. (Another noncontender and gorgeous song completely unfit for our wedding was Zepplin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You." Rats.)

But I'm reminded tonight of The Princess Bride, and a line my friends and I would recite to the screen every time we watched it: "Life is pain, highness!" (Prince Humperdink--I think) and I think part of the beauty of heartbreaking songs is the music putting eloquent words to what we know of our own lives.

In the thick of it

I started seeing families this week. It seemed foolhardedly early, only my sixth day at the placement, but it was presented to me in a way that seemed inarguable. Well, I wasn't given much choice, no moment in which I could say, "wait, wait! Me a therapist??" I was just assigned cases.

My supervisor seems cold sometimes, but I think I'll thrive under her sparse tutelage. I'm getting the sense that she give superior guidance, but primarily expects me to to be able to do the work--to have confidence in what I'm doing. If anything, my previous experiences with supervisors have been the overly kind and generous type, which sometimes can crippled my self-confidence.

So my first family session, it didn't really go anywhere near the way that I planned. Aside from that, it went amazingly better than I expected. I waded into the family fight and said, "Stop! Stop yelling!" . . . about fifty times. I held up my hand when their tangents drifted far afield and brought them (sort of) back on topic. And at the end of it, no arguments were resolved, and I expect they'll continue more of the same next week, but I could tell they didn't resent me for being forceful with them, and I know they'll be back. Next time, I won't let them argue, and I believe they'll respect me more for it and feel more comfortable with me.

(It's a strange feeling, raising my voice in a therapeutic setting, and wondering if it's the right thing to do. It's contrary in my mind, as I compare that session with every counseling session I've ever been in (as a patient). Therapy is quiet and reflective, not filled with hollering. But it's different with families in crisis, and I know I did the right thing--now just need more of it.)

Today I was supposed to see two more families. One didn't show up, and the other called to reschedule. I think it was a good lesson for me. I was nervous. I had prepared--writing down how I wanted the session to go--but I was still antsy, not knowing exactly what to expect from people whose problems I'd only read about on a police incident report. Then to not have them show up--. I realized it was pointless to worry about it ahead of time.

This feels real. Like a job I really could hold. That while I might be clinically--and hopelessly--inexperienced, I know how to connect to people, which might be the most important thing of all.

School and stuff

I haven't been contributing much to class lately. My classmate S and I were discussing the general lack of good conversation and insight overall in our program, and so I resolved to speak up. I didn't say anything ground-breaking, but I think I raised a few good points yesterday. Once, I was asking for clarity on something the professor said, but instead of just asking what she meant, I explained why I was confused from a historical perspective, and asked how that meshed with her statement. (Yes, very deep. ha!) I don't think she understood where I was coming from, but I didn't feel like pursuing it, so I just nodded at her answer and said, "fine."

Afterwards everyone gathered with their project groups, and S and J (in my group) both said, "I knew that look!" Evidently they could tell by my response and my face that I was unsatisfied by the professor's response but was trying to politely hide that.

It warmed me to the cockles of my heart that they knew me well enough to pick up on that. I have friends!

In addition, there is another classmate in our group who is super cool but suffering the aftereffects of being friends with a superbitch last semester. Now that the bitch is gone, the rest of the class has embraced her. I made an effort to strike up a conversation with her several times during the day, and once she did with me, complimenting my hair.

It's like How to Make Friends 101. It's really pretty funny to recognize exactly what's going on, but it's also awesome to see someone making an effort for me.

I had forgotten that last semester I slipped into a little depression, and I feel it happening again. There's just SO MUCH insecurity that blankets me in mostly all I do involving school. The internship has ceased to be the joy of my existence and has become something highly stressful. I'm in the midst of finding a new placement for next year, and as I talk myself up, writing in cover letters that I excel at working from trauma-informed perspective, I wonder still why anyone would give me a hard-core therapy internship. How could I possibly be a therapist? I am abjectly terrified of it, yet I couldn't bear to try anything else next year. I must get a therapy placement.

"My senses exist to witness your beauty"

I have a box of letters under the bed. One of my secret desires of old was to be someone who inspired love letters, and it's very satisfying to have fulfilled that. The oldest is from 1994, and the latest are ones from Tim, our anniversary letters to each other.

I went in it last night to see what it contained for the purpose of writing this post. Otherwise I hadn't looked at it in a while. Usually the box existed for post-breakup self-confidence boosting. If ever I was down about someone rejecting me, or wondering if anyone would ever be interested again, reading through the old letters was good for that.

At home over Christmas, organizing my old things, I came across two enormous boxes filled with all the letters I'd ever received from childhood up through college. I was a prolific writer back then, and so were my correspondents. (I think the box filled with three summers of letters to me at camp was the same amount as the rest of my childhood combined.) Since college was included in that collection, I found a few from a guy I had wanted to date but never did.

Reminiscing is only good if you have no regrets. Though I'd like to have none, David was one.

I met him early in the first semester of my senior year of college. LeAnn and I lived across the street from a laundromat, and we went together to wash our clothes. It was manned by a short, muscular guy in hippie attire with long hair and thick sideburns. Too bad David was so short, for he was exactly my type. Nonetheless, I found ways to flirt with him as LeAnn hissed at me to ignore him. The next time I did laundry, it was early afternoon and the place was dead but for him. We sat in front of the TV, watching a soccer game on the Spanish station, and he wove me a hemp necklace with a melted copper squiggle of a pendant. In the midst of it all, I started dating someone else. We hadn't had The Talk yet, so when David asked if I wanted to go to a poetry reading with him, I accepted. I wasn't sure how to handle things (hadn't yet developed skill enough to date multiple people), so I had a talk with the other guy, and we determined that we were exclusive. So the date ended up being a nondate, and I told him about my boyfriend when we went for drinks after the poetry.

But still. There was something there. A few months later, he went to Egypt to study field mice for a year (he was a bio grad student), and he wrote to me frequently. Once he even called me to hear my sexy, throaty, cold-induced voice. I took over his place at the laundromat, and eventually started working with his best friend Doug.

Doug and I become good friends, and eventually he strong-armed me into dating him. (I say that because I had utterly no intention of dating him. I was still hung up on his best friend.) David visited one week, and I found out later that Doug had given him strict (if paranoid) instructions to stay away from me. That was the nail in the coffin--for both me and Doug, and for anything with David.

As the years passed, I'd occasionally Google him, and once I discovered him living in an apartment not three blocks away from where I had just moved! Or so I thought. After leaving a message on his machine, I wondered if that was really his voice, and then a few weeks later, a guy returned my call and it wasn't him.

Oh how I wished things had gone differently. Being with him instead of Doug (who turned out to be controlling and insecure, a real bother), or having a second chance. I daydreamed about randomly running into him at a bar in Chicago, for I knew he visited often. Finally, after way too long, he faded from my thoughts, and I only Googled him if the subject came up of old flames.

So I didn't like reading the ancient letters I found from him. They reminded me of things I didn't want to think about, because there was nothing to be done about them. I think regrets are stupid, and I don't want to think about having any.

But Googling is a good thing. I finally tracked down a photo of him online, and it completely erased any lingering thoughts I'd had of him. Whew. Aging is sometimes unkind.

78

Today I cleared the closet of my winter shirts, and used them to pad some dishes I started packing. I also went through the bookshelves and selected some books and videos to give away (though, unfortunately, not enough to really make a dent in the huge amount of stuff we'll be moving.) It feels odd to be packing this soon, but it eases my stress. Last time I moved, people were carrying boxes down to the truck as quickly as I could pack them up, and that's an experience I never want to repeat again.

I added up the days left here, and it's 78. Which seems kind of high until I remember it's equal to two and a half months. At work, I have forms clients complete when they want to give me permission to talk to people/agencies on their behalf, releases of information, which last for 90 days after they are signed. Lately I've noticed the expiration date I'm writing is after I'll be gone. It's a strange thing to think about.

I'm terrified beyond belief about how I'm going to find an apartment. An affordable one in a decent location, one that's not too run down or tiny or depressing. All I can picture in my mind is my last apartment, which was blissful in many ways for me, but not great for two people. And with absolutely no closets or kitchen counter space.

I think I've been putting Chicago in the back of my mind for so long (first because I missed it so badly, then because I started to like it here and didn't know if we were going to return, then I didn't want to jinx my school acceptance, and finally I got busy organizing and planning for the beginning of school that I forgot where I was moving to go to school) that I've just woken up and realized it's real, that I'm moving back to the place that makes me happiest ever.

I can bike to school and work and to the Middle Eastern bakery for olives and spinach pies, then Little Vietnam for black sesame balls, dirt-cheap fresh basil, and rice noodles. I can spend the evening at a punk rock bar drinking Maker's Mark without breaking the bank, then get home without worrying about leaving a car somewhere. I can take a blanket to the park and hear the jazz fest, or blues fest, or Celtic fest . . . And I can see my sister and my nephew whenever I want to.

Only 78 more days!

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.

Music

Every time I listen to Ani's Little Plastic Castles album, it hurts my heart. I hadn't listened to much of her music, despite being an angsty feminist college grrrl with occasional "well, maybe I should date women?" inclinations. It came to me--from a boyfriend, actually--as I graduated from collegeand struck out for Chicago, and it has come to perfectly encapsulate the dreams, expectations, and feelings I have about the city.

I'm not much for lyrics. They're always the least important part about a song for me. When people include lyrics in their writing, I generally skip over them, because they don't resonate with me. But in "Deep Dish," I searched the lyrics particularly because it's a Chicago song. And this struck me:

this is only a possibility in a world of possibilities
there are obviously there are many possibilities
ranging from small to large
before long there will be short
before short there was nothing
when there was nothing
there was always the possibility of something becoming what it is

The album makes me feel like I'm walking alone at night in the middle of a deserted street in Rogers Park, walking towards the lake, my head back, my arms wide, embracing everything. A cool summer night, and I am perfectly alone, and perfectly full of contentment and the kind of experiences that make you gasp and say, "so this is what it's like to be alive!" It's enough of an overwhelming feeling that I can't listen to the album around other people, because they'd never understand why I choke up or suddenly become somber.

In truth, the album made me want to be a person I never was, and gave me dreams about the kind of life I'd live that wasn't a reality for the kind of person I am. So my life never lived up to the fantasy, and it took a while to realize that my life worked out exactly the way it was supposed to. So I'm not the kind of person who has lots of angsty politicos for friends, and I didn't live in a spare, dusty apartment with an intellectual cat, a fouton, and millions of books. No candles stuck in wine bottles, and dinner parties where we debated all the Deep Subjects. When it hurts that I am not the type of person I wanted to be, I try to remember that type of person wouldn't own a purple velvet couch. One purchased new, anyway.

Ireland

I guess yesterday would have been the day to blog about my Irish memories. But a dinner of corned beef and colcannon with Tim's friends degenerated into "when I was in Ireland" stories--and even as I participate in them, I'm annoyed with them. So I'd rather tell my favorite memories on an insignificant day.

Mornings. My classmates and I were bunkered in these rather odd apartment-like dorms off the campus of University College Galway. I think there were perhaps 4-6 bedrooms in each, with a tiny living room and kitchen. For the first week or so, my only roommate was an older, retired woman. I was shy and didn't talk to her, she got upset, and left the program. So I had the whole apartment to myself. Class didn't start until 10:30. I had a breakfast pass to a cafe next door, and I loved their heavy brown bread, but again--shy, so I stayed home. Each morning I awoke at a leisurely time, made myself a big breakfast and a pot of tea, and spent an hour or two relaxing, reading, and writing (either for assignment or in my journal). It was the first time I'd been on my own--and I acknowledged every single second as it happened, and again in my journal. And long, relaxing breakfasts fed my soul. (I'd do them now if I weren't so tired every time my alarm goes off.)

Piercings. A week or two into the program. After a late night bonding over Murphy's pints, I made a new friend. Cathy. I confessed to her that I missed my nose piercing, and we set out to find a piercing shop. I made my appointment, but needed some courage. We cut afternoon classes and went to a tiny pub for a few pints. I didn't know back then the reason you weren't supposed to be drunk for piercings or tattoos wasn't for judgment reasons, but for blood thinning reasons. The piercer agreed to do it anyway (she probably believed my surprise and naivety). Still, still, still I remember with excruciating physical memory the heightened awareness I had of the needle going through flesh in my buzzed condition. And then I subsequently bled for half an hour. I hung my face under her cold faucet until we were able to leave. We went back to the same pub and showed off my piercing. Cathy and I wiled away two or three pints there--which, I soon discovered, was the perfect amount to settle into half-past buzzed and well on the way to drunk. Our conversations were the kind made of heads huddled together, hands flashing and gesturing, laughter, and sudden friendship.

I remember it every day when I put away the dishes. I squirrelled away a pint glass from the campus pub, somehow managed to carry it across the ocean without breakage, and have been using it ever since. It's one of my most treasured souvenirs from that summer. July 3/4, a celebration in Ireland akin to our St. Patrick's Day festivities. Cathy met Michael that day (pronounce MEEEE-hall), fell in love, and I made off with a glass.

And there are more memories. Lots locked up in the vault of embarrassing, involving--of course involving--a guy and bad endings. Sometimes I wish I could forget the time and experiences that existed before I could be halfway suave about love and lust. But then I'd also have to forget what a life-changing experience Ireland was, and how I grew up and became an entirely different person when I was only 20.

Sometimes I think about going back. I ache for it. Galway felt like home (and it was. My dad's father's family came from there; his mother's from County Kerry). But it also feels like a place best left in the past. I can't imagine visiting the same streets and pubs I went to eight years earlier. I think it would be extraordinarily difficult to encounter the past like that. It's difficult at times to even look at the pictures, and, god, I can't bear to read the journal entries.

Prayer flags

A book explaining the meaning behind the Tibetan prayer flags and 5 little ones was on sale at Barnes & Noble this weekend. I've always wanted them. I haven't read much of the explanations yet, but I think the writing on the flags is the entire history/meaning/(I'm not sure) of Buddhism.

What I've always wanted to do, though, is create my own flags. Sew the five colors of material to a string and mark my own prayers on the fabric with a permanent marker. This strikes me as being either a.) extremely spiritually significant for myself; or b.) terribly disrespectful to actual prayer flags and Buddhism itself.

I know that the colors of the flags correspond (in part) to the five elements: space, water, fire, air/wind, and earth. Since nature is so meaningful to me, I think I could keep my prayers within the elements. (Instead of, say, putting out a prayer that I'd win the lottery.)

I love the idea that the flags send out blessing into the world when the wind carries them. And I suppose that, given the nature of Buddhism, Buddhists wouldn't mind if I created my own. After all, it's not like I'm using crucifixes as a headboard because I like the way that looks. I feel so moved when I see these flags, like the one above with the sun shining through the prayers, that I can't help thinking any way that I create these would be a moment of prayer for myself.

Someday I'm going to

Run a whole-body health center. I'll do therapy; Charity will teach yoga. We'll make friends with a massage therapist and ask her to move her business into our space. We'll need a naturopath, an acupuncturist . . . what else? (We had a big long list . . .) It will be a beautiful space, women-run. The walls will be painted brilliant colors, there will be lots of plants everywhere, and windows. We can hire out the yoga space for drum circles in the evenings, or hold art openings in the lobby. It will be a center that draws in people and gives them comfort.

Open a store-front theatre. Tim will be the artistic direct and I will do the business of running the company, as well as be the graphic designer for all our publicity materials. We'll put on small shows that incorporate music and dancing and we'll become the rage and hotspot of the Denver theatre scene. There'll be a small cafe or bar attached to the theatre space, and it will be a dark, quiet hangout for patrons before the show, and where the actors unwind after. When there's not a show up, we'll have open mic nights, and I'll get up a band of my social worker friends, where I'll play the drums.

Be a young adult librarian. I'll wear my hot librarian glasses and create an oasis in the middle of a library for the young adults. I'll spend my days reading and recommending the latest books, and planning activities for the youth advisory board to carry out.

Run a creative arts camp for at-risk youth. Maybe just for girls, though I'd hate to deny them the joy of having camp flings. It will be a camp in the middle of a forest, with a small lake for swimming and boating, trails for hiking, and dusty cabins for hanging out during free time. There will be workshops for writing, acting, and music. The kids would all work on their individual talents and create a piece to be performed at the end of the week/month/summer.

Educate about domestic violence. I'll be a reknowned speaker and trainer for domestic violence. I'll lead workshops and inspire people to advocate for battered women. I'll write books and manuals, and everyone will refer to me as "the leading expert in . . . "

I will change lives, give hope, make a difference.

David E. Kelley is what's wrong with our world

I hate him. I think he’s evil. Every word he writes is crap. He needs his writing license revoked and a permanent ban against his sexist shit ever being broadcast on TV. I only watched five minutes of his new show, Boston Legal, before it became obvious that it was an Ally McBeal knockoff. Even though I hold up everything I watch to a “could that really happen?” standard, I get that fantasy can make for good television. Ridiculous, pathetic characters falling squarely into clichéd categories? Not good television.

He clearly holds women in high contempt, which is disgustingly obvious in the misogynistic plots and character developments.

I know I can get up on my feminist high horse about shit like this, but that doesn’t mean I think every show has to be P.C. It just bugs the hell out of me when misogyny is disguised as P.C. bullshit. Ally McBeal a seemingly strong female lawyer who can get along just fine without a man? (Maybe for the first episode, anyway.) Give me Baywatch or Barb Wire any day. At least they don’t try to pretend it’s not about the boobs.