Friday 5

Well if you read today's earlier post, you've probably gathered it's been a rather draining week for me. But that hasn't stopped me from putting together some Friday afternoon pictures to make me smile. I mean you. Make you smile.

If I try to write anything of substance at this point I fear I'll just sound like a bumbling, brain-fried hippie. Short and sweet it is - have a great weekend! Also, I have noticed that my page views have consistently been going up. I don't do anything to promote my blog other than constantly post about it on my facebook, so I'm not sure how you Swedes are finding me but I don't care! You're all fantastic and I appreciate that someone other than my mom is taking time to read my ramblings. Stay golden.

Hard Truth

This is what I remembered.

He had a spare ticket to a concert that night, and asked me to go with him.

"I will...unless you think it would be weird?" I asked, having had an experience or two with older men by that time.

"Why would it be weird?" he asked back, looking genuinely puzzled and slightly amused.

So I said yes.

I arrived at his house wearing very high heels, I met his friend and we all had a drink, talked about music, art, a trip they had just taken. After the three (or four...?) bottles of prosecco were gone, we decided it was time to call a cab. I regretted not eating dinner.

By the time we got to the concert venue my vision was bleary. I have flashes of the show, thinking how tiny the singer looked from so high up in the private box. I had another drink, maybe two. I felt his hand on my leg and decided it was okay. I met people who I had already met before. I asked someone for blow (no luck). It was time to leave.

The cab ride home is lost on me. The next thing I remember is standing in the patio doorway, immersed in the shadows and smoke, then tangled up with him in the kitchen. 

I woke up in the bedroom the next morning. I felt sick. Violated. Hung over. Betrayed. Disgusted with him. Disgusted with myself.

I showered and went home. Pretended that it was all a joke, an embarrassing misunderstanding, one more silly drunken one night stand...

Almost three years later, I am waiting for him in a dimly lit restaurant downtown. 

Even though I have very obviously been avoiding him all this time, he responded immediately to my email asking if we could catch up some time. 

He arrives and tries to kiss my cheek, which I hastily deflect. He smells the same. My palms start to sweat.

We sit across from each other and order two glasses of wine. We make small talk. He must be wondering why he's here.

I start to tell him why I've been so awkward every time we've run into each other, how I remember that night, how it makes me feel (it's hard to say these things out loud, my eyes are closed or focused on the wall behind him).

He is shocked. It's apparent from his expression that he did not anticipate a conversation like this.

He is very willing to communicate, willing to try to understand my side of the story. Then he tells me what he remembers...

My flirtatious gestures. How I sat on his lap. That it was me who suggested we go back to his house. And I assured him over and over that I was fine.

This rang true with me, as I started to remember and slowly admit to myself my past behaviors. 

We apologized to each other, and as I walked off in to the cold twilight to catch my bus I felt very strange.

Lighter, certainly. To know I was not taken advantage of was a relief. To know I created that version of the story in my mind to make myself feel better was troubling.

I have been deeply, madly in love with one person thus far in my life. When it ended I was lost. I drank excessively and used drugs carelessly. I felt broken and sad, and tried to soothe that ache with sex. My experience with heartache is common. Most people reading this have felt the pain that comes from a bad breakup, and know the shame of the actions that often follow. 

But admitting it to yourself, that is the difficult part. I realized how much I had let my shame affect me. It hit me like a truck one night, to have a glimpse of comprehension at how terrified I am of being vulnerable. Because if I'm ashamed of some of my past actions...who else could ever understand? Who could love me while I am this way?

I have written before about not letting your past define you, and it's something I strongly believe in. But it's not the bold matter-of-fact that I am divorced which holds me back. That issue is out in the open, it's plain to see. The wedding pictures are still at my Dad's farm, tucked away somewhere. Everyone knows it happened. It is challenging but ultimately not that hard to let go and move on from that.

Instead, it's the nights that only I know about. The emptiness echoing through me in the darkness, as I rolled over and told him that he can leave whenever he wants (the sooner the better). The hangovers that left me shaking and numb. The flat expression in the mirror that no one else was around to see. It's hard to escape a past that no one really knows about. It's easier to pretend that it just didn't happen, easier to tell yourself it was someone else after all.

And yet, life is not easy. I don't want to exist in fear, hiding these truths from myself and ultimately holding myself back from emotional fulfillment. So I have been going through the process of realizing what really happened. What I was really like. How unhappy I really was. And I forgive myself. And I cry. And I meditate. And I talk about it. And I let go. 

I realize and embrace the fact that I am not that person anymore. That I'm happy, healthy and accountable for my own actions; that I have peace; that I am beginning to know what it really means to love and accept myself. As long as I continue to face these hard truths, I will continue to become the person I am meant to be.

Adult Angst + Hi 5

Once again, I want to write about something that I can't write about. Not yet anyway. What I will write about instead is how I walk to work every day, and as I get closer and closer to the office I feel less and less like myself. I start to feel more like a shell of Brittany Munro, my true nature-and-glitter-loving self must go into hiding, so I don't get pulled in and brainwashed by the corporate drag of office life. I wonder, as my 25th birthday approaches, if everyone eventually feels this way? Is this just how life goes, and I have to escape to my real life on the weekends and holidays?

Something about that just seems wrong. Something must be done. I don't want to spend my days tip tapping away at a keyboard, or answering phones. I want to have conversations with people, I want to burn incense, I want to be naked outside, I want to dance in the moonlight. (I think I was born in the wrong era.) Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with me...other people my age seem to be getting their lives sorted out. They have careers, not jobs. They have cars and are getting ready to buy houses. They have dinner parties and weddings and discussions about waiting a few more years to have children.

Perhaps "settling down" at the beginning of my 20's has had more of an impact on me than I first thought. Having my whole life plan penned down in 5-year steps, convincing myself that that is the life I want...and then realizing it's not...realizing that I can change the plan.

Perhaps I'm doing adult-life backwards. So maybe I should just leap - leave all this growing-up nonsense behind for a little while and see if what I REALLY want becomes clear. As nice as a Tiffany engagement ring and a downtown loft with a smart handsome man appeal to me...can I get away with that lifestyle with hairy underarms and refusing to wear a bra? Maybe. But the thought of all that any time soon is more suffocating than soothing.

I guess all those episodes of Beverly Hills 90210 are getting to me. I don't have SAT's or the prom to worry about, so I'm focusing on something else. I know how easily influenced I am by television; when I was immersed in The L Word I very nearly convinced myself I'm a lesbian (I still haven't ruled it out completely). At any rate, diary session over. I'm going to tell myself that this is just all part of Life, The Grand Mystery. Worrying will just give me wrinkles.

And here's the Hi-5! Happy Weekend!

Friday Night Fights

Have you ever met someone who seemed really nice and normal, then after a few drinks and casual  conversation, you realize you might end up murdering them in a dark alley later that night? Me neither. But I did have an interesting experience last Friday when I went out for a few post-work bevvy's with a friend, his friend, and his friend's friends from work. Friendly, right? It began that way... After a round or two and get-to-know-you chit chat, when the Cowboy (as he was wearing a cowboy hat, giant belt buckle, etc.) started suggesting shots and giving me those 'I wonder what you'd look like on the back of my horse' eyes, he offhandedly  made a comment I have dreaded hearing for the past five years. "Divorced people are damaged goods...I sure don't want 'em."

Seeing as how I wasn't drunk and still had a filter, I kept my mouth shut and slowly sipped my wine, weighing options in my mind for the most appropriate response. I settled on pretending I didn't hear him, and instead had a very enjoyable conversation about life, love and the mistakes we make along the way, with a 50-ish man who slightly reminded me of Santa, until he got up for a smoke break.

Because I was engaged at 18, married at 19 and divorced at 20, I cut myself some slack. No one knows what they're doing at that age, but everyone thinks they do. I had good intentions, but I was young and stubborn (and stupid). I have done my best to learn about myself through that experience, who I am and what I really want out of my relationships.

I say all of this, and yet at the back of my mind there has always been fear. Fear that I will meet someone someday who doesn't just say "wow...that's weird...but...ok" and moves on. Fear that I will be very fond of someone and this piece of my past will change the way they look at me, will make me not good enough, will label me damaged. I usually get the whole divorcee thing out of the way early when I meet people, friends or otherwise, because it's easier to explain it on the second or third date than a year into a relationship. But before I divulge, I am always tempted to just leave it and say nothing. However, I know that silence would make me a prisoner of my fear. So I talk.

Back to Friday night - some time had passed, and as I sat there wondering if I should switch to the gin, I turned to find the Cowboy sitting beside me, saying not to worry, he had already ordered me another drink. We chatted for a while about all sorts of things, such as the US job market, his dog, my future plans, the healthcare system, his issues with feminists ("women shouldn't be allowed to be doctors or lawyers" is a direct quote). I was becoming less and less of a fan and it was getting harder and harder for me to be polite and not throw my drink at him. He was, of course, oblivious.

And then it happened. He turned to me and quietly said "so, would you consider seeing me again sometime?" I looked at him, smiled sweetly and replied "well, I don't think you would want to see me again. See, I'm divorced. And I guess that would make me...damaged goods, right?" First he thought I was lying, but soon realized I wasn't, which launched a whole new conversation, which eventually led to his failed relationships ("women just cost me money!" "if feminism hadn't happened, I'd be happily married right now"). I was well into the gin at this point and was pretty much shouting at him about how he is probably bad at communicating. My friend wisely decided it was time to leave, and as we walked out the door I couldn't help myself from venting  - how could it be humanly possible to spout that much nonsense in such a short period of time?? I escaped to a dark, dirty dance floor to get pushed around, stepped on and spilled on by people who didn't care if I was a woman, a man or a bottle of hot sauce.

As I later reflected on this night, I realized something very important. I don't need to be afraid of someone not liking me because I'm divorced. The kind of person who thinks that way, I will want nothing to do with. Our past is a part of who we are, yes. But it is not what defines us, and it will only hold us back if we let it.   So I will continue to have personal conversations with strangers, and I will continue to share my experiences. In putting myself out there, I sometimes make a meaningful connection and am fortunate enough to gain insight into someone else's life. Then sometimes I just want to slap a bitch. C'est la vie.
       

And Then I Started Crying (Hi-5!)

I remember having my Kindergarten love interest over one afternoon and we were watching Disney's Beauty and The Beast. It was the second last scene, where The Beast tells Belle that he loves her, as he closes his eyes and breathes his last. She softly tells him that she returns his affections, as a single tear rolls down her face onto his unmoving chest, mixing in with the rain. At this point, I am sitting on the living room floor sobbing and my soon-to-be-first kiss is wondering what on earth is going on, and asking my mom if I'm ok.

Sigh...I wish that was the only instance of non-private crying in my young life. But, alas, 'tis not the case. I cried all the time. I cried on the school bus, while reading Where The Red Fern Grows. I cried in class when we watched The Green Mile in grade ten English. I cried on stage as they looped Bittersweet Symphony for our graduation ceremony (and I didn't even like high school). And later, when I was in the midst of le divorce, I cried literally all the time. I'm proud to say I've only been the drunk crying girl at the bar twice, and one of those times I had the decency to hide in the bathroom.

It's cathartic. It's healing. It's healthy (usually). And for a long time after my ex and I separated I was unable to cry. I felt dry, numb. My best friend moved away and on our last night hanging out at my place, she hugged me and wept as I awkwardly patted her back and assured her that I was upset too. I was unable to deal with a little bit of sadness, because once there is a tiny crack in the dam, it won't be long until everything crumbles and the villagers are being swept away.

I've evened out through the past few years and I think I now have generally healthy tear-duct activity. Except that night I was balling on the floor because Dana Fairbanks (character on the show The L Word) died from breast cancer. Ok I may have been drunk that time too. Or when I started tearing up at the pub when my friend's dad was visiting and it made me miss my dad. Right, so there have actually been a few times lately that my display of emotion would be considered weird or inappropriate or embarrassing...ughh...

But it appears that that is who I am. I am the weird crying girl. I'm ok with that. I would rather cry and have people look at me strangely and wonder if I am deeply emotionally unbalanced than never cry at all. With the holidays quickly approaching and things in my life lining up for a big change, my emotions are in over-drive right now, and I expect that my outbursts will only increase. But hey, that's what purse-sized Kleenex packages are for.

I just felt like I needed to get that off my chest. Being comfortable with my emotions is something I've been working on for a while, and it will probably be an on-going project. It's funny to think that while I have a blog on the World Wide Web, that anyone can see, and which I constantly blabber on, there are still parts of me that are very much secret, very much closed off. Even I don't know what's going on with me some of the time.

So as I look forward to sleeping in this weekend, I leave you with the Friday Hi 5, and the promise of some kind of sense from this blog in the coming week, and many other exciting adventures to come. Adieu.