I have to admit that when I heard that the fourth book selection for book club was The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein, I was less than thrilled. The book was written from a dog's viewpoint, and the dog's owner was a race car driver. I am not a fan of dogs and I have little to no interest in race cars. Plus, it was known before-hand that the dog would die.
We decided on another book selection for the month. Unfortunately (or fortunately!) that book was difficult to obtain online or in libraries because it was an older publication, therefore, The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein was selected.
I was able to grab a copy at Target and start reading right away. I was pleasantly surprised. I felt sorry for the dog. I empathized with him. I AGREED with him.
I. Liked. The. Dog.
I liked Enzo the dog. And I related to the owner. Viewing the world through the eyes of a dog kind of makes one appreciate being human. Enzo believed that when a GOOD dog dies, he becomes human in his next life. That was his goal. To become human. To have a tongue made for articulating his words, thumbs to grasp things...
His insight into the world was dead-on; it was amazing. And the art of racing TOTALLY correlates to "the art of" life. Who knew?! For example, "The visble becomes inevitable." How true is that? Set a goal, focus on the "prize", and it will happen. Or, "No race has ever been won in the first corner; many races have been lost there."
Perhaps I think the book is wonderful because I went into the book thinking I wouldn't like it... or perhaps it really is a good book. I laughed, I cried, I got angry, I felt anxious at times, I cheered, laughed some more, and cried again. Enzo's owner goes through difficult times, and Enzo is there with him every step of the way.
I highly recommend The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Book review: Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon
Await Your Reply by Dan Chaon
Wow. This book was wild. When I was about 3/4 of the way through, I called a friend/book club member and asked, "Is this book like Pulp Fiction [the movie]?!" Yes, yes it is. Describing this book is like describing Pulp Fiction. It's something that can't really be done. The book starts at the end, but not... There's a "twist" in the book that some people didn't see coming, while others did.
The book is essentially three separate stories that link up in the final pages, but not in the way that you *think* they will... I was again immediately hooked because the book opens with a college dropout named Ryan, one of three main characters, in the passenger seat of a car with his severed hand sitting next to him in a cooler.
The other main character is Miles, a lonely man in his 30's working for a magic shop, who, in his "spare time", travels around the United States, and the world in search of his paranoid schizophrenic identical twin brother, Hayden, who vanished 10 years ago.
Lucy, the final main character, just finished high school and runs away with her history teacher, George, in pursuit of a new life, with the promises of millions of dollars he claims to have access to.
None of the main characters know one another, but at the end of the book, you find out that they are all connected. The book is like reading three separate stories, all beginning at different spots, and in the end, Pulp-Fiction-style, they all come together, and you think, "oooohhhhh!" and say, "I have to read this again!!"
The characters in the book are unhappy. Unhappy with life, themselves, the world... I don't know what else to say about the book without giving away anything. If you like Pulp Fiction, you'll like this book!
Wow. This book was wild. When I was about 3/4 of the way through, I called a friend/book club member and asked, "Is this book like Pulp Fiction [the movie]?!" Yes, yes it is. Describing this book is like describing Pulp Fiction. It's something that can't really be done. The book starts at the end, but not... There's a "twist" in the book that some people didn't see coming, while others did.
The book is essentially three separate stories that link up in the final pages, but not in the way that you *think* they will... I was again immediately hooked because the book opens with a college dropout named Ryan, one of three main characters, in the passenger seat of a car with his severed hand sitting next to him in a cooler.
The other main character is Miles, a lonely man in his 30's working for a magic shop, who, in his "spare time", travels around the United States, and the world in search of his paranoid schizophrenic identical twin brother, Hayden, who vanished 10 years ago.
Lucy, the final main character, just finished high school and runs away with her history teacher, George, in pursuit of a new life, with the promises of millions of dollars he claims to have access to.
None of the main characters know one another, but at the end of the book, you find out that they are all connected. The book is like reading three separate stories, all beginning at different spots, and in the end, Pulp-Fiction-style, they all come together, and you think, "oooohhhhh!" and say, "I have to read this again!!"
The characters in the book are unhappy. Unhappy with life, themselves, the world... I don't know what else to say about the book without giving away anything. If you like Pulp Fiction, you'll like this book!
Book review: The Help by Kathryn Stockett
I haven't done a "book report" since 4th or 5th grade. And I haven't written about a book since my college days, but one has to start again some time, right? ;) However, my book report will be unconventional in nature in that it's more about what I thought about the book as opposed to a summary of the book itself.
I recently joined a book club. OK, by "recently" I really mean four months ago. We just chose book number five: The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan. I searched through Borders book store in a variety of sections, but eventually had to go to the information desk to ask where I might find her novels. They were in literature. Interesting. I also found it interesting that the first book we read in book club, The Help by Kathryn Stockett was also in literature.
The Help by Kathryn Stockett (2009)
I started reading the book online in a "preview" and was immediately hooked. I went to my library and asked about the book and was informed I would be number 333 on the list to receive it, should I want to add my name to the waiting list. Wow! No thanks. We ordered it online for $10.
I realized only a few years ago that I thoroughly enjoy historical fiction. I discovered it by accident, but I won't go into that now. The Help is set in Mississippi in the early 1960's when discrimination and segregation was in its height; "coloreds" had to use different bathrooms, different drinking fountains, different grocery stores, different libraries; and women (maids) had to dress in polyester maid uniforms. Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his first speech within the storyline.
I'd like to think that one of the main characters, Skeeter, a 22 year old college-educated white woman, would have been me... had I lived in Mississippi in the early 1960's, but I think although I would have felt the same way about things, I wouldn't have been as bold about it as she was. She was born ahead of her time. Women didn't get college degrees and start careers -- they met a fine man, married, and had babies. Not Skeeter. She wanted to be a writer. And because she was close to her maid when she grew up (from a child through college), she appreciated "colored" people and what they had to offer. She was disgusted with the way others treated their maids.
I think because of her close friendship with her maid, she was more open, broad-minded and unbiased. She saw black people as people. And *that* was a rare quality to have in the early '60's. She wanted to expose the world to what life was really like for the black women. She wanted the world to see the women who cared for and raised white people's children, cooked their meals, cleaned their homes, all while being verbally and sometimes physically abused by their employers, or, at the very least, being talked about as if they aren't in the room, knowing they can do anything about it.
The Help raises questions:
How much of a person's character is shaped by the times in which they live?
Is racism inherent or taught?
The Help painted a picture of what it was like to be black in the early '60's in Mississippi. And also what it was like to be female in the early '60's. It's a definite page-turner, and you find yourself cheering for the maids and Skeeter until the very end. I laughed. I cried. I didn't want the book to end. And that's what a great book is all about...
Have you read The Help? Tell me what you thought.
I recently joined a book club. OK, by "recently" I really mean four months ago. We just chose book number five: The Bonesetter's Daughter by Amy Tan. I searched through Borders book store in a variety of sections, but eventually had to go to the information desk to ask where I might find her novels. They were in literature. Interesting. I also found it interesting that the first book we read in book club, The Help by Kathryn Stockett was also in literature.
The Help by Kathryn Stockett (2009)
I started reading the book online in a "preview" and was immediately hooked. I went to my library and asked about the book and was informed I would be number 333 on the list to receive it, should I want to add my name to the waiting list. Wow! No thanks. We ordered it online for $10.
I realized only a few years ago that I thoroughly enjoy historical fiction. I discovered it by accident, but I won't go into that now. The Help is set in Mississippi in the early 1960's when discrimination and segregation was in its height; "coloreds" had to use different bathrooms, different drinking fountains, different grocery stores, different libraries; and women (maids) had to dress in polyester maid uniforms. Martin Luther King, Jr. gave his first speech within the storyline.
I'd like to think that one of the main characters, Skeeter, a 22 year old college-educated white woman, would have been me... had I lived in Mississippi in the early 1960's, but I think although I would have felt the same way about things, I wouldn't have been as bold about it as she was. She was born ahead of her time. Women didn't get college degrees and start careers -- they met a fine man, married, and had babies. Not Skeeter. She wanted to be a writer. And because she was close to her maid when she grew up (from a child through college), she appreciated "colored" people and what they had to offer. She was disgusted with the way others treated their maids.
I think because of her close friendship with her maid, she was more open, broad-minded and unbiased. She saw black people as people. And *that* was a rare quality to have in the early '60's. She wanted to expose the world to what life was really like for the black women. She wanted the world to see the women who cared for and raised white people's children, cooked their meals, cleaned their homes, all while being verbally and sometimes physically abused by their employers, or, at the very least, being talked about as if they aren't in the room, knowing they can do anything about it.
The Help raises questions:
How much of a person's character is shaped by the times in which they live?
Is racism inherent or taught?
The Help painted a picture of what it was like to be black in the early '60's in Mississippi. And also what it was like to be female in the early '60's. It's a definite page-turner, and you find yourself cheering for the maids and Skeeter until the very end. I laughed. I cried. I didn't want the book to end. And that's what a great book is all about...
Have you read The Help? Tell me what you thought.
Book review: Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay
Sarah's Key by Tatiana de Rosnay
I have to admit that the cover of the book caught my eye, and not because of the two young children running in the foreground, but because it looked like Italy or France.
I opened the book at the rack and couldn't put it down. It opened in Paris, July 1942. "The girl was the first to hear the loud pounding on the door. Her room was closest to the entrance of the apartment. At first, dazed with sleep, she thought it was her father, coming up rom his hiding place in the cellar. He'd forgotten his keys, and was impatient because nopbody had heard his first, timid knock. But then came the voices, strong and brutal in the silence of the night. Nothing to do with her father. "Police! Open up! Now!"
From that moment on, I was hooked. Sarah and her parents were taken from their home in the middle of the night by the French police during the Vel' d' Hiv' round-up in WWII. Desperate to protect her younger brother, Sarah locks him in a bedroom cupboard (their secret hiding place) and promises to come back for him as soon as they are released.
The book bounces from Sarah's story to that of present-day Julia, an American journalist living in Paris, who is investigating the round-up. During her research, she realizes her husband's family has a link to Sarah...
It's amazing how the two stories intertwine! I could NOT put down this book! Because of my interest in WWII, I found myself looking forward to Sarah's story more than that of Julia's. However, in Julia's story, one found out more about Sarah as well. Toward the middle of the book I wanted more of BOTH stories.
Before this book, I'd never heard of Vel' d' Hiv'. The French didn't speak of it until 1995 when newly appointed "President Jacques Chirac officially acknowledged France's complicity in the murder and deportation of the Jews of Europe." (2001 Kamis, Toni L., The Complete Jewish Guide to France)
Sarah's Key is historical fiction at its best. Plausible. Realistic. I laughed. I cried. This book is incredible!!
I have to admit that the cover of the book caught my eye, and not because of the two young children running in the foreground, but because it looked like Italy or France.
I opened the book at the rack and couldn't put it down. It opened in Paris, July 1942. "The girl was the first to hear the loud pounding on the door. Her room was closest to the entrance of the apartment. At first, dazed with sleep, she thought it was her father, coming up rom his hiding place in the cellar. He'd forgotten his keys, and was impatient because nopbody had heard his first, timid knock. But then came the voices, strong and brutal in the silence of the night. Nothing to do with her father. "Police! Open up! Now!"
From that moment on, I was hooked. Sarah and her parents were taken from their home in the middle of the night by the French police during the Vel' d' Hiv' round-up in WWII. Desperate to protect her younger brother, Sarah locks him in a bedroom cupboard (their secret hiding place) and promises to come back for him as soon as they are released.
The book bounces from Sarah's story to that of present-day Julia, an American journalist living in Paris, who is investigating the round-up. During her research, she realizes her husband's family has a link to Sarah...
It's amazing how the two stories intertwine! I could NOT put down this book! Because of my interest in WWII, I found myself looking forward to Sarah's story more than that of Julia's. However, in Julia's story, one found out more about Sarah as well. Toward the middle of the book I wanted more of BOTH stories.
Before this book, I'd never heard of Vel' d' Hiv'. The French didn't speak of it until 1995 when newly appointed "President Jacques Chirac officially acknowledged France's complicity in the murder and deportation of the Jews of Europe." (2001 Kamis, Toni L., The Complete Jewish Guide to France)
Sarah's Key is historical fiction at its best. Plausible. Realistic. I laughed. I cried. This book is incredible!!
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Finding Myself - the Journey
Most people know who they are before they hit the age of 40. I'm still searching.
I first learned the term "adult child [of an alcoholic]" in 1997 when I was in therapy after finding my then-husband in bed with another woman. My therapist suggested a book on the subject and I read it, cover to cover in one day--and was overwhelmed. I wasn't ready. I could only deal with one thing at a time--and my marriage was failing. A couple of months later we separated, he continued to see the other woman, I started divorce papers... then I found out my father had pancreatic cancer. Divorce and death in the same year.
Fast forward twelve years. After a year of "dating adventures", I found myself in a desperate place. I was distraught. I cried most of my waking hours and the number of hours I slept was drastically increasing. My life had become unmanageable. I wanted out. I wanted a new life. It was one year ago in March when I went to my first Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA) meeting. It was then I heard the "ACA 12 steps" and "The Laundry List." It was then I began to see myself more clearly. It was then I began to heal.
"The term "adult child" means that we respond to adult interactions with the fear and self-doubt learned as children. This undercurrent of hidden fear can sabotage our choices and relationships. We can appear outwardly confident while living with a constant question of our worth." (taken from the ACA "red book" by ACAWSO)
After going to my first ACA meeting, it was as if a whole new world opened up to me. For the first time in my life, I was awake. I could see. Although chaotic, my life made more sense. I had answers. Answers about the choices I made; the jobs I have; the emotions I feel; my thoughts; my relationships, especially with men... everything was clear.
It was then I started to find myself.
(I must digress: the original blog was nearly complete when a computer glitch deleted everything but the first two sentences. I'm still irked by it, however, the deletion now allows me to go in another direction, so maybe, as I believe, it happened for a reason.)
Abandonment.
Abandonment is at the core of everything for me. If I only knew then what I know now...
I remember a couple of very telling dreams I had when I was about 14 years old. In the first dream I was kidnapped and thrown into the trunk of a car. Inside I had paper and a pen and I was drawing smiley faces on the paper, ripping it & throwing it outside, leaving a trail of smiley faces behind me in the hopes that my mother would follow the trail and find me. I woke up the next morning and told her about the dream; I expressed fear that she wouldn't be able to find me because she wasn't aware of the "special" smiley face I drew.
The second dream had a more obvious sign of abandonment. In this dream I was walking home from school. Once I got there I found the house empty. Empty and quiet. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I walked into the house in disbelief. They moved away without me.
Abandonment means more than being left alone. It can take many forms. Being left alone is the most obvious. It can involve parnetal perfectionism in which the child's behavior never measures up. Parents abandon their children when they fail to praise or recognize a child's effort to please the parent. Instead, as my father was, parents are quick to criticize and correct "bad" behavior. My "bad bahevior" was being a child. Talking wasn't accepted. Laughing wasn't good either. Nor was running, especially in the house. And slamming doors? Absolutely not. Quiet was what he wanted. Silence. In fact, I recently shared a story about watching home movies as children. We didn't have sound on our movies, so my brother and I would talk and laugh while we watched the films. My father would get angry and tell us to be quiet. Quiet. That's what I learned to be when I was around my father. Quiet. If I wasn't, I'd get yelled at...or worse. He'd be angry. He was always angry with me. I was never quiet enough. I wasn't good enough. I was bad.
Abandonment. As a child you learn to adjust. You learn to be quiet. You learn to avoid your father. Instead, you read; you write; you go to a friend's house; you play outside. You learn to people please. And in the process, you lose yourself.
By being a people pleaser, you avoid criticism. You avoid abandonment. You believe you won't be abandoned if you are "nice" and if you don't show anger. You will do anything to not be abandoned. You avoid learning who you are...and you hurt yourself and your relationships.
I first learned the term "adult child [of an alcoholic]" in 1997 when I was in therapy after finding my then-husband in bed with another woman. My therapist suggested a book on the subject and I read it, cover to cover in one day--and was overwhelmed. I wasn't ready. I could only deal with one thing at a time--and my marriage was failing. A couple of months later we separated, he continued to see the other woman, I started divorce papers... then I found out my father had pancreatic cancer. Divorce and death in the same year.
Fast forward twelve years. After a year of "dating adventures", I found myself in a desperate place. I was distraught. I cried most of my waking hours and the number of hours I slept was drastically increasing. My life had become unmanageable. I wanted out. I wanted a new life. It was one year ago in March when I went to my first Adult Children of Alcoholics (ACA) meeting. It was then I heard the "ACA 12 steps" and "The Laundry List." It was then I began to see myself more clearly. It was then I began to heal.
"The term "adult child" means that we respond to adult interactions with the fear and self-doubt learned as children. This undercurrent of hidden fear can sabotage our choices and relationships. We can appear outwardly confident while living with a constant question of our worth." (taken from the ACA "red book" by ACAWSO)
After going to my first ACA meeting, it was as if a whole new world opened up to me. For the first time in my life, I was awake. I could see. Although chaotic, my life made more sense. I had answers. Answers about the choices I made; the jobs I have; the emotions I feel; my thoughts; my relationships, especially with men... everything was clear.
It was then I started to find myself.
(I must digress: the original blog was nearly complete when a computer glitch deleted everything but the first two sentences. I'm still irked by it, however, the deletion now allows me to go in another direction, so maybe, as I believe, it happened for a reason.)
Abandonment.
Abandonment is at the core of everything for me. If I only knew then what I know now...
I remember a couple of very telling dreams I had when I was about 14 years old. In the first dream I was kidnapped and thrown into the trunk of a car. Inside I had paper and a pen and I was drawing smiley faces on the paper, ripping it & throwing it outside, leaving a trail of smiley faces behind me in the hopes that my mother would follow the trail and find me. I woke up the next morning and told her about the dream; I expressed fear that she wouldn't be able to find me because she wasn't aware of the "special" smiley face I drew.
The second dream had a more obvious sign of abandonment. In this dream I was walking home from school. Once I got there I found the house empty. Empty and quiet. The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I walked into the house in disbelief. They moved away without me.
Abandonment means more than being left alone. It can take many forms. Being left alone is the most obvious. It can involve parnetal perfectionism in which the child's behavior never measures up. Parents abandon their children when they fail to praise or recognize a child's effort to please the parent. Instead, as my father was, parents are quick to criticize and correct "bad" behavior. My "bad bahevior" was being a child. Talking wasn't accepted. Laughing wasn't good either. Nor was running, especially in the house. And slamming doors? Absolutely not. Quiet was what he wanted. Silence. In fact, I recently shared a story about watching home movies as children. We didn't have sound on our movies, so my brother and I would talk and laugh while we watched the films. My father would get angry and tell us to be quiet. Quiet. That's what I learned to be when I was around my father. Quiet. If I wasn't, I'd get yelled at...or worse. He'd be angry. He was always angry with me. I was never quiet enough. I wasn't good enough. I was bad.
Abandonment. As a child you learn to adjust. You learn to be quiet. You learn to avoid your father. Instead, you read; you write; you go to a friend's house; you play outside. You learn to people please. And in the process, you lose yourself.
By being a people pleaser, you avoid criticism. You avoid abandonment. You believe you won't be abandoned if you are "nice" and if you don't show anger. You will do anything to not be abandoned. You avoid learning who you are...and you hurt yourself and your relationships.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
SEX
That's right, I said it. Sex.
Last night I went through old journals of my "dating" days. And today I spent most of the afternoon & evening reading a book I just got called Loose Girl, a memoir of promiscuity by Kerry Cohen, a true story about her life. Although our lives were different, the feelings we both had (and have) really hit home. I am now left deeply saddened...
Saddened because I feel that part of me creeping up again. That lonely feeling, the emptiness, the gaping hole in my being that I desparately need to fill... with something... someone... as if having sex will make someone want me, want to be with me, love me...
*cry* It's so fucking humilitaing, these feelings of inadequacy. I look at my friends and their marraiges, and envy what they have. They see my "freedom" and envy my life. What they don't see though, are long nights, lying in bed alone, wishing for someone, anyone, to take away the lonely empty feeling inside. They don't see the tears on my face, in my pillow, my stuffy nose, my lips, now bright red from crying, my eyes bloodshot... they don't see that in my waking hours all I really want to do is go back to sleep, to go to my alternate life, where I'm happy and fulfilled. They don't see that I fill my waking hours with work and activities so that I don't have to admit to myself how lonely I really am.
The sad part is that I KNOW that having sex with someone won't make me feel better; it won't make someone want to be with me, want me, love me... but my heart aches to be loved. My heart literally hurts. When I am loved, I am someone important. Can't you see that? When I am loved, I am important; I am worthy.
I think back and recall my dating antics. Man, did I find some weirdos! Soon it became kind of a game with my significantly younger non-married friends to give each weirdo a fitting nickname based on their "unique" qualities. The first one given a name was "Drunky McGayerson". Many others followed, and included men with whom I never met in person. There was "diaper boy", "bondage guy", "best guy ever", "second best guy ever", "used to be best guy ever", "fat boy", "creepy man", "vampire guy", "[para]medic", "cuddle buddy", "RoBo", "the guy who says 'baby' every other word", and "Mr. Michigan" who I later found out actually lives in Africa. I slept with so many men I kept a calendar of my "conquests".
Soon I gave up on meeting Mr. Right and decided to focus on myself. This is when my timeline gets fuzzy. Everything blurred together. I don't remember what happened first...
I reconnected with a former high school classmate/former boyfriend. Neither one of us remembered why we broke up. Independently we each blamed ourselves. And we each thought of the other quite often in the last twenty-four years. I was vulnerable. He was married. His wife, amazing. Yet another reminder of what I did not have... what I wanted. He was kind, loving, soft spoken. He listened to me without judgement. I felt alive. And I fell in love. I fell hard. It was amazing. It was awful. I longed for his touch, to feel his lips on mine, to run my fingers through his hair, to hold his hand... But he wasn't mine to have. I was in love with him anyway. And he with me. We texted and talked--a lot. I also talked with his wife. Sometimes I'd be on the phone with one of them and instant messaging the other, at the same time. She trusted him implicitly.
I decided again to focus on myself. I got more involved in the gym and joined their "Look Good Naked Bootcamp." It seemed appropriate and somewhat ironic. Because of my hectic gym schedule, I stopped sleeping with random strangers, although I kept in touch with "best guy ever", "second best guy ever", and "cuddle buddy" as back-ups, because afterall, they weren't "strangers" so they didn't count. I "hooked up" with them each once more in the two year span of "bettering myself." And of course I was still talking to my former high school flame. And his wife.
After five months of intense boot camp, I was fried. Four months later I turned 40 and threw myself a party. Three months after that I had a complete emotional and mental melt-down and began therapy and attending ACA meetings, each once a week.
It was during this breakdown when I called former flame's wife and, through my sobbing, told her that later that day, I was telling him, her husband, that I could no longer see or speak with him; that I was in love with him and that wasn't a good thing. She consoled me; said she understood; and then she thanked me. She said she would be there to help me get through this. I was beside myself. She really is amazing. She's a better person than I. And she has the love of an amazing man.
My transformation began. Slowly. I had so much to say. I thought I'd be in weekly therapy sessions for the rest of my life. Once I realized I could trust him with my deepest and darkest "secrets", everything came rushing out. Anger I bottled up when I was a third grader at Roosevelt Elementary. Sadness I felt at names my father called me. Confusion about m y recent actions. My fear of being abandoned. Of being hurt. Fear of the future, of the unknown. Fear. Fear of not being good enough. The fear I felt the morning my father died. The utter emptiness I felt immediately following his death. Embarrassment of the things I did to keep a man, any man, in my life. The humiliation of knowing that what I was doing was wrong and not listening to myself. The humiliation of being that needy, that desparate, that alone... that pathetic.
I let it all out. I let go.
Then I met someone.
He treated me with kindness and respect, always. He knew about my recent past with other men. He still treated me with kindness and respect. His words were sweet, endearing, caring...
When I saw him, I didn't have that longing desire to immediately rip off his clothes. Instead I was extremely nervous. This feeling was different. Unfamiliar. I'm not used to being treated nicely. As odd as it sounds, it's uncomfortable; it doesn't seem natural. So I revert to sex. I *know* sex. It's after one in the morning. We lay in bed together, him spooning me, holding me close. I reach my hand behind me and find his rock hard cock. This, I think, this is familiar. I am in control now. He wants me...
Last night I went through old journals of my "dating" days. And today I spent most of the afternoon & evening reading a book I just got called Loose Girl, a memoir of promiscuity by Kerry Cohen, a true story about her life. Although our lives were different, the feelings we both had (and have) really hit home. I am now left deeply saddened...
Saddened because I feel that part of me creeping up again. That lonely feeling, the emptiness, the gaping hole in my being that I desparately need to fill... with something... someone... as if having sex will make someone want me, want to be with me, love me...
*cry* It's so fucking humilitaing, these feelings of inadequacy. I look at my friends and their marraiges, and envy what they have. They see my "freedom" and envy my life. What they don't see though, are long nights, lying in bed alone, wishing for someone, anyone, to take away the lonely empty feeling inside. They don't see the tears on my face, in my pillow, my stuffy nose, my lips, now bright red from crying, my eyes bloodshot... they don't see that in my waking hours all I really want to do is go back to sleep, to go to my alternate life, where I'm happy and fulfilled. They don't see that I fill my waking hours with work and activities so that I don't have to admit to myself how lonely I really am.
The sad part is that I KNOW that having sex with someone won't make me feel better; it won't make someone want to be with me, want me, love me... but my heart aches to be loved. My heart literally hurts. When I am loved, I am someone important. Can't you see that? When I am loved, I am important; I am worthy.
I think back and recall my dating antics. Man, did I find some weirdos! Soon it became kind of a game with my significantly younger non-married friends to give each weirdo a fitting nickname based on their "unique" qualities. The first one given a name was "Drunky McGayerson". Many others followed, and included men with whom I never met in person. There was "diaper boy", "bondage guy", "best guy ever", "second best guy ever", "used to be best guy ever", "fat boy", "creepy man", "vampire guy", "[para]medic", "cuddle buddy", "RoBo", "the guy who says 'baby' every other word", and "Mr. Michigan" who I later found out actually lives in Africa. I slept with so many men I kept a calendar of my "conquests".
Soon I gave up on meeting Mr. Right and decided to focus on myself. This is when my timeline gets fuzzy. Everything blurred together. I don't remember what happened first...
I reconnected with a former high school classmate/former boyfriend. Neither one of us remembered why we broke up. Independently we each blamed ourselves. And we each thought of the other quite often in the last twenty-four years. I was vulnerable. He was married. His wife, amazing. Yet another reminder of what I did not have... what I wanted. He was kind, loving, soft spoken. He listened to me without judgement. I felt alive. And I fell in love. I fell hard. It was amazing. It was awful. I longed for his touch, to feel his lips on mine, to run my fingers through his hair, to hold his hand... But he wasn't mine to have. I was in love with him anyway. And he with me. We texted and talked--a lot. I also talked with his wife. Sometimes I'd be on the phone with one of them and instant messaging the other, at the same time. She trusted him implicitly.
I decided again to focus on myself. I got more involved in the gym and joined their "Look Good Naked Bootcamp." It seemed appropriate and somewhat ironic. Because of my hectic gym schedule, I stopped sleeping with random strangers, although I kept in touch with "best guy ever", "second best guy ever", and "cuddle buddy" as back-ups, because afterall, they weren't "strangers" so they didn't count. I "hooked up" with them each once more in the two year span of "bettering myself." And of course I was still talking to my former high school flame. And his wife.
After five months of intense boot camp, I was fried. Four months later I turned 40 and threw myself a party. Three months after that I had a complete emotional and mental melt-down and began therapy and attending ACA meetings, each once a week.
It was during this breakdown when I called former flame's wife and, through my sobbing, told her that later that day, I was telling him, her husband, that I could no longer see or speak with him; that I was in love with him and that wasn't a good thing. She consoled me; said she understood; and then she thanked me. She said she would be there to help me get through this. I was beside myself. She really is amazing. She's a better person than I. And she has the love of an amazing man.
My transformation began. Slowly. I had so much to say. I thought I'd be in weekly therapy sessions for the rest of my life. Once I realized I could trust him with my deepest and darkest "secrets", everything came rushing out. Anger I bottled up when I was a third grader at Roosevelt Elementary. Sadness I felt at names my father called me. Confusion about m y recent actions. My fear of being abandoned. Of being hurt. Fear of the future, of the unknown. Fear. Fear of not being good enough. The fear I felt the morning my father died. The utter emptiness I felt immediately following his death. Embarrassment of the things I did to keep a man, any man, in my life. The humiliation of knowing that what I was doing was wrong and not listening to myself. The humiliation of being that needy, that desparate, that alone... that pathetic.
I let it all out. I let go.
Then I met someone.
He treated me with kindness and respect, always. He knew about my recent past with other men. He still treated me with kindness and respect. His words were sweet, endearing, caring...
When I saw him, I didn't have that longing desire to immediately rip off his clothes. Instead I was extremely nervous. This feeling was different. Unfamiliar. I'm not used to being treated nicely. As odd as it sounds, it's uncomfortable; it doesn't seem natural. So I revert to sex. I *know* sex. It's after one in the morning. We lay in bed together, him spooning me, holding me close. I reach my hand behind me and find his rock hard cock. This, I think, this is familiar. I am in control now. He wants me...
Monday, March 15, 2010
The Beginning
Wow. My very first “real” blog entry. It seems that I should write something profound, but my mind has been pretty “blah” lately and I’m unmotivated.
I wish I had the capability to think myself to another place… in the present, past or future (here or in another country).
I’d rather be in Venice (Italy) right now, walking the cobblestone streets, crossing the little bridges, watching boats float in the canal below and couples walking hand-in-hand. It’s evening and the streets are just starting to come alive. Street musicians are popping up all over the city to entertain locals and travelers alike while at the same time soothing themselves with melodies that come straight from their soul. No one is in a hurry… there’s no stress, no pressure; it’s all about relaxation, family and friends…and delicious food.
I am never more alive than when I travel and meet new people, learn new languages, and taste amazing foods… Nothing opens up the mind like travel. That’s what I’m most passionate about—learning new things through traveling. I’m not “rich”, not in a monetary sense, but I have enriched my life through my travel experiences.
How’s that for my official first blog?
I wish I had the capability to think myself to another place… in the present, past or future (here or in another country).
I’d rather be in Venice (Italy) right now, walking the cobblestone streets, crossing the little bridges, watching boats float in the canal below and couples walking hand-in-hand. It’s evening and the streets are just starting to come alive. Street musicians are popping up all over the city to entertain locals and travelers alike while at the same time soothing themselves with melodies that come straight from their soul. No one is in a hurry… there’s no stress, no pressure; it’s all about relaxation, family and friends…and delicious food.
I am never more alive than when I travel and meet new people, learn new languages, and taste amazing foods… Nothing opens up the mind like travel. That’s what I’m most passionate about—learning new things through traveling. I’m not “rich”, not in a monetary sense, but I have enriched my life through my travel experiences.
How’s that for my official first blog?
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