Tidying up loose ends

Hello, bitchez.  It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?  Lots has happened to me since the last time I blogged, and I’ll try to sum them up in a thousand words or less*.

First of all, I am single again.  Not going to get into any details on that.  I will say it’s for the best, but it hasn’t been easy – I’ll leave it at that.

I am still politically-blogging for ABL over at her place, www.angryblacklady.com and raising hell whenever I can, in a good way.

You can find me on the Twitter Machine after I vowed I would never tweet at @asiangrrlMN.

My latest bit of good news is that I have been asked by another respected lefty blogger to write fiction for his site, OsborneInk.com, which is an amalgamation of blog posts, cartoon, fiction, videos, and other shit.  We chatted it up on the Twitter Machine – really, all the best deals are made on Twitter – and when he found out I wrote fiction, he asked to read a piece.  I sent him one, and he asked me if I did flash fiction**.  It’s not my strong point by far, but I have done it in the past.  So, he extended an invitation for me to write fiction for his site when the muse hits.  I accepted immediately and was elated.  I am moving away from blogging and back to my first love – well, actually my second as poetry was my first – fiction.  As much as I get jazzed about blogging, my fiction nurtures me like no other writing I do – and I do a hell of a lot of writing.

That's all she wrote, folks.

That neatly segues into the real reason I am writing this blog post.  Hm.  I know what I want to say, but I’m finding it surprisingly difficult.  *clears throat, then spits it out*  I am officially closing my blog.  This is my last post, and it’s a bittersweet feeling to close shop.

When I started my blog in January of 2009 I believe it was, it was because I had shit to say, and since I’m a writer by nature, why not blog?  I wanted to figure out what I really thought about my issues and other topics, and, I do my best thinking through my writing.  In addition, I kept thinking how I wish I’d had something like my blog back in the day when I was in the depths of my depression and wondering how the fuck I was going to get out of it.  I would have loved to know I wasn’t alone, that there were other people who had gone through experiences similar to mine and survived.  I have received emails from people saying how much it meant to them to read a particular blog post I’d written, and that never failed to make me smile.

I also loved the small, but tight community I built up.  Y’all were steadfast in reading and in commenting.  I loved the warmth, the humor, the compassion, and the snark you exhibited; I couldn’t have asked for a better better commentariat – and for that, I thank you.

Writing my blog has been therapeutic for me, and I can’t imagine the last three years without it.  That said, I no longer feel the need to do personal blogging any more.  I will continue with the political blogging, obviously, but I no longer have the urge to spill my guts to all and sundry.

Instead, I want to focus on my freelance editing, my political blogging, and my fiction.  As to the last, I am shutting down my blog – the archives will be available – and turning my website into my fiction website.  I am excited as hell about this, even if I’m a bit overwhelmed at the idea of gutting my entire site and essentially starting over.  Thank you all for reading my blog, and I hope you will come back when I have the site all gussied up after the renovations.

With that, I bring down the curtains on The World According to MEH.  It’s been one hell of a ride***.

Finis

*No promises.  I do love my words.

**Under 2,000 words – 2,500 at the most.  Quit laughing.  I can do it.  Seriously.  STFU!

***736 words, y’all.  Told you I could do it.

Inside, I’m laughing, but also rolling my eyes.  I said, “Why did Dad tell you not to tell me that?”, thinking, “He knows I do the opposite of what you say”, or, “‘Coz you sound a leeeetle bit crazy right now!”  She said, “He knows that you’ve been hurt in your past affairs, well, you know what I mean–”. I interjected, “Relationships.”  She went on as if she hadn’t heard me, “And he doesn’t want you to get hurt again.  He’s very protective of you in that way.”  That was the cringe-worthy part.  I shrugged it off, but I also felt a flash of pure anger.  Protective of me?  What the fuck is that shit?  Still, I said in my head, “A good man is better than God, apparently!” and moved the conversation to another topic.  This is huge because even a year ago, I would have gotten into it with her over her words.  Now, I can just say, “Whatever, Mom,” and go about my merry way.  And, as friends pointed out, if she thinks she had a hand in me meeting the ape, she’ll be more for the relationship.  And as another friend said, “Let her nag God.  At least she’s leaving you alone!”

All right.  Back to my narrative.  When we last left the titular couple, they were climbing Mount Everest, swimming in the Amazon, and–oh, all right.  They were at taiji and meeting with the grrl’s best friend for dinner.  Which went swimmingly.   We closed down the Thai restaurant, causing the manager to push a vacuum noisily past us as a hint to get the fuck out.

Then, Friday.  Idle’s last full day here.  We planned on getting Indian food (his favorite) and visiting the Snoopy statues around St. Paul.  We didn’t manage the latter, but we did do the former.  My absolute favorite Indian restaurant got raided and closed years ago.  Three others have come and gone, but couldn’t hold a candle.  The one to which I took Idle was very good, though–except for one thing.  It was ninety degrees out that day, and the restaurant didn’t have air, for whatever reason.  It was brutal, especially since both of us do not like the heat at all.  Sometime in the evening, I started saying, “It’s not so hot.  It’s not bad at all!”  Idle looked at me and kindly said, “You’re hallucinating, honey.”  Apparently, part of being dehydrated is entertaining delusions.  I didn’t care ‘coz at least I didn’t feel as if my brains were being scrambled in preparation for the zombie apocalypse.

The weather broke while we were in the restaurant, waiting to pay.  Idle had gone out to smoke, and he said it looked like rain.  I have to say, as I watched him walk away (nice ass, by the way.  Yum), I was bursting with pride that he was my man.  I loved walking around with him by my side–absolutely loved it.  I thanked the powers that be who brought him into my life (including ABL) as my skin melted off my bones.  Afterwards, he asked me about the cuisine in general in MN, and I said it was bland and not very spicy.  He said that when I go visit him in Ottawa, he’ll take me to an authentic Indian restaurant.  Yum!

Then, we went back to my place after picking up some beer and celebrated Canada’s Day.  Or, as he insisted on calling it, Canada Day.  I had my customary one beer (OK, half) as we sat on the porch, smoked, and talked.  We held hands or had our hands on each other’s knees, and there was no place I would rather have been than with my ape. The night had pleasantly cooled off because of the rain, and it was so peaceful sitting outside with Idle.

People who have known me for some time know that for most of my life, happiness was not what I was seeking. To me, happiness is a fleeting emotion, and it’s to be cherished when it happens, but not sought after. No, for me, my Holy Grail was peace. I just wanted to feel serene, calm, and at peace with myself and the universe. When I was the deepest in the abyss, I quietly gave up hope that I would ever find any serenity or peace in this lifetime. But, that’s exactly what I find with Idle, even over the intertubez. Just chatting with him on Skype soothes my frazzled nerves (and by chat, I mean typing ‘coz neither of us likes the phone), and that’s especially helpful with my mother here for her yearly visit. The feeling of peace that came over me was especially strong when he was here, though. My mind, always going at hyperspeed, would slow down and just go twice as fast as most people’s with a touch of his hand. And, after an explosive session of sexing in which he’d made me come a time or a dozen, my mind, body, and soul would all be aligned and at peace. I would have a hazy, melty, blissed-out feeling that, from what I’ve been told, some people experience during meditation*. I had no desire to do anything or think anything. I didn’t feel I had to jump up and take a shower (as I used to a long time ago). I didn’t have to talk if I didn’t want to, but I could if I felt like it.

This feeling didn’t just last for a few seconds or even a few minutes–no. It lasted until we went to sleep. Or rather, he went to sleep. I know it might sound like not a big thing, but he gave me the gift of a quiet mind, and I treasured it very much. As I spooned him while he fell asleep, I would match my heartbeat to his, and I would just be content to touch him and to breathe. I’m usually someone who has to do three or four things at once–it was incredibly relieving to only have to do one, at the most, two.

Then, the day I was dreading was upon me. Saturday. It was hard. I’m not going to lie. Driving him to the airport was fucking hard. Holding his hand as he slowly made his way through security? Even harder. And, when I had to let go so he could go through the gate? Killed me. I was numb as I left the airport, and somehow, I made it home. I felt something was missing, though, and that something, well, someone, would be him.

I’m not going to lie to you. Being away from my ape is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Yes, I’ve done long-distance relationships before, but never with someone with whom I actually had a future. By the time Idle left, we both knew that we wanted to be together; we just had to figure out how to make that happen. To that end, I am visiting him in three weeks to check out his fair city, Ottawa. After that, we will discuss the pros and cons of Minneapolis v. Ottawa, and then we will make a decision.

We. It’s still a little weird to say that, to think of myself as part of a team. Weird, but wonderful, too. From a very young age, I learned that the only person I could rely on was me. And, to be painfully honest, I couldn’t rely on myself much, either. But, for as little as I trusted myself, I trusted other people even less. And, because I was so fucked up, I chose partners who reinforced my view that love was not to be trusted–and neither were romantic partners. I’ve never really thought of myself as part of a we, even when I was in a steady relationship. I chose partners who would eventually leave me, therefore, I felt justified in never fully trusting said partner. A neat little vicious cycle I had trapped myself in without fully being conscious that I was doing it.

In addition, I saw what my parents’ marriage had done to my mother (or how she was in it because I can’t say how she was before it), and I wanted no part of that. My father treated her like a maid/housekeeper/all-around-drudge, and he bristled any time she tried to hold him accountable to her or to the family. Then, when I discovered feminism, I had the perfect reason for eschewing marriage. It was the feminist thing to do! Patriarchy! Mantle of the oppressor! And, there was the fail-safe position of, “Well, I couldn’t marry a woman I loved, so I’m not going to marry a man, either!” Let me hasten to say that these are all legitimate reasons to be wary of relationships and marriage in particular, but I was using them as excuses so I wouldn’t really have to examine the issue. My best friend and I used to discuss marriage back in the day (she’s been married for as long as we’ve been friends), and any time I would complain about this or that about marriage, she would say, “Marriage is what you make of it. You get to decide what marriage means to you. You and your spouse.”

I pooh-poohed her at the time because I was deep into my “relationships fucking suck” mentality, but I have slowly started to see that she’s right. I don’t have to do X, Y, or Z while in a relationship because women are expected to do it or because I think I should do it. It helps that Idle doesn’t have many preconceived notions about relationships, either–except that once you commit to a relationship, you work hard at it. I can get behind that!

I feel like I’ve known Idle forever, and yet, I’m learning new things about him all the time. I marvel at how much change I’ve made, just in the short time we’ve been together.  Silly things like the public declarations of affection I make on his FB wall, mostly through videos, not to mention the very fact that I have my status as in a relationship with Idle Primate.  That may not seem like a big thing, but it kinda is.  If you had told me a year ago, no, six months ago that I would be in a relationship and declaring it thus at this point in my life, I would have laughed in your face.  Or, in my mind so as to not be too rude. I was skittish of even contemplating a relationship, let alone declaring myself in one–and loving it. We call each other by endearing nicknames–this is another thing I never would have done two years ago.

A big one: I see myself as having a future–one starring him. Or rather, starring us. In the same place (be it Canada or the US or elsewhere) within a year at the very most. I see us living together at some point soon. Let me pause and repeat that: I see us living together. WTF? This from the woman who declared she would never live with someone (what is it ‘they’ say about never saying never?)! We’ve discussed marriage, and I haven’t run screaming from the room, my hands over my ears. Again, WTF? Who is this woman? I can barely recognize me sometimes.

Another big change is the fact that I chose to be with a man who has a history of committing to his partner and who is happily monogamous. He’s not someone with one eye out for the better thing, never quite content with what he has. He loves me, and I know this (I really do, and that’s another new feeling for me), and he wants to be with me. With me. No ifs, ands, or buts. He wants me to be his primary partner–no, he wants me to be his only partner–and I can’t tell you how wonderful that makes me feel.

More to the point (yes, another big realization), he is the only man I want, too. I’ve pondered monogamy and nonmonogamy for much of my life. I can see the value in both, but my realization is, I’m a one-person person. Part of the reason I hesitate to love is because I do it so deeply when I actually do dare to love. And, I could give many well-thought-out reasons as to why I have chosen monogamy, but the bottom line is, this is who I am. I can be happy in a polyamorous relationship as long as I’m the primary partner, but I think I am more wired to be monogamous. I’m not sure about how hardwired it is in me, and more to the point, I don’t really care. I want to be monogamous with Idle. That’s all I need to know.

It’s been a long journey to get to this place. I am a person who has regretted much of my life, but I would not change a thing if it meant not being with Idle right now. I don’t know where we’re going (literally and metaphorically) or what will happen in our future, but what I do know is that I’m ready to finally take a chance on love.

P.S. I decided to post this without much editing. Why? ‘Coz.

P.P.S.  The videos are songs that are now ours.  The first, there are three versions.  My favorite is the original by Depeche Mode, which I posted on his wall; his is by the band that is comprised of pin-up girls, The Saturdays; we both like the Nouvelle Vague embedded in this post.  The second video is one that the ape posted on my wall.  The third vid, I posted this version on his wall after he posted the original by Abba on mine. The fourth is a song I posted on his wall. It’s one journey’s end, but just the beginning of our journey together.

*Not me. I hate meditation, as I’ve expounded on before.

Where was I?  Oh yes, musing about having Idle in my life.  More on that later.  For now, more on the rest of his visit.  We’re up to Wednesday, and I have to share with you an odd detail about me:  I hate the end of things with a passion.  If I’m watching a TV series on DVD, I will delay watching the last episode because then I have no more left to watch!  It’s so bad, I start the countdown when I am halfway through the series (if there are not a large number of episodes).  Take, for example, Miracles.  There were only 13 episodes made of the show.  When I hit 7, I became increasingly morose with each episode viewed because it meant I had less to watch than I had already watched, if that makes sense.

I’m the same way with trips (at least, ones I want to take).  When the midpoint arrives, I start becoming depressed thinking about the end of the trip and how soon it’s approaching.  It’s funny because my friends were shocked I’d let Idle stay in my house for eight days (so long!), and all I could think of was, “I wish he were staying longer.”

Wednesday was the halfway point of his trip.  I pushed it to the back of my mind because I wanted to enjoy his company to the fullest, but it was lurking like an evil, lurky thing.  We went to my therapy session–or rather, I went to my session and he wandered around St. Paul, the lesser-known of the Twin Cities, in the ninety-plus weather we were having at the time.  After my session, I joined Idle in the wandering, and we checked out some of the local shops.  Oh, he also got excited about the Snoopy statue we saw in front of a nearby vet’s office ‘coz he’s a big Peanuts fan.  Charles Schultz is from MN, and they did a series of Snoopy statutes to commemorate something or the other in relation to him.  We saw another one further down the street that had been vandalized.  Poor Snoopy.  Idle didn’t have his camera with him, so I said we’d do a tour of the statues.  We didn’t get to that, but hey, it gives him added incentive to visit me again, amirite?

We went into a neat local boutique called Bibelot ‘coz the ape likes soap.  I had told him I didn’t like scents of any kind (‘coz I’m allergic to everything), but I neglected to say that some natural soaps are actually soothing to my poor, afflicted nose.  Nevertheless, I wasn’t really into soaps–I view them as utilitarian.  Idle has a very keen sense of smell, and he collects soap.  In Bibelot, I started sniffing one soap after the other, and I was really drawn to one (apple pear).  I held the bar to my nose as we walked throughout the store, and when I gave it to Idle to smell, he commented on how the bar was warm from me holding it to my face.  That pretty much sealed my fate; I had to buy the bar after that!

I need to interject something here.  Idle and I have both had shitty childhoods and traumatic events happen to us later in life.  Yet, despite that, Idle has the ability to find beauty and joy in seemingly mundane things.  He also has a childlike glee that is infectious.  We started a series of inside jokes that to the outside ear would have been outrageous.  As a survivor of trauma, though, I found it a relief to be able to joke with Idle about some of the horrors in life.  It was also healing in a way.  Being able to crack wise about terrible events allowed me to put some of the trauma where it belonged–in my past.  Cops are notorious for their gallows humor, and Idle and I engaged in something similar.  We both knew that it was only appropriate for the two of us, but we couldn’t help muttering joke after joke under our breaths whilst out in public. We did this in Bibelot, and it felt really good.  We weren’t disruptive–just boisterous.  We were partners in hijinks, and it was so much fun.  

Another telling point:  I was cooing over some three-legged pigs because I collect pigs (I was born in the Year of the Pig).  I regretfully put down the one I was holding because I have a ton of pigs, and I did NOT need to buy another one.  Idle picked up the pig, looked it over, and commented about its origin.  Unlike me, he didn’t put it down.  I didn’t think anything of it as I just assumed he was taking it home as a reminder of me.  You astute readers probably can see what’s coming–he gave it to me when we got back home.  I was touched because that was such a sweet thing to do.

After we were done in Bibelot, we went to Garden of Eden, another local boutique, to see more bath stuff.  I don’t normally hang out in St. Paul, so it was cool to see one of my cities with my ape in tow.  I was having a blast smelling soap after soap, something that would have befuddled me if you had told me about it merely a year ago.

That night, I was feeling a bit melancholy when my mom called.  Now, conversation with my mother is always strained.  Idle slipped outside to smoke, and I gritted my teeth and took the call.  I had laid down the law some time ago that she was NOT to mention my weight as she had no concern about my health–only my looks.*  She adhered to the letter of my edict, but not the spirit.  She talked about going to a clothing shop and buying things for my niece (who is tall, thin, and gorgeous).  She added, “Of course, I couldn’t find anything in your size”, and my esteem plunged.  After a few more minutes of noncommittal chatting, I hung up and went outside to smoke with Idle.

I thought I was OK, but later, after we went inside, I suddenly burst into tears and clung to Idle as if I would drown.  I told him it was because he was leaving, but my reaction was out-of-proportion to his departure.  As he said, I was crying as if I would never see him again.  He figured out that in the deep recesses of my mind, I was afraid the one visit was all we had.  It had nothing to do with Idle at all, but with my past.  I was used to people leaving me.  In fact, I picked people who were unable to commit, in part because I was dicey on commitment myself.  Still, the end result was that subconsciously, I expected Idle to return home and say, “That was fun.  We should do it again!” and then disappear or fade away.  Again, it had nothing to do with him as he has shown no inclination to bolt. Additionally, I realized in retrospect that talking to my mother had made my vulnerabilities sharper, and my intense reaction to Idle’s departure was in part a response to said situation.

Still, it was difficult for me not to obsess over the fact that Idle was going to be leaving soon and that it would be some time before we saw each other again.  I’d done long-distance relationships before, but they were under different circumstances.  There was no possibility of a future, so the long-distance, while frustrating, was actually an integral part of the relationship.  With Idle, the distance is an obstacle to be overcome because we do have a future together.  I don’t know what that future will bring, but at least I know I have one now. I’m terrible with delayed gratification, and the thought of being apart from Idle after just having found him was almost more than I could bear.

So, Thursday.  This was the big day.  I was taking him to Taiji, and he would get to meet Choolie, my teacher (there was a substitute on Saturday). After that, we would meet my best friend, Kat, at Sen Yai Sen Lek for dinner so she could vet him properly.  He was nervous about meeting them.  I said that Choolie was very gregarious and that Kat was one of the sweetest people he would ever meet.  She’s very good at putting someone at his ease, and I had no doubt she would do the same for Idle.

Class was a bit nerve-racking for me.  I am one of the senior students, so I sometimes tutor the newer students.  This includes teaching them new postures.  When Choolie called me over to work with one of the newer students, I was nervous because I did not want to fuck up in front of Idle.  Fortunately, the posture I had to teach was really early in the first section of the form–it was one with which I was comfortable.  I am a pretty decent teacher, if overly concerned with doing everything perfectly (me, not the student).

One of the other students was someone from my Saturday class.  She’s a dynamic, Indian (from India), sixty-year old woman who reminds me of my mother from time to time.  She came late to class, so I didn’t get a chance to introduce her to Idle.  She admonished me sternly for it after class, and I was abashed enough to call him over and introduce the two of them.  She gave me a taste as to the reaction of my mother when I tell her about Idle.  Idle has asked me what my parents would think of him, and I was sad because I had no idea.  I could imagine my mother being anything from elated that I was with someone and not TOO old to have the babies (no) to being disappointed because he’s not a MD neurosurgeon/pastor/ Taiwanese/Christian/doesn’t want kids/etc.  As for my father?  No idea.  And, honestly, I don’t particularly care.

After we chatted a bit with various people in class, we walked over to the restaurant.  Kat was meeting us later, so we ordered right away.  Kat came breezing in, and it was as I said–she put Idle at ease.  He was still nervous, but he told me she was easy to talk with.  Later, she told me that she really liked him and could see the four of us (including her hubby) hanging out.  I could, too.   They had an easy rapport that boded well for future encounters.  Nothing sucks more than having your best friend and your partner be at loggerheads.  We shut down the restaurant and went outside to smoke and chat.  Kat had to leave early-ish the next morning to drive to Iowa, otherwise, we would have continued the conversation elsewhere.  As it was, it was a very pleasant night.

So, to recap, two of my closest friends met Idle and approved of him.  More to the point, they approved of the way he treated me/thought of me.  Score!

Oh, there’s another important thing:  We had two arguments, and I didn’t react as I normally would.  I have been trained that my opinion isn’t important.  When I have a serious disagreement with someone, my tendency is to withdraw, avoid, or go cold.  I’m not particularly proud of that trait, but it’s how I handle adversity.  Or rather, it was.  With Idle, I was able to look past my own hurt and see that he was hurting, too.  One time, he said something hurtful, but I was able to see that he hadn’t meant it the way he said it.  He was in a vulnerable spot, and he hadn’t phrased what he wanted to say in the best manner.  But, he wasn’t trying to be malicious.  So, after I went to the bathroom to, well, pee and to cool down, I returned.  He had slipped outside to smoke, and I so wanted to go out to him, but I was afraid.  This was right after he said the hurtful thing and before any explanations.  What if he was disgusted by me?  What if he thought I was more trouble than I was worth?  I was paralyzed.  Later, I found out that he was having a hard time of it, too.  Coming back in the house was difficult for him, and I am glad he was the bigger person in making the first move.

We had a lengthy, serious talk about what had happened, and we were able to talk about it in a constructive manner.  For once, I was more concerned about us than about me.  That’s not to say that I am a doormat–I’m not.  It’s just, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and we were able to work through the pain.  That helped me see that it was OK for me to speak my mind in a non-accusing, nonjudgmental manner in order to work out our problems and issues together.

On a tangential, but related note, I am utterly enjoying being part of an ‘us’. I told Idle this earlier in the evening, and I admitted how strange it was to me. I have spent most of my life fiercely declaring that I was an island (Guam, to be precise) and that I wasn’t part of anything–least of all, a couple. The bonding part of me was broken pretty early in life, and it’s taken me this long to slowly, painfully, painstakingly put it back together again. Now that I have, I am tickled by saying things like, “After I visit you next month, we have to decide what we’re going to do to be together.”

We’re a team. I like that.

Whoops! Running long again. I’m going to post this as is and start part five sometime soon!

P.S. Videos, top to bottom: A scene from Truly, Madly, Deeply, one of my favorite movies of Alan’s. It has Alan Rickman AND cellos! Idle posted this clip to my wall, and I loved him even more for choosing the right Alan Rickman clip. Nina Simone and Barry White because Idle and I love both of them.

*I can say this for certain because not once did she murmur any word of concern when I was anorexic/bulimic.

By the way, have you noticed that where I left off, with the hug at the airport, makes both a perfect ending and a perfect beginning?  Chew on that for awhile as I regale you with what happened during the actual visit.

Idle and I hugged for what seemed like forever, but was probably only minutes.  He felt solid, comfortable, warm, reassuring, and just so damn right in my arms; I didn’t want to let him go.   I did, reluctantly, and we were on our way.  I had to focus on the road, of course, so I didn’t get to stare at him as I wanted.  I did catch him staring at me when he thought I wasn’t looking, and it didn’t really fluster me as it normally would.  I pointed out things of interest on the way home, but I wasn’t really thinking about my city.  I was giddy with happiness and lust that the ape had finally landed.  It didn’t seem possible that we were actually in the same city, my city, in my car, driving back to my house.

I was nervous, yes, but I was also just overjoyed to have him with me.  We stopped at Subway because he hadn’t eaten all day, and then I drove him to my house.  I am uncomfortable having people in my house for many reasons, but I was so eager to be with Idle (and touch him), I managed to quash the small panic I had as he walked into my house.

How did the cats greet him?  In their usual way.  Raven sniffed and let Idle pet him right away, and Shadow stood aloof.  But, I am very proud of my shy guy because he didn’t leave the room.  And, he did let Idle pet him the first day.  By the middle of the visit, Shadow had accepted this stranger into our household–probably because Idle awoke before I did and would go to the kitchen to make coffee.  Those with animals know that any time you go into the kitchen, the animals think it’s feeding time.  By the end of the visit, Shadow was planting himself in front of Idle and arching his back–his way of demanding to be pet.  Raven accepted Idle as another piece of furniture and would flop all over Idle, sometimes at inconvenient moments.

Back to the narrative.  After we ate, Idle and I retired to the bedroom so we could get to know each other better.

Now, as longtime readers know, I have body issues.  I don’t like my body at all, and I have only recently begun to feel like I’m not totally gross.  I am a big woman.  Even when I was at my skinniest, I had broad shoulders, big boobs, sturdy thighs, and thick calves.  To Idle, all this was a plus.  He likes women with meat on their bodies and with lots of curves.  The first video is one he often posts to my FB wall.

As we explored each other’s bodies, he made it very plain that he was hot for my bod. And, I was just as hot for his. I like my men big and solid with broad shoulders and big hands, and he had it all in spades. I loved the scent of him, the taste of him, the feel of him, the sight of him, and the sound of him. We spent many hours just finding all the sweet spots on each other’s bodies. Wouldn’t you know that he found a few new ones on my body (and inside) that I never knew I had? Erogenous zones, I mean.

Our attraction was electric and primal. He simply had to touch me for a few seconds, and I was ready to sex him up. I couldn’t keep my hands off him, even when we weren’t sexing, and he felt the same way about me. We managed to keep it under control when we were out and about town, but in my house, all bets were off. We were on each other all over the house, and I never wanted to stop touching him. One thing I loved about sexing with him is that it was by turns gentle, primal, tender, torrid, passionate, sensual, and animal.

Idle and I both have rich and varied fantasies. I have tried to rid myself of mine for decades because I thought they stemmed from dark and horrible places. I wasn’t comfortable with that part of me until Idle and I started talking about our respective fantasies. He was gentle and nonjudgmental, and I was a little less ashamed of my fantasies. I tried to do the same for him, and being able to explore those deepest, most private parts of ourselves together brought us even closer. I have my issues with Dan Savage*, but I heartily endorse his GGG (good, giving, and game, but I thought it was good, giving, and generous) as long as both partners are equally so, and Idle felt the same way.

I will touch more on the sexxxing throughout the piece, but there’s one important thing I need to say now–I loved having him in my bed. This is revolutionary because I am a shitty sleeper and have preferred to sleep alone for most of my life. When I did sleep with a partner in the distant past, I couldn’t bear to be touching as we fell asleep. Or, more accurately, until the other person fell asleep. I cannot fall asleep before my partner. Is it a safety issue? No. I snore, and I’m very self-conscious about it, so I trained myself to not fall asleep first**. With one of my exes, he would lie on his side, and I would be behind him by a foot and a half or so. I would have one hand on his shoulder, and that’s as much as I could stand touching him (or anyone in general) as I slept. One night, he turned to spoon me, and I immediately went rigid. I wanted desperately for him to turn back the other way so I could have my space.

With Idle, I wanted to be as close to him as possible. I would spoon him until he fell asleep, and then I would just look at him and touch him to my heart’s content. Since we both sleep very poorly, we would take naps whenever we wanted. Thus, I could watch him in the waning daylight or in the dark as I have better vision in the dark than many people. I would watch his chest rise and fall, and it would comfort me. Sometimes, I would place my hand on his chest as he breathed, and sometimes, I would match my breath to his. That always made me feel better and more connected to him.

I would watch as he tossed and turned, and my heart would go out to him. I wanted to soothe his troubled sleep, but all I could do was stroke his arm or chest to try to calm him down. When I found myself getting tired, I would put on my gear (eye mask, mouth guard, and ear plugs) and then snuggle up against his back again. I would curl my hand around his belly (or lower) until I fell asleep. He would wake up before I did, and the first time I woke up to an empty bed, my heart fell to the bottom of my feet. Where was he? Where had he gone? It turned out that he didn’t want to disturb me, and he had crept out of bed to start the coffee. Then, he would sit on my porch and drink his coffee as he waited for me to awaken. I have a kick-ass porch, if I do say so, myself.

Anyway, he later told me that he would wake up and hear me grind my teeth in my sleep (I bit clean through my last mouth guard). When he put a hand on me, I would quiet down. He said it would be the same way if I was tossing and turning. He would put a hand on me, and I would be soothed. Once, he bumped me and apologized. He said I put my hand on his arm and said it was OK. Just as he was about to say something, I snored. I don’t remember any of this, so apparently, there is a part of me that never sleeps–no wonder I’m so fucking tired all the time.

When I got up, he would pour me a cup of coffee, wait for me to nuke it ‘coz I like my hot drinks boiling, and then we would go out on the porch and just sit and laugh at the golfers as we leaned into each other. I have to say, this was the image I had in my mind most often before the visit. Yes, I was looking forward to the sexxxing and the physical intimacy, but I was most anticipating just being with him in the quiet moments of the day.

I took him to visit Northeast Minneapolis–the area in which I feel most comfortable and want to live. My Taiji studio is there as is the Eastside Food Cooperative, and I always feel like I can breathe better when I’m in my ‘hood. He visited my Taiji class twice (more on that later), and we had Thai food in a neighborhood restaurant, Sen Yai Sen Lek, that is eco-conscious and gets much of its ingredients from said local co-op. After we ate, we would walk around the neighborhood.

OK. I just have to say something. It’s not very feminist of me, but I LOVE the fact that Idle is big (6’2″ and sturdy) and knows how to fight. I know, I know, I am woman–hear me roar. I can take care of myself, and in fact, I am currently learning how to kill a man with my bare hands. Yes, yes, yes. It’s true that I can do for myself, but you know what? I’ve had to be on the alert all my life, always vigilant for danger. I’ve done it mostly on my own, and it’s really really nice not to have to be strong all the time. When Idle was here, I could let down my guard somewhat, knowing he had my back. When I walked down the street with him, I felt safe and protected. It’s not a feeling I have often, and it’s one I really, really liked.

More than that, I was so damn proud to walk down the street with him. He’s my man, and I wanted to shout it to the world. Yeah, I felt like I was strutting my stuff with him on my arm, but so what? I know I sound more like a teenager than a grown woman, but he just makes me feel so damn giddy and blissful, I have to crow about it a bit. OK, a lot.

The second video I embedded is Natural Woman by Mary J. Blige, and it’s a song I often post to Idle’s FB wall. I am not very feminine by society’s standards. I like sports, dislike shopping and other ‘girly’ things, don’t wear makeup or shave…anything (I’m Asian!), and I have little interest in clothes. I don’t wear any scents as I’m allergic, and I don’t do anything to my hair other than brush it. I am not maternal in the least.

Idle looked at many of those things as positives (he likes natural women), and he really does make me feel feminine, sexy, and desirable. In return, he is exactly the kind of man to whom I’m most attracted–sensitive, yet strong, artistic, creative, funny, sturdy, witty, good with words, tender and tough, sexy and hot, and passionate. Both of us are an amalgamation of characteristics, and we fit together beautifully. The third video below right below is by one of my favorite indy folk duos, Lowen and Navarro. Pat Benatar had a big hit with it back in the eighties or so. I posted it on Idle’s FB wall, and he said it fit us. It does.

You know how much I love this man? I actually went to a movie theatre with him and watched a movie that doesn’t have Alan Rickman in it! For those who don’t know me, this is a big deal. I don’t like movies much, and I really don’t like going to the theatre ‘coz I hate noises, crowds, and people. And I’m claustrophobic. So, for me to go to an actual theatre with actual people to see a movie that has neither Alan Rickman nor cellos in it, well, that’s mind-blowing. Granted, it was the latest X-Men movie and I’m a big fan (mostly of Wolverine), and granted it was the midnight showing with a maximum of ten people in the theatre, but still.

I really enjoyed it. The movie itself was a great summer action blockbuster film with really hawt whips and chains action by Michael Fassbender as the young Magneto, but what I really dug was the date aspect of the whole event.  I haven’t dated much in my life, and it was really nice to go to a movie, hold hands, and just be immerse in the experience.  I can’t remember the last time I went on a date to the movies, but I do remember that seeing Pulp Fiction with a guy and telling him what I thought of it caused him to dump me. So, yeah, me and movies–not a good combo.

Going to the movies with Idle, though, was loads of fun. I realized during his visit that there were many things that were infinitely more enjoyable when I was doing them with him. Even something as inane as surfing the ‘net for stupid videos (protip on being a good girlfriend, ladies. Make sure you shave your legs EVERY DAY so your stubble doesn’t hurt your man’s delicate skin! It’s true. I saw it on the internets!) was a blast when shared with Idle. This is something I’d forgotten–how much my daily life is enriched by having a partner, specifically Idle, in it. I like it. I like it a lot.

Hm. Getting long again. Go figure. I will end this for now and leave you with this teaser: Idle met two of my closest friends who are like family to me and survived the experience! Tune in for the next episode of A Grrl and Her Ape, coming to you sometime soon.

*Don’t ask. I would have to write a whole post about it, and I’m not in the mood.

**My brother once told me that I had a funny laugh, and I stopped laughing out loud for years. Self-conscious, me? Never!

This is the opening to her post:

I’ve never been raped.

Why?  Because I’m lucky.

Nothing more.  Nothing less.

Go read the rest of her piece right now because I’m going to be riffing on it in my own post.  Go on, read it.  I’ll wait.  Let me know when you’re done.

Back?  Good.

Unlike Emily, I am not a lucky one.  I have been in two situations in which I endured recurring rape.  Those of you who read my blog regularly know about it because I post about it from time to time.  The first time, it started when I was seven.  The second, I was 21 and in a foreign country.  Both seemed like they happened a life time ago, and yet, I still deal with the aftermaths and the ramifications to this day.

I started this post a few days ago, and I abandoned it.  Why?  Because I saw what happened in ee’s threads about rape, both at BJ and at ABL’s place.   I saw how the excuses started pouring in, the rationale, the apologia.  “Yeah, it’s terrible that she experienced that, but…”

No.  There is no fucking but at the end of that sentence.   No one deserves to be raped.  No one.  Not even if she* was in the wrong part of town late at night.  Not even if she accepted a drink from a guy and he slipped her a Roofie.  Not even if she was dressed in tight clothing.  Not even if she went home with a guy she didn’t know and then changed her mind.

No one deserves to be raped.  Ever.**

The second reason I abandoned this post is because I’m tired of talking about it even though both experiences have deeply affected me, and I still deal with the ramifications to this day.

When I sleep, I have to have a white noise machine on to block out the sounds.  I also wear earplugs, a mouth guard (because I grind my teeth), and an eye mask.  I sleep with a pillow over my eyes, and I pull the covers up to my nose.  When I am anywhere that is not my home or some place trusted, I have to be in a seat facing the door, and I cannot stand to have someone touch me without my permission or without me knowing the person is going to do it.  In a movie theatre, I have to be near the aisle.  I hate being hemmed in in any way.  I have a fucked-up sleep schedule in part because I prefer being awake in the night–when the bad shit happens.  When things get really bad, I sleep on the couch rather than my bed.  My cats love that because they aren’t allowed in my bedroom (I’m allergic).

If I see a rape scene in a movie and did not know it was coming, I immediately flash back to my own experiences.  It’s the same when I read about rape.  And, since I have an eidetic memory, I get all the sounds, sights, smells, feelings, bodily sensations, and tastes of what happened at the time.  When I read about the assault on Lara Logan, my body immediately tensed up, and I felt as if I were under attack.  My heart started racing, and my face flushed.  I can’t listen to rape jokes without flashing back on my experiences.  I may not experience the full memories each time, but with every joke, every account of rape, every depiction I see, my body immediately reacts as if I’m under attack.  Hell, when Representative Gifford was shot, I immediately went into a deep depression.  I could barely move for two days, and I couldn’t figure out why.  I felt stupid because I didn’t know her, and I didn’t want to appropriate her tragedy.  It was partly the PTSD, yes, but it was more.  When my therapist helped me realize why it affected me so, it was a relief, but it also made me realize just how much further I have to go in dealing with the ramifications of my rapes.   I have posted about it before, and you can look through my archives for more in-depth musings about how I have dealt (badly) with the rapes.

Rapes.  Plural.

Do you know what being raped does to you?  Or rather, did to me?  It smashed my soul.  I’m talking about the second experience as I still can’t really talk about the first very easily.  And, as I am cross-posting this at ABL’s place, I am even more careful in choosing my words.   In my case, it was a mixture of sex, cultural differences, and power.  This guy was a predator, and he knew that I was easy prey.  What I said didn’t matter.  What I wanted didn’t matter.  Who I was didn’t matter.  I was simply a receptacle for his sperm, and in that way, he mirrored my first abuser as well.

And, I believed him that I didn’t matter and that I was nothing more than a sperm-receptacle in part because of my first experience, so I stayed with him for as long as I was in the country.  I endured him threatening to kill himself if I left him, sex without condoms even though he visited prostitutes, and him telling me how many babies we would make together.  I was lucky in that I had gone to Thailand for a semester abroad, and I had a coming-home date.  Otherwise, who knows what would have become of me?  This was 19 years ago, and I can still remember it as if it happened yesterday.  No amount of stuffing it back stops the symptoms of PTSD from sprouting up all the goddamn fucking time.

The third reason I’ve put off finishing this post is because of something I touched upon earlier–all the blame and judging people do about victims of rape.  Within hours of reports of Lara Logan’s assault, people were opining that women weren’t fit to do the job, that she was pretty and blond in a savage country, so what could she expect, that she was a homewrecker who got what she deserved, and other ugly shit.  It’s a variant of,“She dresses like a slut. She deserves it.” “She’s in a man’s job. What does she expect?” “She said yes to him once, so it’s not really rape.” “Men can’t help it. They have needs.”

As a society, we are extremely unkind towards victims/survivors of rape.  We judge them in ways we wouldn’t dream of judging any other crime victims.  So, the woman is not only raped, she is taken apart yet again if she dares talk about being abused.  It’s no wonder that victims often times stay silent–who the hell wants to deal with being judged on top of dealing with the aftermaths of being assaulted/raped?

The biggest reason I haven’t finished the post before this, however, is because I didn’t want to make other people uncomfortable.  It’s hard to hear about someone being raped.  It’s not nearly as hard as being raped, but it’s hard.  What do you say to someone who recounts a horrific experience of abuse at the hands of her uncle, father, boyfriend, date, friend, stranger?   I have seen how people shift and look away when I bring up the subject.  And, to be fair, it’s not easy to work it into every day conversation.

All of this has kept me silent during the past week or so while my co-bloggers have been kicking butt on the issue of rape and taking names.  I have other issues going on right now, so I let it go.  I felt guilty, though, because I know that part of the problem of rape is that people don’t talk about it.   I also had to grapple with an unwelcome realization I had about myself while reading about all the anti-women bills the GOP wanted to pass (and did, in some cases, in the House).   They wanted to curb abortion funding (which only goes to rape in the first place and incest) only to women who’ve been ‘forcibly raped’*** along with a whole bunch of other batshitcrazy things.   Forcibly, meaning visible bruises.  My immediate response?   I would kill any man who tried to rape me before he could penetrate.  Me.  Who once said I would let someone kill me before I killed someone else.  But, you see, I cannot go through that again, and if I were to be raped and get pregnant and forced to have the child, that would be a living death, anyway.   It was not a nice realization, but it helped me see that I DO think I matter and fuck the Republicans for trying to negate that with their misogynistic bullshit.

While I was musing all this over in my head, I read this post by TNC.  In it, he talked about how victims/survivors of rape need to give up their privilege of privacy in order to make rape less shameful and secretive.  Only, he said it much better than I just paraphrased.  He was not advocating mandatory reporting (which I would not support), but he was saying that if we want to erase the stigma that surrounds rape, those of us who have gone through it must speak out about it.

I can’t recommend TNC enough.  He strictly moderates his threads, so we’re able to have thoughtful discussions that get heated and passionate, but never nasty.  Or, if they do, he cleans them up.  It’s because of this that several TNC commenters, male and female, felt safe enough to share their own experiences of sexual abuse/rape.   It was painful to read, but it was also powerful and empowering to know that so many cool people survived and even thrived from such horrific experiences.   I was sorrowful that so many people had experience something similar to what I went through, though.  I don’t want anyone to be a part of that club.

One of the worst things about being raped is feeling like you’re alone, broken, and worthless.  I felt guilty and thought it was my fault, and I thought it permanently ruined me.   I did many crazy things after being raped the second time, and I didn’t care if I died.  Hell, my soul was already dead, so I might as well make my body match my soul.   I was too chickenshit to kill myself, so I left it up to the fates.  If I died in a fiery car crash (as long as no one else was hurt)–so be it.  If I got run over by a bus–so be it.

I was dead inside, anyway.  I can’t emphasize this enough.  I was the walking undead after experience two ongoing rapes.   I didn’t want to live.

In a way, I was lucky because I didn’t die, even though it didn’t feel like it at the time.  I was also lucky because I have always enjoyed (consensual) sex.  I love it, and I find it very life-affirming.  It’s joyful, playful, and just a whole lotta damn fun.  In addition, I know there are really damn good men out there.  I haven’t written off the whole gender just because of my two really horrible experiences and the other incidences that every woman endures (groping, cat-calling, insinuations, insults).  I have loved good men, and I have men as friends who are very dear to me.  I am grateful that my negative experiences have not caused me to lose faith in all mankind.

After reading TNC’s post, I summoned up the nerve to finish this post.  Yet, something was still holding me back.  Then, I read this post by Emily (my co-blogger at ABL’s place) recounting the story of a woman’s rape.   The woman had sent it to Emily and consented for it to be published.  It was hard to read, but it made my decision for me.  I had to write my post, come hell or high water (most likely the former).

Today, I am in the best place I’ve been in my life.   That’s damning with faint praise because I was in a really shitty place even two years ago.  However, I realize that I have to face the past, which means talking about it, and find new ways to cope with the old, old wounds.  Tai chi is helping me tremendously with that, as are my friends who are fierce in their loyalty to me.   My cats are of immeasurable comfort to me, and I have a brother upon whom I can count.  I have my health, my writing and performing abilities, and I have my warped sense of humor.  I will be relying on all these to help me continue to survive, hopefully, to thrive.

I write this post because I cannot stay silent–not now when the GOP is waging war against women (well, everyone who is not them, really, but especially women), trying to cut off funding to Planned Parenthood (donate! I did.  And, stand with them, too.  I did that as well), and being jackholes in general.   I have a platform, two actually–my own place and ABL’s place–and I intend to use them to the best of my abilities.  I am just one voice, but I know how to scream.

Cross-posted at ABL’s place.

*For the sake of simplicity, I will be using the heterosexual norm of man as perp, woman as victim/survivor for the rest of this post.  I am fully aware that men are victims and that women are perps as well.

**If we want to discuss things a woman might be better off not doing, that’s a different kettle of fish.  It’s also one I am not going to tackle in this post.

***And some minors.  The bill was poorly-written, so it was hard to tell exactly which minors they wanted to protect.

That was one of the best compliments I have ever received.  In addition, I remember another lesbian (not at the conference), a self-proclaimed butch who would go into apoplexy because she couldn’t peg me.  I had long hair, but I didn’t wear makeup.  She told me I couldn’t like sports because I was into theatre.  It probable bugged her as well that I didn’t shave my armpits or legs (I’m Asian.  I have very little body hair), but that I would dress sexily from time to time.

I don’t care.  I’ve heard it all before from people trying to peg me.  I have a very eclectic taste in music, and I enjoy flummoxing people who can’t understand how I can like, say, VNV Nation AND Vienna Teng at the same time.   I have tried to streamline my personality in the past, but with minimal success.  In the end, I realized that part of what makes me the person I am is all the messy bits that don’t fit neatly into one set paradigm.   And, to the extent that I am a contrarian, I actually embrace the messiness that makes up my personality.

Why am I bringing up this ancient history?  Well, because I can, for one thing–but also because it reminded me of my day this past Saturday.  Saturdays are my day for Taiji (tai chi) classes.  I get up around 11:30 in the morning, check my email and the general news, and then I’m gone.  I listen to NPR on the way to Taiji (Car Talk followed by Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me), and I drive with the windows down until the temperature falls below zero.   Then, after Taiji, I chat with my teacher for a bit (she’s also a friend) before I hop over to the Eastside Food Coop, which is right next door to the studio.  Then, I head home while listening to The Splendid Table hosted by homegirl Lynn Rossetto Kasper.

Yesterday was different, though.

I need to give a little more background.  Until 2010, I have never bought any art.  I like different kinds of art, but I always felt it was something only grownups did–bought their own art, I mean.  And, despite appearances to the contrary, I don’t often feel like a grownup.  I don’t have the traditional trappings of adulthood–husband, children, 9-to-5 job, house–so I tend to forget that I actually am an adult.  So, while I appreciate many different styles of art, I never felt entitled to buy any of my own.  Until this year.  A friend of mine and I went to a local art fair (near my Taiji studio), and I was immediately drawn to a painting by an artist named Linnea Maas Doyle (link is to her old site.  Her new one should be up and running sometime in February).  My friend was picking up a painting she had bought from Linnea (a robot painting, and I was drawn to a small painting with a little rag-doll like guy looking sadly down from a bridge.  He had a tear dripping into the water below.  I kept thinking of reasons why I shouldn’t buy it, but in the end (I ran back up), I had to get him.

Fast-forward half a year.  Same friend as above wanted to go to another art fair featuring Linnea because she (my friend) wanted to commission another robot piece.  I tagged along and saw a few more Babybol (that’s what she calls the series) paintings.  I looked them over, but my eye kept getting drawn back to the one I’ve posted above and to the left (with the flowers growing out of his heart).  There was something ineffably sad about him, but as my friend pointed out, the fact that he had flowers growing from his heart was a hopeful sign.  She also teased me because the flowers are pink, and I loathe the color, but that’s a story for another post.   Anyway, I decided not to buy the Babybol because I’m saving my money for other purposes, and I reasoned Linnea would do more of the series in the future, anyway.  But, I felt a pang in my heart at leaving him behind.  It’s odd that I have become so attached to the little guy because my taste in art tends to run to paintings with not-so-cuddly figures in them.  For example, one of my favorite paintings is The Scream by Edvard Munch.  One of my all-time favorite painters is Hieronymus Bosch, and I especially like his triptychs.   So, the notion that I would be drawn to a cute little rag doll figure is an anathema to me.  However, the whole series has him seeking, searching, and experiencing an aching loneliness/sadness, so I can somewhat understand that pull.

I got a Christmas present of a little extra cash in my wallet, so I decided that I wanted this Babybol, entitled, i can’t explain.  I emailed Linnea, and she emailed me back saying he was still available, and she had a few others to boot.  He’s a fairly new series, and she’s been hesitant to show him.  I can understand that as he expresses a vulnerability that is palpable.  She asked me if I would be interested in seeing other Babybol paintings, and I was.  I really liked them all, but one other one really called to me. This one.   So, I emailed Linnea and said I wanted to buy both of them and asked if she would be in her studio on Saturday.  She was.  So, I swung by The Casket Arts Building to pick up my two purchases.  I felt weird.  I felt strange.  I felt strange and weird.

I don’t decorate.  I don’t see a place as my home.  I don’t actually see anything as my home.  But, I am in the pre-pre-pre stages of thinking about buying my own home (a good time for it), and I bought this art explicitly with that in mind.  A place of my own.  With art I picked.  What a foreign concept to me–and yet, it’s one that has appeal.  A place where I can paint the walls deep, vivid colors (I don’t think I’ll do the whole house in black, though it’s my favorite color–maybe just one room), where I can NOT have a dining room table if my best friend will let me get away with it (she’s threatening to buy me one), and where I can pretty much do whatever I want with it.

And, the three paintings I’ve bought by Linnea will have place of prominence, as will the framed Dr. Seuss quote my best friend gave me for Christmas.

“ Be who you are…
Say what you feel…
Those who mind don’t
matter… and those who
matter don’t mind.

It’s a directive I need to repeat to myself over and over again.

After being a grownup and buying some art, I went home to eat arugula and meditate on the meaning of life.  Oh, hell, no, I didn’t.  It’s the NFL playoffs, bay-bee!  I love watching sports, and it doesn’t get better than the playoffs.  My team (the Vikes) didn’t make the playoffs.  They sucked this year, and hopefully, this will be the last we see of the diva (Brett Favre).  My second-favorite team, however (the Stillers because they wear black and because Troy Polamalu is HOT!), made the playoffs, and they advanced in a wild and woolly game on Saturday.  In addition, two teams from the Vikings division made it (The Pack and Da Bears), and they will be facing off next week.  It’s going to be a bruiser, and I’m already revved up for it.

I love watching sports.  I think it helps me release some of my competitive juices in a nonproductive but thoroughly-satisfying way.  I hop over to Balloon Juice to mix it up with the guys in the sports open thread,  and it’s like hanging out at a sports bar–without the annoying, drunken, boisterous behavior that usually accompanies said sports bar atmosphere.  I like to drool over my favorite refs–Ed Hochuli (look at those arms), Mike Carey (with Eddie Guns!  Bonus two-for-one), and Jerome Boger (he has a great voice) as well.

I sit on my couch with my blanket around my feet (I keep the heat at 62°) and my boys on my legs.  I have my laptop on my lap, and I have my beverages at hand as well as any snacks I want to munch.  Then, I sit and watch the games while I surf the net and/or play some kind of game on my laptop.  I have to do more than one thing at once to keep my mind occupied, and a trifecta of petting cats, surfing on the net, and watching a game does the trick nicely.  Sometimes, I work on a crossword puzzle instead of surfing.  Or read a book.

I used to feel weird about liking sports because I thought it didn’t fit with the rest of my personality.  But, as I observed earlier on, my personality is really not that coherent in the first place, so what’s more odd piece to the jigsaw puzzles?  I love them, by the way–jigsaw puzzles, I mean.  I haven’t been able to do them since I got cats, though.   Anyway, I kinda liked Saturday and the mix of things I did.  I may have to have more days like that in the near future.

Crossposted at ABL’s place.

As I looked down, I was aware of how fat, hot, and miserable I was.  It was the first time our family had been together in years, and it was not on my home turf.   I wanted to end it all.

Somehow, I managed to not kill myself on that trip.  I survived, though barely.  My parents sent me ’this is everything that’s wrong with you’ emails that nearly broke me.   This was in March of this year, and I sank into a depth of despair.  Why the fuck was I alive?  How the hell could I ever make my family proud of me?

This took up much of my therapy sessions early in the year.  At some point, though, I just snapped.  Or rather, my despair snapped.  As my therapist pointed out many months later, going to Taiwan, however hard it had been,  was the event that triggered many of the changes I made in this last year.  I realized that all the hiding of my true self I did around my family wasn’t enough–they were never going to be happy with the fake me, so I might as well let the real me come out to play.  It wasn’t a conscious decision–I just couldn’t pretend any more.

It was actually a relief to realize that the fake-me wasn’t good enough, and I could toss her away.  (Like it’s that easy.  Yeah, right).  Even if the real me isn’t good enough for my family, I haven’t lost anything, anyway.  And, it’s easier, if scarier, to be the real me than to be the fake me.
So.  I started changing bit by bit.  And, as it sometimes happens, things in life conspired to solidify the change.  I met Kel and her family (twice!), and they opened my eyes to a whole different family dynamic.  One that is warm, vibrant, loving, and messy (in a good way), rather than cold, quiet, sterile and contained.   I met Vienna Teng, one of my musical idols (for many reasons) at the same time, which was way cool.

Then, my mother was here for two months.  Two months.  Two whole months.  It was hard;  it was painful, but I did not revert to my previous behavior (much).  My mom and I had some difficult conversations, truthful conversations, that led to us having a better working relationship.   We also talked about a few of the biiiiig elephants in the room without coming to major blows.

By far, though, the hardest event of the year was my father’s visit.  I didn’t think I could make it through that intact, but I did.  And, we had some excruciatingly honest and painful discussions that tore the heart out of me.  Again, I wanted to kill myself because it hurt so much.

And yet…once the pain started ebbing (with A LOT of help from my friends), I felt cleansed.  It was as if I had taken a canister of something very caustic (like acid) and poured it through my body to burn off all the shit that has resided inside of me since I was a kid.   I was able to see my father as he really was–broken, damaged, and emotionally-disabled, which help melt away some of the self-loathing I had that I could not please him or my mother.  This was in early September.

In addition, this is the year I finished the Solo Form in Taiji (yay me) despite being very lackadaisical about practicing.  I no longer felt like just a student of Taiji–I was now a practitioner.

The last three months of this year were gone in a blink of the eye.  I shut down my blog (though, not permanently, as you can tell)–

Real life note: My parents just called, and I was able to talk to them without exploding, even when my father got one of his trademark digs (it was a joke, hahahaha) at me.  I consider that progress.  Back to my musing.

ABL asked me to blog over at her place, and I got serious about my fiction writing.  Even though I have written all my life, I am really am new in the getting published arena (as well as in the political blogosphere).  I was hesitant and scared of proffering my political opinions, but I was embraced warmly over at ABL’s place.  I have people who followed me from my blog (or from BJ or TNC’s place) to ABL’s place, and that amazes and touches me.

I spent way too much time in the past week reading shit said by John McCain and crafting a scathing rant about him that sapped my will to live.  However, once I was done, I realized that it was pretty damn good.  Since I was trying to keep the word count under 2,000 (didn’t make it), I focused on a very limited part of McCain’s assholeness.  It took me many days to write, but I was very satisfied with it when I finished.  And, I felt better for getting it out of my system.

And, I started allowing myself to think that I could do it–political blogging, that is.  I know I can write in an engaging style.  I know I can turn a well-crafted phrase.  I know I can create a compelling protagonist.  I wasn’t as sure I could hang with the bigs in the political blogosphere.  Now, I think I can.

In early December, my therapist and I were marveling at how this year disappeared in a blink of an eye.  I was saying how last year at that time,  I had been preparing to go to Taiwan (and dreading it).  I still can’t believe that a year ago tomorrow, I was headed for Taiwan, feeling like my life was about to end.

It’s funny, in a way, because so many outside things haven’t changed in the year.  I’m in the same suburb.  I’m still fat.  I still don’t have a steady job.  From the outside, it doesn’t look like I’ve gone very far at all.

Yet, on the inside, I am substantially different than I was a year ago.  I can feel my body–which is not always a good thing, but which is amazing after being frozen for so long.  I am learning that I can no longer treat my body like shit because I will actually feel the ramifications when I do (migraines, for instance).

Oh!  I am actually starting to get chunks of sleep at a time–seven to eight hours.  This is the amazing thing.  It leaves me even more tired, but I think it’s just because I’ve been so fatigued for so long, it’s going to take a while to catch up.  I am not having nightmares, either.  Just weird and/or unpleasant dreams with a few OK ones sprinkled in.

I can’t tell you how huge this is.  I have no idea why this is happening, and I don’t much care, either.   I would hazard a guess it’s because I’m working through some of my issues–oh, and I’m trying to adhere to a no-dairy, no-wheat diet again (been mostly successful), which may help as well.

You know what the biggest difference is thus far?  I feel like I matter.  Now, I know my friends and family would protest and say that I’ve mattered all along.  The problem is, I never felt like I mattered, so it didn’t help to hear friends say it.  Or rather, it didn’t stop me from thinking they were just being nice to me because they’re my friends.  I had to matter to me, and for the first time ever, I do.

I will admit, it helps to hear from others that what I have to say is valuable.  I will never get tired of hearing, “I thought I was the only one!  Thank you for showing me I’m not.”  In fact, as a lifelong outsider, it helps me as well to know I’m not alone, either.  I have dubbed myself Our Lady of Perpetual Freakitude.  I think that’s about right.

I am still too deferential and reticent in some ways.  As friends have noted, I apologize too much.  Sorry!  Some of the issues I’ve had all my life are still here (self-doubt, panic attacks, chattering mind, OCD), but they are less in magnitude.  I am starting to have confidence in my voice, and that’s an amazing thing.

I did not hate Christmas this year.  I think it’s in part because I opt out of doing anything for it.  However, it’s also because as I get more comfortable with myself, I don’t have to mind as much the goings-on around me in which I do not participate.  I can ignore it as much as I’m able, and I can just STFU when I don’t feel like being full of good cheer.

I’m feeling mellow and at ease this Christmas.  I am looking at 2011 and not dreading it or thinking it’s just going to be the same old, same old.  I look back over 2010, and I marvel at how far I’ve come.  Just think how much further I can go in the new year!  I hope to see you all there.

P.S.  The actual clip of Eric Cartman trying to sing the song.

This year, I was flummoxed as to what to do.  I decided to send a card, but what would it say?  I looked at different cards, and they were all too sappy for me.  I mean, I am not a sappy person anyway, and most certainly not when it comes to my father.  I found a simple one and wrote something like, “Happy Birthday, Dad.  May your year be filled with peace, happiness, and love.  Love, Minna.”

That’s all I could muster.  And, strangely enough, I meant most of it.

You see, in my last therapy session, I talked a bit more about my father’s lack of enjoyment for life.  As I’ve said, he’s traveled around the world, eats the finest food, and doesn’t care for any of it.  He can be excused for his lack of enthusiasm for the countries themselves because he’s mostly in conferences while he’s there, but he gets treated to the best food each country has to offer, and he appreciates none of it.

It got me thinking about what he does enjoy.  He likes watching war movies.  He liked playing tennis (though I think it was more the social aspect than anything else).  Other than that, nothing.  His life is pretty joyless.  Even his affairs were more about validation than for actual enjoyment.  As I have also documented, he doesn’t have much use for women.

The more I talked about him, the more I felt a…stirring of…sympathy for him.  But I will get to that in a minute.

On a wildly different track that isn’t different at all (bear with me), my aunt died a few months ago.  This is my father’s sister, a woman who had nothing but contempt and disdain for me for not speaking Chinese/Taiwanese (but, not for my brother.  Double standards runs in that family, I see).  When my mom emailed me to tell me the news, I felt nothing.  A few days ago, Kiki emailed me to tell me that someone with whom we had both worked many many years ago had died recently.    I had had a crush on him when we worked together, and he had been kind to and admiring of me as well.  I haven’t seen him in 16 years.  Kiki saw him a couple years ago, and she told me then that he had asked about me.  Just a few weeks ago, we were wondering what had happened to him.  I Googled him, but I found nothing, and believe me, that’s very unusual in this day and age.

I was shocked as hell when she emailed me.  He was only fifteen years older than I (roughly), which means he was in his mid-fifties when he died.  That’s so young.  And, I had just been talking about him so recently.  How the hell could he be dead?  I felt something else, too–grief.  Grief for a man I hadn’t seen in 16 years and had thought of not more than a dozen times in the same time period.  WTF?  I saw my aunt in December, and she’s family, and yet, nothing when she dies.  I know intellectually that there is a good reason for this dichotomy, but I still felt guilty about it.

Then, I thought about it some more.  It’s the whole blood is thicker than water maxim at work here.  I mean, I have met this aunt something like three times in my life.  Each time, she has been disapproving of me.  We didn’t speak the same language, and we are of different generations/cultures.   With my coworker, we were from the same culture; we were of a similar generation; we had mutual respect for each other.  We got along pretty well.  In other words, we were friends at the time.

This relates to how I’m slowly coming to view family in general.  Here’s the other thing I talked about in therapy–the things my father said to me during his last visit.  Bear with me as I rehash.  The first was his comment that I was not a woman because I didn’t fit his preconceived notion about how a woman should be.  The second was, well, this one I haven’t discussed yet.  As we sat in the car, I struggled to tell him how I felt about my childhood.  I wasn’t very smooth or articulate about it, but I really tried to be honest.  When I was done, he said, “So, I shouldn’t worry about you at all?  I should just live my life in Taiwan and not think about you at all?”  The third was the last thing he said while he was here, “Why should I care about you?”

Here’s the thing.  As much as those statements/questions hurt at the time (and believe me, they hurt a hell of a lot), it was actually a relief to hear them because they were the underlying principle of the family dynamics all my fucking life.  You see, in my family, love was bartered.  You didn’t get to be loved just because you existed.  Oh, no.  You had to give something in return.  Take my father asking me about my feelings for the family and the house.   He kept demanding that I love the house (and the family)–which would mean by extension that I loved him.  Hell, I didn’t even have to mean it if I could simply say the words he wanted to hear.

Once I realized that, I could also see that my father believed he was loved based on what he could provide.  So, the fact that I didn’t love the family or the house or whatever he gave me meant I didn’t love him.  That led me to muse more about him and his joyless life.  Yes, he has fame (in Taiwan), power, and money.  He is a well-known and respected man in Taiwan.  He is an economic advisor to the vice president (whom he knew personally before the man became VP).  That’s not small potatoes, by any mean, but think about what that is in comparison to being loved for who you are?

My therapist said that my father’s calling me demonstrated that he is trying to do something different.  It’s feeble and vague because he can barely fathom that there’s something other than what he’s done and known all his life.   She commented that he had something missing inside him, and he doesn’t even know it.  It’s true.  There is a component absent from him that makes us human.  I am not exactly sure what it is, but it’s sad.

I look at him and his joyless life, and I feel that stirring of sympathy again.  I think about my lost fifteen years which were really my dead years as well.  I felt very little joy during those years as I sealed myself up in a hermetic vacuum to try to avoid the crushing pain.

As I am now remembering, if i don’t feel the pain, the sorrow, and the grief, I cannot feel the love, the joy, the peace, and the happiness, either.  It’s a package deal.  I feel it all, or I feel nothing.

In the past few months, I have realized that I don’t want to be dead inside any more.  The shit I’m working on is painful and I’m in mourning and sometimes, the pain makes me want to die.  However, there are also moments of pure joy that make me want to weep because of the sheer beauty I am experiencing.  I have a cadre of fierce friends who will defend me to the death–even from myself if need be.  I have a brother who I trust implicitly to be there if I need him.  I have two cats who bring me more joy than I ever thought possible.  I have my talents that have sustained me even through the toughest times.  I have love.  I have pleasure.  I have joy.  I have moments of peace.  None of this would have happened if I didn’t start dismantling the family mythos bit by bit.

I won’t lie to you.  It’s not easy.  There are times when I think the grief is going to break me.  This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life.  And yet, I really have no choice.  I refuse to go back to the walking-dead state I existed in for so long.  Right now, I choose life.  That’s enough for now.

When I walked into my session, I was heavy with grief.  I have written about it before, but it’s lingering.  I have never had someone close to me die.  I have never felt this kind of grief before.  I am not sure what to do about it.  My body is heavy, physically.  I am having a hard time keeping my eyes open, even when I’ve had relatively enough sleep.  I have been crying on and off and at the silliest things.  My emotions are battered, and my spirit is frayed.

As I was recounting my feelings to my therapist, my voice was low and a bit deadened.  I have numbed out somewhat in order to take the edge off the pain.  She asked me where the grief was and what form did it take.  I said it was raw, pulsing, and almost a sentient being, and it was residing here.  I tapped myself on my chest where my heart is.  And, I immediately teared up.

In the days when I was depressed, I prided myself on not crying.  I hated to be seen crying in public, and I tried not to cry even when I was in private.  Now, I can’t seem to stop myself from crying–and I am deeply ashamed every time I do it in the presence of someone else.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a trusted friend; it still feels shameful to me.

I see it as a weakness.  I hate being weak.  Correction:  I hate looking weak.  And, many of the things I excoriate myself over fall into that category.

In the session, I was saying how I know that I could not keep living the way I had been (using the term living very loosely) and that the changes I have made were not conscious choices–I just could not do the same old shit any more.  I know that the changes in my family are a good thing, but it’s so fucking hard.  She pointed out that I am dismantling the whole fabric of my family’s dysfunction.  When I refuse to do the same old, same old, I am demanding that my family change with me.

And, it forces me to acknowledge that the illusion of my family was just that–a sham.  We looked like the perfect family.  Immigrant parents who came to the States (Tennessee, of all places!) for grad school.  They met and fell in love there before moving to Minnesota so my father could earn his PhD in economics at the U of M.  Both he and my mother worked full-time while raising my brother and me.  Rather, my father did school and work while my mother did work, took care of the home, and raised the children.   We went to church every Sunday, and we steadily climbed the American economic ladder.  We were living the American dream, damn it!  Look at how shiny we were!

As anyone who’s read my blog knows, this mask hid a mass of dysfunctions that run deep.  My father was never home–whether it was work, school, or his affairs.   When he was home, he was usually pissed off about something, and we had to tiptoe around his rage.  He was the despot of his little domain, and the rest of us were just serfs.

My mother was seriously depressed and would tell me all her marital problems when I was eleven.  And, yes, I begged her often to just leave my father.

All of this is ancient history.  My therapist asked if I’ve ever talked to my bro about it, and I haven’t.  By a mutual unspoken agreement, we don’t talk about the past.  We don’t even say, “Hey, remember when we did this?  Wasn’t that fun?”  My brother will let slip with a memory now and then, but that’s it.  A part of me is afraid to talk to him because I’m unsure I want to hear what he remembers.  On the other hand, I am profoundly aware that my brother and I have a relationship which I’ll never be able to duplicate with anyone else.  He and I share a perspective and a shared history.  As my therapist said, he’s the only other person who knows what it was like to grow up in that house.

Interestingly, my father, my brother, and I had dinner while my father was here.  My brother was talking about his FIL who is dying.  His FIL is not a pleasant person at all.  My brother said about his FIL, “My wife was afraid of him her entire childhood; she can’t understand why her mother stays with him; no one will care when he dies.”  My brother’s voice got heated, which is unlike him.  I was watching the exchange, and I realized that he could have been talking about my father.  Hell, I think he was talking about my father, even if he (my brother) didn’t consciously realize it.  My brother also said about his FIL that he (FIL) didn’t enjoy life.  This also holds true for my father.

My father travels around the world as part of his job.  He has been to France, Italy, England, Hawaii (no, he didn’t see Obama’s long-form birth certificate), Mexico, Canada (he went to Montreal after visiting here), Brazil, Japan, Hong Kong, China, Thailand, and a bunch of other countries.  He gets fed the best food in each country, and he doesn’t enjoy any of it.  He doesn’t like food at all. Even the affairs he had were more about validating his worth as a man than anything else because he certainly does not like women.

Anyway, I was talking in therapy about how I really wanted to find that grace to give to him, and I was really beating myself up because I couldn’t.  I said I knew he was really trying, and why couldn’t I give something back in return?  An interesting aside:  I initially said I appreciated that he was really trying and quickly amended it to acknowledged.  My therapist said, “Appreciate from the root____”–I can’t remember the Latin.  I said, “Which is similar to apprehend.”

Anyway, my therapist said something that really struck me.  When I was talking about my guilt at not being able to give my father that grace, she said that maybe he needs to sit with the uncomfortable feeling right now.  My urge to rush in and make things better would be counterproductive because it would return us to the past patterns.  It would be me saying, “Everything is fine.  We’re OK.  Nothing to see here–move on.”  In other words, I would be re-erecting the very illusions I’ve been dismantling.

And, there’s a part of me that wants to just that.  I know it’s fucked up.  I told my therapist that I know all this shit I’m doing now (dismantling the family) is a good thing, but it’s so fucking hard, and I’m grieving so fucking much.  She pointed out that in dismantling the family, I am ripping apart the very fabric that has held us together for the past thirty years.  Yes, it’s dysfunctional and toxic and all that shit, but it’s still what we all agreed to uphold as the way our family operated.  So, now that I am dismantling, I’m leaving us with absolutely nothing.  There is nothing behind the curtain–which means starting at ground zero.

I pointed out to my therapist that with my father, it’s actually starting from a negative because not only do I have no relationship with him, I don’t trust him.  I assume he is negotiating in bad faith, which makes everything he say suspect.  He is making steps, yes, but he has a long way to go before I even consider us on neutral territory.

Now, take the same concept (dismantling the family) and apply it to me.  At the same time I’m ripping apart my faux family, I am also dismantling the persona I have so carefully constructed over the past thirty years.  Choolie said that it was a persona forced onto me by my family, which is true to a certain extent.  The basic tenets of the personality were made by my family, certainly.   However, much of my persona was crafted by me as a defense to the unbearable heaviness of being.

My OCD traits really emerged as a way of having some illusion of control when I knew I had none.  My rigidness in the matter of scheduling events was for the same reason.  I started self-harming as a compromise for not killing myself.  Even my deep depression was a way to hold the demons at bay for awhile while I regenerated.  My determination not to commit to life, keeping death in my back pocket, as it were, was also a way to make it through each day.  As long as I had the choice to kill myself, I wouldn’t do it right at that moment.  In the same vein, my belief that what was over on the other side was worse than life was also kept me alive.

The thing is, as dysfunctional as all these behaviors were, they fucking kept me alive.  I have no doubt I would be dead without them.  However, they are no longer useful to me, so I have to let them go with my thanks.  In doing so, I am letting go of many elements I considered fundamental to my persona.  And, it’s fucking hard.

My favorite Tarot card has always been the Tower.  It represents the extremes of my nature and how I am drawn to said extremes.  I found comfort in the idea of the Tower back during my lost years.  It’s not so easy actually living it, though.

I know it’s also a good thing, a healthy thing, that I am letting go of many of my outmoded personality traits.  It scares me, though, because I’m not sure what is under all that persona.  If what I believed to be true about myself for so many years can be gone just like that–then what really is true about me?  The persona I created was part lie, part self-defense mechanism, part wishful thinking, and mostly dysfunctional functioning.  I am healthier now than I have ever been, but that’s relative.  How do I know that the new persona I’m creating isn’t just as fucked up?

I will say that the one reason I can believe the new me is better is because it’s more organic than the last one.  With both my mom’s visit and my father’s, I simply could not act in the same way.  I didn’t deliberately say, “I’m not going to follow the old patterns of interaction”–I just physically and mentally couldn’t do it any longer.  The change inside has already started, though it’s not so easy for me to see.

And, now that I am unfrozen, the part of me that wants to kill myself is unfrozen as well.  When I was depressed, I didn’t have the energy.  Now I am fucking exhausted, but I still feel things and can do things I haven’t done before.  There is a small voice in my head that tells me that all this hard work is not worth it, that my new life isn’t worth it, that once again, I am not worth it. The dark part of me that craves oblivion is not as strong as it once was, but it’s not going out without a fight, either.  The urge to self-destruct overwhelms me at times.  Then, I slip back into self-harming, which is not good, but it’s better than self-destructing.

I told my therapist about my self-harming.  I said that I am dealing with it by using that dreadful cliche, one day at a time.  And, when things get too hard, one hour or one minute at a time.  She said it’s not dreadful because the actual ‘one day at a time’ thing is sound thinking.  It’s making the decision to stay present in each moment without getting too far ahead of myself.  Take the case of binging and purging.  Usually, when the feeling hits, I make the choice to binge.  Then, a haze takes over me.  I binge, I purge, I cry, I wash my hands, I’m done.  It’s very ritualistic, and it feels like each step is inevitable.  But, as I teased out in therapy, I can stop anywhere along the road.  Even if I binge, I can not purge.  I know that sounds ridiculously simple, but it never occurred to me before.  After a binge, I can think, “OK.  That was bad.  I don’t have to make it worse by purging.”

Again, this sounds trite, but it’s all about making conscious decisions every step of the way.  It’s actually the way I operate in general.  I have to talk myself into doing each step of something I dread while giving myself the option of backing out after each step.  When I talked about this earlier with my therapist, she said it’s actually about making the deliberate choice to do each step.  She’s right.

I tend to trip myself up by projecting into the future.  I say, “If I do this, then I have to do this, and then and then and then.”  For example, “If I volunteer for the Dayton campaign, I have to stick it out until the election.”  Um, no.  I can go once and then decide it’s not for me.  Again, I know this sounds very basic, but it’s not something I’d ever really thought before.

In addition, I’m feeling very defensive because I’m so raw.  Everything hurts, and I feel like I’m a big-assed burden on everyone.  When I get like this, my impulse is to withdraw from my loved ones so I don’t spread my toxicity to them.  Even though I have been assured that I am not a burden–it doesn’t make me feel like any less of one.  And, I am in that place where I question everything I do/say because I worry that it stems from a place of dysfunction.  Since I am in the transition between carefully-crafted dysfunctional functioning persona and something more raw and real, I am afraid that everything I say and do is wrong.

Forgive the even more than usual disjointed rambling.  It’s late/early; I’m exhausted; I am grieving.

And, again, I could give him nothing.  I did send an email to my mother telling her to let him know I got his message.  He doesn’t have a personal email, and he got home on a Saturday.  He probably went into the office, but I wasn’t sure.

At any rate, I started reeling again.  I feel like the clock is running out (he does not look good at all), and I would really like to give him a moment of peace before he dies.  I feel some pity for him, and I want to have some kind of grace for him–but I do not.

Now.  I have had two disparate ideas running through my mind, and I realize they are tangentially related, so I am going to discuss them both here.  Even if they weren’t related, I would still tie them together because it’s my blog, and I can do what I want.

The first is the idea of compassion (closely linked to the idea of forgiveness).  TNC wrote this lovely piece on compassion on Thursday.   He’s writing a book on the Civil War, and he wrote many thoughtful, engaging pieces during Confederate History Month (April).  A shout-out to dengre at BJ who also wrote many thoughtful, enraging pieces on the South during CHM.

Anyway, I read the piece by TNC and then I read the comments.  Many people brought up the idea that compassion does not mean absolution and that forgiveness is for the forgiver, not for the forgiven.  Normally, I would have thrown in my two cents, but I couldn’t.  Why?  Because I wasn’t up to being excoriated.  I’m not saying I would have been, but it was a fair possibility.

Here is an earlier entry I wrote on forgiveness.  Hm.  In linking to that entry, I see that I wrote an even earlier entry about it, so it’s obviously something I think about often.  I also just realized that the first vid I posted is the same, too.  Oh, well.  I like the song, and it’s my current ear worm, so it stays.

Anyway, since this is my blog, I am going to make a few comments on compassion and forgiveness.  One, I think there is a gender difference when it comes to compassion.  Women are taught as very little girls to always think of others first.  It’s the ‘good girl’ syndrome, and though it’s changed over the years, it’s still pervasive.  Men are taught to be competitive and to be the best.  There isn’t much room for compassion in that.  And, yes, I am grossly oversimplifying in order to make a point.  TNC was writing about the women of the south and how he could find some compassion for them as they were victims of a virulent patriarchal society as well.

The thing I wouldn’t write over there:  I don’t need to learn compassion for others.  In many ways, I am very selfish (in my thoughts, especially), but one thing I have is compassion for almost everyone else.  You know the main reason I did not kill myself coming back from the airport?  It was because I could not figure out a way to do it that would not endanger other people on the road as well.  In my darkest days, when I think about killing myself, the thought of my brother finding me stops me cold.  I give money to homeless people on the street, and I berated myself the last time I didn’t.  Even during the years I couldn’t stand up for myself, I tried to stand up for the underdog.

In short, I don’t need to try to have compassion for others.  My therapist pointed out that I sometimes overdid my compassion for others in trying to excuse bad behavior or taking the blame for someone else’s wrongdoing.

My last session was very painful as we talked about my father’s visit.  When I recounted to her the things I wrote here (and what happened at the airport), she couldn’t help but flinch, especially at the, “You’re not a woman” comment.  She said it was a cruel thing to say and it showed how he viewed the women who worked for him.  Not to mention my mother, added I.  My father is a big believer in equality when it comes to bathrooms (he converted half the men’s bathrooms to women’s bathrooms after he became president because his workforce is 75% female) and pay, but his attitude toward women is strictly old-school.

As many of you know, I already have difficulties with my femininity.  I am not feminine in many ways, and I do occasionally wonder just how much of a gender freak I am.  However, my father’s comment was so outrageous and stupid, I could only shake my head in bemusement.  It did touch a raw wound, though.  Much of who I am as a woman is either because he made me that way or in direct reaction to how he views women.  When he and my brother were talking about jobs and chores, my father said, “Minna won’t like this, but Mom does all the housework.”  I said, “She has a job, too.”  He said, “She only works half-time.”  I said, “When you both lived here, she had a full time job, looked after [my brother] and me, and did all the housework.  Don’t even.”

Anyway, it cuts at the very essence of a person–one’s gender, especially, as I noted above, for someone like me who already has difficulty reconciling being the person I am with the notion of what a woman should be.

Back to compassion.  In my session, I was just terribly sad and exhausted and full of grief.  My therapist said she couldn’t imagine how much I was hurting, but that she was proud of me for what I’d done.  Because I can no longer pretend to be the cipher I’ve been for the last thirty-plus years, I am forcing my family to change.  The disastrous trip to Taiwan triggered something in me.  It really showed me that no matter how hard I tried to do away with my real personality and try to play the dutiful daughter, I failed.

Then, the letters my parents sent me telling me everything that was wrong with me.  That hurt, but it only underlined the notion that I could never please them, so why bother trying?  Then my mom’s 2-month visit in which we had some really difficult conversations and started the yeoman’s work of dismantling the relationship we never had in the hopes that we could build something together.

Then, my father.

If you read the previous entries I linked, you will see that I wrote about letting go of my anger for my father.  I wrote about not fearing him and not caring one way or the other about having a relationship with him.  Throw all that out the window.  During his visit here, I realized I still had a bunch of rage at him.  I realized that I still feared him, though not physically, and I realized that I wanted to find some grace for him in the worst way.  Partly for him as he is a pathetic shell, and he is mentally-crippled as Natasha pointed out to me.  He is emotionally-stunted and a shell of a human being.

And I should be able to summon up something other than guilt, grief, anger, and exhaustion when I hear his voice.

And yet, I cannot.  Not only can I not, I feel a sliver of resentment that I think I should be able to find compassion for my father.

The whole time I was reading the TNC thread, this is the thought that kept running through my brain, “Where is the compassion for me?”  Now, I am not talking from my friends.  They have compassion for me in spades.  I’m talking about from my family in general, and from my father in specific.  When he asked me why should he care about me (that was the last thing he said to m), I wanted to tell him it was part of the fucking job description.  He had asked me how I felt about the family and the house (loving the house, apparently, means loving him–like a good little whore), and I said it was complicated (motherfucking understatement of the year).  That’s when he asked, “Why should I care about you, then?”  As I said, I wanted to tell him it was his fucking job.   Instead, I swallowed back the tears and the pain and said as evenly as I could, “You can choose to care about me or you can choose not to care about me.  That’s your choice.  You do not get to say that Minna made me choose not to care about her.  You do not get that.”  I wished him safe travels, and I left.

As my therapist pointed, he did choose to care about me by calling me and telling me he loved me very much.  She said he was making a step that he saw as huge and that I saw as small, and that we were both right.  It was huge on his side, and it was small from my perspective.

Here is another problem I have with forgiveness/compassion–it’s one-sided and an awful lot of work for one person–the aggrieved party.  TNC talked about being selfish in his compassion because he wanted more knowledge (and he was limited in his knowledge if he stuck to his old paradigms).  I kept trying to apply that to my own situation, and I kept failing.  I do understand that if I can let go of the past and the anger and the whatnot, it will be better for me as I am weighted down by all this shit.

My therapist said she was talking to a friend about the ethics of compassion.  The friend said that in the system we know best, Judeo-Christian, there is a tenet to love everyone.  What women especially forget is that to love everyone is to include themselves.  My therapist said that the most important thing for me right now is to love myself first–nobly.  In other words, not just be a selfish bitch, but to truly love myself.

That’s hard for me.  It’s easier for me to hate myself or to self-destruct.  I’ve binged and purged after each phone call from my father.  This was also how I hurt myself after coming home from the airport.  It’s a twofer, really, because it feeds my self-destructive side and it stokes my ED issues.

This weekend, I was insane with grief, sadness, pain, and, yes, some anger.  And, this is where the second idea comes in.  Thought I’d forget it, didn’t you?  No.

The second idea is about my self-perception as a pacifist.  Yes, I wrote an earlier entry about this as well.  And, yes, there is an earlier earlier entry linked in said entry as well.  That’s just how I roll.

In Taiji, Choolie is teaching me some two-person sparring martial arts as well as some Bagua drills.  The latter are mostly to substitute for meditation because I’m too psychically fragile to deal with any more flashbacks.  In the last class, she set up some ‘posts’ and taught me a figure-eight approach.  I was to picture each post as the enemy (five of them in all) as I walked around them.

Something happened inside of me as I started circling.  Everything around me faded as I zeroed in on the enemy.  As I approached, I adjusted my stepping so I would have the optimum leverage in a fight.  My mind was cleared of everything but one thought:  Kill him.  It wasn’t an enraged or angered thought–it was a dead-cold one.

I talked with Choolie about it after class.  I said it was hard for me to accept–the kill mentality.  She said it was part of the good girl syndrome (lie back and enjoy it rather than fight) and that it was hard to dispel.  We talked a bit more, and I said the part that was hardest for me to accept was that by saying that if it came down to him or me, I choose me, I was saying I mattered.  Not only that, I was saying I mattered more than a mythical abuser.

I know this seems like a pretty banal statement, but it was deeply profound to me.  I have spent most of my life hating myself and thinking the world would be better off if I were dead.  For all my railing about my parents not seeing me or valuing me or caring about me (all true to an extent), the deeper issue was that I didn’t care about me.  I thought I was toxic (and I still struggle with this), and I didn’t care about myself.  I didn’t think I was worth caring about, frankly.

Now, this is a good realization, obviously (that I matter), but it’s a huge paradigm-shift and threw me into an even deeper tizzy.  My whole framework for my life is evaporating at a rapid rate, and it’s not easy for me to adjust.  I don’t do well with changes at my best–and I’m not at my best right now.

Choolie and I also did some two-person circle walking so she could demonstrate a point.  The first time, there was a feeling of anger surrounding our walking.  I was on alert, and I slipped into fight mode.  She asked me afterwards what I thought about it, and I said my thought had been, “If I were equal to you in terms of skill, we’d be sparring right now.”  In other words, it’d be on.  She said that she had been focusing aggressive intent on me as we walked, and we definitely would have been fighting.  She also said that most people freak out if she shows even a tenth of that aggression toward them the first time doing this exercise.  The fact that I hadn’t told her that I had the fighting spirit.

We walked again.  This time, there was an expansiveness that hadn’t been there the first time.  It was friendly.  When she asked how I felt afterwards, I said that we had just been practicing.  There was no negativity there.  She said she had been focusing compassion instead of aggression at me.  I could feel it.  And, as I thought this over while typing, I realized that the scenario could apply to how I view myself as well.  For the most part, I am hostile and aggressive toward myself.  Then, of course, I respond in like, and it’s on.  I have been at war with myself for all these years, and it’s fucking exhausting.  If I could manage to do the latter (focus compassion on myself) more often than not, then I wouldn’t have to be a soul divided.

I am still heavily grieving the loss of my family.  Or rather, the loss of the illusion of my family.  I am sad, exhausted, grieving, angry, and in pain.  However, as I told my father it was his choice whether to care about me or not, I have the same choice myself.  I cannot choose how my family treats me or sees me or if they care about me or not; that is beyond my control.  The only thing I can choose is to matter to myself.

P.S.  Yes, the music is emo today.  Deal with it.  Oh, and cellos.  I love cellos.