What is the Law?

In the Free and Sovereign Nation of Stacietania, there is but one law: Show Up or Shut Up.

I admit I made that law when I was in deep pain. I had sold myself short for years (decades?) and allowed people to sooth me with words into putting up with less-than-honorable behavior. I don't want to pile on my ex here, because I still coparent with him. But we stopped being good for each other a long time before we divorced. The words turned out to be empty, as words so often are. We live in a world where people do not live with integrity. Weak people say things they don't mean and don't hold themselves to their word.  And we all let them do it because we have all felt that impulse. It is easier to say things than to do things. And so we all live with empty promises and empty threats. And guess what? It leaves us empty.

It hurt me a lot to live that way. I wanted to be in my strength. But as long as I allowed myself to be placed at the low end of the table in people's lives, I did nothing to honor myself. Whether or not I felt I deserved it, I accepted less. I played the concubine, but I wanted to be the queen. My power was drained away from me. In truth I gave it away. It made me bitter. I got angry.

At some point I hit the rock bottom of taking emotional abuse from the world. I set the rule for other people in my life: Show Up or Shut Up. To be around me, people had to be true to their word. Deeds were what I looked at. It was hard, because words are pretty and easy. I had to be willing to cut my circle of trust down to the bone. I broadcast my intention to put up with no bullshit.
Like I said, I thought that rule was just for other people. It was my protection against pain. People who were all talk had less access to me. There would be no acceptance of half-measures. I was a hardass about it. I learned to sharpen and hone the word NO. I used it to cut a lot of people out of my life that didn't have the strength to handle the new me. I chose quality over quantity. It sounds lonely, but it was fine. It helped. I got hurt less. Not to say never, but I had to learn that some of my hurts in life happened because I had permitted them to. I sorta hoped that the people left in my life would follow the law, and that was enough. Not exactly.

Stripping it down further, I realized that I needed to Show Up or Shut Up for myself. Romantic relationships were an Achilles Heel for me. I felt that in a romance I should be able to get my needs met more if I applied the law to people and held them to a high standard. I can see that it wasn't a bad idea, but it was a skilled archer with a good bow but the wrong target. My needs really are not for another person to fill. When someone else wanted me to behave a certain way to make them happy, I balked. That sort of codependent thinking was a trap. I didn't want to be solely responsible for another person's feelings. That didn't feel right. That was a bottomless pit.

I started looking at, and in fact made a list, of the things I thought a relationship would provide me. I could see that I was externalizing my power. There I was, all strong or so I thought, giving away the keys to my inner core. I thought that was what I was supposed to do. When I looked at that list, I started to see that there were some ways I provide those things for myself. For example:

• I wanted security for myself and my son. 

• Okay. I went back to school and got a job that would make more money
• I used some of that money to buy better insurance in case something went wrong.

• I wanted love and to not be lonely.
• Guess what? Being married to the wrong person didn't make me feel loved, and in fact was one of the loneliest times in my life.
• I resolved to spend more time with friends and my son and my pets.
• I wanted sex
• Crap. You got me there. I might have to have other people in my life for that.
• But not always. 

In the end, at the end of my last relationship, I realized I could replace my last boyfriend with a sturdy ladder and a good vibrator. It wasn't worth keeping that person around to get stuff off of the top of the fridge or change a light bulb. The depth of feeling wasn't there for me to continue with him. So I broke it off, because my soul wasn't being nourished by it. 

And he fired back by calling me a Selfish Bitch. Because he knew me enough to know those words would hurt me. 

I figured I would be alone. I was scared, but determined to make a life one way or another. Alone if need be. I wouldn't settle. Working on my Masters' Degree, I focused on the goals above. Make it better, more secure. More friends. More love, less bullshit. I would Show up and Shut up for myself. I would quit bitching and start living in earnest.

Then in the back of my mind I remembered that unique and amazing guy who said to call if I was ever single. He had ideas about what to do about that. So the craziest thing happened. I dropped him a text. I put my heart out on a string in the most vulnerable way possible. That beat up, battered and scarred heart that didn't appear to be worth much to anyone else. Not even to me sometimes. I offered it anyway.

It took him a day and a half to respond, during which time I figured it was just talk. Empty words. And I would soon be dealt-I figured-a crushing ego blow. I had called his bluff and he was going to have to admit that it was just an off the cuff remark and he didn't mean it really. 

Only that is not what happened. 

Turns out he was picking his own heart up, from where it jumped out of his chest and landed from my sudden, unexpected pronouncement.  And there was my heart, offered up. Only he didn't see it as a nearly ruined thing. He cradled it close and laid a healing hand on it. And that thing managed to warm him the way it was never able to even knock the outer layer of frost off of other people. I don't know which of us was more surprised. 

Suddenly, like every person on a journey to enlightenment, I had a giant epiphany. And one of such stunning simplicity. I needed to Show Up for him. What made this real for us both was me shaking my schedule and budget until both bled, and I few across the country. And he was waiting to embrace me. And we made it real. The one law I had created to shield myself from other people applied to me as well. If I wanted to be close to him, I needed to follow it myself.

My heart feels good for the first time in ages. Everyone notices. I am gobsmacked by how happy I am. I'm a delirious lovefool. The world seems to be a little less harsh because I have softened up. I set down that bitterness I was drinking and I feel better. So many different things are happening. I want to show up for the people in my life more now. My friends, my parents, my son. I feel centered and secure. I am slowly daring to feel hopeful. Yes, I give him a lot of credit for being awesome. But I had to allow it, too. 

Show Up or Shut Up is still the law of the Free and Sovereign Nation of Stacietania. It is a just law, that applied to all, brings a lot more peace than I thought. 

Is Obsession Love?

So, today is John Taylor's 51st birthday. I'll hasten to point out here that I did not have this penciled in red on my calendar, but got a reminder on Facebook from the Duran Duran fan page. But it did give me a moment's pause to remember him fondly, and I realized that I have similar feelings for some of my old lovers. That warm-if-distant affection that never quite goes away.

I was obsessed with John Taylor from at least 1983 to 1988. I was an epic Duranie of the highest order. I LOVED them. I had John Taylor's haircut, even. Yes, I had a spectacular, aquanet-crunchy mullet, but that is a subject for another time. It made me happy. I loved the music, the style, the guyliner, all of it. And in my secret heart, I still do love it, although perhaps not with the capital "L" of my teen years.

I know I am capable of  my obsessions from time to time. They called me OCD girl in Anatomy class for the way I studied. Obsession can be useful when applied to academic pursuits, but love probably isn't in the same class of things that can benefit from that much attention.

I'm wondering to myself if I applied that same sort of devotion to my boyfriends in the past? I wonder what it is like to have a relationship with me. I'm all intensity and ferocity and passion. I want to break open my lovers and get to the gooey middle and taste the true depth of them. That might be scary, I guess, but I don't judge their flaws like they worry I would. I want them to give me a reason to be their biggest fan. I ask a lot of people. I want to know people on the deepest level possible. I want to try their favorite breakfast cereal and see if I like it too. I want to listen to their favorite records and see what effect the people who influenced them will have on me. If there were a Tiger Beat magazine that had my real friends on the cover I would totally buy it. I go deep or go home, because surface associations are next to useless to me.

I love John Taylor. I don't really know him at all, but whatever feelings I nursed for him as a young woman full of hormones burn in me still. He's getting older and so am I, but I still would probably pee my pants with excitement if I met him in person. But as we age together, I know that he has shaped me as much as anyone else I have loved. I gave oatmeal another chance because he loves it. So I guess obsession sometimes is good for me.

Lost Mitten

My house is full of evidence that up until Friday I was a mom. Just little things here and there, art on the fridge, stray puzzle pieces under the sofa, and silky blonde hairs in the bathtub drain. We are still in the process of cleaning the house after moving our foster daughter. There is this stray mitten that I guess I need to throw out, because I never found the mate to it so I could send it with the rest of her stuff.

It is just a little purple mitten. So small. By next winter she probably would have outgrown that pair anyway. But my eyes keep gravitating to it, and it would probably be healthier for my well being to toss it out or put it away, rather than picturing the soft little hand that belongs in it. The hand that fit so well in mine.

Better to discard it lest I do something crazy like sew it on the inside of my coat, so it can lie over my heart, secretly where nobody will see it. Because the rest of the world will become accustomed to my childlessness so much faster than I will. They won't have to think about her every day and wonder how she is doing, worry about whether she is happy. Worry about the unseasonably cold mornings and if she has something to keep her hands warm.

I have an empty mitten, and she has a cold hand. That is how I see it. She hasn't even been gone long enough to miss me, or notice that she isn't coming back. She'll figure it out in her way and probably get the reasons for it all wrong. I am sad for myself, but even more I worry for her. I just want her to be happy.

The county would gladly fill our empty bedroom with another child if we wanted them to. But there is just no way I could take that on right now for lots of reasons, so we are waiting. Need to heal. Need to get through nursing school. I feel like I need to conquer the world a bit and get my confidence back and get out from under the watchful eyes of the gaggle of social workers that in the end don't do any of the heavy lifting that foster parents do.

I don't know how long I will keep this mitten. I guess until I don't need it anymore. Maybe I need the proof that while I had her, I took good care of her.

Here's for Hallmark Holidays!

I disapprove of Valentines' Day on general principle. It seems, on the surface, to be a harmless enough holiday. But my male friends all seem to hate it because it seems to be a sort of trap or test they will fail no matter what they do.

That and the inflated prices on seemingly mandatory roses and cards and chocolate that have all been out on display since the day after Christmas...the whole thing adds up to a big commercial scam.

The last thing I want is for anyone in my life to have to keep up with the Jones' with regard to expressions of "love". That is just weird. I mean, flowers and chocolate and sparkly jewels are all well and good, but some mandatory holiday expression is just funky. Being romantic should be an everyday thing, born out of genuine affection.

This isn't worth an actual rant, but I am glad we are not making a big deal out of it this year.

One Syllable is all Ye Get

In a lot of ways I always thought I was more like my grandmother than other members of the family, but lately I have noticed some of my grandfather's mannerisms creeping into my personality. Or at least I am being made aware of the ways in which I am similar to him.

Gramps was very emotionally reserved. He never said "I love you" to anyone that I saw. But the love was there, for sure. The above photo is the two of us when I was around 2-3 years old. He taught me to appreciate nature from an early age. He loved trees, especially, and seemed genuinely delighted whenever I brought him an acorn. We planted quite a few that later became beautiful oaks that now tower over that little brick house.

I never doubted that he loved me, even though he never said it, not even when he was dying. He did little things for me all the time that let me know he was thinking of me. He brought me British toffees and hand knit wool sweaters. On my last visit when he was still up and around, I had gone across town to see my father, and when I got back to the house he had already gone to bed, but he had left me a little note in the kitchen. It said "Have a good night", and sitting on top of the paper was the biggest, most perfectly shaped and succulent nectarine I had ever seen in my life. I just knew in that moment that he had taken time to select the very best one, looking each over to see which had no bruises and just the right blush. I felt a flush of love for him, and nectarine in hand, went to his room, not to wake him but just to look at him. He was snoring peacefully. I padded back to the kitchen in bare feet and bit into the fruit. Standing over the sink was a good idea, as the juice ran down my chin onto my hand and down to my elbow. Perfect. He didn't need to say the words, I could taste it.

He was kinda funny though about people's names. No matter how long your name was, it had to have a "for short". One syllable was all you got. I was obviously "Stace". In fact, so many people call me "Stace" that I don't even notice. You were lucky if you had a one syllable name to begin with, although almost none of us did. He shortened names that didn't easily shorten. Eileen was "Leen". I do that to people all the time, shortening their name to one syllable, said with affection.

I have started to do things like that, or maybe I always did and just now notice it. I do tell people that I love them, and that is a big difference. But I find that for me, saying it seems so inadequate. The words "I love you" seem to not be able to hold how I feel. I need to do things, too.

I wonder if people get it when I take a picture of a goose paddling lazily in the river and send it to them, or bake them cookies, or grasp them in an extra long hug or call just to say hello. They seem like such small things, but I don't do that for everyone, just the people I care deeply about.

I am a very poor judge of whether my love sinks under the skin of other people. Maybe I am not so adept at feeling it when they love me back, either, since I seem to need reassurance of it often. The juice of it really needs to run down my chin for me to get it, I guess.