I might be stronger than this, but I'm still worried

Yo.

She texted me and is still playing her power games. She's no longer in control of my game piece, but I'm afraid if I simply exit the contest at this point, I'll be constantly worried and thinking of the looming hand above, and what move it wants to make as soon as I'm not paying attention. Because we walk around on this game board, and I never know when I've entered the territory she calls her own and wants to control. I willingly went behind enemy lines twice in the past 3 days. I did it on purpose, because I don't want her to win ownership of the only acceptable patio in town now that Shakespeare's have corporatized and sold it's soul to the man. I might still go there from time to time, but it'll be the same as going anywhere else, and that still hurts too much. I knew it would be a strategic battle, but went into it with my own power plays planned, and besides some unnecessary repetition, think I executed them well.

I wish it was as simple as exiting. It seems there's been a shift in how I play this game called life, and well, action has been suiting me better than silence. I'm not sure why, but I don't hurt as much afterwards when I actually do something, instead of letting things happen to me. The problem is how to decipher when action is needed, and when I'm only reacting.

Live and learn, right? Live and learn.

In other news, I'm sorry that she just broke up with her boyfriend, but I refuse to be the replacement. I hope it doesn't come down to action in this case; I just want her to know.

And finally, she called me out on my silence. We were around others, and usually I'm safe under the cloak of conversation, but she noticed that I had nowhere to turn my eyes as my thoughts raced behind them, and she called me out on it. I lied and said "nothing" but she knows when I'm lying. She always knows. Why wasn't she in the conversation? Why be under the cloak with me? How does she have the confidence to simply ask me my thoughts? I'm open to her, and I guess might always be. I closed her out once, but now she's back. Can it be that simple? "Now she's back." Somehow it is. And it's not that others haven't noticed, or even asked, but it's when she noticed, and when she asked, and, as much as I don't want to admit it, maybe simply that it was her asking.

Chicago this weekend. And probably the next as well. I'm excited. And now we'll see the fun that happens before hand.

Listen Up; Listen Hard with your Silence

I'd be happy if I never again:
- Hugged old friends for them to respond "you're so tiny" in their worried, confused tone.
- Heard a friend talk poorly about her body
- Got in trouble for not wanting to hear negative self-talk, because I guess that means I'm the asshole who doesn't understand and hates listening (Right.)

I just want to scream fuck you to everyone. Maybe it's from the bad sleep and mild cramps.

*****Abrupt tone change*****

I went and looked at an art exhibit this weekend. We got lost in a nice building, then we read and looked at women's interpretations of power. I thought it would only be interpreted through clothing, but there were quotes, lots and lots of quotes, and after an hour and a half I didn't even get to read them all.

So we left, at closing time, and I felt powerful. I walked, with my beautiful, powerful friends, and knew that we could do anything.

What we ended up doing was going our separate ways for the rest of the day, but I altered my walk home. I took the long way around and stopped by the pull up bars. There were lots of men playing cricket--which I always find oddly comforting; I feel accepted in the unexpected--and I wanted to see how many I could do now. I didn't stand up on the side and get ready, I pulled my bag off over my head, tossed it in the grass behind me and jumped up to the bar. I jumped up to the bar and did 5 pull-ups. Yes, I felt powerful, and to remember the feeling, I put a quantifiable number on it. I am really starting to know myself: I haven't forgotten yet.

*****Here's another shift*****

While house-sitting, I took over mac and cheese. I boiled the mac, I added the powdered cheese, I looked in the fridge: only vanilla soy milk. Grey-orange Vanilla Mac and Cheese: edible, but not really excusable.

*****Y'know*****

When I was unhealthy and unhappy (but most people didn't know, or at least didn't know the extent), I had secrets. I have secrets again, but I'm not sure the two are related, or as related as I previously thought. I think healthy and happy people also have secrets. There's a difference between being dishonest and being trustworthy. It just got so skewed for so long I'm still trying to tease out the difference.

And I'm off.

Still Mad at Me

I'd be happy if I never again had to:
- Have the woman stranger in the bathroom stare at me, then ask "Is this the ladies room?"
- Have the conversation afterwards where people think I need to hear about how pretty I am. That's not what it's about. THAT'S NOT WHAT IT'S ABOUT!
- Believing in her and having her hurt me.
- Letting her in.
- Hearing about how much pain she's in.
- Have the lemon v lemon-poppyseed argument. (Don't tell on me.)

It's been a week on contradicting insides. A week of that familiar feeling of secrets because I don't know how to talk about it. Any of it. A week of talking about one side with her, then them--even though I didn't really want to invite them in; and some other angle with the rest of them. I don't even know what I feel inside, so how can I try to express it to someone else and have her react honestly? I can't express it honestly. So then it just gets frustrating because they hate her for me or are worried for me or think I don't understand. Which, I guess I don't understand, but I understand more than anyone else does, even if I can't express it to them.

I'd be happy if I never again had to force myself to listen to a friend gently tell me what I'm missing because they think I'm the one without all of the information. It's my life and my experiences and regardless of how many stories, anecdotes, or conversations I've relayed on to friends for help, they're still not the ones who've lived it. I was there at all these times. I felt the pressure of our cheeks--and all pressed in between, and probably omitted that part from my story to you. Which is why I gently listen back and play grateful for the insulting interpretation, because I'm the one not offering up or expressing the entire situation, I'm the one not giving them enough info to work with... Maybe sometimes, I want to figure it out; I want to figure it out outloud while a loved one sits and listens and doesn't judge or feel the need to impart some great knowledge. Maybe the great knowledge is somewhere within me, and not inside you and your similar experiences or read and heard about stories.

Yeah, because of all the conflicts, I did omit our cheeks with everyone except her--and then them. I don't talk about her eyes under the moon on the balcony in the steep mountains. I don't talk about all the kisses on the forehead or cheeks or hair. I don't talk about how we don't hold back in language, just in action. I don't talk about how it feels like home--and the good kind--because it was the same with her, and with her, and almost with her, even though it was just the one code word that meant it all, over and over and over again.

So there's the party tonight and I want to go and I don't want to go; I want them to come with me and I don't want them to come with me; I want him to be there and I already hate him for being there and I want to talk to him and I want to punch him for the other unrelated reason--which is a lot of other reasons put together whose value is larger than the sum of it's parts.

I regret what happened with Paul and I'm almost to hating what happened under the moon, so I'm tired of fearing regretting this. All of this.

It's sexier too

I did push ups and sit ups. Now I feel better.

Back to Sleeplessness

It's a calming feeling really. It's familiar and true and wraps around me the way that depression can: where I wear it like a blanket and like I've never been safe or true without these feelings. I'm not saying I'm depressed, I'm not. But I'm not sleeping and that confusion dazy haze makes all the music sound like sad music. All the words don't quite wrap around my tongue or push out of my mouth at the same time. And, the most common of it all, of this being alone again and not sleeping, is the calm in not wondering every once in a while, but believing for sure that none of my friends like me. I don't know why I call myself an asshole outloud when I'm just sitting around at home on my own, or why I let so many of them have so much to do with pressuring me into being alone, but I did, and now I'm back. I'm free as well. No longer annoyed and ignored in the room with her, just alone. Just alone.

They wanted me to come out with them today, but I'd already seen the movie, and somehow I don't have any money anymore, even though the raise was supposed to go through and I've been bragging that I'm getting paid for my work. Not yet.

And I was there when the other group was making their plans, and I was trying to help, but I did cringe at all their bars, because I'm not welcome there. I may be welcome with them, but there won't be anyone else like me there, and the women in the bathroom will think I'm in the wrong place, because it's still cold enough outside to not show my stomach or wear only tight t-shirts.

I don't like scaring people. I enjoy feeling safer with my big coat and winter hat on as I walk the streets alone, but I still cross the street. These times it's because I know the fear these young women in front of me are trying to ignore as I walk behind them, a figure that they don't immediatlely recognize by high heels and big breats--I must be a man.

It's not what I have that confuses this Midwest culture about who I am, it's what I refuse to buy into. I know not all high heels and skirts are worn simply cuz it slows her down, but what if something goes wrong? I can't help anyone, including myself, if I can't move.

We're not any better either. I'm not allowed to wear high heels because some days I like to wear ties. In the summer I just want to put on my grey skirt and spaghetti straps, but then I'm not who I'm supposed to be. It's always about who I'm supposed to be.

We started talking about vacations yesterday and all I wanted to do was go home and open a bottle of red wine to share while we talked about sad childhood stories. I wanted to talk about being forced to the table, and lectured, and laughed at, but no matter how hard I tried, eating cereal couldn't make me stop crying. Yes. I remember what he said. I remember Mom not stopping him. I remember that Mar had left me a goodbye message, on a machine an ocean away, and I got yelled at for sitting in a hammock and writing.

That was a bad year. It only got worse.

This morning I didn't work. I went and 'trained' the still-new-girl on how to request a new vendor, so she could pay her women artists, and then we talked. Of course we talked about The Ex. I didn't tell that when I couldn't sleep last night, I opened the personal file in My Documents and found a 79 page long conversation with her. I started reading.

I took a tangent to talk about Mom and her hate letter and how often she tells me I'm ugly. She got goosebumps and covered her mouth and didn't blink a lot. She said that she'd heard of it, but I was the first real person.

I don't think I know either. Did she always hate me? I look back and I know I blocked out so much, but I thought it'd only be the bad parts. I only remember soccer, and that only hardly. I remember the back yard and crying and never being good enough. I remember sprinting and sprinting and being content to just not have anyone talk to me because then it couldn't be mean. I remember them openly laughing at me in line, thinking I couldn't hear directly behind me; then even asking me to turn around, pointing at my hands, picking them up in theirs; more laughing.

The other night on the couch, a new friend looked to me for strength and courage and comfort, but I don't think I calmed her fears. Her roommate started talking about a different point in all of our pasts, and I got sad again. I told that story I'm so proud of. I told the story of Mom actually believing me. It's the only time I remember her believing what I said without question. It was the only time I remember her trusting my version of my life and not telling me that she knew better. I could only do it because she gave him what I had wanted for so long, had been asking for for so long, and when she showed our inherent differences in her mind--why he deserved it and I didn't, why I was being a whiner and wrong--I finally got through to her, because the same thing was happening to me, only worse.

My mom looked so confused when I told her that I got made fun of. That I got made fun of everyday. She didn't seem betrayed, just surprised because it wasn't what she thought. She didn't really seem to mind, and was sure that as soon as she gave me this one thing I'd been asking for, she could go back to her world of a happy, straight daughter. A happy, normal daughter.

I used to try to figure out what it was that she wanted. Because maybe if I knew I could give it to her. I wasn't ever myself anyway, just a representation of what I thought would make me her stop hating me so much. It never worked. I only did wrong.

I still have a hard time realizing that. The memories didn't used to matter, because I was still trying to give her what she wanted. She said the right words at the right times, so she was good to go. Each time I left the door she said she loved me and told me that my clothes were wrong and that I better get all A's and be smart and not be so late and take a shower that night and brush my hair and not keep them all waiting--but I was ready first. She said "I love you" though. She moved her lips and her tongue and the sounds of the words "I love you" came out and she finally stopped forcing the hugging, but she said it and I had to say it back and it didn't mean anything.

You'd think that means I'm good at saying. I'll write it at times to the women of my past. To the friends that I could say it to back then. Because I'd said it before and they're still around all these years later, well I guess I can say it to them again. Not anyone new. Gretchen says it and Mimi says it and I've said it once or twice, but I don't want to anymore. You'd think that I'd be better at it having said it so hollowly for year after year after year.

It doesn't work that way for me.

Everyone thought they wanted me to break up with Jessa. But I had friends when I was with Jessa. People knew how to look at me and want to hang out with me and see me as this wounded, misguided girl with a woman that didn't deserve me. But now I'm alone. Now The Ex will be back, is back, and I might not talk about her much yet, but she's back. I don't sleep and I don't filter and you all thought you wanted me to break up with Jessa, but now you're left just with me. Who wants me?

"Yes. Yes yes yes. It's true."

(That title made me sound much more positive than I actually am. It was more of a frustrated admission than an exclamation.)

I broke up with Jessa. And it's been easy. I'm so worried. I'm so scared. It can't be this easy. I've cried, my stomach's done that drop thing it does when I'm so uncomfortable and just don't know what to do, I've forced myself to not see the hints of her still around my apartment; but that shit is easy. Compared to other things, compared to the first time, compared to The Ex...

And I feel guilty. And I feel worried. And hearing from an outside source today (she almost feels like a spy, since Jessa doesn't know that this friend has irrevocably picked me and hardly likes Jessa - ow) that Jessa is just so sure that I'm still in love with her and that "she's done this before" in a matter-of-fact 'so we'll get back together again too' tone... It's not good.

I do want to be Jessa's friend. I think the problem is that I feel like I'm ready already. I'm not nervous that I'll get back together with her. I know most of my friends are worried that I will, but I'm over her. I'm done with her. She didn't listen to me, ever, and she really did give me the tools and the space to be my own person. I kept trying to tell my therapist and a select few of my friends that it was good for me to be with Jessa because she was teaching me how to fight for myself. To get anything with her, I had to fight for myself, and she so unapologetically lobbied for her own self that I saw how it was done and learned how to do it back without feeling bad. No one could hear my message that being with a selfish person was actively teaching me, too, how to be (at least somewhat, or more than ever before) selfish.

And I have problems with the word "selfish" because when a man says what he wants he's assertive and strong and to be respected, but when a woman does it she's a bitch and totally selfish, but this isn't one of my feminist-focused posts (openly knowing that feminism isn't something I can just go in and out of).

I'm sad to be without Jessa. I will miss her.

I'm excited to be with myself. I never really have been. No, that's not true. But I think there have been very few times that I've ever been with my happy self. Really the only person I allow my sad self to be open with is myself. (Now I sound crazier than I actually am, but I'm going with it.) In the times I spend alone, I don't pretend. I am who I am; I'm forced to be, there's no one else to focus on or play off of. But because my sad self has always been so unrecognized and not allowed unless I was entirely alone, that's the only time she came out. So being alone was automatically and forcibly correlated with being sad.

Jessa taught me how to love being alone. I know that may sound harsh, but it wasn't just that I didn't want her there, it was that I wanted to try out what she did, even when I was there. I wanted to try watching whatever TV show I wanted, despite who else was around. I wanted to pull out my journal and write, or pull out my sowing and make something, or pull out my markers and play art. She did what she wanted so unapologetically that it's a way of being for her, and by being with her, I could learn how to make it a way of being for me as well. I gained the skills by observation and imitation.

All my friends always took that so negatively, but I think they could never understand that she was what I needed. I've grown so much since being with Jessa. And I'm not being self-depricating and taking myself out of this celebration of growth. I did it, but being with Jessa helped give me the tools. I needed to be somewhere safe in order to practice these overwhelmingly scary skills. I didn't know how to say what I wanted. But Jessa never stopped saying what she wanted that to ever get anything I had to speak up.

I still feel like I'm making it sound bad. Like I'm making her sound like an asshole. This isn't The Ex. I'm not saying she's the perfect creature and anything that went wrong was my fault and all that crap. I'm not saying Jessa was perfect either. But I am saying that the behaviors others so judge her for, were at times precisely the reasons I love her so, and exactly what I needed. I find it irritating, but no more than that, that I don't think any of my friends trusted that I knew what I was doing. But I did. I enjoyed my time with Jessa. Now is the time for it to end, and so it has, and it was hard to do, but I did it, and I think Jessa and I will most definitely stay connected in the future.

Here's the thing. Jessa's not perfect. But she's real. She is motherfucking real. That's what I needed. I needed someone to be the utmost version of her self, and Jessa always was. I know of so many that would argue that point with me, because they didn't like the utmost version of her self, and maybe I didn't like it all either, but god damn it, I am still impressed (not horrified) by her ability to be who she is.

I'll end with a conversation that we had with each other, that I liked so much I wrote it down and have since memorized:

J: I am merely a reflection of you.
S: You are nothing merely. You are everything, absolutely.
[pause]
J: I am absolutely a reflection of you.

She's not a reflection of me, but don't get caught up in her incorrectness--because we're all incorrect a lot of the time--because that is an absolute response.

I respect and love her in her truth, even when her truth is hard to handle. I had over three years of nothing but lying and falsehood. Truth was what I wanted, and what she gave me. I hope that all I gave her was also enough for this connection to last forever. I will never come close to dating her again, but I do still love her--in a new and (I think) even better way--and will always owe her for teaching me how to be true to myself, how to be happy alone, and fuck, how to have some fun!

Ch-ch-ch-changes

I've changed all of my passwords and have to re-train my fingers. I've broken up with Jessa and have to re-train my heart.

It's been dark and windy all day, cold even through my war coat. All the little black beatles with orange triangle stripes that have lived on my stairwell with me since the first big snow storm back in December are all dead or dying, I guess it's "cleaner" that way, except now when I walk up and down the stairs over and over day after day, I only see death, instead of making friends and watching where I step.

Now, I have to go work. Including putting on a happy face. Hopefully I'll be able to update again soon.