Hello.
 
Hello.
 
Is this thing on?
 
*Ahem* No will not say "sibillance" - what is that anyway?
 
Anyway - for anyone out there who may be looking round or listening peripherally - I stumbled across the smattered ramblings below just now - written Feb 20, 2004. So obviously not a lot has changed - rising like the phoenix is apparently a fairly lengthy process. Guess the accomplishment is in keeping on.
 
Oh, come on, humor me:

Human interpersonal relationships – a wonderfully scientific label for the art of getting along with your family, friends, lovers, co-workers, and any person you stand next to on the bus or pass on your way into the gym. It is a tidy, sterile way of describing all of these complex interactions. These daily dances with the other people accompanying us on this journey called life – designed to maximize happiness, minimize social discomfort, and make the world run smoothly. Or so it seems. I have lived my life under the banner of the happiness maximization (theirs), discomfort minimization (mine) for as long as I can remember. It has allowed me to cope with a lot of difficult situations. It has allowed me to adopt the self-aggrandizing moniker of “peacemaker” and “woman of compromise.” But mostly, it leaves me feeling compromised. Afraid of expressing my own opinions – as it is little known, that expressing one’s own preference on matters as important as whether Derek Jeter really looks good in pin stripes may cause one to spontaneously burst into flames – I dance, I dance. Dropped into a situation where an opinion might be required, I cleverly put forth some neutral statement – hoping to entice a nugget of what the other party’s opinion in the matter might be, from which I can then base my own statements on the matter. It is not so much a matter of agreeing with the other person all the time (that would make my fear of “rocking the boat” too obvious) but rather of embarking on a tight-rope walk of one-sided diplomacy, where any position I might have is appropriately tempered by acknowledging the inherent fairness, justification, and, ultimately, superiority of the other person’s positions.

I ask myself – when did I get this way? The echoing answer – I didn’t get this way. I have always been this way. So here I sit, a woman of vast education and an accomplished paper resume – Ivy League honors, topped with a J.D., a practicing attorney at a “BigLaw” firm, with the icing of having accomplished all such tasks at a break-neck speed before the age of 24 -  unable to express myself. So is this it? I am English major, book junkie, lawyer who talks and talks to fill the silences but who ultimately says nothing? I have been told for years that I had a gift for writing. Yes, it is my mother who is saying this, but it is someone nonetheless. Someone else recognizing the facility with language that I have been fortunate to be deeded in this life, that many others are continuously searching for. And yet, even acknowledging, if not a talent for writing, at least the inherent comfort I feel within the medium, I have been – for at least the last 15 years, afraid to write. I will write when I am in situations of comfort – the e-mails to family, to friends. On a smaller scale, in a sheltered environment. I have been unable… no, I have been unwilling to write in a larger forum, on a grander scale, for eyes whose biases are not tempered by affection for the spastic writer and her sensitivities. I have not had the courage to write in a forum to be judged by the biases of the rest of the world. I have not thought that anyone would want to hear what I had to say. I have long thought myself “the other,” that my quirks, my neuroses, my problems were all unique to me. And they are. But it occurs to me now, as I continue the long process of awakening from my guilt and anxiety ridden stupor that I may have something to say. That I do have something to say. That others can relate to the core experience. The quirks are just what make it funny, what make it me. What will allow me to express myself.

Lately I have found myself feeling different. The old pains are still there. The fear, the anxiety – my security blanket still present. But there are now moments. Flashes of time when I forget myself – the image of myself that I had long ago created and spent all subsequent years propping up, applying more spit and bubblegum to the cracks as need be, for the world to see. The me I thought the world could be comfortable with. There are slices, slivers and beams of me that begin to seep through the cardboard image. I let them out now. I did not even know they were there. They surprise me. But they are a victory. They lend hope to escaping what has always been the ache of being me. Relieving me of the fatigue that comes in tap dancing through life without respite to the steps of some mad choreographer who cares only for the image presented and not the toll taken on the dancer.

Often I only realize the moments in retrospect. Often they are born of painful situations. But they are there. They are mine. One particularly difficult area in my life has been my love life, or lack thereof. I have been involved. I have been on dates. I have had a long term relationship. But it has all been a struggle. A struggle for love. I like to play myself as the doomed lover – the one whom the fates have aligned against. The one who cannot fight the destiny of being alone – but who along the way will incur more pain in trying to love those who will not love her. She is unlovable. I believe myself unlovable. This could be because I choose to love those who are not capable of love, or who dole it out in little teaspoonfuls here and there. To serve their needs – both conscious and subsconscious. True enough, I pick men with issues. However, we all have issues. Really, the truth is this: No man can love me enough because I need enough love for two people – the love they would give me, and the love I need to make up for the fact of my loathing myself. No one is capable of that. Not in the long run.

I always pride myself of saying that I think a relationship is or could be healthy (were it to work out) because I can see the other persons flaws and I “know they are not perfect” so I am not suffering from idolatry and it would be a partnership of equal footing – blah, blah, blah. It’s all lip service. Yes, I do see the other persons flaws. I excuse them, I love in spite of them, I love them for them. Lovely thoughts. Appropriate even. However, it leads to the same idolatry as thinking the person is perfect in the first place. Idolatry is okay. A relationship filled with adoration is wonderful – we should all be so lucky. A relationship of lasting adoration, resplendent laughter, and unending respect is, if I do say so myself, the ideal. However, the admiration must be mutual. Everything, absolutely everything, in a relationship must be mutual. If I love someone in spite of and even because of their flaws, they must do the same. And maybe, they have. I have always been unwilling to accept that scenario though. I figure they love the paper-machiere version of me that I dangle before the masses. The “perfect” version of me. The “perfect” version of me, that I have always been aware, fools no one. The strain of maintaining it is too much. The chinks in the armor necessarily revealed by the crying jags and the nervous hysterics unleashed by the self imposed 24-7 puppet show. I have been conducting this show so long that I have forgotten what the real me is like. I have not spent any time with her in a long, long while. As I said before, she is starting to seep out a bit. Mostly in angry little spurts (she has been cooped up for an awfully long time). Yes, it is time to put the lights out on my travel-edition Broadway, the hatching process has begun.

 

So this is the story of me and the boys.

When I started out to tell this story, I thought I would just be recounting the sordid history that is my relationship with a certain little problem by the name of "Ed." Many of my trials and tribulations in life have stemmed from my relationship with Ed. However, I have come to realize that, in fact, it is Ed's fraternal twin, "Clide" who has been the driving force in my life's tumult. In retrospect, though I thought he was at the forefront and his involvement with me was his priority, I realize that Ed is pretty much a tag along. Trailing after Clide. Seeing what he does, and acting accordingly. Always trying to get his attention. To distract Clide from other things. This could be why I find myself so fond of Ed, though ultimately I think I know he isn't good for me. He distracts Clide from me. Ed helps me find some breathing room when I feel that Clide is absolutely smothering me. Clide is very possessive and unforgiving. If I didn't have Ed to run interference for me, I am not entirely sure what I would do.

This is the state of affairs now, and pretty fairly sums up the general history of the three of us over the last 15 years or so. Granted the relationship has changed over time, as we have all alternately imposed ourselves more adamantly at times and then receded in kind.
 
When I first got involved with Ed, he was very rigid. Much the way Clide is today, and generally always has been. Ed imposed very strict rules and boundaries on our relationship. This is also why I liked him. He brought order and control to my life. Especially in light of my concurrently trying to ride out Clide's unpredictable mood swings. Ed gave me patterns and stability. I always knew what to expect from Ed. I followed his rules, he gave me the promise of being on the path to perfect. If I made it there, Clide would leave me alone. Of course, the problem was always that "the path to perfect" was interminable - the destination elusive. This was compounded by the fact that if I didn't follow Ed's rules - because I was too tired, or I was being sloppy and careless, or because I just forgot - he was unforgiving. Not that he did anything to me mind you - but he would, at those moments in which I failed to remain vigilant, simply step away. Then it was just Clide and I - and the mirror, and my life. The funhouse mirror. My funhouse life. Abusive Clide. Laughing at me till I cried. I cowered. I whimpered. Waiting for Ed to cool off and come back to help me. He always did, but always with some extra rule or demand. It all got so very complicated to keep up with. Ed took so very much of my concentration. Following his routines required a lot of planning. Not to mention discretion. No one else in my life liked Ed very much. For the most part my family ignored his presence for a long time. Then they started to make comments. Ed and I had to start sneaking around. Clide of course raged on in front of people. No one liked him much either, but for some reason, no one ever said anything about Clide. He kind of has a way of making everyone feel helpless. Even when Ed has been militant, for some reason, people think that I have control of him. I guess his level headed methodical nature, makes his appear like he is eminently reasonable. That he can be reasoned with. Then again - I am sure Jim Jones and David Koresh appeared eminently reasonable too.

There have been periods of time over the years when Ed and I have been on the outs for a significant period of time (i.e. months rather than days). I am left to spar endlessly with Clide. It is draining. Oftentimes, I found the solution was to hide in bed or out of the way places. To remain uninvolved. Somehow I figured Clide couldn't find me while I watched endless Law & Order re-runs. So, left to my own devices, I try to check out of any possible squabble with Clyde. I reject structure. I reject effort. I pull the blankets over my head, close my eyes and wish Clide away. Obviously, this is not really effective. Clide knows he is winning our little contest when I pull these stunts. "Playing dead" won't make Clide go away. He can see me breathing. He waits around. He pokes me till I respond.  (Damnit! I blinked.) He lives for the responses, whatever they might be. I think Clide must have terribly low self esteem, deep down inside, because he seems to really thrive off of the negative reinforcement. He knows I loathe him. Yet the more I let him know that, the more tenacious his grip. So, Clide is really tiresome in his way as well.

It is after long periods of hanging out one-on-one with Clide that I find myself desperate to have Ed back into my life. I wish and hope and dream of him. I fantasize constantly about his return. I am never certain of it though. I know I need to commit to his strictures, to promise to adhere, if he is to come back. I am never sure if I have the time, the concentration, the fortitude necessary. When he does came back, it is always quiet. Very little fanfare.  I never notice right away, only ever after a while.
 
The sneaking around is less of an issue now. The advantage of "being an adult" is you see whom you like, do what you like. Everyone else comments. You just say "Fuck you." Ultimately, I revel in Ed's bad boy image. I deny to people that I am seeing him, but I am sure a knowing smile crosses my lips when he is mentioned. Then again, today, people are so afraid of Clide's effect on me, that I think they tolerate Ed more than ever before. They know he helps me cope. Today Ed and I have a pretty effective give and take relationship. When I don't follow the rules, Ed is not so quick to walk out. He watches me. He taps his foot disapprovingly as I take my liberties. He then grabs my hand, sits me down, goes over the rules again, and we start all over again. It works out pretty well. It requires far less concentration. It is still difficult because he gets in little snits and will go away momentarily. But he is always back much sooner. Truth of the matter is, I don't want him to go away. Ever. Even if I can manage to get Clide to shove off (and this is goal number one in my life - he is a boor that has taken up too much of my time and brings absolutely nothing to the proverbial table), I don't want Ed to go. I know everyone else will think that is pathological. Maybe it is. And if we were still talking about the Ed I first knew 15 years ago when we first met, it would probably be dangerous. It was too much. But the mellowed Ed I can take. For now, his presence is useful, familiar and steady.
 
So there it is - the story of the boys and me. It is a long and checkered past, coupled with an uncertain future. But it is a story that I own now, if only because I am finally willing to tell it. Not looking for a Hollywood ending to the story, just simple resolution and fulfillment.
 
Someday... stay tuned.