it always comes back to this

I’m thoroughly enjoying my creative writing course, and it is certainly pulling me from my comfort zone of the usual journal-esque type ramblings I spew forth on this blog and twitter (which is really the bulk of the creative writing that I churn out). However, it is also quite a challenge to venture beyond my comfort zone of writing the things that are already in my head, the emotions and worries that simmer at the edge of my consciousness. Closing my eyes, and trying to come up with a story, a character, an image beyond that which I’ve experienced is difficult. But it is delicious practice to stretch my writing muscles beyond the norm.

We recently had a writing exercise termed “galumphing” where we chose a random 3 digit number, and the numbers then corresponded to an object, a person, and a location, and we had to write a paragraph or so joining all together. It took some time for the scene and characters to form in my mind, but as I began writing, it came out clearly.

And once I finished, I realized -- It’s always the same scene. It’s always heartbreak. Rejection. Sadness. Anger. I am seeing that even when I’m not writing about myself, I really still am. The larger ideas that eat away at me seem to manage to eat away at my writing too.

Here is my galumphing story (writing pure fiction is extremely rare for me – this felt so odd!).  My numbers corresponded to car keys, a traffic cop, and middle of a lake.

I took hold of his hand, it was clammy, cold, and trembling. He looked so powerful in his police uniform, and it felt odd to know that in this moment, he wasn't as strong as the badge and gun at his side implied. I glanced to the side and saw that inside the car was his reflective vest -- he must have had traffic duty that day, and then I feel even worse, because I knew how much he despised directing traffic; it always put him in a foul mood. I could feel the wind off the lake at the nape of my neck. It gave me shivers -- or was that more from the situation at hand? -- and I remembered my impulse decision a few days earlier to chop off my long, layered hair to a short bob. It still feels like the hair should be there, hanging past my shoulders, waving in the wind -- instead, this foreign chilled air reaches places my hair used to be. I shake off the thought, and shift my eyes to the right - the lake has a gloomy fog hovering above the water. It matches my thoughts. When I finally muster the courage to speak, I tell him, with a crack in my voice "I can't do this anymore, I'm so sorry."  I register the feelings that fleet across his usually stoic face, confusion, sadness, despair, anger, all flashing, fleeting, but all so clearly there. I shouldn't expect otherwise though. He hangs his head, lets my hand drop, and turns away from me, looking out at the lake.  I close my eyes, feeling the tears rising. I sense movement, though, and look out again, and there he is, arm pulled back, a medley of a furious sadness spread across his face, and with all his might, he flings his cruiser keys into the air. The sound of the heavy metal keys splashing in the middle of the lake seems to echo off the silence surrounding us.

My instructor’s response?

Oh, Ann… you haven’t met the likes of me.  Apparently I can turn just about anything into a melancholy tale of heartbreak and despair.

I want to write…

** Another creative writing assignment – we were asked to list out what we want to write, and why. **

I want to write about my emotions and personal thoughts because I feel that it is cathartic and an excellent means to extrapolate my subconscious into tangible ideas and feelings.

I want to write for my son because I want him to know about his childhood in a way that photos can't tell the whole story (and we so often forget the details as time lags on).

I want to write about my past, my struggles, and my story because I hope to help people who may connect and find community and strength in what I have to say.

I want to write whatever comes into my mind because I feel that words are beautiful, and threading them together in thoughtfully constructed stories and sentiments is a beloved art form.

I want to write something that becomes published because it will feel like a tangible goal has been reached (although I do feel as though this goal should be tempered by the reality of the difficulties of publication, and the perhaps misperception that publication will bring any real sense of accomplishment).

a dialogue with my red shoes

This is another short piece from my introductory creative writing course, in which we were instructed to write a short dialogue between ourselves and an object of our choice.  The idea of dialogue was challenging, as it’s not a format I typically write.

Me:  You're one of my favorite pair of shoes, you know that, right?

Shoes:  Yes, it feels wonderful to be chosen so often, and to last for so long among the discarded trends of past seasons' choices, that sit collecting dust on the closet shelving.

Me:  You're classic, beyond trend, and yet still fashionable.  I adore the spice you bring to my often muted wardrobe.

Shoes:  We are rather bold.

Me:  Bold indeed -- vibrant, shiny patent leather red flats can be nothing else.

Shoes:  It probably doesn't hurt that we are comfortable, on top of it all.

Me:  Oh, so true. Sometimes comfort is sacrificed for the aesthetic; as example, your not-distant kindred soles, also patent leather, a rather small heel, yet within a mere hour or two my feet are clammy, rubbing painfully at the toes, even though the sizing is correct and I've installed padded foot comforts. In contrast, you are bendable, breathable, and I wear you without realizing any misgivings to my comfort.

Shoes:  Yes, we certainly belie the traditional unfortunate effects of patent leather.  It's a surprise, no?

Me:  It is, and I believe it may even enhance my affection toward you.

Shoes:  We have interesting beginnings, right? What brought you to the store the day you purchased us?

Me:  I was just thinking of this... how there is quite a complex history amongst us. The series of events that led me to enter the store that day, and to peruse the aisles in search of shoes was quite troublesome.

Shoes:  Does it make you feel as though you were meant to find us?

Me:  I often shrug my shoulders at concepts such as fate and destiny and luck. But I do believe that I needed to find you that day, and that you have served a purpose to transcend the mere apparel and fashion duties you were ostensibly created and purchased for.  If that makes sense, at all....

Shoes:  I believe I understand you. Perhaps.

Me:  I remember the details of that day quite vividly. I had very recently learned that my (then) husband, quite suddenly, wanted a divorce - no ifs and or buts about it, and I felt smothered and consumed by the noise of the unexpected news within my own home. I felt ambushed and suffocated by the need to remain the living, breathing, psuedo-wife and mother that I was supposed to be within those walls.  And I just wanted, no needed, to get out, to be anywhere but there.  The air I was forced to breathe felt noxious and thin.

Shoes:  So you left and went shoe shopping?  Sorry, but that is rather cliche.

Me:  Not quite.  I often found myself "leaving" the house.  I would ride my bike around the neighborhood. I took a weekend trip away with my son. I would walk aimlessly around the grocery store.  But this particular day, I drove and drove, with no particular locale in mind, and I ended up at a movie theater 20 miles away. I walked in, and decided to watch the latest blockbuster comedy hit, The Hangover -- perhaps the funniest movie in the country could bring some levity to my crumbling world.  That was my theory, at any rate.

Shoes:  That's actually kind of depressing.  You sat in a theater by yourself and watched a comedy aimed at the immature humor of men? Really?

Me:  Yes, I know. I sat, surrounded by a theater semi-full of people, happy and laughing at the scenes before them.  And the disconnect I felt was palpable.  I realized my tank of joy was truly on empty.

Shoes:  So, wait, then how did we get in the picture that day?

Me:  When the movie was over, I still felt unable to return home, to visit the very place I felt I didn't belong.  So I continued to feel the need to wander, and I roamed to the shoe store next to the movie theater, a massive depot of discounted name-brand footwear.  I wandered aimlessly among the rows and rows and rows of endless seas of designer shoes, my mind somewhere else, and yet nowhere at all.

Shoes:  We were actually feeling a bit down that day too... we had been relegated to the clearance section.

Me:  I remember. I enjoy a frugal find, and I did find myself actually seeing the shoes more as I entered that section.  Instead of the blank thoughts across my mind, that is.

Shoes:  We were so tired of being chosen, tried, judged, and rejected.

Me:  Well, I adored you at first glance. In a sea of despairing thoughts, your shiny red gleam stood out, and felt like a promise, a glimmer of hope.

Shoes:  That's a bit heavy for a pair of shoes, dear.

Me:  Well, it's the truth.  I needed something to hold on to. Something tangible. Something my own, that didn't belong to my past, my home, my marriage, my dying version of what I thought was myself. I needed something new, something shiny, something bright.  Something that would carry my heavy feet into the future.

Shoes:  That first try did feel right.

Me:  Yes, I remember how foreign the smile felt that crept on my face when I realized that you fit.

fuel for the fire

I’ve been somewhat unmotivated of late, on the writing front, as it pertains to the typical content for this blog at any rate. I have been writing, just more so in shorter segments on twitter, for work, for online dating correspondence, reflections and musings on my son (he just turned five, and I’m going through one of those OH-SHIT-HE’S-GROWING-UP-SO-FAST motherhood phases of pseudo-depression).

However, I’ve found myself stagnant with ideas of what to write about for this particular medium. I spoke about a precipice in my last post, and I still feel that it holds true. I feel on the brink of self-discovery, the edge of learning, the brim of something … something, well, merely something more.  In the meantime, I decided to confront my stagnancy with a little push in the form of requisite assignments, so I enrolled in an introductory creative writing course. I imagined, not only will it provide fuel to the fire of my thoughts and ideas, but also a community of people who enjoy writing as I do, and a formal beginning to the potential pursuit of something more than blogspot.com ramblings from a recent divorcee.

I thought it may be interesting to share some of my writings here, even though they may not fit the container I’ve built for this blog – musings on relationships, divorce, betrayal – but my voice remains the same. And sometimes sharing is the hardest part of it all. Even when I am applauding myself for writing the “real” stuff and avoiding censoring what I want to say, I find that without thinking, I offer up something diluted or I dance around the true emotion, or I avoid writing about it at all. My goal is to become better at telling the real story, the real thoughts, the real mess of it all, the beautiful, sad, tangled mess.

Even merely a couple of weeks into the writing course, I’m discovering the challenge and joy that accompanies free-writing, and am attempting to learn to embrace letting my thoughts bleed out onto the paper, without constantly editing and shaping my words into what I think the form should take in the end. So, like the piece below, some of the items I may share will likely have this raw, unpolished edge (please forgive me for my grammatical transgressions).

Here is a very short piece I wrote when instructed to light a candle, and write a descriptive paragraph.

For this exercise, I lit a new candle, one I recently bought for my bedroom. I remember taking the time to smell candle after candle in the aisle at the store, wondering if I would suddenly land on one that just felt, or rather smelled, just right. And after smelling so many, would I even be able to judge amongst them?  This one had a bit of a musk to it, that made it feel more appropriate than some of the others that felt so perfectly constructed as "floral" or "beachy" or "linen".  I don't remember the name of the scent for this one. And tonight, as I sit inches away, I am frustrated and saddened that I can't smell the aroma of the lit candle; my spring allergies have taken hold full force, and I am a congested mouth-breathing mucus mayhem. So I am relegated to behold the candle from my remaining functioning senses... it's a very pretty candle inside a gray translucent glass jar, white wax, barely melted atop, with a juxtaposition of the small destructive black-hot wick licking around the edges of the central melted core. I hold my hand above, and am surprised at how far the heat reaches; but isn't that always the case with things? I like the way it illuminates the things nearby, and depending on your perspective, can make them seem shadowy, or glowing, or gloomy, or dim, or ambient, or other versions of the duality we all seem to battle.  Yes, this candle is burning and evolving at one end, and sweet, pure, and untouched at another.  And so I sit, mesmerized, and watch the burning wick.

precipice

I haven’t written in a while, and it’s been sitting in the back of my mind as a nagging, incessant to-do item. Sometimes I’m not entirely sure what purpose my writing serves. In the beginning, it was wholly therapeutic, and self-focused, with a goal of just purging and putting it out on paper. The act alone was a manner in which to shed emotional weight. And when I wrote a piece, no matter how laden with sadness or melancholy of my past or present state of affairs, I felt refreshed and new and bright, at least for a tangible space of time afterwards.

But that was when I had all of approximately 3 readers, who were also close friends, and therefore privy to my musings before I pressed the publish button. Now that I have an expanded audience of readers, and a couple of oddly placed, somewhat aesthetically unappealing advertisements on my blog, there’s an added pressure to just put something out here, just write something down, just hit publish and create a new entry. A sense of drive to create merely for the sake of an increased post count, a focus on the +1 versus the purpose and intent behind the writing.

And I do love writing – I love the emotional purge, I love the act of putting words into thoughtfully crafted phrases and sentiments to convey my thoughts, ideas, and feelings. I love it all, and I often even physically crave the act of writing. The convoluted component to all of that, however, is that I seem to have entered a period of my life where confusion, self-doubt, and self-discovery seem to be tangled up in a massive mess. I feel as though I’m on the precipice of something – something either big, or scary, or amazing, or profound. I have no idea as to what is on the other side, but just that it feels like it will be something large and important, and that I will understand more about life and about myself after I make it onto the other side.  It’s a fearful segment of time in my life, and part of me wonders if I’m subconsciously avoiding writing, because it will somehow lead me closer in to the culmination or understanding of what is indeed waiting for me on the edge of this proverbial cliff.

In my early days of writing on this account, I seemed intent on telling the story of where I came from, how my past had formed this broken girl I’ve become, starting out new in this single world and learning how to date and how to love a man other than that which I had known for the last decade as my supposed forever. With marathon Sex and the City episodes fresh in my mind, and a palpable urge to connect, in any way, with someone who could prove that I was wanted or needed, my overall content had many sexual overtones. I wrote about dating in the context of hookups, crushes based on the foundations of physical lust and not much else, oral sex accolades, a boudoir photo shoot. All of these things felt right in that period, and told my story in ways of where my head and my heart were at amidst that stage. I was dating, I was (rarely) falling in a modified, safer version of love, but I was mostly latching on to physical love as the most obvious form of acceptance – this man wants me, this man is showing me I’m valid and ok, this is one way in which my confidence can heal and revive.  It’s not to say I was promiscuous, by my own standards, but rather, that in retrospect, I put more substance into the physical components of connecting with a man than I did in the emotional; I held everyone at a safe distance, even those few (or maybe even just one) guys that I can say I felt true love for.

At the time, I didn’t realize the truth of the actual distance and the emotional safety net that I cast about myself. I knew I was damaged, and I knew I was going to be slow to learn to love and trust again, but the past few years and failed relationships have caused a great deal of introspection on my part of late, and I’m coming to a very frightening realization about myself. I’m a lot more damaged than I originally projected. The struggle to let anyone into my protective bubble, beyond the surface of an emotional connection, is a tougher battle than I imagined. The sharp degree with which my self-esteem can plummet is alarming. The degree to which I am conditioned to believe that I am always on the verge of rejection, even if not forewarned, is colossal and cumbersome, and is a major barrier to garnering the courage to make myself vulnerable in any degree.

I feel broken and damaged beyond repair more often than not. And when that becomes my norm, how do I move forward? I am on a precipice of something, and I can’t see in either direction. Perhaps I still don’t understand my past fully, and perhaps my scope to the future will not always remain clouded.  But the teetering on the edge of something, something I neither know nor understand, is troubling, and I hope I can recover the trust in myself to plummet to the other side of wherever I’m supposed to be.

what went down in 2012

2012 has sort of been a shitty year for me. But that’s nothing new, and honestly, something hit my mathematical brain recently … I seem to have shitty years in multiples of 3.

• 2006 – miscarriage with first pregnancy
• 2009 – husband tells me out of the blue he’s leaving and I become single mom to a toddler
• 2012 – just a general shitty year of loneliness and financial woes

Hopefully after I finish out this craptastic year, I can be on to some better things in ‘13. Just for shits and giggles, let’s recap the ways my year sucked in the dating/relationship sector:

• Spent the first quarter pining after Matt, a guy I dumped, because my head gets crazy in relationships. He kinda treated me like a dick after our breakup though.
• Then there was A Tale of Two Johns – I was utterly confused, and not really that into either of them, but nonetheless, dating two guys named John at the same time.
• I got unexpectedly head-over-heels heart-fluttery over a local guy, Adam, only to continually feel held at a distance, before finally pulling the “I deserve better” card, not without a hefty dose of accompanying sadness.
• The latter part of the year was fraught with a lot of terrible, cynical feelings, and not much dating. I did have a super sweet guy who wanted to be more than friends, but settled for friends since the attraction wasn’t there for me, only in the end to realize you can’t be just friends when one wants to be more. Sad story.

Now I’m just riding out the last few days of 2012 making dumbass <140 character jokes on Twitter, hanging with my son, and pretending to do this whole online dating charade by messaging back and forth with a few randoms. Let’s hope 2013 is a better year.  Or maybe it will suck just as bad, and just refute my multiples-of-3 theory.

Exploring Me

I’m pretty much phoning it in on the creative writing front for this post, but it’s something I wanted to do once I read the eHarmony guide to Dating the second time around book (nutshell review – a decent read, but not anything new or especially inspiring). The book suggests keeping a dating journal (does my snarky blog count?) and poses topics and questions to consider. One such set of questions is aimed at taking a look at who I am as an individual.

1. Who is the most important person in your life, and why? 
   This is easy – my son. I do nothing without considering him first, and everything I do is in regard to his wellbeing and happiness. He is at the forefront of my thoughts always.
2. What is the one dream for your life you most look forward to achieving?
   I don’t really have a clear answer for this at the moment. I find myself longing for the return to a symbiotic, loving long-term relationship and family unit, but it’s difficult to consider that an “achievement”. More related to my own efforts, I do think I will enjoy navigating the challenges and triumphs of parenthood, and seeing my son grow up into a lovely boy and a wonderful man.
3. Which person has the capacity to make you angrier than anyone else in your life? What, in particular, do they do to make you so angry?
   Without a doubt, my ex-husband. Ashamedly, I admit it, and also, it fuels even more anger that he is allowed such power over my emotions. However, when it comes to my son, I have a difficult time releasing my anger at the disappointments, sadness, and challenges unnecessarily and selfishly introduced into his childhood.
4. Who has the capacity to make you feel loved more than anyone else in your life? What, in particular, do they do to cause you to feel so loved?B
   My son – it’s the absolute best feeling ever when he sidles up to me out of the blue and squeezes in unsolicited hugs.
5. How do you feel about yourself – physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually?
   Robert Frost’s lines come to mind – “The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep,And miles to go before I sleep,And miles to go before I sleep.”
6. When do you feel inspired? How does it feel when you are inspired?
   When I’m taking the time to slow down my frenetic thoughts, and when I’m soaking in the beauty of my surroundings – walking through a city rich with culture, soaking in the bustle of a lively coffee shop, reading beautifully crafted words and stories.
7. What is the most important thing in the world to you?
   To provide a framework for a happy, healthy, well-adjusted childhood for my son.
8. If you had one day to live, how would you want to spend it?
   I couldn’t even ponder this question without beginning to cry. Of course, with my little boy – doing something that would put joy on his face.
9. When do you feel most afraid?
   When I think about my future, and whether it will ever amass to my expectations.
10. If you could accomplish only one thing during the rest of your life, what would it be?
    To be a successful parent
11. What bores you? Why?
    Work… bein’ honest.
12. How important is money to you? How much time do you spend thinking about it?
    It’s important to me to try to maintain the lifestyle I’m accustomed to, which is based on my own career success; I don’t spend much time thinking about it on a daily basis.
13. What is the role of God in your life? Do you believe there is a God, and if so, what is God like in relation to you?
    I consider myself agnostic, and don’t really ascribe wholly to the beliefs on one religion. I’m of the belief that spirituality is a bigger, more complex topic than I can begin to rationalize into one specific subset, and I enjoy learning about it from many angles and perspectives.
14. What three interests are you most passionate about?
    Reading, travel, and writing
15. Who is your biggest enemy, and precisely how and why did this person become your enemy?
    I don’t really feel like I have an “enemy” but the person I dislike the most, but yet am required to interact with, is my ex-husband.
16. How important is food to you? Do you feel disciplined when it comes to eating?
    I love the joy of eating delicious food, but am relatively self-controlled with regards to indulgences.  But a great meal can be one of the finer things in life.
17. Does the idea of being married to the same person for the rest of your life sound appealing to you – or not so appealing? What is it about it that you would especially like or dislike?
    It sounds appealing, and I would not have hesitated in answering wholeheartedly passionate about it, had my ex-husband not marred the idea of the entire thing for me. I do want it, but I don’t know that I believe in the reliability of it any more. Therein lies my challenges with being in a relationship at all – why start if it will potentially never amass to my already shattered expectations?
18. Do you consider yourself emotionally healthy? In what ways are you especially healthy, and in what ways could you possibly concede that you could use some improvement?
    No, I don’t believe I’m at an emotionally healthy and content space. I know I need to work on things, and that’s why I keep a never-ending recurring appointment on my therapist’s schedule. I believe a lot of my effort is channeled into being a good parent, and beyond that the rest often suffers. Hopefully I’m a work in progress, though, and someday will have a great plot twist with insight on how I came through on the other end of things.
19. Do you argue very much with the people closest to you? How does it usually turn out?
    No, I’m not particularly confrontational, sometimes even to a detriment. I tend to draw inward when feeling angry or upset.
20. What specifically would you like your closest friends to say about you at your funeral?
    Well, this is a morbid thought!  But I suppose I’d like them to remember me as someone who made them laugh and who deeply cared about them and their happiness.