…the almost right word

this is the second in a series of posts i am writing about my relationship experiences…more to come.

there is a quote from carrie on sex and the city (that i somehow cannot find) concerning relationship red flags and the ease at which we, as women, ignore them (perhaps men do too?). i have identified with this quote all too well. it often appears that i am capable of ignoring so much in a relationship, i.e. my own happiness.

we met in college. i stayed with him way too long. when i finally gathered the courage to end it, i went back for more.

i knew before we even got involved that it would be a bad idea. i had seen a good friend experience horrible things with him — endless arguing and emotional abuse. somehow, i convinced myself that things would be different between he and i, things would be better, we would make more sense. it took me a long time to admit that the relationship was unhealthy. it first had to cost me a few friendships. then, it had to cost me any sense of financial stability (he had no job and i was almost entirely supporting him). we were codependent, to say the least.

he screamed at me almost every night — i would wake up, at some point, and realize that he had all of the blankets. when i attempted to pull some away from him, and cover myself, he would yell at me, call me names. every time, i swore to myself that i’d end it in the morning. it continued like that for almost a year. once, he gave me an unexpected gift — a beautiful orchid. hours later, when the arguing began, he used the gift as ammunition. he was an addict, and i fell, effortlessly, into his addictions.

i saw all the red flags, i just chose to ignore them. the emotional abuse worsened over time. it was as if he had no concept of me as a human being. he never knew how to respect me.

what am i trying to do with this post? i want to write honestly. i want to be true to myself and my past. i don’t want to gloss over my errors in judgment or the way these experiences affected me. i want to delve into the world of emotional abuse without naming people, without painting a picture of myself as some helpless, love-struck fool. emotional abuse is hard to recognize — people yell and argue, people slam doors out of anger, but there is a line whereupon it becomes abuse and, for the abused individual, it becomes self-destructive. i want to address this line, this vague notion of abuse that is not manifested physically. emotional abuse can be even more dangerous, more consuming. it can be easy to ignore. it can become so familiar that you seek it out. perhaps, on some level, you believe you deserve it.

i must have believed this. why else would i have subjected myself to such treatment for so long?

one night, after we had broken up (we were still seeing one another for an ongoing bout of the unhealthiest break-up sex known to humankind), he called to come over. i finally stood up for myself — i told him no. later that night, while changing in my room, i was startled when i noticed someone at my window. he was watching me, waiting for me to notice him and let him in. i did. that was the last time we saw one another.

one might expect an act of “closure.” we never had one and i’m okay with that. i have vague memories of missed calls and unanswered text messages — i was finally able to ignore his attempts to reach me. i don’t mean to imply that i “learned my lesson.” sometimes you have to repeat bad habits before you realize that they’re just that.

from the age of eleven to twenty, i spent my summers at a sleep-away camp. i literally fell in love with this place. i always felt the safest and most comfortable during those summers. i knew that, one day, i would have to give it up — we all have to grow up eventually. but i never wanted to leave.

this past week, i went back to this camp. it had been six years since i was last there. we had a reunion — all the kids that i grew up with, the kids who are my age, came back to celebrate…to remember the summer we all spent together, ten years ago, when we were sixteen. the same summer of my first kiss. to me, this was the most significant reunion that i’ll ever have. high school was never that important to me, especially when compared to camp. camp was magical.

turns out, it still is. for all the kids that still spend their summers there, camp is still magical. i couldn’t help but wonder…what it would be like to return, to get a job there and spend my summer running around in flip flops, smiling and happy? i am one of the most nostalgic, sentimental people i know. i admit this easily. doesn’t it make perfect sense that i would yearn to be back at camp? my happiest memories are of that place.

nevertheless, i believe there is a line that we are forced to draw in this whole “growing up” process — i’m just still trying to figure out where my line is, where i have to draw it. would it be “unproductive” of me to go back to camp? would it be stepping back, falling behind? am i doomed to struggle with my heavy sense of nostalgia for the rest of my life?

this is the first in a series of posts i will write about my relationship experiences…more to come.

i keep rewriting this post. i save it, publish it, and then click unpublish hours later. it’s not that i’m hesitant to share it, it’s that i’m hesitant about the message it will send.

he was not, and is not, the love of my life. he was, however, my first love. and for that, i will always love him — not in the i-would-do-anything-to-get-back-together-with-him sort of way. our relationship worked when we were young. i do not believe we are meant to relive it. i do not wish to. i consider him one of my true best friends and i always will, no matter the geographical distance between us.

we met at sixteen, at sleep-away camp. we bonded over ginsberg. he was my first kiss — on the basketball courts, at night, laying and looking up at the stars.

i loved his bedroom. i remember that vividly. he had two picasso prints on his wall. they have since become my favorite picasso’s — they always make me think of him. we would laze in his room, listening to tapes of jack kerouac and old grateful dead records. we would go out with friends, smoking on a dark, vacant, midnight golf course. we’d laugh and take pictures. he made me laugh a lot.

when we broke up, i was pretty heartbroken for a sixteen year old. somehow, through all the adolescent drama and misconceptions, we worked through the bullshit to become good friends. i don’t want to imply that it was easy — it never is. but i knew that i wanted him in my life, especially as a friend.

when i left for south america in 2003, my feelings for him had resurfaced (for various reasons, that i won’t divulge here). during that year in chile, he met someone. i remember speaking to him on the telephone, waiting, hoping for a clue that we were on the same page. instead, he told me about her. i admit, i was extremely disappointed and jealous. even after i returned from chile, those feelings did not dissolve quickly. it took time. eventually, i mended. eventually, i saw how wonderful his new relationship was (and still is), how much sense it made.

still, during the years prior to santa fe, i lost it every time we spoke on the phone. somehow, he seemed to draw out all the honesty that i tried to keep buried. i always cried. i didn’t cry because i still had feelings for him, i cried because he knows me in a real way, a way that few people actually do.

i’ve saved his letters, pictures of us, poems he wrote me, the index card he painted with watercolors one afternoon. in my nostalgia, i will revel in that moment, on the camp basketball courts. i will always have a love for him.

not a bad first, eh?

i bite my nails. i’ve been biting them since i developed teeth. i remember, back when my parents were still married and life was seemingly normal (before i was five years old), one of them took me to toys-r-us. do those stores even exist today? we used to visit them regularly, in anticipation of upcoming birthday parties. i was a semi-spoiled only-child who could not leave without receiving a gift of my own. usually barbies. but on this particular day, when one of them brought me to toys-r-us, i was bribed.

“we’ll buy you this teddy bear if you stop biting your nails,” i was told. keep in mind, i was not more than four years old. the teddy bear in question was immediately dubbed “heart to heart bear,” mostly because that’s what was sewn on his shirt. i treasured him. beneath his shirt, there was a pocket in his little teddy bear chest. and, in this pocket, was a plastic “heart” that had a button. when the button was pressed, it would feel like a literal beating heart. eventually i removed the heart because it interrupted my sleep (it was, no surprise, subsequently lost).

after the divorce, he traveled back and forth with me, in my backpack. i never slept without him. that is, until i became a teenager, got a boyfriend, and decided he was better off at home. of course, he came with me to college. however, i decided to leave him behind when i spent a year living in south america. i remember coming home, at the end of that year, excited to see him. i was 21 years old.

he still sits on my bed, and occasionally rests under my arm while i am sleeping. yes, dear reader, i still sleep with a teddy bear.

needless to say, i still bite my nails. bribes + young kids = unsuccessful, in my humble opinion.

here he is, in all his torn and aged glory. my father’s mother wrestled him from me once, when i was still young. she insisted he be washed. she carefully removed his sleeping cap and his nightgown in order to put him in the washing machine. though we are still in possession of his nightgown, the sleeping cap was never placed back on his head (and it, too, was subsequently lost). i always resented her for that.

now, when i notice that his nightgown is falling apart, i immediately rush to a sewing kit. perhaps i’ll never be ready to “grow up” and pack him away in a box in the attic. perhaps he’ll always be sitting on my bed.

(warning: not the most uplifting post)

a guy i knew was found dead yesterday. i worked with him when i first moved to santa fe. and we spent many evenings drinking together, running into each other at bars, etc. he was one of those guys that everyone seemed to know. his brother found him. he died alone, on his couch. he was, by far, one of the loneliest people i have ever known.

things to remember, so as not to forget:

• he had a great laugh, a memorable laugh. he laughed loudly and awkwardly.
• he referred to every girl as “baby,” but somehow it was always endearing.
• he talked endlessly. he had stories to tell and always wanted to draw laughter out of everyone.
• he laughed with you at his own stories.
• he wrote poetry. i never got to read any.
• he was thoughtful. considerate. insecure with beautiful women.
• he sat next to me at the first strip club i ever went to. he talked in my ear and we laughed together.
• he was always talking.

For what is it to die,
But to stand in the sun and melt into the wind?
~Kahlil Gibran, from “The Prophet”

some of those that i’ve played over and over again within the past few years…

death cab for cutie — title and registration — the first death cab song that really won me over. this, along with the following song, were the theme songs for my last break-up in 2006. i remember not being able to get the tune, nor the lyrics, out of my head. death cab recently released a new c.d., anyone heard it yet?

the postal service — nothing better – great frackin’ lyrics, in fact, it may be my top “break-up song” of all time. i know everyone just swooned over their album, but this was the main track that i actually swooned over. though this place is a prison wasn’t too shabby. the rumors are that we won’t be seeing another postal service album anytime soon…

the album leaf — always for you — discovered this week after hearing another track of theirs on grey’s anatomy. simple, yet sweet. most of his music is instrumental, but the tracks that have lyrics are all good. i recommend writing on the wall and wherever i go as well.

tegan and sara — dark come soon – this is only one of many ‘t and s’ tracks that i’ve played on repeat over the last year. i think the entire album (the con) is rocking, with the exception of the first track. and yes, we know i’ve been rather infatuated with these girls for some time.

ani difranco — recoil – i go through ani phases (as i’m sure has become clear). sometimes i won’t listen to her music for months, and then, out of nowhere, *bam*! she’s back in the mix! i rediscovered this song a few months ago and my itunes still says it’s second on my top 25 most-played list.

timbaland — the way i are — last summer, a friend of mine got a new car. we drove through tesuque, way too fast, blasting this track. timbaland always knows how to make a hit. this one is no exception. and yes, i’ve even enjoyed his collaboration with justin timberlake (gasp!).

outhud — the stoked american – who knows what genre these guys fit into, but they rock. this is, yet again, only one of the songs from this album that i have listened to too many times (see below: !!! (chk chk chk). to give you a better idea of what they’re like, rolling stone said: Art-funk students non-pareil, this cool and collected Brooklyn band uses guitars like proper rhythm instruments, meshed best (as on “My Two Nads”) with penetrating drums, space synths and a dash of sticky dub.

snoop dogg — drop it like it’s hot — my friend and i listened to this song all the time after work, driving around santa fe to get booze. eventually i printed out the lyrics and memorized them — yes, that’s right, i can actually keep up with snoop and yes, i do rap out loud in my car when i’m alone (or not alone), and yes, i’m a white girl.

the notorious b.i.g. — get money (with junior m.a.f.i.a.)– anyone who ever loved biggie knows this song. i got into it after seeing the movie ‘prime’ (cheesy, but worthwhile: uma thurman + bryan greenberg = hot). probably my favorite b.i.g. song.

!!! (chk chk chk) — shit schiesse merde, pt. 1 and pt. 2. – discovered these guys in college. they’re crazy. this track is a bit political i.e. the lyric: “what did george bush say when he met tony blair? shit schiesse merde.” classic. they’re also the group behind ‘outhud’ (see above).

tabi bonney – elevator – i randomly found this guy through myspace and bought the album a fly guy’s theme. this is some great underground, undiscovered hip hop. dope is kick-ass. bonney is originally from west africa and has opened for ll cool j and outkast, among others.

rilo kiley — close call – the first rilo kiley song that won me over. i’m pretty sure they played this at coachella, which, of course, drives me craaaazy. npr says that this track is about “an adult who is getting money for sex.”

phish — you enjoy myself — last, but in no way least. rolling stone recently voted this song as #85 of the top 100 greatest guitar songs of all time. phish has been a favorite since high school. i never did have the opportunity to see them live, but if they ever do a reunion tour, i’m there.

it’s been a heavy day today. heavy days remind me of the years i spent “struggling with depression” (understandably, and, i use quotes only because the phrase is so cliché). i thought about food every second of every day. when my mind wandered, it was to evaluate my stomach or my arms.

—-> had i gained weight? was i losing weight? what could i do to lose more weight? if only i could be that scrawny kid that i see in pictures, the one who seemed happy and carefree, who i could hardly remember. <—-

i gave up cheese, avocados, cream cheese, sour cream, mayonnaise, spaghetti (yes, it’s true). i turned myself off from craving. i only allowed myself desserts on weekends. the anxiety was always present. occasionally i would fall apart and binge.

i managed okay — i went to classes in school (for the most part); i spent a year studying in chile; i lived with other people; i even dated at one point when the depression and anxiety seemed to be gone. but i was never happy; i cried a lot; i slept too much; i hid in my bedroom to avoid my roommates. i always felt so un-”normal.”

when i step back, and look at things honestly, i admit to myself that i never really “beat” the depression, the anxiety or the eating disorder…not until i moved to santa fe, at the end of 2005. gradually, the anxiety lessened and food became a secondary concern. i even began to feel more “normal.”

i was never bulimic. i’m not even sure one could call it anorexia.

when i have a heavy day, i worry that it will all come back. i know better, but the worry is still there.

* the title for this post could also be: “why i can’t return phone calls today”

when i was in my late teens, my grandfather died. i was never terribly close with him. i remember we played hide and seek when i was a kid. i remember i used to fit beneath the coffee tables in my grandparents’ apartment. the tables were covered to the floor in long, cream-colored table cloths which left no trace of my secret presence beneath them. when he died, i thought a lot about those games of hide and seek.

we drove up to the bay area for his funeral. he was being buried in my grandmother’s “pink palace” — the name she had given to a freezing, pink-marbled mausoleum in which she had purchased two spaces, one for his coffin and one for hers. we sat in the front row of the service, in the reception room of the pink palace. and when my mom began to cry, she literally wailed. she shook uncontrollably and bellowed horrible, sad cries. i sat by her side, arm around her back, waiting for calm.

she was presented with an american flag, for her father’s service in the army. she kept the flag on her dresser for some time. i remember noticing it whenever i visited. and years later, when her mother, my grandmother died, my mom packed the flag in her suitcase for a trip back to the bay area. she no longer wanted the flag, no longer needed the memory of her father so present in her life — she gave it to her brother.

when her eyes tear, she reminds me of him, of my grandfather. he cried easily. i never knew if it was his age, the dementia, or his endearing humanity. today, when my mother’s eyes tear, i see him. and sometimes, it’s like i’m back at the funeral, sitting by her side, holding her hand. while she cries.

i could never tell the entire story of being diagnosed with scoliosis. i could never explain all the feelings associated with that experience, the feelings i had when i saw a new doctor every week who would tell me something different, something more scary.

i recently discovered a blogger who wrote about her experience, in detail, and actually had the corrective surgery. i commented on her post, and in that comment, i was the closest i have ever been to describing my experience:

i was diagnosed in high school. i had grown up seeing regular physicians, so my parents were immediately stunned that the curve in my spine could’ve been overlooked.

we spent a full year, perhaps more, consulting with doctors and monitoring the progression of the curve. every week, i was taken out of school early to see another doctor. we discussed surgery, the back brace, the possible effects of simple exercises. some doctors told me that surgery was the only way for me to go.

i saw a specialist at ucla medical hospital and he was the last doctor i ever saw about my scoliosis. he told me that i had stopped growing (i’m not even 5 feet tall) and thus, the curve would not worsen.

i’m lucky that it hasn’t. i never had the surgery or wore a back brace. i haven’t even seen an x-ray of my back in years. i have no idea how bad the curve is now. i have no pain, except for the memory of being thrown to doctor after doctor with tales of this “necessary surgery.”

i admire you for having had the surgery, and i admire you for writing about it.