When Dreams Come True

Recently I was reminded of a common saying, “Be careful what you wish for.” People use the saying for many different kinds of circumstances but most often when people are daydreaming and obsessing about one thing for a period of time and then they finally get whatever it is. It is likely that when they obtain this item that is their heart’s desire, it won’t live up to their high expectations. That reminds me of another saying, “The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence.” I have been in a daydreaming rut like that in my personal life lately; pining away for something just out of reach. I should have ignored those feelings and listened to my mother’s voice in my head dolling out her favorite piece of advice, “This too shall pass.” I never was good at listening to my mother though, damnit!

“This too shall pass,” are words I hated hearing anyone saying to me, but most especially my mother. It usually meant nothing more than, “You’ll get over it!” This meant I would experience still more anxiety but that it would eventually pass and things would be okay again. Sometimes the words are comforting though.

I suppose the words are never truer than when someone you love passes away and you’re mourning. Sometimes it seems like you will never laugh again, the sun will never shine warm on your face again. And then, there are my mother’s words, “This too shall pass.” It is really hard to accept those words as gospel when the pain is so raw, but no truer words were ever spoken in that instance. ("This too shall pass" is a phrase occurring in a Jewish wisdom folktale involving King Solomon. The phrase is commonly engraved on silver rings.) The period of mourning will indeed pass and the pain will fade to an intermittent, dull ache.

This blog is an example of something that starts out as a good idea and then the parts that would make it a whole article just don’t come together; perhaps because it is written in a read-between-the-lines kind of way? Okay, here’s the deal. I have a hard time, still, writing in the first person when I know that I have to own every word, every emotion, every blunder I make in life. The rape, for instance; I had to own the fact that a bad decision to try and erase painful memories of Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship, lead to my being raped. I can never face pain for what it is, pain. I have to try and make it go away on my own.

I won’t say I was in love with Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship but I certainly wanted to be. He is cute, hot, funny… what’s not to like? For whatever reasons, a relationship was not in the cards for us and no amount of wishing otherwise was going to sway my argument. On the other hand, neither one of us was able to cut off the relationship completely; a sick case of maggots being drawn to an open wound.

Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship had his reasons for not wanting to be in a relationship and I’m sure they were valid reasons (whatever they were). I had (key word here is HAD) an equally intense desire to be in a relationship; just like oil and water, we were. Just as I’d start to heal and get over him, he would call or send me a text message or contact me online or through E-mail; picking the scab off my heart all over again. In the end though, neither of us could get past this checkmate in the game; until yesterday.

There was one thing Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship and I could agree on; the physical chemistry was undeniable and INTENSE, just like me. For all the pain he brought into my life, Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship also brought a lot of joy and I have memories of times I won’t trade for anything. But let’s face it; other than the rape, I haven’t had sex in 6 years. I’m only human. I totally caved ‘cause I WANTED to cave.

Everything was much the way I daydreamed, he was tender and skillful, but I just couldn’t let myself go. And then those dreaded words rang out in my head, “Be careful what you wish for.” Here I was, in a moment I’d dreamed about countless times and I could get no satisfaction out of it because there was no emotion attached to it. And there is the bottom line for me; the sex isn’t there for me if there is no love. I was in a marriage for 20 years to a man who wanted to, but didn’t, love me; this was no different. This experience was as empty as they rare sexual encounters during my marriage.

The really good news is that I know, “This too shall pass.”

Coming of Age

From the time I was a child, I was interested in things that kids out of my age group were into. I was six years old and hanging out with a 12 year old neighbor girl who was hell bent on making sure I didn’t live to see my seventh birthday. She talked me into doing things that could have gotten me seriously injured; such as jumping off the roof of her father’s shed. Another time she put me on the back of her horse, Tony, with no saddle or bridle then slapped him on the rump and sent him running at speeds you might only see at the race track. Tony took me down the bank, across the creek, up the other bank and was doing a dead run across rocky wasteland. I frantically held onto Tony’s mane, crouching low over his back and clung to his sides with my small legs. He showed no signs of slowing down as we were nearing a busy road. But suddenly he seemed to run out of steam and when he slowed I was able to slide off his back onto the ground. (As young as I was, I realized I’d cheated death that day.) Sometimes in the early years I needed to learn things the hard way.

Perhaps it was that experience that taught me it’s better to be a leader than a follower. Likewise though, I learned that it’s not important to get everyone to follow you so long as you know where you want to go.

In my 20’s I wasn’t confident enough in my knowledge about anything to speak with much authority but I always surrounded myself with older friends with more experience than myself in just about everything. I started forming an idea of where I wanted my life to go in my late 20’s and knew that wherever I went in life, writing and photography would be a part of it. But as with many in their 20’s having children and raising families puts our dreams and aspirations on the back burner.

I’d have to say that my 30th birthday was about as bad a birthday as they came. Someone gave me a 30th birthday card that had a character of a woman on the front that looked like a librarian. I thought people would expect me to grow up and I wasn’t really ready to yet. Things started to change for me in my 30’s though. I became more serious minded. I began to have career aspirations. I ran a small press, monthly magazine and was gaining the respect of my peers. That felt good and I wanted more. My writing and photography became the way I gained the approval I craved, but could never get, from my parents.

In my 40’s I learned that gaining the approval of others isn’t the be-all/end-all of life. In fact, I learned that raising a few eyebrows once in a while can be a lot of fun. I learned also that it is a worthless endeavor to try and fit someone else’s mold of what the perfect ME should be. (Oh, I loved my 40’s!) It was in my 40’s that I began to become the combined knowledge of all the older, wiser people I’d spent time with in the past. I learned to love studying by studying only things I enjoy. I don’t know where this lesson came from, but, I learned that I don’t have to put up with crap from anyone. I don’t have to allow anyone to treat me badly. I can speak out loud and long when I feel wronged. I have clearly defined likes and dislikes… my kids think I’m just stubborn or too picky. Perhaps so; but at this age, I couldn’t afford to waste time on what I don’t want.

Now I’m 50. Wow, I can’t imagine being 50 yet. It seems surreal somehow. I still picture me in my 20 year old body, feeling my hot, 20 year old self. It’s really not fair that we just learn how to use all the tools in life and life is over. I know, I’m not dead yet, but dang; I just got the hang of this and I don’t have a lot of time to enjoy it. Is it really any wonder that I get wound up in traffic, ranting and raving for the slow-poke to get out of the fast lane? Don’t they know there’s an old lady on the road trying to get home to enjoy the rest of her life?

Rebooting My Life

The fallout from love is heartbreak. If you love, you’re gonna get your heart broken; that’s all there is to it. The only successful relationship is the one you’re in right now because it’s the only one that hasn’t ended, yet. Why then have I spent my whole life chasing something as disposable as love? And why is love so unimportant to other people?

I believe some people turn off their ability to love as a means of self-preservation. Maybe they have been hurt or betrayed? Haven’t we all? But perhaps some are better equipped to regroup than others?

Love is the ultimate gift to give and to receive, in my opinion.

I have a friend, “Gary,” who lost an enormous amount of weight and he’s looking very nice. There were pictures of him on Facebook. Someone commented on his new look and said she would bet that if he were single, girls would be flocking all around. His reply was that he had women before he got married but that he is so in love with his wife he can’t stand it. How wonderful that would be to hear; to say. I want that kind of love; totally into each other in every way.

The rape has taken away my means of meeting a new love because I am no longer using dating sites to find someone. Obviously that’s not safe. I am practicing getting used to the idea of spending the rest of my life alone. I’m hoping to develop new coping skills which will replace the need for romantic love in my life. I lived without it in my 20 year marriage; lived without sex most of that time too. Once that switch is flipped off again, I believe my life will be a lot less stressful and definitely less frustrating.

If love is meant to be, it won’t matter if I’ve turned off my emotional side; it will find me anyway. In the meantime, I’m powering off and rebooting on a new network that doesn’t include a male counterpart.

Moments of Hope

One week ago today I was raped by a man I’d just met less than a half hour earlier. The pain and humiliation were overwhelming in those first few days. In my state of shock the day of the rape I was fixated on my need to see Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship. I knew that seeing him would help me in ways I just couldn’t begin to explain, even to myself. I’m very comfortable with him and since I have strong feelings for him I knew that being with him would flood my soul with good, positive emotions. I considered how hard it would be to lose him once this was over but my need to feel okay again was stronger than my fear of getting my heart broken. I couldn’t find Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship’s phone number until almost 24 hours after the rape. I was relieved when I finally located the number but afraid to call him. I had to have my son send him a text message because I was terrified he would either ignore the message or refuse to come. Any kind of rejection at that point would have thrown me over the edge. Thankfully Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship was kind enough to answer right away and agreed to drop everything and come to my aid. He lay down on my bed with me and pulled me tightly to him and I longed for time to stand still. In that moment I knew that this was exactly where God wanted me; I knew I would survive. I clung tightly to Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship for several hours, and he to me. Those were glorious hours and I have referred to them my mind countless times in this past week as a means of shutting out the negative images of the rape, for comfort or purely for pleasure. Thank you Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship, you are precious to me.

As I thought of that moment and my desire to share it here with strangers and the select few friends I allow this close; I was reminded of a few other defining moments in my life.

This morning I had one such moment in which I knew I am going to be okay. It happened around 6:00 a.m. I was parked at a scenic overlook watching the sunrise through a pair of camera lenses. God granted me the most spectacular view I’ve seen to date from that vantage point. The sky turned from blue-black to red, orange, yellow… and then the blue-black clouds shifted forward and all the colors could be seen at once. I was squealing with delight because each shot was turning out better than the one before it; I knew right then that the pig who raped me had not killed my spirit. It felt great to feel alive again.

On a Friday the 13th in 1989, my youngest son, just over a year old, had become very ill. The ambulance had to be called out on a couple of occasions and we rushed him to the hospital by car a few times as well. This was our 6th trip to the hospital. We were at a famous children’s hospital in a large city and my baby’s fever was quite high. The nurses had asked lots of questions and were adjusting my son’s care accordingly. It wasn’t until a couple of social workers were called in that I was made aware that I was suspect for being a Munchausen by Proxy mother; they thought I was doing something to my child to make him sick in order to get some kind of twisted sympathy for myself. (Up until this point, only myself and my other children had ever seen the baby go into one of his “fits.”) Just as this is dawning on me, I looked across the room saw that it was going to happen again. The doctors and nurses were standing around and I said, “There he goes!” Just then the baby went into a grand mall seizure. At that moment I knew that he was in the best possible hands. I turned my back, closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks that this time more qualified hands than my own were there to look after my baby and I was cleared of all suspicion as well. The look of remorse on the faces of the social workers was all the apology I needed. My baby was safe at last and that’s all that mattered.

In 1991 I was a young mother of four children, the youngest of whom was having seizures; we had just finished a 5 month period of homelessness after which I promptly suffered a nervous breakdown. I was working on my recovery from the breakdown using self-therapy. During some research into anxiety and depression, I learned that I needed to concentrate on doing something I love to do so I chose to take up writing professionally again. As a first project I chose to write a short story about a dream I had about a troubling time in my life. I’d just read the story over the phone to a friend and she asked, “Why don’t you turn that story into a book.” As I attempted to explain that it was a short dream and there wasn’t enough material for a book, I was struck by a compelling idea. I believe it must have been around 3:00 a.m.; I found myself still at my computer tapping out the best work of my life. I realized I was starting a new chapter in my book and in my life.

In 1979 I lost my cousin in a motorcycle crash. We were not only cousins but best friends as well. I was only 20 at the time and she was the first person close to me to ever die. I was devastated and I wore a death wish around. I don’t think I smiled a single time in three weeks. I was in a deep depression. One night I’d been out and when I pulled in my driveway a new song came on the radio. It was such a happy, upbeat song that less than a quarter of the way through I was tapping in time to the music and wearing the biggest smile that would fit on my face. I knew that my cousin would have loved that song and in some weird way I was very comforted by that. I remember going to the neighbor’s door after hearing Pop Muzik (by M) and telling them that I felt happy for the first time since my cousin died.

The last project my mother and I did together was to plant a large patch of garlic in 1987. We both used a lot of garlic in our cooking and we wanted to produce the best garlic on the planet. The patch was approximately thirty feet square (I told you we liked garlic). The plan was to grow plenty for ourselves, all our friends and some to sell for a church investment project. (Garlic is planted in the fall, comes up in the spring and is harvested in the fall.) We’d planted the garlic at the end of September but in early March when the green shoots were only a few inches out of the ground, my mother suddenly died of congestive heart failure at the age of 57. In September when the stocks were drying in the sun I knew that the last project with my mother had to come to an end. Dirty tears slid down my cheeks as I stood taking a picture of my three year old daughter sitting on a trailer load of garlic neatly arranged for the picture. It suddenly dawned on me that my last project with my mother turned out to be the first of many projects with my own daughter. The mud cracked on my cheeks as I smiled at my daughter and said, “Say garlic!”

In 2004 my husband ended our 20 year marriage leaving our two youngest children and I in the rental where we’d lived for 11 years. In 2007 I received a settlement for a car accident in which I had been injured 9 days before my husband walked out. I used that money to purchase a two bedroom mobile home in a quiet park on the edge of a small, neighboring town. I was anxious about leaving the home I’d lived in 14 years by then but excited about starting over. (It would just be my son and I in the new place as my daughter had married by then.) This was the first place I’d decorated all on my own and I was bringing very little from my old life to the new one. During one of my early trips out to the new place, along a scenic stretch of highway, eagles soared in majestic circles overhead and a sense of peace and well-being settled over me. In that instant I knew that this was the path to my destiny. Since that day, every time I see the eagles playing in the up-drafts, it brings a smile to my face and fills me with peace.

Humiliation with Compassion

Yesterday morning I went to the hospital for a medical exam and to be tested for STD's. When no one was in the room I was in tears. I kept thinking, "I can't believe I'm here, for this." Gawd how I hate that pig.

I am so filled with anger and resentment. The only way I know to vent is to walk my ass off only I did that last night (3 miles in time to the music), and now I have blisters on both feet. (I’ve lost so much weight that my shoes are loose.) I need new shoes. I’ll have to see if my hiking boots still fit. They are heavy, not really suited for walking but the weight will give me a better workout. Well, I think I might give it a try. I should know in the first mile if I’m going to be able to walk that far that fast in boots. Dang, tired just thinking about it.

The doctor said my rib isn’t broken but the muscles in between them are torn. It is worse now than yesterday even. It is very hard to find a comfortable sleeping position. The doctor advised pain meds and offered me a prescription for narcotics, which I turned down. The whole reason I’m a medical marijuana patient is so I can avoid an addiction to narcotics for my pain. I’ll just stick to that and over-the-counter Tylenol. During the rape that monster yanked my hair really hard a couple of times and did something to my neck and I’ve been having a lot of pain there as well. Bastard! I can’t rest till I see him humiliated.

Yesterday I spoke to my co-worker about feeling that I want to start wearing my gun out in the open. She doesn’t have a problem with it at all. I’ll be wearing it from now on, out of sight but within easy reach. I am going to talk to her today about going gun shopping together. I know quite a bit about guns and what I don’t know is only a phone call away.

Broken Bones/Broken Spirit

I am feeling pretty busted up physically today. I have a broken or cracked rib up under my right breast where that monster forced my knees up and then pressed them really hard into my chest. It hurts to breathe. All the muscles in my legs and especially in my butt, hurt as though they are bruised. It’s difficult to walk and it’s painful too.

I am still taking several baths a day because I can still smell him on me. How is that possible?

I picked up the shirt I was wearing when Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship was here and I could smell him on my shirt. I inhaled deeply and took great comfort in HIS smell. I wish I could bottle that smell for the warmth and safety it lends.

This evening I spoke to a rape victim’s advocate. She was very nice, no pressure to report, and believe it or not, she encouraged vigilante justice in this case. I know exactly what I want to do, just don’t know if I have the nerve to do it myself. Hell, yes I do, I just don’t want to go alone. Where are those graffiti artists when you WANT them to paint for you? I’m not ready to give up on the idea.

I asked the advocate about getting checked for STD’s and she said it would be covered by the victim’s fund or whatever. Cool since I haven’t any insurance. Gawd I hate that walking human puss. Really great news was that the incidence of AIDS is so very low that they don’t even test for it unless the guy was a drug user or had sores. She said that AIDS is really rare in this area. That’s a relief.

The advocate told me that this guy could be on a dangerous sex offender list and she told me about links that actually work and I’m looking through those.

She told me I needed to replace the rape images in my mind with something positive. I told her about asking Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship to come over and how he held me replace the rape images with HIS face. I told her how very understanding and comforting he was to me. She said I did exactly the right thing. It really has helped to crowd out most of the traumatic imagery but now I’m back to longing to see Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship again. No one has ever held me like that before. It was just wonderful. I could die happy in that moment.

It is getting late and I have to leave at 5:00 a.m. for the hospital to be checked over so I will write more later. Hopefully brain waves will increase over the next few days because thoughts are still coming quite slowly. I hate going to the hospital alone.

Thinking Out Loud

This morning I attempted to go out and walk a vigorous 3 miles. I was only able to go about 1/3 of the way because I was weak from not eating; every muscle in my legs feels bruised and hurts to the touch. I have been having a hard time getting around since then, I guess I over-did it. I’ll try again tomorrow because I know it will be good for me and should help clear the cobwebs from my brain. Things are still moving from my brain to my lips and from my brain to my fingertips. I have been working on this paragraph for over a half hour.

Today I am frustrated by people who insist I go to the police. I watch TV; I know it is my word against his whether or not it was consensual. I can’t ID the boat I was on; I just know there were two locked gates to get in or out of the docking area. There is no DNA probably since I’ve shaved and taken at least a dozen baths and douched twice to get his smell off my body. I just want this to be over. I don’t want to tell a courtroom full of strangers the humiliating things he did to me. I don’t even want to tell my friends and family those things. I’m NOT doing it so these well-meaning harpies better let me deal with it in my own way or they will be cut out of my life just like the rapist has been. I want to pretend it didn’t happen. I want to stop reliving it over and over.

I have been trying to replace those disgusting memories with memories of the peaceful, comforting embraces of Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship from the day after the rape. I try to wrap myself in the warmth of that time we shared and feel that love from one human being to another. There is no greater gift than the gift of your time and compassion. It seems to be helping me more than I expected. I am so glad I decided to call. I wasn’t sure he would come and I would have understood if he hadn’t wanted to. I am eternally grateful.

How do I continue self-exploration when this event changes who I am yet again? How will this change me? Will I never be able to turn to a man for comfort the way I did with Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship? Right now he is the only man I feel safe with, but we don’t see each other anymore. I need that feeling of being safe and loved that he gave me. Oh, Dear God, please help me to have that feeling again someday. I feel so alone right now. Help me to feel loving arms around me all day today. Give me the strength to keep living when all I want to do is die.

Regrouping

I’m not really sure how one goes about recovering from being raped. My hope is that there is a recovery process but I’m not sure what it is. I’m not one to attend a support group; I’ve never gotten much out of those things. Everyone else’s problems seem so much worse than my own. I feel like I just need to get through this on my own.

My biggest fear is that no one will be able to love me again. Can I ever trust a man again? Can I bear to have a man touch me ever again? The thought repulses me at the moment.

I feel like I should be doing something but I can’t think what it is. It’s like living in a constant state of confusion. I am barely able to function; I just sit and stare a lot. Answering an E-mail takes a lot of concentration and words don’t come out any easier typing them than thinking them or speaking them.

I just want to be me again. God help me.

Gratitude

All I can say right now is that I am very grateful for the friends I have. I don’t know where I would be without their help and support.

One of my closest friends from my hometown called shortly after I told my son, who lives with me, about the rape. It was so good to hear comforting words from someone I know cares about me.

No one really knows what to say… neither do I.

I received a text message from my friend from Twitter. That was really thoughtful. It was a nice way to wake up. You know who you are and I love you like a sister.

I really can’t explain it but after the rape I just wanted to go someplace safe where I had been happy. There was only one place like that for me; in the arms of Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship. I just needed to feel some normalcy. It took me till this morning to find his phone number but I sent him a text message and he called me right away. Then he came to my house and spent the day with me, just holding me and spooning and napping. I was finally able to relax just a bit. His visit today was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. He may not be ready for a relationship with me but I couldn’t ask for a better friend. He is a wonderful man and I will always love him for his kindness to me when I needed him the most.

Right now I just feel empty and broken. I want to feel whole again but I believe I’m on a very long and winding road to meet that end. I wasn’t quite whole before this happened; now I’m way off track. My mind is slow to react, and it takes me a while to find the words I want to speak. I feel like I may never laugh or smile easily again.

I’m grateful that I came out of this experience only broken and not dead. He easily could have killed me. I wish I could sleep but when I close my eyes, there is that devil’s evil face ordering me to call him master. I would die first.

I Was Raped Today

A guy called today from one of my dating sites. I had already removed my profiles and had chalked this guy up as someone else who doesn’t follow through, he was supposed to call three days ago. He said he didn’t have plans today, did I want to get together and meet for coffee. Sure, why not, what could it hurt?

All I was really interested in was maybe having him kiss me so I could stop seeing Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship’s face in my mind’s eye constantly. I kept picturing our moments together over and over, longing for more all the time. Oh how I wish I could go back to that innocent school-girl daydreaming of this morning before the rapist called. Oh how I wish it were Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship’s face I’m seeing now. Instead I relive every sick moment over and over again like The Never Ending Story, playing in a constant loop.

His putrid smell refuses to wash off my body. I’ve taken several baths. I washed, no scrubbed, my body with Patchouli soap and a luffa sponge, washed my hair and clothes; it didn’t help. In my second bath I used a half gallon of vinegar and douched, twice. Then I shaved, down there to get his smell off me. Gawd will it ever go away? I have never felt so dirty, humiliated and alone.

Never did I imagine something like this would happen to me. I thought myself too smart. How could I be so stupid? Why couldn’t I get away? Why did I leave my gun at home and take my meds instead? (I was crossing state lines, that’s why, another mistake I won’t make again.)

When he wasn’t pulling my hair and hitting me he was insisting I call him “Master.” I looked the fucker in the eye and I said, “I have only one master!” He asked who and I told him God. He could have slit my throat but I would DIE before I called that bastard master. FUCK YOU, you son-of-a-bitch!

I want to be there, sitting on the upper wall of the Holy City in the end of time. I want to see that bastards face when it starts raining fire and brimstone. I’ll shout down and ask him, “Who’s your master?” ROT IN HELL MOTHER FUCKER! Oh, and I’d watch your back if I were you.

The Rest of the Story

As Paul Harvey (a well-known radio commentator; incidentally of the same faith as my family), was fond of saying; “And now it’s time for, The Rest of the Story.”

In the private of their room that night (my mother later reported to my aunt from her hospital bed), she and my father argued until just before dawn. Several times during the night my father choked her until she was very nearly lifeless, then he would ease up and allow her breath again. (I confirmed my aunt’s version of events with my own recollection of that evening when, upon thinking I heard my mother crying out, I opened their bedroom door only to see my father choking my mother. I screamed but they laughed it off and convinced me they were just joking around and then asked me leave so they could finish their discussion in private.) My mother’s doctor confirmed that the obstructed blood flow to her brain likely caused her stroke. She was too weak to fight him off AND maintain her silence which was the only way she could keep up her masterful illusion of normalcy.

Normalcy might seem an odd thing to want to allude to but once you understand one important fact from my mother’s childhood, it all begins to make sense. From a very young age, my mother knew she was different; an odd duck so-to-speak. She was smart enough to know that something wasn’t right with her. She began exhibiting some ritualistic behaviors such as compulsive counting, facial tics, and involuntary movements. (Her later research revealed she’d been suffering from St. Vitus Dance: “a neurological disorder characterized by purposeless, rapid, involuntary movements, emotional liability and muscular weakness; a condition often associated with rheumatic fever.”) She was ridiculed in school by classmates and this wounded her deeply. She wanted desperately to be “normal” like the other kids.

My mother later told me that it was a teacher who encouraged her to write who turned her life around. This teacher’s encouragement was just what my mother needed. This was one of her first memories of human affection in the form of hugs, and it was the first time that anyone had made her feel special. I believe she spent her life frantically trying to hold onto that feeling in an atmosphere that was anything but special or normal. This special event happened to coincide with my mother’s remission from the clutches of St. Vitus Dance.

Now, years later my mother finds herself facing a humiliation far greater than any she suffered in her darkest childhood memories; the shattering of her carefully crafted illusion. All the dirty little secrets would be exposed, her façade of normalcy stripped away forever. I can almost feel the panic rising in her. The disgrace she felt must have been incredible. Here she ministered to an unhappy co-worker and helped lead her to God only to suffer betrayal at the hands of the two most important people in her life other than her children. There was no greater motivator in my mother’s life than humiliation. It had fueled her existence since the time if the rheumatic fever. The only stronger motivator for my mother than wanting to regain her pride was her dedication to serving God. But this time she made the conscious decision to find smug satisfaction and bring it home.

My mother was usually a push-over, especially at the hands of my father who was a master manipulator, but anybody really. She played the martyr very well as I mentioned. But when my mother had her fill of a situation, it would come to a screeching halt. Her dander would go up and then she would either beat you at your own game or she would die trying.

My mother had been a virgin when she married my father. They were married when she was barely 18. She told me that her mother’s brand of a premarital birds and bees talk was to hastily agree to sign a permission card so she could order a book on the topic of making love (she didn’t have a single clue). (Incidentally, my own sex education was derived from a XXX novel I found under my parent’s mattress when I was 12. They couldn’t ask for it back because they would have to admit they had it in the first place. That book was responsible for the sex education of the entire seventh and eighth grade class that year. It was finally confiscated by one of the teachers in my church school but it was never traced back to me… but they all knew, that I knew, they knew because it was my book. No one would rat me out to save their own skin and the book infraction was never pinned on anyone.)

Imagine the shock my mother must have felt when the books she’d come to accept as her closest friends also betrayed her. Depicted in the book her mother had signed for were many variations of sexual positions and descriptions on how to pleasurably carry each out. But when she married my father, her experiences were very different from the descriptions in the book (she told me only a few years before she died). She said my father could last an excruciating length of time with her in the missionary position, he insisted on. (Let me tell you, for a young married woman, hearing this from my mother was TOO MUCH INFORMATION. She said that just out of curiosity she decided to time him once and she gave up timing after the three hour mark. Three hours of straight intercourse, this didn’t include foreplay; I asked. My mother found it punishing and demeaning.) She loathed sex and said she most times she just laid there and prayed for it to be over. How tragic for her.

Given my mother’s distaste for sex, her single act of revenge is all the more remarkable. My mother had a quickie with one of my dad’s friends. This man and his wife had been casual acquaintances of ours for a couple of years. We would occasionally take a trip out to their house after church and spend the afternoon. However, this couple had recently split up, the wife had run off with another man leaving him with four young children to raise. My aunt told me of this affair but wouldn’t tell me whom it had been with. It took me months to wear my aunt down and I had to make a solemn promise not to tell my father she’d told me about it because she feared he would kill her. I think I mentioned that I learned to never accept anything this particular aunt said at face value because she was known not only for distorting facts but for out-and-out lying. The reasons this rang true are twofold.

The first is that as soon as my aunt revealed the name of the man my mother had the affair with I knew what day it was and where I’d been. I remembered coming back into the house later with all the other kids and being unable to find my mother and this man. A little fumbling around and we later and found them upstairs in the kids’ room. My mother said she was helping him “make the beds.” I questioned her about why her hair was so messed up and she laughed a nervous laugh and said, “Oh, is it?”


Directly following on the heels of that realization came the answer to another question I’d had about why my father had been so upset to learn that my brother and his live-in girlfriend had moved a couple of miles beyond my folks’ place and were sharing a place with this guy with whom my mother had had a sexual encounter. I’d asked my father once why he didn’t like this man anymore and I was given a very evasive, “just because” kind of answer. Now it was all making sense. All the pieces of the puzzle were fitting together.

The ultimate payback had provided my mother the smug satisfaction she craved but at a steep price for her personally. She carried the guilt of that day until right before her death. Her innocence was gone with her illusion of normalcy. She would forever be trying to regain her ground with God; she felt she had to earn her way back into His good graces.

How has all this affected my personality and my life? I’m willing to play the martyr for the sake of my children or for some other noble cause but not as a matter of course. I will not take abuse from anyone, least of all someone who is supposed to love me. I will not let a man belittle me or humiliate me and then stick around for a repeat performance. As I stated in an earlier post, “Unfortunately, we are supposed to turn the other cheek. But once you’ve slapped both my cheeks, you better start runnin’ bitch ‘cause I’m swingin’ back!” This applies to men who think women were put on this earth to abuse. FUCK YOU! I don’t put up with that shit. Gimme some gas, honey, we’s makin’ a remake of The Burning Bed!

Maybe, just maybe; my mother’s martyrdom has paid off at long last. I am halfway to freedom from the emotionally detached influences in my life by recognizing my propensity for polarity towards emotionally unavailable me and its causes. My mother’s grand-daughter is free because she is with an emotionally available man and she knows how to love her son the way my mother never could love me; openly. My grandson will be the first in generations to grow up with emotionally available influences as the norm in his life. Thanks too Great-Grandma Martyr and Grandma Pooh-Pooh, my grandson will be naturally drawn to emotionally available women and is expected to be able to form healthy, lasting relationships.

And in the words of our beloved Paul Harvey, “And now you know, The Rest of the Story. Good-day!”

Deceit, Betrayal and Masters of Illusion

In my most recent entry I hinted that I would delve into my view of my parents’ relationship in a future post and since I do my best work when I’m on a roll…; hang on! Things could get rough.

My childhood seemed like a fairytale to me; a mother and father and a brother and we all lived in the same house. We got together with aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents for birthdays and holidays. Ours was a typical all American family; at least it seemed like one to me since I had nothing to compare it to. I enjoyed a childhood of innocence, oblivious to the drama and turmoil which swirled around in a parallel universe that I knew nothing about.

Throughout my childhood, right on into adulthood, my mother concocted this yarn which was my life. She went to great lengths to protect the elaborate illusion she’d created. The fact is, she protected it to her grave. Until her death I continued on, unaware, never suspecting that the person I trusted most had betrayed me.

It wasn’t until my mother’s death that her story started to come apart at the seams. Since my aunt was the only living keeper of family secrets at the time of my mother’s death, I tried to dismiss her accounts of events as the vengeful rantings of a jealous sister.

My aunt and my mother had a love/hate relationship. They came from the same emotionally detached family and were emotionally detached from each other as well. While they loved each other, there was an unspoken rule against expressing it. They had this thing they would do that I witnessed as a child, but again, I was protected from the true meaning of the exchange until later. Mum brought something over to my aunt one day and when she handed it to her their hands touched and they both said, “Eww!” and pulled back their hands and wiping them off on their dresses. After my mother died my aunt explained that this was actually a little thing that they always did that no one knew about but them. It covered up their embarrassment of the fact that even though my mother was saintly and my aunt was devilish, they still loved each other. (Can you say dysfunctional functioning?)

As I mentioned previously, I was told that Mum wanted to call off her wedding to my father well ahead of the wedding but my father was so needy and clingy that she couldn’t bring herself to break his heart and reportedly, on some level she was afraid of him because of some way he’d handled her arm; the details are sketchy there. At any rate, it is all gum under the table now.

My mother made a valiant attempt at making life seem normal and happy. She went to great lengths to keep up the illusion that everything was just fine when in fact she was an incredibly unhappy, lonely woman who never felt that anyone understood her. She seemed to enjoy playing the martyr, sacrificing anything that might have made her happy, for others. Her sacrifices almost always went unnoticed and unappreciated by others but my mother was a deeply religious woman who believed that whatever sacrifice she made for others would be paid back ten-fold in heaven. She really was a true martyr but honestly, sometimes her martyrdom bordered on outlandish even when her motives were pure.

Over a period of several months after my mother’s death, I was able to piece together a much more realistic picture of my childhood by matching the steady stream of truths my aunt felt obliged to share, with the scraps of my mother’s writings. (I had been able to salvage these on the day of her death while cleaning my parent’s house in preparation for the people who would be coming to pay their respects.) I followed up these two resources by questioning other family members and searching my own memories until I feel like most of the pieces fit. The biggest illusion of all though was the one Mum created to give me the security she never felt as a self-proclaimed, borderline mentally ill child and that is the illusion everything was normal. My mother would never have admitted failure and abandoned her marriage without a stellar reason because her vows were more to God than my father and she would never break a vow to God willingly.

I’m sure then that Mum must have been blindsided when she was betrayed while doing the Lord’s work. She’d met a young woman at work and began witnessing to her about the love of God. (That is quite possibly the only love my mother truly ever understood; the love of God.) My mother held bible studies with this woman over a period of some months and the two became fast friends. Eventually my father struck up a friendship with the woman’s husband and our families began spending a lot of time together, especially on weekends. I was just a little kid so I’m not sure on the timetable here but at some point we ended up living next door to each other.

My mother and father had a gold mining claim on which they had built a cabin and we spent nearly every weekend there. More often than not, this couple would be at the cabin with us.

It wasn’t until my aunt spilled the beans after my mother’s death that I was finally able to make sense of some of the events surrounding my parent’s friendship with this couple and their sudden departure from our lives years later.

My father and this woman’s husband became friends. They worked together and even opened a business together (the name of which was a combination of my mother’s first name and her convert friend’s name; by this time my mother had been rewarded with seeing this woman baptized into our church. To her this meant she’d earned another star in her crown in heaven).

My father and this woman’s husband had an over-the-top competition to outdo one another with practical jokes. A prank which resulted in my father’s back pocket being filled with water at work triggered the longest water fight I have ever been witness to. It lasted from sun-up to sun-down on an unseasonably warm day in November in the mid 60’s. It was hilarious to watch and to take part in; the whole neighborhood was involved at some point during the day. They chose and changed sides on a whim so I was never sure who was on my side. I am trying to hang onto this as one of my most favorite childhood memories because it really was one of the most fun days in my life; however, it’s tainted with sadness and betrayal like most of my childhood memories. Why don’t people realize that lies are betrayals and that they are every bit as hurtful?

Eventually my father had an affair with the star in my mother’s crown; all tarnished with treachery and deceit. My aunt confirmed what I’d long suspected. I know her story is accurate because I can perfectly match her version with my own.

It was a cool evening, just after dark, probably early November. I was in kindergarten at the time. Mum had me loaded in the back seat of our 1949 Willy’s, hart-top Jeep; my brother was in the front passenger seat. It seemed like we waited forever for Mum to come out of the house but she didn’t get in so we could go. My father wouldn’t let go of her arm. It was cold in the Jeep but when my father told us to get out and go in the house, Mum told us to stay put.

I am sure my brother probably knew they were fighting, he was 15 at the time; but I didn’t have a clue because part of Mum’s illusion was to never let us hear them fighting. They would retreat to their bedroom and close the door. You could tell there was a lively discussion going on but you were never privy to the details no matter how hard you tried to eavesdrop. My mother was a master illusionist.

That cold, inhospitable evening, my mother confronted her best friend and her husband about their affair. She planned to take my brother and I and leave my father. She had already made arrangements to go share a place with her sister (the same aunt whom in later years would help me fill in these gaps in my view of my childhood). My father apparently came unhinged and was determined that this was NOT going to happen. My parents eventually retreated to their routine of closed-door discussions but the age of innocence was passed and nothing would ever be quite right between my parents again.

This segment is running long so I am posting this in two parts.

My Mother/Daughter Relationships

In an earlier “episode” I talked about my belief that I’m attracted to emotionally unavailable men (or perhaps the correct evaluation would be to say that I’m a magnet for them), because all the men in my life from my grandfathers to father to brother to husband have all been the same kind of men, emotionally unavailable. They were all likeable fellows, people were usually drawn to them, but at home there were no hugs, no atta-girls, no pats on the back or, God forbid, any I-love-yous. But I only told half the story. Neither were there any of those things from the women in my life. They were no more emotionally available than the men.

The women were all very adept at domestic chores (though some enjoyed doing them to lesser or greater degrees than others) and child rearing, but none were especially good at expressing love. Or maybe they didn’t know how to feel love either? I’m guessing not. So how then have I broken the cycle on that? Why couldn’t/wouldn’t any of the others break out of that horrid cycle?

It causes near physical pain for me to imagine that my mother may never have received real love in her live. But it nearly kills me to think that she may never have experienced GIVING real love either. I’ve often heard that it is better to give than to receive and I think that is especially true of love.

I believe at times that my mother gave up her dream of finding love. According to her sister, she wanted to break it off with my father before they were married but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. (I’ll go into their story some other time.) Anyway, my mother told me that her parents weren’t affectionate to her, nor were other family members. My mother told me once that she liked seeing me love on my children because she always wanted to be like that with us but never could. (I have a theory on why that might be too, again for a later date.) My mother told me she loved me twice in my life that I remember, but those two times were memorable.

However memorable they were though, two I-love-yous in a lifetime from a parent is not nearly enough. Children live for the love and approval of their parents. Once they are conditioned not to receive what they need, they learn to stop asking and never learn to give it either; how terribly sad for the human race.

So now we have spells of dysfunction cast over these families and they don’t know how to give or receive love; how truly tragic not to be able to feel such utter joy with another human being. Love is a deep and abiding connection for which there is no substitute. I thank God that I’ve been able to shake off the effects of whatever spell was cast over my family so that I could experience this with my children. My adult children know I love them, I tell them often. They know I’m proud of them too. Kids need that; adults need that too.

Is there a way to teach an emotionally detached person to love? Can their hearts be opened to love. I’ve been trying all my life to do that in just about every romantic paring I’ve been a part of, and I have not been successful. Early in the relationship they seem to hunger for the love and approval they didn’t get as children but later they are unable to overcome the inability to openly exchange love. I believe they want to love so badly but they are afraid of engaging in anything that makes them vulnerable for fear the love won’t last and they will be disappointed again.

If only those people could let themselves go just for a while and just drink it all in, they too might see the value in love and help break the spell over their own families.

I was determined to have a different relationship with my daughter than I had with my mother. I always felt that my mother was overly judgmental and narrow minded so I went a bit too far the other way and was too liberal with my children (although they would tell you I was strict). I may have been too much of a friend and not enough of a mother at times. But one thing my kids always knew was that I loved them unconditionally. But then my daughter stopped talking to me for an entire year and shook my belief in that theory.

Details of the actual events really aren’t important to the story but for the whole year, I didn’t know WHY my daughter had stopped speaking to me. Not a clue. My daughter despises displays of emotion so avoids any type of “drama,” like talking about “feelings.” All I could do was try my best to keep in touch with her, tell her I love her and wait it out, which I did. During that year I heard three different stories about what might be causing her to want to punish me in this way but only one rang true and that was her belief that I don’t like my son-in-law.

It is true, in their early relationship, we had some rough times; it is obvious that he and I cannot live under the same roof. However, when he’s not living with me, I honestly don’t have a problem with him. My daughter has made her choice, they have a son together; it’s a done deal, he’s part of the family and isn’t going anywhere. I’m over it. I invited their little family out for a barbecue and they came, a year to the date that my daughter stopped talking to me. I didn’t ask what had happened, I just let it go and reveled in the joy of their company. All that was important was that we were together and I was now Grandma Pooh-pooh to my two-year-old grandson whom I didn’t think would even remember me.

Our reunion was short lived however because my daughter has convinced herself that she can read my feelings about her husband on my face and she is sure that I don’t like him. How to I defend myself against something like that? I’ve told her it isn’t true, I even loaned him all my tools as a sign of good faith. She doesn’t believe me. I don’t know what more I can say.

My daughter wasn’t around to witness the emotional detachment of my parents or grandparents but she did grow up viewing her mother in a marriage with a man she loved very much, but whom didn’t love her in return. Is it any wonder that she would so fiercely protect her marriage to a man she feels truly does love her? What kind of mother would I be to come between that?

As painful as it is, I have to back away from my daughter and allow her to wrap herself up in the love of her immediate family in order that she may experience love to the fullest and escape the hell of emotional detachment that I never fully could. Hopefully she will never realize the depth of my sacrifice nor ever remember witnessing my pain. I just want her to escape the spell and be happy, even if that means I’m no longer a part of her life.

“If you love something, set it free, if it comes back to you it’s yours forever, if it doesn’t it wasn’t meant to be.” – Aphrodite

“There is no sacrifice greater than giving up love for love’s sake.” – Baring My Soul In Public

Taking Ownership & Avoiding Bad Choices

Baring my soul in public this way is not only helping me learn to be at peace with myself and who I am; it is helping me take ownership of my writing through the practice of writing in the first person.

Writing in the first person has always been hard for me. I prefer writing in the third person; being an observer rather than a participant is more comfortable for me I suspect. When I started this blog it was very hard for me to learn to say me, my and I in place of they and them. Perhaps I’m conditioned to expect ridicule for feeling a certain way about something. Feelings are kind of hard to own up to sometimes.

I am finding that the more I write about how I feel about things, the less weird I look and the more boring I seem. My thoughts and feelings really aren’t all that earth shattering even written in the first person.

The one thing that strikes me though is how hard it is to break out of the hardened muddy ruts once you’ve driven the old Jeep down this slippery slope. Now that I know my weaknesses for things that aren’t good for me, namely emotionally unavailable men, how do I change the pattern of behavior that draws me to that type of men? How do I spot an emotionally unavailable man out of a crowd so I can remove him from consideration?

Well, I did what I always do when I want to know something, I Googled it, “How to Spot Emotionally Unavailable Men,” and this is what I found (and I’m only including those which apply to me either now or in the past; you can Google it for the rest of them):

How to spot emotionally unavailable men

He’s very reliant on text messages, IMing and email for the majority of his contact.

They’re ambiguous about the status of the relationship.

You’re not sure when you’ll hear from him next, even though you’ve been dating them for a while.

You think you’re in a relationship, but it’s closer to a booty call.

He says stuff like, "If only the timing was different, you’d be the perfect girlfriend" or "If only things were different I’d definitely marry you." ("Hurry up and marry me so I can end this online dating madness.")

When you try to tackle the status of your relationship or any issues, he either tells you what you want to hear and then returns to his normal behavior or he just skirts the issue. One way or the other, you wind up back at square one.

He lives with his ex (they are just good friends, right? bahahahaha)

He admits that he is dating multiple women continuously.

He doesn’t call when he’s supposed to. Ever.

He’s one big walking excuse. (Has an excuse for every damn thing.)

You feel empty after you sleep with him.

He creeps out after sleeping with you even though you’ve been together for a while.

He has a stringent routine that he just won’t deviate from.

He is resistant to involving himself in your life.

He determines the momentum of the relationship – you meet up when he wants to meet up.

He never refers to you as a girlfriend, partner or any form of significant other.

He uses sex as his way of demonstrating his so-called emotion.

There are pockets of time when he seems to just disappear, and then he resurfaces with little or no explanation.

It feels like he blows hot and cold.

He’s quick out the gate in pursuing you, gets your attention, and then goes into a slow canter. (stagnant relationship)

He tells you that he has a lot of issues that he needs to deal with.

He actually says, "I’m not ready for a relationship," but is still with you .(hangin' around)

He can’t commit to anything, no matter how minuscule – everything that he’s asked, such as whether he can do something with you is a big drama to get him to say yay or nay.

He may try and sleep with you on the first night.

In every single case when I’ve found myself connected to an emotionally unavailable romantic interest, at least one of these scenarios has been in play. I didn’t recognize these things as the red flags that they are. Now that I can identify some of the warning signs, I need to attach a shock collar to keep me away from the dawgs.

I realize that there is one single behavior I could change about myself which would act as that shock collar. I need to change my old fashioned ways and stop refusing to call men when they give me their phone number. I am really shy about calling anyone, not just men. I simply don’t like to initiate phone calls. But most especially, I don’t like calling men. So, I guess I will practice on that one the next time a guy asks me to call him. It is NOT going to be easy. This is a life-long behavior. But I quit smoking and if I can do that, I can do anything! Send me your number, please!

Committing Electronic Suicide

I’m reading a book called How to Get What You Want and Want What You Have by John Gray. There is a lot of good information in this book about what it is that truly makes us unhappy. We always think we need more of something to be happy and we’re always trying to fill the void with the wrong things. Basically the theory is that when you’re unhappy it is because you are missing a particular type of love in your life. There are 10 kinds and we apparently need some of each to be happy.

I’m using part of this theory with one of my own whereby I purge my life of things that are weighting me down and making me miserable. For example, when I moved from the last place (where I’d lived for 14 years with an emotionally detached alcoholic
husband), I rented an 18’ drop-box and filled it three times. Yes, I could have had a yard sale like most people but I needed a symbolic purging. I needed to unload the weight of all those things, memories, nightmares, confusion and clutter. I wanted to dump it all, so I did. I brought very little from my former life to this new one.

Most recently (as you know if you’re keeping up here), I began baring my soul in public as a method of purging negativity from my spirit to find out who I am, how to love myself and where I want to go from here. One of the discoveries I made about myself was that I am attracted to emotionally unavailable men, the exact opposite of what I need in my life. I forced myself to sever communication between myself and Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship because he is one of the emotionally unavailable types that I need to get away from. (I didn’t expect it would hurt this much but I’m sure if I can just hang in there, I’ll get through it. After all, what choice do I have?)

Today I reviewed the immediate prospects on the two online dating web sites I belonged to. One guy turned out (I believe) to be bi-polar or something. He always was way too negative for my taste but then he came uncorked on me about something through E-mail, poking his nose in my business where it didn’t belong. I blocked him on the dating site this morning so he wouldn’t be a problem.

Then I considered the other guys who have been writing to me lately and some are flaky, don’t follow through… just not what I’m looking for. I have had my fill of online dating. I have deleted both my profiles completely. Part of me is quite sad that I’ve effectively made sure there are NO prospects at all now, but what is worse, no prospects or poor ones?

Next I went and deleted the MySpace account I’ve had for 5 years. Then two Twitter ID’s (one under my real name), and finally I deleted quite a few of my instant messaging ID’s. I’m still not sure I will leave that realm for good but I might.

It really does feel like electronic suicide to me. I have been online since 1991, before the Internet was open to the public. I’ve been communicating with people online all this time and interacting with them in real life less and less. If there is one thing I have learned from Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship, it’s that I need human contact in my life. I need to laugh with people and hear them talk about everyday things.

I don’t need a man to E-mail, IM or text message. I need a man who can make me laugh, someone to go places with, someone to spoon through life with.

Who knows, maybe someday I’ll go totally crazy and get rid of my text messaging plan or change my phone numbers. I’m on a roll!

Love is like Ketchup

My mother had a ditty she used to say from the early days of television; “Shake, shake the ketchup bottle, none will come and then a lot’ll.” It was from an old commercial, pre “Anticipation is making me wait” days. The commercial depicted someone shaking and shaking the ketchup bottle but nothing coming out for the longest time.

That saying is kind of fits what’s going on in my online dating life too. I’ve been checking guys out online for a few years now but haven’t really come across any guys I’ve wanted to date, or maybe I wanted to them and they didn’t want to date me? Whatever it was, nothing ever happened with any of the men, just a lot of dead ends.

The first “date” I had after my divorce, turned into a friendship that I still maintain today. There were a few men that I met with once but there were no sparks. Other than Mr. brief-but-extremely-stimulating-relationship, there hasn’t even been any kissing going on. (sigh)

In the last two days though, I put up a new profile and now I have five guys talking to me and all wanting to meet at once. Gah! I’ve never had this problem before. I feel like I’m on one of those freakin’ reality shows where all the guys are vying for my attention. “Hummm, who should I give the rose to,” or whatever. There are three strong contenders and two weak possibilities. They are all so very different yet I like them all for different reasons. But do any of them want to fall in love like I do?

I’m not in a hurry or anything but I don’t want to waste time with guys who aren’t on the same page. If they are looking for a one-night-stand, they are not likely to get it from me, however tempting it can be sometimes. (Mum raised me better than that. I mean if you let them open the big gift now, what will they open on Christmas?) I need a level of trust. I need to know a man cares about getting to know who I really am, what makes me tick, the hurts I’ve suffered and doesn’t want to add to them. Of course that goes both ways.

I did an online personality test this morning and the assessment of me was really quite accurate. Here is what it said:

“Your type is known as the teacher, or the educating mentor. You also belong to the larger group, called idealists. You tend to bring out the best in other people. You lead without seeming to do so. People are naturally drawn to you. You expect the very best from people which takes the form of enthusiastic encouragement which is so charming that people try their best not to disappoint you. You share your personality type with 3% of the population.

“You need to feel a deep and meaningful connection to your romantic partners, and go to great lengths to understand and please your mate. Harmony is vitally important to you, and you often put others' needs before your own. You have a pretty thin skin and are easily hurt. Although you strive for harmony, when your values or ethics are violated, you can be very emotional, confrontational, and even punishing. However, you are very insightful about the underlying cause of conflicts, and an excellent communicator, so you have the tools to bring about a quick and peaceful resolution as long as you can keep control of your facilities. You want to be appreciated for your thoughtfulness and compassion. You need your partner to make a real effort to get to know you. Above all, you need to be able to express your feelings and have them taken seriously.”

Compared to other takers
• 93/100 You scored 91% on I to E, higher than 93% of your peers.
• 14/100 You scored 21% on N to S, higher than 14% of your peers.
• 10/100 You scored 14% on F to T, higher than 10% of your peers.
• 55/100 You scored 47% on J to P, higher than 55% of your peers.

I could have saved myself a lot of writing in this blog if I’d just taken this test sooner. It tells me all the same stuff.

I’m not quite sure if it’s a good thing or not, sharing my personality type with only 3% of the population. Does that mean only 3 out of a hundred men are gonna be in the ball-park of the kind of guy I’m looking for? So, if I meet these five guys I’ll be up to 12 of the 97 guys I have to go out with before I find Mr. Right or even Mr. He’ll-do. But hey, if I can keep up, I could be to the end of the line in only a few weeks. I’ll be run ragged by then!

It’s 2009! I thought we were supposed to have flying cars by now and shouldn’t there be a replicator so I can just punch in my recipe for a great guy and he comes sliding down a shoot wearing a silver, Space-Speedo just like on the Jetsons?

When I was in the 8th grade, we were asked to write down things we thought would be different in the world in the year 2000. I mentioned flying cars but no one suggested there would be computers and that we would be using them to find dates. The closest thing were the “video phones” which never really flew, unless you are into web-camming with your friends. The technology is there but it’s sometimes more comfortable to be invisible when you’re at home in your comfortable clothes.

I've recently been told, "You're not a very good breaker upper!!!!!!" And I have a whole lotta more toads to wade through yet. Frog legs anyone? Get out the ketchup!

Trolling for Men

I was out trolling for men on one of the single’s web sites (don’t know how else I’ll ever meet anyone), and I ran across a profile that was so well written I couldn’t help but fall for his writing. Here’s some of what he said:

“As you lay at night with your silent tears, you are not alone because I know you are out there somewhere. Somehow, some way, we are going to come together. That is what I hope for. Don't worry, I will be there soon; just hold on one more day. Where are you? Are you home all the time rarely to come out? How am I to meet you I wonder? Do you take the bus? I’m never on the bus; how am I to get to you?

“These are thoughts I have; trying to figure where are you? I know you are out there somewhere; (hidden) like a rare jewel. When it’s dark at night, keep your light on for me in your heart, because no matter what fate keeps me away from you, I will find you. Just hold on. Whatever happens stay alive because I will never stop searching for you for as long as I have breath. I know that you are calling out to me. As you lay there tonight and wonder; (is it him?); rest assured it is me.

“I know what it’s like, as you lay, or sit, asking yourself did I make the right decision as you are in this deep dark world of loneliness that you have created because of circumstances. That feeling of disconnection (and) uncertainty. You have built this facade of strength but inside your missing something. Yearning for him, the one you hope to find. But in this busy world you feel that it’s almost imposable to meet someone with any quality characteristics or a desirable demeanor. But yet in this cesspool called the net, here we are, having a meeting of the minds. I know I have touched not just your spirit but your mind and heart.”

Trust me, I’ve read a LOT of profiles and this is the kind of connection I want to have with someone. This guy is someone who appreciates a good woman. The rest of his profile was a list of 150 reasons to date a guy like him. It had me in stitches most of the time. I totally loved his sense of humor; he even had a mustache. I wondered why I’d never seen this man in any of my searches before. I realized why later, because I only have “Caucasian” checked on my possible matches and this man is Hispanic. Why? Not for any particular reason other than I don’t speak any other languages and I’m probably getting too old to tackle one now… My daughter is married to a Hispanic man from El Salvador. She gets by nicely, she’s learned Spanish and their son is bi-lingual. But she’s young; they have years together; I don’t want to fight through a language barrier to try and see if there is a relationship hiding there.

How many other possible love matches may have been overlooked due to a misplaced check-mark? Ironic how little it takes to miss that connection, the one that just changed your life forever and you didn’t even know it. Why then do some allow a beautiful love to slip through their fingers when it’s staring them full in the face?

When I’m trolling for men, I’m flipping through the pictures looking for a face I could stand to wake up next to for the next 30 or 40 years. For me, that face most certainly includes a mustache, but possibly a goatee as well. I am not attracted to completely hairless faces except on very rare occasions. (Michael Jorden? Oh yeah, with those twinkling eyes who’s looking for a mustache?) I’m looking for the smile that will make me forgive him for missing my birthday. How many chances for happiness did I miss because I wrote them off as just another hairless face? On these dating web sites, I’m making hundreds of snap judgments, something I despise when men do it. (I suck too.) So what I’ve learned from my trolling is that you have to look good right off the bat, put your best photo out there.

Once I find a nice face (and it isn’t hugging a dead fish carcass), I start reading his profile. I first look for smoking/drinking habits in common because these are both critical issues with me. A) being in constant contact with cigarette smoke for more than an hour and I’m climbing the wall wanting a cigarette even though I haven’t smoked in 10 years. B) I’m still trying to accept that there are supposedly people in the world who drink but are not (nor will they become) alcoholics. But the thing with that is, I’m a medical marijuana user and many people see that as being much worse, being outside the law and all. I am as INSIDE the law as I can be, as the laws are now. I comply with Washington State regulations regarding this substance and I use it responsibly. That’s all I can ask with regard to alcohol consumption as well I suspect. So how many wonderful guys have I rejected just because it says he is a social drinker. I guess it just depends on how much socializing he does. This, unfortunately, you can’t change about another person. So if a guy drinks on two of the first three dates (or ends dates early to go unwind and have a drink), the odds are against him getting a 4th date.

The next requirement I had in my little black book (the online version, I’m a computer nerd grandma), was that I wanted him to be taller than my ex husband. He was a good fit for me height wise but taller would be even better maybe. Did I miss my perfect match because he was an inch too short?

Next I look at religious preference. Some religions are like oil and water so I try to stick to someone who believes in the trinity at least. Should I be so concerned? It’s not like we are going to have kids together at my age. But I don’t want to argue about religion and I know I’m not changing my faith. Is this something that can be worked around? Should it be? How many matches did I miss there?

In the overall scheme of things though, I’m not overly critical if you make it through the flip-book face test.

I don’t mind a pot belly on a man (within reason, no heart attack about to happen types though).

I don’t mind that you can’t lift a car off your cousin Mickey anymore, so long as you still know how to hold hands and make out like you’re in high school (on occasion at least).

I don’t care if you have a million dollars or you’re a million dollars in debt so long as I know you love me.

Maybe I’ve missed all the chances I’m ever going to get at happiness, I really don’t know. I’m sure there must be a quota somewhere on the books but no one’s ever said what it is. I just know that, “I am exactly where God wants me at this moment.” I know that God wants me to be happy (He wants all His children to be happy), and that when the time is right, NOTHING will stand in the way.

Pick your battles; don’t sweat the small stuff; overlook the unimportant and embrace like it will be your last embrace.