Archive for marriage
King for the day
Posted by: | CommentsSteve does not like celebrating his birthday.
He told me this long ago, and I came to believe he does not like his birthday because he didn’t have many celebrations as a kid. So, I set about fixing it and changing his mind. I have made sure, for the past four birthdays we’ve been together, that he has had a great time. Each year has topped the previous year, with last year–his 40th–culminating in a trip to Napa. Hard to top that.
This year, I asked him to request March 11 and 12 as vacation days, and I started looking for a place for us to go within a few hours of Denver. Usually, I love trip planning–finding the perfect place to stay, searching for bargains, figuring out the right balance between scheduled activities and free time. This year the whole thing was a struggle. I was so frustrated I put out a Very Personal Ad here and got no responses. (Universe–trying to tell me something? Hmmm?) Steve’s boss owns a place in Summit County, and had offered it to us a no cost, so Steve said he’d ask if we could use it that weekend.
He didn’t. He didn’t even ask for the time off until this week. And when he told me he couldn’t have those days off next week, I freaked out, because I felt like he sabotaged the whole thing.
The energy in our house has been out of whack. Last weekend was fight central. Many shoes were hurled. The rain of shoes–some intentional–continued through Wednesday, culminating in much nastiness on my part and my husband evacuating the house for a couple of hours.
During the ugliness, he told me that he NEVER wanted another acknowledgment of his birthday. EVER. Not a card. Not a dinner. Not a present. Fine, I told him. And later, I cried. I was so frustrated and hurt.
Birthdays have always been important to me. Growing up, they were one of the few days of the year when my whole family, including grandparents, would come together. Birthdays meant feeling special and loved and it being OK to ask for what I wanted. I’ve always made a big deal about my birthday, taking the day off–last year, taking two weeks off. I planned elaborate dinner parties for my ex-husband’s birthday, some of my happiest memories with him. And Lauren’s birthdays, at least until the divorce after which her dad somehow took them over, were always a source of love and pride. I orchestrated huge celebrations for both of my parents’ 60th birthdays, ensuring that far-away friends and relatives attended.
In other words, birthdays allow me to express my love for someone in a special way. And today, it hit me that Steve’s rejection of his birthday and his sabotage of my plans for it this year feels like rejection of ME. Rejection of my love. It’s like I’m a child who’s made a special art blob for a parent and the parent threw it in the trash before my eyes.
And yet, I now understand he is rejecting acknowledgment and celebration of his birthday … not me. Huh.
Bloggers and coaches Havi Brooks and Hiro Boga talk about the concept of sovereignty–the quality of owning your own space, of being so safe being you that nothing can shake you, of not giving a damn what anyone thinks because you are king/queen of your own realm (quote/endquote). I’m working on getting to sovereignty. Today I realized that Steve is also allowed to work toward his own sovereignty … or not. When I do things like force unwanted birthday celebrations on him I am not allowing him to be who he is. I am letting my stuff try to run his stuff. And that doesn’t work for either of us.
That’s why he sabotaged my plans–from my point of view–or didn’t do what I wanted him to do–from his point of view. His birthday and how he celebrates it (or not) is his sovereign choice. And I should honor him perhaps by asking him what he wants to do (if anything) and respecting his wishes, even if it’s not what I want. Even if it feels wierd or uncomfortable. On that day especially, he should be king.
Best of ‘09: Restaurant Moment #bestof
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It’s Oct. 4, 2009, 3 pm-ish. Denver is cloudy and gray and just on the verge of bone-chilling, so different from the brilliant blue day before. We’ve wandered to Larimer Square, perused a wine shop, and found a seat inside the very deserted Cru. We slide into the booth side of the table, my left thigh pressing into his right, our hands entwined.
Between kisses, we order flights of red wine: me, the Big Sexy Flight, full of spicy zins and juicy merlots, and Steve the rich, loud all-cab flight. We share a salad with a delicious champagne and shallot dressing, and a five-cheese pizza that is so miraculous we can’t contain the murmurs of delight as we stuff it into our mouths. I can feel his heartbeat under my lips as I kiss his neck between bites. He smells as delicious as the food. We consider ordering a second pizza but instead order dessert. Finally, the chocolate fondue arrives. It’s just enough, not too much, with berries and pineapple and a tiny flickering flame to keep the chocolate smooth. I scrape it from the sides of the dark pot with my finger, offer it to him. He takes my finger into his warm mouth and looks into my eyes. The chocolate isn’t the only thing at the table that’s melting. It seems appropriate that this, our first meal as husband and wife, is eaten partially with our hands.
Another couple enters the bar. We do not temper our behavior. Our peripheral vision relays the Broncos game. They score, and the waiter, who is a Buffalo Bills fan, scowls at the TV and offers to take our picture. It comes out blurry. We leave with congratulations from the staff and other patrons hanging in the chilled air, both sated and insatiable, exactly as we hope to remain for the next decades of our life together.
Blogger Extraordinaire Gwen Bell has issued a blogging challenge for each day of December–a “Best of” for 2009. I’m joining in as I have time and as the topics interest me.
Best of ‘09: Word or Phrase: Working out my shit #best09
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Hayman Fire burnline, on a random roadtrip from Deckers to Manitou Springs.
In 2009, I turned 40. It seems remarkable to me, that number. It’s solid, the mile marker smack dab in the middle of my road trip called this life.
The first part of any road trip is filled with moments of my settling in, figuring out the best place for my sunflower seeds, selecting the best CDs or playlist, moving the cooler around until it’s firmly in the middle of the backseat. I usually find myself taking more pit stops in the first half of a long road trip. I look around more. I worry about getting there–wherever ‘there’ is–safely and on time.
The first half of a road trip feels like a dress rehearsal for the second half, the time where you really sink into the seat, elbow on the ledge of your open window, and sing over the wind at the top of your lungs even when the hot guy in the convertible pulls up beside you. Who cares what he thinks anyway. This is your trip, not his.
Someplace in the middle of my roadtrips, I usually stop, stretch my legs, get my bearings, and settle back in. I do a little reorganization, toss the empty soda cans in the garbage, work the knots out of my back. That’s exactly what this year has been like. I’ve been working my shit out, often in public here on this blog.
- I’ve been doing therapy weekly since May, using PSYCH-K techniques to unearth and resolve deep-held beliefs about myself and life. Some of the work as been successful, other parts not so much, but the fact that I’m dedicated to this journey to the point of spending 7% of my monthly income on it tells me this time around–because boy, have I tried this before–I’m ready to resolve and let go.
- I got married, throwing my lifetime fear of abandonment out the window as I said I DO to Steve. I am so committed that I even changed my name, something I didn’t do the first time around.
- I became committed to figuring out the best way to deal with my bipolar disorder–the best way for ME that is.
- I have become much better at quickly coming to understand how I feel and why I feel it. Where it used to take me days or even weeks to get it, now I can usually get to it in one conversation, or one blog.
- I decided that yes, I will write the novel. Nothing’s on paper yet, but the outline’s almost done in my head. And, because I am nuts, I also have started thinking about a second novel, to be written under my pen name, which will be an erotic romance. 2010 will be the year I actually write these books, now that the process doesn’t seem insurmountable. I still have some confidence issues to work out, but those will come by starting the damn things.
- I started taking pictures again. I love taking photos, and while I want to get better, I’m willing to ask questions and look dumb and have a lot of failures along the way. I’m hoping that someday I can make a buck or two on my work, either by taking portraits or selling calendars (ha!). But for now, I love that I have a hobby I can play in minus the need to be the World’s Greatest.
- I have written more this year than ever before, thanks to this blog. Yes, yes, sometimes I’m funny (by accident) and other times I’m downright depressing, and the Days of Grace project has become tedious for me, and maybe even for the 50 people or so who read this every day. However, I have been writing. And not writing was part of the shit I wanted to work out this year.
- I stopped trying to lose weight. Since I’ve been dieting in one way or another for most of my life, deciding that if my body wants to be a size 12, so be it, took more weight off me than South Beach or Atkins or fasting ever did. Figuratively, of course, because I’m still a size 12. However, this morning, when I looked at my naked body in the mirrors, I was fine with what I saw. This time last year, I looked pretty much the same, and I hated what I saw.
- I started to heal my relationship with my sister, which has been estranged for the most part since she was born.
- I have become a better, more loving mother to my daughter.
- I’ve mastered the double spin in salsa dancing.
- I’ve learned to better speak my mind even when it’s uncomfortable to do so.
- I’m still a slob, although I have had moments of neatness.
If you follow numerology at all, you understand that life comes in cycles. Numerologists say that those cycles are 9 years long. For me, 2009 was a 1 year–a year of rebirth, and of continuing to let go of what I started to let go of in year 9. I’m halfway through it, and I can feel the momentum for my next new adventure building inside and outside of me. I will continue to work on my depression, my perfectionism, my body image and identifying goals and values so that I can launch myself into whatever comes my way with a new vision of who I am and where I’m going on the second half this roadtrip called my life.
Blogger Extraordinaire Gwen Bell has issued a blogging challenge for each day of December–a “Best of” for 2009. I’m joining in as I have time and as the topics interest me.
Rush #best09
Posted by: | CommentsMy biggest rush of 2009: 10.03.09 at 11:30 am
I married him. It was a bigger rush than skydiving. Much bigger. Because when you go skydiving, there’s always that chance that your parachute won’t open. And with him, I know it always will. The biggest rush is knowing that for once and for all, you are safe.
Blogger Extraordinaire Gwen Bell has issued a blogging challenge for each day of December–a “Best of” for 2009. I’ve been meaning to join in, especially on the prompt for Dec. 14. (So I’m 2 days late. Oh well.) I’ll play catch up on a few of the topics I wanted to include.
All in
Posted by: | Comments“You come to this place every year,” he tells me. “You hate your job, the house, everything. You think that if you just had a bigger house, or a different job, or more or different friends, you’d be happy. But you wouldn’t be, because you’d still be here, and it would still be winter, and you’d still be depressed.”
I ask him if that scares him, knowing I have a pattern of behavior–of depression–that I can’t see clearly and don’t realize I’m in.
“Actually, no. It’s comforting, because after four years of it, I know what will happen. Sometimes I don’t know what to say to you, and that’s hard. But I know what will happen.” He pauses. “I thought long and hard about this, before I asked you to marry me. I know that this cycle is not something you can help. It’s part of who you are. I had to decide to accept it, even though it’s really hard to live with you, and I have to bite my tongue and blow off some of your moods. And in the summer, I don’t get on the crazy train with you, but I stand by and watch and make sure you’re OK.”
I cry a little, feeling the weight of my seasonal depression settling around my heart. I hate that I’m this way. I want to fix it. Lord knows I’ve tried to fix it.
“I watch you struggle and search and try everything so you don’t have to go through this anymore,” he says. “I see how somethings almost make it better. Last year, with the Wellbutrin, was pretty good.”
I say, “And then it was horrible. It was the closest I ever came to actually killing myself. I was so close.”
He looks at me, soothes my arm, twines his legs tighter around mine. “I know.”
We sit silently on our green-gray couch. The TV is off, and I can hear the neighbor’s set through the connecting wall. The voices murmur like a rush of water through pipes. I ride along with the sound for a moment, then drag myself back to the conversation. Sometimes, sleep is the only escape from the physical discomfort–even sleeping with my eyes open feels better.
“You just have to use your lightbox, and get to the gym, and take your supplements. You make it through it, you always do, even when you think you can’t. You make it through.”
For the first time in the conversation, I meet his gaze. It is warm, and full of love and support.
“What I need,” I say, tentatively because I don’t like expressing what I need, “is for you to chase me when I push you away. When I’m a bitch, hug me. When I am unresponsive, kiss the back of my neck. I know that’s hard. That’s a lot to ask. But I really need to know you’re there.”
He’s a retreater, my husband, an introvert. A conflict avoider to the nth degree. He has permanent gouges in his tongue from biting it with me, at work, in life. That’s his choice, his nature. I am asking him to be more like me–the me I am from March until October–to engage.
He tells me he’ll do his best. “I just don’t want you to think that I’m going to leave. I am here for you, for good.”
I feel a sense of letting go inside my shoulders, knots of worry I hadn’t identified untying themselves. For as long as I can remember, I have had to hold myself up during this time of year. I wonder what it would feel like to totally let go, to go with the flow of this river called depression instead of fighting it. I have never before had someone sitting on the bank to make sure I don’t drown.
It’s mid-December, and I am all in, up to my jaw in the river. Mornings move in slow motion, I am scatterbrained, I am short-tempered. I don’t care about anything, yet I feel deeply. I have no enthusiasm for Christmas this year. I struggle to engage with the external world. Every little thing that I could blow off six weeks ago feels like a world-ender. I know that, six weeks from now–unless I find some miracle of a supplement or treatment–I will barely be able to function. I will struggle to keep myself afloat. I will contemplate suicide, then think of Lauren and push the thought from my mind. I don’t want to die. I just don’t want to do THIS anymore.
I don’t want to think about six weeks from now. Now is hard enough. And yet, I have this man, my husband, telling me it will be OK, that I will come out of the other side, and I will be there, and he will be there, and he will still love me. I have to remember that, every morning, every evening. That will keep me going.
I’ve forgotten how to play
Posted by: | CommentsWe need to lighten up. It seems that all Steve and I do lately is work, clean the house, and watch TV. Now, I lurve me some big-ass TV (thanks generous wedding guests), but giggling over a crystal-clear image of Family Guy isn’t exactly playing. We might chase the ferrets around, or play Farkle or Yahtzee or Monopoly every once in a while, but other than than, it’s work or veg.
I brought this problem up to Steve last night as we went to bed. He came up with all sorts of ideas, including joining the Eagles Club (Uh, no. ) We could take a class, but what to take? We could find a group at church, but that would mean actually going to church on Sunday mornings, which we’ve never been able to do regularly. He wants to learn to skydive, but to be honest, I’ve done it once and it was fan-fucking-tastic, and I don’t want to do it again. Especially not on a regular basis.
I didn’t have a single idea. Odd, for me–a person who is always full of ideas. And then it hit me: I wasn’t great at playing when I was a kid. No wonder I’m struggling with the idea now.
I have forgotten how to play.
I have gotten so caught up in my own mind games about “success “and “perfection” and “making a difference” that I don’t know how to do anything just for fun. Steve’s the same way: all of his hobbies, except for running, have had something to do with making extra income (flipping cars and real estate) or winning (the old KBCO Cardboard Derby, which he actually did win).
I’ve never been a silly person. I can laugh, and I love to laugh, but on my own I’m rather serious. I’m often the last person to catch on that someone is teasing. This is why I married Steve: He’s funny. He cracks me up. I keep asking him to guest-blog here to lighten this space up too. Aren’t you dying to read his insight on Hero Abilities That Don’t Work (Flatulence Man, for example)? I am.
Back to play: One of the reasons I had such a hard time with Lauren in the baby phase of her life was my inability to play with her. God forgive me, but Barbies and My Little Ponies are BORING. I did play with these types of toys as a kid, but not religiously. The play I remember most involved adventures in imagination:
- Charlie’s Angels with Linda–I was always Bree. We had a huge binder of clothes options clipped out of the Sears and JC Penny catalog, and would start our adventure game by picking out our outfits for the day. Then, we’d make bombs out of gum erasers and sewing pins–the kind with the colored balls on the end. We’d figure out who we were trying to save, then go save them.
- Hide and Seek–maybe not an adventure game per se, but playing with the neighborhood kids on summer nights was scary and thrilling.
But mostly as a kid, I went to dance class and I read books. Reading was my play–immersing myself in a different life and a different location, living vicariously. Steve, on the other hand, grew up mostly on his grandparents’ property in a semi-rural part of Littleton. He spent most of his freetime doing juvenile delinquent activities. (I also lurve me a bad boy turned good.)
I’ve been wracking my brain about what I think is fun. We don’t play sports. Please, don’t torture me with anything that requires any kind of eye-hand coordination. Steve’s not a dancer; we’ve already gone down that route, and dancing is my main form of play. We both like board games, so we’ve thought maybe we could start a board game night or a Wii night.
What we also need is friends. The friends Steve had when I met him have fallen away. I see my best friend Laurel once a month or so (not often enough). It’s SO hard to make friends as grownups, even harder to make couples friends. It would be great if we had neighbors we liked or even spoke to but our neighbors are all weird, mean or nuts. Steve’s tried to make friends at work, but his weird in-between positions have made it tricky, and none of his coworkers are married so that puts the kibbosh on making a couple-friend there.
I don’t mean this to be a whiney post. I’m not whining, seriously. We’re flummoxed.
How do you do this as grown ups? How do you re-learn how to play, and make time for it anyway? How do you make friends?
Growing up, my parents always had good friends, mostly neighbors. In fact, they are still friends to this day with most of them. The adults all had kids in common–kids on the same block, kids on the same sports teams–so they became friends over their kids and somehow, all the time spent together, vacationing together, on the sidelines at football games gelled it.
I want that. I want to play with Steve, with our kids. I’m pretty good at my own versions of play, namely dancing (because if I go back to childhood and look at what brought me the most joy and pleasure, dancing’s it).
We just want to have fun. What do you do?
206-207/365
Posted by: | Comments- Cru’s house salad, five cheese pizza and Sexy Reds flight: the perfect “honeymoon” dinner
- Zombieland–gross, hilarious and worth every penny to see it on the big big screen at Denver’s Continental theater
- Steve got up at 4 am Sunday and drove me home so I could finally fall asleep (in my own bed)
- Our bed
- Our dark, quiet bedroom
- Another day off (because hangovers? last 2 days when you’re 40)
- No regrets
- Being in love with a man who makes me laugh
- Being in love with a man who is my soft place to fall
- All the well-wishes from our friends, IRL and cyber
