A Day in the Life: Stumps

It has been many months since I last posted anything on this blog and as always, the more time goes by without writing, the harder it is to actually get going again.So I used one of WordPress’s daily nudges to get myself started (the first time I’ve used them, but hey. Desperate times call for desperate measures.) The prompt was Stump.

Since I last wrote, I have discarded most of my belongings, packed up the rest, rented my apartment in Montreal, took a leave of absence from my job, seen my oldest graduate, got a fabulous new tattoo, then left my wonderful Montreal community and moved my daughters and myself to Victoria.

Why, you might ask?

Because my road map was torn up. Because who I thought I was turned out to be only who I was in the context of my marriage and my role as caregiver. Because I thought that being a better person meant squelching any of my own needs and desires and always putting those of my family first.

Because not only was my envisioned future ripped away from me, my past and present were also violently re-written. Behind me is a broken path littered with distorted, tainted memories. There is no path in front of me, only darkness. (In the Virginia Woolf sense, not in the Star Wars sense…)

Because I don’t know who I am anymore. The feeling is akin to looking into a cheap old mirror; I have a hazy idea the outline of a person is me, but I can’t make out any details. I have no features anymore.

So I made the hardest decision of my life: to move back home. To let my family take care of me while I work on getting a clearer picture of myself. To take some time off and reflect on what I want and to get a sense (as much as anyone can) on what a well-lived life means to me and make steps towards that life.

This, as you can imagine, is not only a herculean task, one that I’m sure will take me ore than a year, but also, well, a tad disorienting. And as always, I am getting in my own way.

Stump #1: The resident family failure

It is very hard to let other people take care of me. Once again, the incomparable Rebecca Solnit, who I am in real danger of over-quoting, has some words of wisdom on this topic:

“…But asking is difficult for a lot of people. It’s partly because we imagine that gifts put us in the giver’s debt, and debt is supposed to be a bad thing. You see it in the way people sometimes try to reciprocate immediately out of a sense that indebtedness is burden. But there are gifts people year to give and debts that tie us together.” p.121 Faraway nearby

And then Brené Brown on the subject:

“Until we can receive with an open heart, we are never really giving with an open heart. When we attach judgment to receiving help, we knowingly or unknowingly attach judgment to giving help.”p. 20 The Gifts of Imperfection 

This last quote physically hurt when I read it. It begged the question: If I feel so bad being indebted to other people, do I unconsciously feel that the people I help are indebted to me?

Ugh. I hope this is not the case. As an aside, it also makes me wary of how much economic terminology have infiltrated the way we speak about our relationships. Give and take. Investing time in someone. I am indebted to you. Like human relationships can be boiled down to simple transactions and that everything and everyone has a price. That we always get back what we put in plus profit. Thinking like this is its own kind of harm and sets us up for always being disappointed and hurt. It is also an ugly way of looking at love and connection. Whereas these are beautiful, organic evolutions, the metaphors  we use to describe them are ugly, fabricated and finite. And because we use them to explain these processes, these process inevitably become diseased with all the ugliness of expectations and notion of scarcity inherent in any economic metaphor.

But I digress.

Still. I can’t get over the stigma of it: from being employed full-time, paying my own bills, financially supporting my family to living in the garden shed in my mother’s backyard. (I like to say that I am now pursuing a career as a garden gnome.)

I feel like the family failure, the loser whose life is a complete shambles (actually, I am the loser whose life is a complete shambles. Let’s not mince our words here, Lina). This means that I distract myself from the difficult quest for clarity with feelings of shame and unimportant tasks. Instead of taking the time for myself, I find every opportunity to keep busy. I clean my mother’s cupboards. I take on menial, under-paying jobs that are not serving me and which take time from what I really want to do but for some reason won’t let myself.

Stump #2: Time

Time feels like a vast desert that I have to cross everyday, instead of the insane 150 km/hour hurdling down the autobahn my life has been for the last 17 years.

The kids started school last Tuesday. On the same day my mother left for two months to walk the Santiago de Compostela pilgrimage. ( I know, right? How awesome is she?) I found myself for the first time in twelve years with hours ahead of me without having to factor in other people, where I have not been gone before the kids and where I am home when they get home.

Whereas time was my largest scarcity, I am now simultaneously drowning in it and also wondering how it goes so fast. I can’t concentrate. I feel like I have so many little things to do I forget to do the one thing that I am here to do which is to take that time and make it into space where I can think and feel and discover what I want.

Stump #3: Just say it already. God.

Except I do know what I want. It has been what I always secretly wanted and have never let myself say out loud. And yet it is so impractical, unfeasible, so…hubristic to think that I could spend my days doing this thing that doesn’t have any discernible benefit for those around me. It won’t save the whales or end poverty or fix climate change. It won’t make me any money or feed my family. It is outrageous and selfish and wholly out of the realm of possibility…

And there it is: the large stump of fear and excuses in my way. I have tried going around it, but it’s diameter spans all of my horizon. It is a wall that I keep banging my head against and I’m starting to feel concussed. It is the one thing I want to do and also the one thing I am terrified of admitting that I want to do.

I want to write. (Ugh. Did anyone else feel that large jolt, like the world just ground to halt? No? Huh. I guess it’s just me…) At least, I want to give writing more space than the dusty, neglected corners of time where I used to write.

Admitting this is very very scary. I’ve said it before, but I have always said it when I have had full-time employment and a roster of excuses not to do it. But since I (so foolishly) stripped those excuses away, I can no longer avoid this last gargantuan stump: Myself.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t want gainful, meaningful employment; I do. (Anybody looking for a writer/librarian perchance? I can write! I can organize! I can write in an organized manner!) I like working with people and getting out of myself. I also like being able to feed my children and have money for boots and wine (or, ok, fine, the phone bill).

But I think I know in part what the answer to what a life well-lived life means to me: putting words on paper, fashioning this chaos of thoughts and emotions jungling in my brain into some sort of coherence and meaning.

I am most myself when I am writing, when I allow myself with all my flaws and imperfections and bad grammatical habits to dribble on the page (sometimes the dribble is as innocuous as drool, but lately it’s been pretty bloody, I won’t lie).

So why do I deny myself this?

I honestly don’t know. But this blog post is the first stick of dynamite I am placing at the base of the stump. Soon I hope to have enough words and practice to blow it up for good.

Wish me luck.

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Making Friends with the Anvil: On Bearing Witness

I went to see Monumental by Holy Body Tattoo and Godspeed, You Black Emperor a couple of weeks ago. It was unbearable. Unbearable in the way Art with a capital A should be: a gut-wrenching reminder of the joy and suffering, the struggle and the weariness, the futile resistance and the final giving up, the longing to connect and the disconnect that comes from such desperate longing. In short: it exposes you to the viscera of the human condition.

The dancers begin on pedestals – they are dressed like drab workers out of some 1984-esque Dystopian fiction or communist-era propaganda film. They remind me a lot of the 1930s era art deco friezes of workers I saw in Nashville, Tennessee. The dancers configuration have that stolid, utilitarian, “I will endure” look.

But then Godspeed begins to play behind a scrim in the background. The haunting notes are slow at first, dirge-like. The dancers are still for the most part, with the occasional flinch. The pace quickens, the tension mounts. The dancers respond in kind – their movements are quick and jerky, engaging in neurotic acts like smoothing their hair or picking at lint until the full force of the Godspeed sound storm hits and the dancers fully give themselves to that state of anxiety and tension that has come to define our modern era, that feeling that something is not right but if we keep on moving maybe no one will notice.

Here is a trailer for the show:

I won’t lie. This performance broke my heart a little. Probably because, I suspect like all the members in the audience, we all recognized ourselves in the frantic desperation of the dancers. And, yes, I will admit, the sheer human-ness of struggling against the things you cannot change, of trying to find a way in, to connect to people and feeling like you are always failing, was a little too close to home. Like all good Art, it mirrors your own struggles then hands your heart back to you on a bloody platter.

Being an audience member has always struck me as simultaneously privileged and disturbing. On the one hand, nothing is expected of you. You can sit in the dark and simply watch what is unfolding on stage. Nothing else is required of you but to bear witness.

I have this moment when the lights go out and the theater is in complete darkness and hundreds of people have managed to remain silent with the exception of some shuffling and coughing (if you think about it, it’s kind of miraculous), where I feel something similar to when you are almost asleep and all of a sudden you feel like you’re falling, that feeling that in some sense you have ceased to exist, that you have now entered someone else’s narrative. The feeling lasts only a moment, but then I feel the liberation of not having to be my own narrative for a while, to be able to exist in the dark with nothing to do but watch.

As I watched the dancers tear their hair out and do impossible marathon feats with their bodies in order to create this heart-breaking assault on my eyes and ears, I thought how it is also one of the hardest thing to do, to sit and witness someone else’s expression of pain and suffering.

But that is what good art is: a constant bearing witness. Whether you are listening to a piece of music, watching a show like Monumental, standing in front of a painting or reading a poem. It does not exist without the audience to bear witness; it is the unknown factor that every artist has to contend with, the individual watching, processing, experiencing their work.

I have been thinking of the notion of bearing witness since last summer, when my two-year old niece was hospitalized for Meckel’s diverticulum. After a whole day in emergency where my sister had to endure watching her child be poked with needles, refused food and water because of the tests she might need to take and completely scared out of her mind, the doctors still hadn’t diagnosed it. My sister and her partner also had a young baby at the time and after 8 hours of the stress of advocating for their daughter, nursing the baby and trying to calm their child down, all while silently freaking out about their daughter’s condition, they finally phoned for relief.

I am the oldest out of three sisters. The sister above is the youngest. I am very, very close to both my sisters, to the point where for most of my life I felt extremely mother bear about them. We have that kind of sister bond where the other can feel when something is not right, even if we are on the other side of the country from each other. When they cry, I cry. What they feel, I feel. Mostly, I want to do anything I can to take away their pain, because it is my pain too.

But as I plastered myself against the wall of the tiny room in that emergency ward, trying my hardest to get out of the way of the nurses fruitlessly searching for a vein in a struggling two-year old’s arm, as I watched my sister remain so calm with her daughter, all the while deeply feeling her panic and fear, the full force of there being absolutely nothing I could do to fix this hit me.

This was not my story. But just as there was nothing to be done, I also felt the importance of my presence in that room. It was vital that I be there to witness the events, to absorb the terror, the panic, the vulnerability — to bear witness so that when the crisis is over, a dialogue is possible, a conversation where all the hurt and pain and chaos can be processed, made sense of.

I think these events in our life, the real big ones, the ones that sucker punch us in the face and knock the wind out of us, are a bit like Einstein’s moon, or that song about the tree in the forest. If nobody else sees it happening, we start to doubt their existence. I have mentioned before how our sense of self is shaped by other’s reflections of us. I think it might be the case with reality itself — things become real only when several pairs of eyes have looked upon it, when several brains have analyzed it and several hearts have felt the weight of it.

That doesn’t mean I know exactly what my sister went through. I don’t. But I had the privilege in that moment to have been able to put my own story aside and fully be present for hers. I honored my sister’s suffering by bearing witness to it. In the future, she will always know that on some level, I was present at that moment. I felt a little bit of what she felt. She will always be able to talk to me about it, as this kind of trauma has the tendency to rear its ugly head when we least expect it, and the first thing we want is to talk to someone who was there, who knows at least where the trauma is coming from.

It is a little thing, but also the biggest thing in the world.

We bear witness to the collective suffering through Art. We bear witness to our loved ones crisis moment by simply being present, by putting our own story aside when theirs takes precedence. But what about our own suffering?

Heartbreak was an anvil that fell from the sky and cratered my chest. I could not surgically remove it with a few caustic words and an upright middle finger (and oh, how I tried). I couldn’t make a detour around it by keeping ridiculously busy (and oh, how I also tried that).

The anvil was sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breathe. There was no ignoring it.

The only thing to do was face it.

At first I raged at the very presence of the anvil, tried to punch it away. How dare it lay on my chest? I didn’t do anything? What did I do? Why is it here? Go away, go away go away!

Yeah. Not so effective.

I had to let go of the idea that I could move it through the sheer force of my will. That perhaps the goal wasn’t to move it, but to make friends with it, to stop and listen to it, to give it room:

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery and joy.”Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart

The anvil is not gone. But it is less threatening, less ready to crush me under its weight. By simply accepting that it is there on my chest, by letting myself feel all the weight of its sorrow, by giving it room to exist and paying attention to it, its edges are getting less sharp, its surface is beginning to erode with gentle stroking. Heartbreak and rejection has taught me that just as it is important to bear witness to the pain of other’s, it is just as essential to bear witness to my own.

It might be too soon to say, but I think, maybe, my anvil and I are becoming friends. Here’s to hoping there’s enough room in my chest for the both of us…








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I am an Adult but I’m Not a Grown Up

I am an adult. I have kids, a job. I pay bills and do laundry and sign permission forms. If the hot water heater is broken, I have to call the plumber, buy a new one. If there are mice in the house (and ugh, there are indeed mice in my house) I have to figure out where they are coming from and kill the bastards. If a kid breaks her finger, I am the one that has to take her to the hospital for X-rays.

But there are also advantages: I can sit for hours in a restaurant finishing bottles of wine with my friends. I can choose to buy that crap rotisserie chicken at the grocery store instead of actually making dinner. I can spend my hard-earned money on whatever I please (ok. That’s not exactly true. I can spend it on whatever I please if there is anything left after food and bills and kids’ expenses. But still. It’s my money).

In short, I make my own decisions. Am responsible for my own actions. I have kept two other people alive for 17 years now. I am an adult.

But in my head, I still feel like a teenager. I look at all those indisputable facts that I have just written down and feel, well, bewildered. Who thought it was a good idea to allow me to have kids? How can anyone think I am responsible enough for all this crap?  How did people get fooled into thinking that I know what I am doing? That I know who I am?

Mostly, I feel like an imposter in the world of adulthood.

It is not growing up that is the myth so much as the idea that it happens and then stops; that there is a point in your life where you stop growing up, stop maturing, where you can actually say, “Ok. I am here now. I have arrived. I am now a Grown Up.”

There are certain times in our life where we seem to do more growing than others. The coming of age ceremony for teenagers, is a nice example. The idea that they are shedding the old skin of childhood and beginning to grow a new skin of adulthood is a meaningful rite of passage. Another shedding of an old self for a new one happens when you have children.

I remember when my kids were very young, I went through one of these moments. At the time, it felt like depression. I was at home with two small people who needed me more than anybody has ever needed me. I did not see many adults. I did not have time for the things that have always brought me solace- reading, writing, thinking about the world. I had to accept that it was not all about me anymore, that my wishes were secondary to these small people who I loved with all my heart but demanded so much of my body and soul.

The shedding of the person I was before children was hard and painful. It required me to acknowledge that my actions mattered, that they now affected other people, not only myself. The growing of the new skin of motherhood is complicated and nuanced and did not come easy. I balked at their incessant needs. By the end of the day, I could not stand having anyone else touch me. Mostly I wanted to retreat into my old skin where I was alone and what I did had no repercussions.

That’s the thing about skin shedding- once shed, you can’t crawl back in. So I learned what it was to matter. I learned how to accept that it was not all about my needs. I learned that I was the one running the ship and if it foundered, it was my fault. Constant vigilance was needed. A steady hand on the tiller. Instead of getting angry about it, instead of feeling sorry for myself and letting myself feel overwhelmed (which there was a lot of, trust me), I accepted it. I changed what I could, tore off my old skin and embraced the new one.

But that is only one shedding in a lifetime of sheddings. And sometimes old skin lingers underneath the new, causing huge metaphysical lumps in our psyche. These lumps get bigger and bigger until we can’t ignore them anymore. The only thing for it is to slice through all the layers, find the lump and laser it away with our attention.

Yes. I was responsible for these two people. But underneath the old skin my old default pattern of thinking, the old feeling of not being worthy began lumping up underneath my new skin. The old pattern of thinking made me value everyone’s needs higher than my own until they were so buried, I couldn’t even tell you what they are anymore.

Growing up is an ebb and flow. We accumulate behaviours and patterns necessary for the moment; in short, we do what we have to do to get through. Then all of a sudden, the reasons behind those patterns are gone. Our children no longer need us in the same way. We ourselves have grown and do not need to cling to the familiar survival guide we’ve written for ourselves. We are left with a set of tools that were painstakingly collected but now useless.

Then comes the painful process of turning ourselves out of our own skin. We are simultaneously caterpillar and butterfly, a constant tension between clinging solid and heavy to a branch and sloughing off the cocoon and flying away.

While writing this, I had two very different quotes in mind. The first, because I come from good Catholic stock, is from Corinthians 13. I was originally thinking of the, “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.” But when I looked it up found that the whole paragraph was may more relevant than I could have imagined:

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, 10 but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. 11 When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. 12 For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

(taken from New International Version)

“For we know in part and we prophecy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.” From my middle-aged vantage point of a failed marriage, two almost grown kids, and the loss of another father, I look back at my young self and can’t help but grieve for her.

I tried my best to encapsulate what it was to be a grown up- I took responsibility. I got things done. I cared for those around me. I approached my life as a series of shoulds. But I forgot – no – I am pretty sure I never knew – that growing up is not only about duty and responsibility, but about knowing yourself. I was too busy running around trying to make other people happy, to make sure my family had what they needed to give myself a second glance. This is in part my personality (I want to fix things when they are broken even if they can’t, shouldn’t or it isn’t up to me to fix) , but it is in part a societal, gender thing, where women are taught that they are the emotional centers of their family, and if someone is unhappy, it must mean that we obviously fucked up.

I knew in part. Now I know a little more. I know that the business of making other people happy will make you bankrupt; it can’t be done. I know that my frenzy of activity was not efficient or productive but a way of running away from the voice inside my head that told me if I stopped, someone might see me and they will probably not like what they see, the voice that only got louder the more I ignored it.

This brings me to my second quote, this one from Pema Chödrön, a Buddhist nun, in her book aptly entitled, When Thing Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times:

“That’s the beginning of growing up. As long as we don’t want to be honest and kind with ourselves, then we are always going to be infants. When we begin just to try to accept ourselves, the ancient burden of self-importance lightens up considerably. Finally there’s room for genuine inquisitive-ness, and we find we have an appetite for what’s out there.”

I no longer want to go about this business of living seeing “only [my] reflection as in a mirror.” I want to see “face to face”, I want to “know fully, even as I am fully known.”

Time to confront the voices with honesty and kindness. To dig away at the cocoon made of old patterns and behaviours, accept them for the self-preservation technique they were and then let go of the branch and fly away. In short, it is time to practice some growing up.

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A Hellish Year, Part 4: On Unsustainable Patterns

For many years I had a post-it note above my desk with the words TRY HARDER on it. The letters were in all caps, scratched angrily into its small yellow square.


If I didn’t find the time to write during the day: TRY HARDER.

If I felt too tired to make a balanced, delicious meal, or clean the bathroom, or play with the kids instead of propping them in front of the TV for an hour: TRY HARDER.

I feel exhausted just writing about it.

My need to TRY HARDER comes out of a very complicated place. It definitely has its roots in my low self-worth that I spoke about in one of the very first Hellish Year  posts: the idea that I am not enough, that I am unlovable. But not in the way one might think.

Because, and as hard as it is to admit to myself at this juncture, J made me feel loved. And in our early years he asked me this question:  if I thought so low of myself, what must I think of him for being with me? What did that make him, who chose to be with someone who sucked so badly?

I heard and felt that question the way you simultaneously hear and feel an earthquake: it was a sonic boom that shifted everything inside me.

I was loved. Somebody loved me. I could no longer believe that my actions did not matter. Somebody else would be affected by what I chose to do.

Now, it is not that I thought I did not deserve to be loved – everybody deserves to be loved. It is just that before this moment, I never really believed anyone outside my family did.

But now there was this man who loved me enough to get angry with me when I spiraled into one of my shame rants.

There was no way I was going to take that for granted. I would do everything I could to be worthy of that love.

And thus, the TRY HARDER  mantra.

In a way, I am grateful for my low self-worth. I am grateful that I do not take the people around me for granted (at least I don’t think I do. I really, really hope I don’t.) That I realize that being loved is a miraculous thing, something to cherish and treat well, that requires maintenance and care. I am proud of that. Though it might have come from a dubious place, not taking people for granted is a practice I intend to continue.

The problem, though, is that I did not love myself (I know. I apologize for any inadvertent Jack Handy moments). No, that is too simplistic. It is not that I didn’t love myself (honestly, to this day I am not sure what that even means. How do you love or not love yourself? How can one separate oneself from oneself to project these emotions as if we were separate from ourselves? It confuses me, I won’t lie.) And I never hated myself, or at least I don’t think I did. I just wanted to be Me but Better.

I thought I could make myself a better person by beating myself up, by forcing myself to try harder, do more, be thinner and more attractive (I will tackle that can of worms in a later post when I work up the courage) like I was both drill sergeant and recruit in a  BE A BETTER PERSON boot camp.

Thus the cycle of making unrealistic expectations for myself, failing to meet them, beating myself up about it, making more unrealistic expectations and so on and so on. In short, an unsustainable pattern.

This came clear to me in the months that followed J’s announcement. The first self-help books I gravitated towards were about women and sexuality (because obviously, if a man wasn’t interested in me anymore it must because I was somehow physically lacking, right? I know. I take solace from the knowledge that this is in part an internalized gendered response to the situation).

Anyways. Ironically, the most helpful thing I learned was not about sex at all. It came from a great book (which I think every woman should read) called Come as You Are by Emily Nagoski. She is talking about the need to replace self-criticism with self-kindness and women’s response to this:

“…When women start to think concretely about it, they begin to discover a sense that they need their self-criticism in order to stay motivated. We believe it does us good to torture ourselves, at least a little bit.

As in: “If I stop beating myself up for the ways I’m not perfect, that’s like admitting to the world –and to myself — that I’ll never be perfect, that I’m permanently inadequate! I need my self-criticism in order to maintain hope and to motivate myself to get better.”

When we tell ourselves, ” I can’t stop criticizing myself or else I will fail forever!” that’s like saying, “I can’t stop running/fighting/playing dead, or the lion will eat me!” [this is speaking about the stress cycle]. That’s absolutely what our culture has taught us, so it makes sense that many of us believe it. Its so entrenched in our culture that it sounds…sane. Rational, even.

But it’s not.

Think about it: What would really happen if you stopped running from yourself or beating yourself up? What would happen if you put down the whip you’ve been flogging yourself with for decades?

When you stop beating yourself up — when you stop reinjuring yourself –what happens is…you start to heal.

I read this and bam! Another sonic boom in my head. Because I have actually said those exact words out loud to people: if I am not hard on myself, how will I get better? Nagoski also asks the reader if they would say what they say to themselves to their daughter or best friend.

I read that and thought about all the things I tell myself. And then I imagined telling them to my daughters.


And also, ouch.

So. This is what I am working on: self-compassion. It has been sorely lacking through out my life and now I need to make up for it. This does not mean that I won’t continue to try and be a better person. I hope I always will (or else where is the meaning in this crazy journey?) The difference will be that I will stop the self-flagellation, the psychological hair shirts. I will practice treating myself the way I treat (at least I think I do) those I love: with kindness, respect and compassion.









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A Hellish Year, Part 3: On the Stories We Tell Ourselves

I met a man once who left his wife a few years before I knew him. Now despite being just as broken by his actions as I suspect his poor wife was, he was still searching for answers for why he did what he did. But instead of simply accepting that he made a mistake, that he acted badly and had to deal with the aspects of his character that led him to that moment, he fabricated a biblical fairytale about his wife and the woman he left her for to justify his actions.

Now this man was brought up Catholic and his story reflected that. He cast his ex-wife as the saintly, virgin mother who everyone loved but was sexless. She had no need for him. There was no room for him in her life. She was a nun, he told himself. Because he made up his mind that she was untouchable, a lovely, frigid statue of a woman, this justified his turning to his Mary Magdalene/Eve: the younger woman who epitomized the forbidden, who was smart, sexy and showed him things he had never dreamed of.

His was a story of a weak man caught between these two mighty archetypes, neglected by the superior soul of the virgin, tempted by the lascivious apple of the other. What’s a man to do?

When he was telling me this story (which he did repeatedly), I kept wondering what his wife’s perspective was. Did she feel like a nun? Would she have agreed with his characterization of her? Did she feel asexual or was it perhaps the toll of taking care of young children and an ungrateful husband that made her seem cold? And what about his Eve? Did she see herself in such a tainted light?

I highly doubt it. I would bet money on the fact that these women would not recognize themselves in his narrative, or if they did, that they were grossly misrepresented, taken out of context. This was the story he told himself to make himself feel better. I am pretty sure it did not resemble their version at all.

Now this is nowhere near J and my story. I don’t think anyone would ever mistake me as saintly. Except for that one time when I was 16 on the bus in Rome when a guy got up in my grill yelling Santa Maria! Santa Maria!, but I suspect that was to distract me from the fact that his friend was picking my pocket at the moment. It didn’t work. They didn’t get my money the bastards.

But it is indicative of how easy it is to weave a tale to rationalize our behaviour and then get stuck in the quagmire of our own narrative.

I want to make this very clear (if it isn’t already): these last few blog posts have been my story and my story alone. I have been trying to write as honestly as I can about the kinds of issues J’s rejection has churned up, the stuff that has laid buried in me for a long time but needs to be dealt with now or I will drown in this sad, closed down version of myself. The narratives that I have been telling myself for so long that I thought were keeping me afloat but are in fact quicksand.

As you can imagine, my story is very different from his story. I am trying very hard to stick to my own feelings without going the endless route of speculation and hypothesis of why he did what he did (and believe, I have spent countless hours in this fruitless endeavour and have come up with has many theories as Scheherazade came up with stories).

The wonderful Rebecca Solnit (my favourite writer these days, but more on that later) said this about the end of love in her very personal essay entitled, “Two Arrowheads” in the book A Field Guide to Getting Lost:

“A happy love is a single story, a disintegrating one is two or more competing, conflicting versions, and a disintegrated one lies at your feet like a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting a different story, that is wonderful, terrible, if only this had, if only this hadn’t. The stories don’t fit back together, and it’s the end of stories, those devices we carry like shells and shields and blinkers and occasionally maps and compasses. The people close to you become mirrors and journals in which you record your history, the instruments that help you know yourself and remember yourself, and you do the same for them. When they vanish so does the use, the appreciation, the understanding of those small anecdotes, catchphrases, jokes: they become a book slammed shut or burnt.”

My story is one of lack of agency. One where I did not have a voice or a say in the disintegration of our marriage. It took me completely by surprise. I woke up one morning and discovered our marriage lying on the ground in shards with no idea how it got there.

That is not to say that I had nothing to do with it, that our marriage was perfect. Nothing and nobody is perfect. I have my own patterns of behaviour that are less than stellar and that I am trying (partly through writing about them) to change. But, and again, this is the part where I am stuck because it differs so greatly from his version: none of it seemed big enough to justify ending the marriage.

As far as I can understand my own story, of where I possibly went wrong (and I so desperately long to have been told what it was that I was doing wrong so I could have done something about it) was behaviour fueled by my need to make everyone happy, my reliance on routine and the fall out from being overwhelmed and tired, which did not leave much room for anything else and which made me probably react in desperate, harsh ways. But that is the problem. I was never told. And now it is too late because I can’t do anything about it. I feel trapped and muzzled, and well, fired without just cause.

My talking about these issues in such a public forum is an attempt to regain my voice. It is a tightrope act between being as honest and truthful as I can about my own feelings and my own destructive patterns and respecting that I have no right to try to portray his side of the story.

This is very hard. Actually this is one of the hardest parts – accepting that the other’s story doesn’t match yours. And when I say accepting, I don’t mean sacrificing one version for the other, but simply accepting that the other person has a different perspective. J feels that this was necessary. I do not. That is the big point where we diverge and which is the most painful thing to accept.

Many of the things he says clang dissonantly in my head (not in a good, Schoenberg kind of way but mostly in a six-car pile up on the freeway kind of way). I am constantly restraining myself from trying to talk to him about it, to hash it out until we can come up with the same version. Because this fork in our stories feels like violence. It feels like a re-writing of our history, like a messing with my memories and my sanity. His version feels like a violation of everything I thought I knew about my life.

It feels like stepping on shards of broken glass.

I am sure my version of events feels the same to him.

So I am trying my best to accept that I will never know what really happened. I have to accept that I probably played a part in the disintegration but I will never be allowed to know what that was. I have to accept that though I thought our marriage was solid, full of love and ultimately worth fighting for, he did not.

I know this was not an easy decision for him and that he is just as traumatized by this last year as I am. I know that. I don’t mean to portray any of this lightly. And I certainly do not mean to revile him, or cast him as the evil villain. It is complicated and hard to understand for the both us, I think. I don’t wish him ill and the thought that he might be suffering does not make me feel happy or vindicated, but very, very sad.

But that is his story. He is the only one that can tell it and hopefully come to terms with it.

All I can do is focus on deconstructing my own thoughts and feelings so that I can hopefully move through the next half of my life with more freedom, wisdom and compassion.

In short, I hope to move forward as a lighter version of myself, one who is a lot less full of shit. Because shit is heavy and I don’t want to carry it anymore.







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A Hellish Year, Part 2: On Reflections and Not Existing

The most castrating thing  J said to me this last year was, “Lina, you’re a wonderful woman.”

Oh, there were things, small cruelties that might on the surface seem worse, especially as most of them were untrue. But the, “Lina , you’re a wonderful woman” comment stung the most. Why, you may ask? That seems like a nice compliment, right?

Yeah, no. The hardest part of this year has been confronting my reflection in J’s eyes, facing the person he thinks I am.

He has poured a mould over me, a mould made out of all his hurt and shame and frustration with the unavoidable domesticity that comes from having children, a mould of his own feelings of fear and inadequacy (at least that is my story, but more on stories in another post) and shaped me into this one thing, this 2-dimensional character that is hardened into certain characteristics that, when not viewed with the lens of love and compassion, are completely unlovable.

What I see reflected in his eyes is a person that makes lists and plans and needs to know everything in advance. A person that has to go to bed early because of her routine, who has to make sure everything runs by clockwork. The mother of his children , the executive assistant, the person who gets things done.

The trouble is, all that has a modicum of truth to it. I am that person. Partly I am that person in reaction to him. Someone needed to get stuff done in our marriage and I happen to be highly organized and efficient (I am starting to come to terms with this, on a personal and professional level. I am a competent person. There. I said it. So sue me.) The organization, the running of the household, the making sure everyone is taken care of, that fell to me (still does, actually). In order to do that and still pay at least a little bit of attention to my own needs meant that I had to set up a pretty strict regime for myself which I have catalogued in numerous posts on this blog.

In short, a “wonderful woman.” Not a woman you want to hang out with. Not a woman you want to undress and have in your bed. Not a woman you want to wake up next to, make coffee and share the newspaper with. No. A wonderful woman is someone you don’t see, someone in the background who makes your life run efficiently but is carefully blank, in business suit grey. A wonderful woman is neutered of all complexity, creativity and desirability.

But that is not all I am.  Like most people I am a flurry of contrasting characteristics, of a tension between wanting safety and wanting to blow it all up, between wanting to feel solid and not solid at the same time. I am a woman who wants to feel desired and feel desirable and at the same time afraid of that part of me. I am a writer who just wants to have the time to write better. I am an introvert who is coming to terms with some extremely extroverted tendencies. A social person with an old habit of shyness.

I want to be free of anything that makes me just one thing – I want to have a routine and explode it all at the same time (because really, that is what routines are for, don’t you think? sort of like a base station that we can come back to when we wander off, something to ground us when we need grounding, but that we can easily break free from). But mostly, I want to be enough, to be loved for, and not in spite of, my flaws. I want to be seen for all of these contradictions  and above all accepted for who I am and not taken for granted.

The wonderful woman comment concretized me into this hardened, warped version  of myself and all my personhood. All those things that make me a complex human being became like the lost wax in the casting: destroyed in the process. Now, when I look into J’s eyes, it is like being confronted with the medusa head: staring back at me is a distorted, stone likeness of myself.

I understand why he needs to do this, why he needs to cast me into this one thing who is not worthy of love anymore, but simply an automaton, an administrative assistant, a closed, boring individual.

It is easier to rationalize hurting a statue of a person than an actual one.

I get that.

But it is the single most hurtful thing in a whole litany of very hurtful things. Love dies when you stop seeing people for the blurry messes they are, when you start building bricks around them and seeing them only as one thing.

I found out after J’s announcement that he had so distanced me and the girls from his life that a lot of the people he worked with didn’t even know he was married and had children. He had relegated me so fully, so completely to the domestic, that despite our life built around his art, around talking about and thinking about art, I was no longer worthy of being a part of it.

I am still reeling from this. Because despite being the one always keeping the home fires burning, despite the struggle I’ve had to keep my own creative juices alive in the face of the everyday drudgery of work and home, I thought I was still apart of that creative life I so valued. I thought it was something that we shared together.

This has been the catalyst for a true existential crisis. It has made me feel like I literally might not exist. And I mean this on a molecular level, like I am simply a collection of a molecules with delusions of grandeur at being a human being.

Which is kind of funny actually. I realize that I have spent a lot of my life with the dualistic quest of trying to be invisible yet still longing for someone to see me. This last year has brought both of these desires in sharp light. I am afraid of being seen yet now that I am confronting true invisibility, it is way worse.

A lot of who we are is created by how the people around us see us. I know this is not a popular thing to say, that I should espouse a sense of self that is completely inner-made, but I don’t think that’s true and it is harmful to try to convince ourselves that it is.

If our loved ones stop seeing us, or if they see us as only one thing, it is hard to maintain a sense of self that is something different from the one reflected back at us. We then take on this mono-identity and are in danger of thinking of ourselves as only this one rigid thing.

The result: a soundproof box that we walk into willingly but which is then locked from the outside. No matter how much we bang on the door, how much we scream and cry to be let out, the person on the other side won’t hear because from their point of view we are just a box with nothing in it, just empty space.

I have still not found a way out of this situation except for staying as far away from J as possible. Every time I see him I am transported to this box he has put me in and I can’t get out. The urge to bang on the door, to try and get him to see me is so strong that I end up screaming and crying and banging on the confines of my box, shouting at him to see me! see me! Remember the person that you loved! I am here! Just turn around and see me!

It doesn’t work. He has made up his mind. I am an empty box. All I get for my trouble is bruised knuckles and a hoarse voice and an all-consuming feeling that I in fact do not exist.

But I do exist, at least I think I do. [insert the requisite I think therefore I am joke. Or  Pun? Cliché? Philosophical statement? Oh, whatever] And the only thing I can do is leave. Stop banging on the window with the view of his back to me and make myself another exit (I imagine a Shawshank-like escape from my box: a small knife, a poster of Rita Hayworth and plaster dust in the cuffs of my pants).

I am walking away armed with a broom and a dustpan to sweep all of my molecules back into a pile and try to fashion them back into something resembling a human being. Hopefully this new version will come with a concretization-resistant formula that will let me move through the world as the fluid catastrophe I aspire to be.







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A Hellish Year, Part 1: Shame

This year has been the year of the violent metaphor. When J first announced to me that he “wasn’t sure he wanted to be married anymore” (yes, that is the way he put it), it was a bomb exploding on my lap. No. He was the bomb and I was caught in his blast radius.

I have been Dorothy’s little farmhouse getting thrown around in a spinning, violent vortex as he hemmed and hawed, became more distant, where “I need more space” became “I hate the word hope”. Where my world was spinning out of control so fast there was no anchor, nothing to ground me from spinning away myself.

The knives in the back. The shrapnel to the heart as more bombs exploded.

The anvil on the chest. The drowning in hurt and grief and anger.

Then came the final blow, the definitive “I don’t want to be married anymore” and I became a used kleenex: thrown away and completely forgotten.

All of these metaphors describe this experience as something done to me, that it was a violence that I could not control, that I did not ask for, that it was a storm buffeting me around.

Yet in my head there was a sharp counterpoint to these metaphors, a voice I thought I had left behind a long time ago, that told me that I was the cause, that all of this was not happening to me, but caused by me.

You are unloved the voice said. At first it began as a bewildered whisper. You are unloved. Huh. But it is J. I know he loves me.We love each other. That is the one constant in my life.

No.  You are unloved. Get that through your thick head.

And then it gained momentum. As I struggled to not fall apart at work. You are unloved. As I tried to keep it together for my children. You are unloved. I would go for long walks and runs to get away from it. You are unloved. But it only got stronger, became a chant, a mantra, a rhythm to which I began to keep pace, began to move through my day. You are unloved you are unloved you are unloved. 

And then it began to elaborate. This is your fault. There is a piece missing in you that makes you unlovable. You have been found out. You can try and try and try but it won’t matter in the end because you are defective you are unworthy you do not deserve love. You are unloved and will always be unloved because you are not a complete human being.

The trouble is, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t figure out what I did wrong. My marriage was something I was proud of, that I diligently worked at. I actually thought (stupid me) that it was the one thing I did right. I believed we could get through anything as long as we had each other.

Because I was so desperate to figure out how I was to blame (because if I had done something wrong then I could fix it, right?) I think I scoured the darkest, dustiest corner of my subconscious and unearthed my greatest fear: that if anybody ever got close to me, they would find out who I really am and realize I was not worth the trouble.

Ouch. That was hard to write.

And also, according to Brené Brown, the very definition of shame.

As an aside, the only book that I have ever come across that reflected so accurately this feeling was Prep by Curtis Sittenfeld.I just re-read my blog post about it and realized that that voice has always been there, ready to rear its ugly head.

To continue the violent metaphors, I feel like I have been flayed alive. Like angry Willow has turned her black eyeballs to me and blasted all my skin off. All the little maggoty ideas and thoughts about who I am are now exposed to the light and they are wriggling uncomfortably in the glare. I am hoping that instead of trying to bury them again, if I concentrate my magnifying glass on their pallid, soft bodies, if I observe them long enough, they will burst into flame from the pressure.








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