And lo and behold! I have taken the first step. Seeing myself through the glass less darkly here, I have had the courage to break it off completely with KD, whose company did not not nourish me. I realized that I was falling in love with him and that he could not reciprocate. I explained to him that it was too painful for me to be "friends" just now. He pretended not to understand. He just kept smiling away at me, like the giant leprechaun that he is, and practically sauntered, whistling, down the street. "Goodbye, not my friend," he called out, his back to me. I collapsed into my car and sobbed. Then I called my therapist. I had to leave a message. I needed back up badly, a shot in the arm. Something. I called L, who knows K. She was wonderful. Without trashing him, she managed to sympathize and affirm me. I made the right decision.
She knows how he is, how he uses people up without really intending to; how he manipulates, out of tremendous need and desperation. How he leaves one feeling exhausted, emptied out. One pours so much into him--because he is open and charismatic one wants to reach out to him---but nothing comes back. He doesn't seem to give out, only to take in. It's very strange.
Thank goodness for true friends. The thing is, KD was never really a friend. We haven't known each other long enough to establish that bond. And for most of the time in the relationship, if you can call it a relationship, I felt, well, frightened, anxious, worried.
He never lied, I think. He just wanted me to be there every three or four hours. I might be the only one who will really listen to him these days. Everyone else has dropped away. I was kind to him, supportive, encouraging. Hell, I even bought his drinks last night. He bought lunch today. It's not about the money, or about who spends more, but rather about how one feels when with him. He feels good after being with me. I feel bad.
I was laughing, finally, as I was explaining it to Linda. "I've got so much pain right now with the change in my life, the end of my career in academia, the decision to give up my book--my life's work for the last ten years--why would I sign up for more? This is one pain I can actually say 'no, thank you' to.". What a revelation. You say "NO" to some pain. Some you can't avoid. Some you can. You have to walk away from that kind.
And, today, I did.
Friday, April 4, 2008
How to Read this Blog
As it must by now be clear, I'm writing this blog from two points in time. The posts from "The Apostate's Diary" come from a journal I kept during 2005, when I was living in London. I often refer to that time as "the year I went mad." It was then that my depression began to become serious, although of course I didn't realize it. The choices I made based on thoughts and feelings that I had while living in London precipitated a precipitous fall into darkness that would last for the next two years. Obviously I had a sense of the what I was going through, since I named the journal "the apostate's diary." An apostate is someone who turns away--from god, technically, and that is why the apostate is called a heretic and the worst sorts of things in the Bible. The apostate disowns and rejects the established tradition, dogma, religion. Using term then felt like a heroic gesture, a Blakeian flourish. But looking back on it now I understand it differently. I see now that I was turning away from myself and from sense. I turned away from love that year. From Craig. From happiness.
I couldn't work. I couldn't think straight. I spent nearly every hour of the day in the British library working away like a madwoman on a book that I am now on the brink of abandoning. I poured myself into my project, into writing about Milton and metaphor and usury. And for what. For what? It would not come together. I could not get the threads to cohere into a pattern. My body lived in the library, but my mind and my heart lived in darkness, passion, fear, longing, and misery. Misererei mei. It was all I could do.
All in a darkness, I swooned over Manpreet, a married man 10 years my junior whom I barely knew. Infatuation is a kind of madness, even in the best circumstances. But I was so lost to myself, so fallen into unreason and grief and sorrow, that I could not think clearly. The book should have righted me, the work, the progress. But it didn't. My apostate heart was not in it. My heart had left the building, as they say. But whither had it fled? It had flown away from me into the dark, dark eyes of an imprudent, self-indulgent man. My heart was not true. It was untrue to myself. And why? What had made my heart so sick, so unable to love its own ground, its source, its origin?
Ah, that is the question with the complicated answer for which I am still searching.
How does one heal the heart? In solitude? In company? But with whom? And how?
I am writing this blog from two points in time, then, in order to connect myself now in this moment of turning away from the professional goals and aspirations to which I pleged myself more than 10 years ago. I am looking back on that moment in London, when the turning away appears to have gotten started in a way that involved tremendous suffering. I am saying that the choices I am having to make now were begun then, or rather result from the choices that I made then, choices that I could not help but make, it seems.
The idea, the hope, is that by writing through this period, and reflecting back on that one, I will somehow manage to see more clearly and make better choices now. My aim is to recover myself and reclaim my heart, to turn now back to myself and find love.
I couldn't work. I couldn't think straight. I spent nearly every hour of the day in the British library working away like a madwoman on a book that I am now on the brink of abandoning. I poured myself into my project, into writing about Milton and metaphor and usury. And for what. For what? It would not come together. I could not get the threads to cohere into a pattern. My body lived in the library, but my mind and my heart lived in darkness, passion, fear, longing, and misery. Misererei mei. It was all I could do.
All in a darkness, I swooned over Manpreet, a married man 10 years my junior whom I barely knew. Infatuation is a kind of madness, even in the best circumstances. But I was so lost to myself, so fallen into unreason and grief and sorrow, that I could not think clearly. The book should have righted me, the work, the progress. But it didn't. My apostate heart was not in it. My heart had left the building, as they say. But whither had it fled? It had flown away from me into the dark, dark eyes of an imprudent, self-indulgent man. My heart was not true. It was untrue to myself. And why? What had made my heart so sick, so unable to love its own ground, its source, its origin?
Ah, that is the question with the complicated answer for which I am still searching.
How does one heal the heart? In solitude? In company? But with whom? And how?
I am writing this blog from two points in time, then, in order to connect myself now in this moment of turning away from the professional goals and aspirations to which I pleged myself more than 10 years ago. I am looking back on that moment in London, when the turning away appears to have gotten started in a way that involved tremendous suffering. I am saying that the choices I am having to make now were begun then, or rather result from the choices that I made then, choices that I could not help but make, it seems.
The idea, the hope, is that by writing through this period, and reflecting back on that one, I will somehow manage to see more clearly and make better choices now. My aim is to recover myself and reclaim my heart, to turn now back to myself and find love.
The Apostate's Diary, Sunday, February 27, 2005
Sunday, February 27, 2005
London
Last night Fiona came over for dinner. I am still almost completely broke but wanted to make her a nice dinner, so bought chicken and cooked it with garlic, ginger, rosemary, and lemon. We had salad and stilton and brie with baguette, and as a first course, slightly overcooked pasta with garlic, butter, oil, parsley and cheese. I have a cold and wanted to eat a lot of garlic. She brought champagne, which was festive. Over dinner we talked about lots of things—mostly she talked, about her relationship with her father and mother and brothers. She grew up feeling at odds with her mother and enraged by her father, much as I did, only lately she has discovered how much she likes her mother. At 40 she is just becoming friends with her mother. This of course made me rather wistful, as I could not help but remember the way my own mother and I became friends.
When I was 14 or 15, I wrote my mother a letter, provoked or inspired by something I had read, no doubt, in which I told her that I wanted to be friends with her. She was moved by the gesture and made a sincere effort. Also she confided in me a great deal, probably more than she ought to have, and I felt I got to know her better than many young women seem to know their mothers at an early age. I loved to be in her presence. I’d hang around as she put on her makeup, help her make dinner in that orange flowery kitchen. Isn’t it strange? The best times with her were the most mundane. What I’d give to drive around town doing errands from dry cleaners to drug store to market. Stopping at 31 Flavors on the way home.
Last night that I was actually Joni Mitchell’s long-lost, never acknowledged daughter. In my dream, my real mother was present, but hovering somewhere in the background as I hovered over the star’s shoulder, making a confession of the “rapture” (that was the word I used) I had experienced while listening to her songs. She wanted me to name the ones I had liked the best, which were not the most famous ones, and I could not say. And my mother, who was no longer my real mother, but only my erstwhile mother, hovered in the background silently. I had a notebook in which Joni Mitchell had drawn something in blues and purples, abstract and muted shapes of a woman’s face. Hard to focus on. My own paintings looked childish and crude in comparison. Anxiety of influence. Bloom missed so much.
Fiona went home rather early, at about 9.30, but not before making plans for a “girls’ night out” with my wild American friend, Marion, who is very good at picking up men. I texted her after she left to tell her how much I had enjoyed the dinner, and she responded that she was sure we could become good friends. I sincerely hope we will.
I am ill, run down, coughing, miserable when I step outside. I had meant to get out the door early, to have a coffee and then to beat the crowds at the British Museum. But CY called and we ended up talking for about two hours. At first I felt impatient and bored, even irritated with him—he has such a strange and disturbing relationship with his mother. But he was finally so ardent (and not a little pissed) and full of passionate longing for me, and I don’t mean that he expressed this in a doggish or simpering fashion. He earnestly wants to come to England, and as earnestly wants me to come back to LA with him for May and June. He has professional conferences and teaching appointments and god knows what—so much more going on in his academic, professional life than I do at the moment—and needs to be there. He also went on and on about how wonderful our connection was, how lovely it was to live with me, how well we understand each other. When he started talking about having sex I winced. Usually I am the one who initiates these conversations, but this time I remained so silent, since I couldn’t think of what to say, that he ended up apologizing…He was a little drunk, since it was 1.30 am for him and he had just come back from a pub with two English blokes. And we have had sexually frank conversations in the past, so he was perfectly in line. I just couldn’t bring myself to join in, and worried not a little bit about how I will respond to him when he finally comes.
Fiona and I talked about whether or not I should let him come to England—and decided that it would be the honorable thing to do, and perhaps also the intelligent thing. He does seem to care for me a lot, and to have a great deal of respect for me, and to be a decent, loyal, good man. He lives in the city of my birth, near my family, and many of the people in my family have met him and liked him. So it would be rather idiotic to dump him without even giving him a chance, especially for someone who is, after all, MARRIED, and who doesn’t seem to be moving any too quickly towards divorce.
Still in my heart of hearts I know that I would be happier with MD. If he were ever to become available, and to invite me into his life, I would go. I would drop everything and go.
But until that happens, I will hold onto what there is that is secure and stable in my life…so little is. CY does disappoint me in lots of ways: when it comes to music, art, literature, and talking about emotions. But he is steady and romantic in his own way, and we have a nice kind of vibe when we live under the same roof, and he has given me a degree of security that I have not had for a long time.
I still have so little self-esteem, so little dignity in myself, so little respect for myself. This has a lot to do with not being able to be the kind of mother to BNO that I want to be. It is as though the very core of myself is deeply wounded…it is deeply wounded. This is the part of me that would mother him if I could, and it is also that part that was not properly mothered or fathered. And it is also the part of me that feels inadequate and small and imperfect and pathetic. I don’t know what I do that is valuable or good or true. I don’t take much pride in my work, nor do I have a home life that I feel proud of. It is this lack of self-pride, of self-esteem, that is the problem. I do not in my deepest self feel low or bad, but rather on the level just above that one. It is not that I hate myself completely, but rather that I have lost the feeling of goodness, of virtue (?) of beauty that must once have been strong in me, for it is not dead.
I would say that getting tenure, writing the book, would help with this problem. But I can’t say this, since so few of my other accomplishments have made me feel strong. The feeling of strength has to come from within, but it is hard, hard, to go for long periods without affirmation from without. One starts to break down.
I will just call BNO now, even though I know he won’t be able to talk, and that his stepmother will try to cut the conversation short if he does feel loquacious. It’s usually better to call after school, but I miss him. And also I want to know how he is doing.
London
Last night Fiona came over for dinner. I am still almost completely broke but wanted to make her a nice dinner, so bought chicken and cooked it with garlic, ginger, rosemary, and lemon. We had salad and stilton and brie with baguette, and as a first course, slightly overcooked pasta with garlic, butter, oil, parsley and cheese. I have a cold and wanted to eat a lot of garlic. She brought champagne, which was festive. Over dinner we talked about lots of things—mostly she talked, about her relationship with her father and mother and brothers. She grew up feeling at odds with her mother and enraged by her father, much as I did, only lately she has discovered how much she likes her mother. At 40 she is just becoming friends with her mother. This of course made me rather wistful, as I could not help but remember the way my own mother and I became friends.
When I was 14 or 15, I wrote my mother a letter, provoked or inspired by something I had read, no doubt, in which I told her that I wanted to be friends with her. She was moved by the gesture and made a sincere effort. Also she confided in me a great deal, probably more than she ought to have, and I felt I got to know her better than many young women seem to know their mothers at an early age. I loved to be in her presence. I’d hang around as she put on her makeup, help her make dinner in that orange flowery kitchen. Isn’t it strange? The best times with her were the most mundane. What I’d give to drive around town doing errands from dry cleaners to drug store to market. Stopping at 31 Flavors on the way home.
Last night that I was actually Joni Mitchell’s long-lost, never acknowledged daughter. In my dream, my real mother was present, but hovering somewhere in the background as I hovered over the star’s shoulder, making a confession of the “rapture” (that was the word I used) I had experienced while listening to her songs. She wanted me to name the ones I had liked the best, which were not the most famous ones, and I could not say. And my mother, who was no longer my real mother, but only my erstwhile mother, hovered in the background silently. I had a notebook in which Joni Mitchell had drawn something in blues and purples, abstract and muted shapes of a woman’s face. Hard to focus on. My own paintings looked childish and crude in comparison. Anxiety of influence. Bloom missed so much.
Fiona went home rather early, at about 9.30, but not before making plans for a “girls’ night out” with my wild American friend, Marion, who is very good at picking up men. I texted her after she left to tell her how much I had enjoyed the dinner, and she responded that she was sure we could become good friends. I sincerely hope we will.
I am ill, run down, coughing, miserable when I step outside. I had meant to get out the door early, to have a coffee and then to beat the crowds at the British Museum. But CY called and we ended up talking for about two hours. At first I felt impatient and bored, even irritated with him—he has such a strange and disturbing relationship with his mother. But he was finally so ardent (and not a little pissed) and full of passionate longing for me, and I don’t mean that he expressed this in a doggish or simpering fashion. He earnestly wants to come to England, and as earnestly wants me to come back to LA with him for May and June. He has professional conferences and teaching appointments and god knows what—so much more going on in his academic, professional life than I do at the moment—and needs to be there. He also went on and on about how wonderful our connection was, how lovely it was to live with me, how well we understand each other. When he started talking about having sex I winced. Usually I am the one who initiates these conversations, but this time I remained so silent, since I couldn’t think of what to say, that he ended up apologizing…He was a little drunk, since it was 1.30 am for him and he had just come back from a pub with two English blokes. And we have had sexually frank conversations in the past, so he was perfectly in line. I just couldn’t bring myself to join in, and worried not a little bit about how I will respond to him when he finally comes.
Fiona and I talked about whether or not I should let him come to England—and decided that it would be the honorable thing to do, and perhaps also the intelligent thing. He does seem to care for me a lot, and to have a great deal of respect for me, and to be a decent, loyal, good man. He lives in the city of my birth, near my family, and many of the people in my family have met him and liked him. So it would be rather idiotic to dump him without even giving him a chance, especially for someone who is, after all, MARRIED, and who doesn’t seem to be moving any too quickly towards divorce.
Still in my heart of hearts I know that I would be happier with MD. If he were ever to become available, and to invite me into his life, I would go. I would drop everything and go.
But until that happens, I will hold onto what there is that is secure and stable in my life…so little is. CY does disappoint me in lots of ways: when it comes to music, art, literature, and talking about emotions. But he is steady and romantic in his own way, and we have a nice kind of vibe when we live under the same roof, and he has given me a degree of security that I have not had for a long time.
I still have so little self-esteem, so little dignity in myself, so little respect for myself. This has a lot to do with not being able to be the kind of mother to BNO that I want to be. It is as though the very core of myself is deeply wounded…it is deeply wounded. This is the part of me that would mother him if I could, and it is also that part that was not properly mothered or fathered. And it is also the part of me that feels inadequate and small and imperfect and pathetic. I don’t know what I do that is valuable or good or true. I don’t take much pride in my work, nor do I have a home life that I feel proud of. It is this lack of self-pride, of self-esteem, that is the problem. I do not in my deepest self feel low or bad, but rather on the level just above that one. It is not that I hate myself completely, but rather that I have lost the feeling of goodness, of virtue (?) of beauty that must once have been strong in me, for it is not dead.
I would say that getting tenure, writing the book, would help with this problem. But I can’t say this, since so few of my other accomplishments have made me feel strong. The feeling of strength has to come from within, but it is hard, hard, to go for long periods without affirmation from without. One starts to break down.
I will just call BNO now, even though I know he won’t be able to talk, and that his stepmother will try to cut the conversation short if he does feel loquacious. It’s usually better to call after school, but I miss him. And also I want to know how he is doing.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Desert
Sunday morning. Alone in a coffee shop. Not the way one is supposed to conclude a night with one's lover, or boyfriend, quite. But then he's not my lover, is he. He doesn't love me, for starters. And he doesn't find me attractive. Any other man would respond to my naked body with some kind of attention. He doesn't see it. We sleep together, he on his back, my head on his shoulder. Or, occasionally, his back to me, my right arm around his chest. He rarely returns the favor. I am lonely by his side. He pays more attention to his dog than to me.
We talked about it a little bit, on the way down the hill from his house. He was off to volleyball. Not that he plays these days. But he would rather be there with the guys than with me. So I've come to this coffee shop.
What am I doing? Why am I stay by his side? Why does he want me to? There are other men, after all. Why am I trying to convince myself that I prefer the company of this man who never touches me to the others, whose hands I push away? I say--I don't want to be pawed, I don't want to repulse them. I don't have any libido. I'm too sad.
Even a cat needs to be petted.
I long for intimacy. I long for CY. For his deep, soft kisses. His navy eyes seeing me. The root of him strong within me.
But that's over.
And there is only this desert, this harsh landscape of failure, of disillusion, of needing to change.
I am not going to get tenure. The book is not done, not under review anywhere. I've not brought it to fruition. I'd be slaughtered, crucified. I can't go through that. Better to leave without having been denied, beaten up, torn apart.
I have mixed feelings. Mostly I feel stunned. Shocked. It's not as though I didn't know. It's just that I haven't been able to do it. I've fallen into the tarpit too many times. I've worked and worked and worked on this thing. Like an overworked canvas, it gets worse and worse.
I'm both too close and too far away from it. I've been writing in despair for how many years now? four? five? six?
In despair for how many years now?
We talked about it a little bit, on the way down the hill from his house. He was off to volleyball. Not that he plays these days. But he would rather be there with the guys than with me. So I've come to this coffee shop.
What am I doing? Why am I stay by his side? Why does he want me to? There are other men, after all. Why am I trying to convince myself that I prefer the company of this man who never touches me to the others, whose hands I push away? I say--I don't want to be pawed, I don't want to repulse them. I don't have any libido. I'm too sad.
Even a cat needs to be petted.
I long for intimacy. I long for CY. For his deep, soft kisses. His navy eyes seeing me. The root of him strong within me.
But that's over.
And there is only this desert, this harsh landscape of failure, of disillusion, of needing to change.
I am not going to get tenure. The book is not done, not under review anywhere. I've not brought it to fruition. I'd be slaughtered, crucified. I can't go through that. Better to leave without having been denied, beaten up, torn apart.
I have mixed feelings. Mostly I feel stunned. Shocked. It's not as though I didn't know. It's just that I haven't been able to do it. I've fallen into the tarpit too many times. I've worked and worked and worked on this thing. Like an overworked canvas, it gets worse and worse.
I'm both too close and too far away from it. I've been writing in despair for how many years now? four? five? six?
In despair for how many years now?
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