A beautiful lie
Everything is fine.
(We're coasting. We followed the path that was clear, ignoring the poking brambles that were only held back by a little bit of hope and a little bit of will. They sprang loose one by one. Those times we couldn't work together toward a goal, and those times we couldn't agree on the goal. Those times he boldy stated what he knew about me - but was wrong. The time I birthed a baby and couldn't tell he was in the room. The times he was inattentive and the times he gave attention I didn't want. The times I was silent. The times I wasn't silent but found my communication didn't land. The times I wasn't silent but found I couldn't communicate anymore. The times we go over and over all these times and don't feel any different. He carries a torch lit by so many right words, I pretend they might burn away the dead, damaged parts to make way for new growth. We are companions, partners, parents, and liars.)
The Craziest Idea
I'm not used to being old enough to say that I've had 20 years of experience in anything.
I still live within blocks from my high school, like I'm neighbors with myself from a different life, and I visit myself there in dreams regularly. The dreams always exaggerate the hard parts, like struggling to carry a bag that's filled with infinite pounds of books or scurrying up and down flights of stairs to find an illusively placed locker before the time between classes runs out.
Yet my dream-self always knows I'm in a dream and wishes my waking-self could really be back there. You know, when I was young and fresh with nothing but fun on my mind, opportunities ahead of me, and excitment about becoming whomever I wanted to become.
And, you know, then I discovered it wasn't all up to me.
My anxiety disorder emerged 20 years ago now. We've all got our complexes from those first boyfriends, those infuriating ways our parents treated us, those crushing times of self-consciousness about our bodies and social skills - but the anxiety is what sent me to the E.R., that put me in therapy, that erased me.
It's been 20 years of fear and panic controlled by meds and the illusion of control that my many, many obsessive behaviors lend. I started out free and living in sweet ignorance of what prison is like, but it's been 20 years of vascillating incarceration and parole, so I've learned.
It was definitely the hand attached to me that signed the papers to leave college and move home, even though it wasn't mine anymore. It had been left inside with my all my other parts that used to function for me instead of to me. I don't actually know who that apparition was crying on the couch, floating through new classes in new buildings, getting the job done. I'm not sure it was me leading the way as I ambled into a relationship and then a marriage. I watched myself buy a car and a house and I saw someone create cover letter after cover letter, but they never really got me and I never became any of the things I was going to become.
Through the last 20 years of inside time and outside time, while someone's been living my life, I've been practicing control so that I can stay outside and slowly join with them. I've been washing and watching and, before I understood that I was confusing faith with superstition, praying. For 20 years, professionals have presented me with ideas to bring me back. Good, rational ideas, crazy in their simplicity. The idea that although I sometimes feel defeated, I have done hard things and I am strong. The idea that fearing a terrible future does nothing but ruin the present. The crazy idea that if hard times emerge, they will also recede.
And still, still. I still have the craziest idea that I'll never be free again because this is the only me who's been around this whole time.
Challenge of the Week CLXXX
#thecraziestidea
What is Different, What is the Same
I was living with too much.
The errands reflected my needs, but my needs reflected excess.
The work reflected my values, but my values reflected excess.
I wanted more and needed to stop, but I didn't know.
Now at least I've slowed.
My words are softer, but my conviction is stronger.
My days are freer, but my soul is more full.
I make do and bask in the relief of letting perfection go.
When I play, there is exactly enough in that space to occupy me.
There is a breeze brushing the hair against my neck.
There is gritty cement under my shoes.
There is laughter and instruction and compromise, and that's all it needs to be.
When I set to a task, there is simpicity in its significance.
It is an accomplishment not discredited by others not met.
It is an ammusement persued without shame.
It is a function of enrichment for my existence, and that's all it needs to be.
When I remember who lost, it's with deep, deep regret.
It was my family. It was my neighbor. It was me.
There was no one more worthy of escape, no prescription for success.
And so we were all the same, and that's all it needs to be.
Physical Relationship Education.
Sex education is complicated. It's about procreation, right? The mechanics, the biology. But it should also consider a variety of sexualities, a variety of genders, a variety of activities aside from intercourse. It involves learning about risks and, maybe the most uncomfortable topic in some conversations, pleasures.
It should be all of this, because when it's not... well, over and over we see that when it's not, people don't stop doing all the things - they just do all the things without the knowledge of how to do so in healthy ways.
That said, is there a time and place for what we call sex education? Sure. No three-year-old is capable of understanding anything about sexual behavior, from the mechanics to the emotional implications. This is why sex ed is often tackled near puberty, when it becomes a timely topic for their physical and emotional development - and even then the information should be imparted with care, because it's big stuff.
But with all that sex ed encompasses, it does make sense to start early in that, at its core, it's just about physical relationships, and those begin at birth.
Imagine two children:
One is taught, even as a baby, to respect physical boundaries. Biting, hitting, or other agressive actions are not ok, and as they grow they learn that hurtful or disprespectful words are not ok. This kid is encouraged to understand their body parts and they have healthy models of both body confidence and a sense of privacy. Information about bodies and, eventually, relationships is given with candor and without shame as appropriate for their unique personality.
Another kid is never given real names for their body parts and, in fact, is not allowed to talk about them, let alone draw attention to or touch them. They probably learn that biting and hitting isn't ok, but beyond that there's no example of how to respect anyone's body, even their own, because the topic is simply off the table. The lack of those conversations leave this kid to conclude that bodies are taboo - maybe a joke, maybe gross, maybe shameful. They don't develop a sense of how their words and actions might affect another person's physical or emotional security.
These scenarios are pretty extreme, especially the latter, but they show how early exposure to some of the concepts sex ed will cover is absolutely ok. Which of these kids do you think is going to have an easier time learning about the more provocative topics? Which one will have an easier time navigating an eventual physical relationship? Make that any relationship?
Sex ed can - and should - begin very early, at the appropriate level. It will all become relevant when the topic of sexual behavior does enter a kid's consciousness. If calling it sex ed makes you uncomfortable, call it physical relationship ed.
This is Depression
Not hurt, nor anger, nor sadness.
Not dramatic, nor glamorous, nor karmic.
It's the absence of you.
It's wearing a glued-on mask.
It's remote controlling your days.
It's pointlessness.
It's counting your blessings and not feeling blessed -
they should mean something, but...
It's passing the time in anticipation of sleep -
unconsciousness brings relief, but from what?
#Mollo25
Lucidity
I don't know the answer and he's waiting for me to admit it so he can be the victor. I don't know if he does it on purpose. I don't know if our friends feel my tension or see the angry hurt on my face, but I can feel my smiling lips stick on my teeth as I try to maintain my light-hearted facade. I don't know if my laugh sounds natural when he gives his triumphant answer and the room erupts. I don’t know if my friends have tallied these moments like I have. I don’t know if they’re my friends or his friends. It feels like I don’t know anything.
Everyone is gone and he smirks at me. His fingers twitch and slide into my space like boa constrictors. He had fun and he’s looking for more, charged by the ego boost our company provided and delighted in our sudden aloneness. I’m tired and lonely and I’m already angry that I have a mess to clean up.
When I back up a step he follows. When I turn to gather glasses and plates he is at my back. I circle the table, clear the napkins, and still, somehow, he’s there. I can’t get an inch between us. He’s not getting the hint that he’s too much, too close. As I wipe away the slopped salsa and chip crumbs, I can’t believe him. I don’t know what to say because I can’t believe I need to say anything. I rearrange the couch pillows and he corrects me, with his front against my back and his breath huffing on my neck and his smile apparent.
His snakelike arms wrap around my waist and I try to walk away, but I’m in a vice. Another arm circles my shoulders. Then another circles my head, covering my eyes, and when a rageful objection builds in my throat, another blocks my mouth and I can feel the dry fabric of a sleeve rasping inside my lips.
There is a long pause where I know I need to do something, and it is a desperate need, but I don’t know what it is. One or two very long seconds. Then I’m staring at the ceiling and hearing myself gasp, and the dryness on my lips and tongue and throat is the air that I wasn’t breathing in my sleep.
I can feel the sheets moving as his hand looks for mine and he’s asking if I’m ok, and it jolts me upright. I don’t want his concern. I don’t want his comfort. I don’t want him here; he did this to me.