October 21, 2008

He Was My Dylan McKay

A long time ago in faraway land, as far away from reality as one can get, I fell in love with the wrong man.  The time and place of our first meeting are irrelevant because looking back on that moment I realize it could have happened at any point in my life.

I was feeling especially vulnerable when he caught my attention.  My life had been turned upside down, full of chaos.  Things weren’t going my way.  I remember feeling as though I wasn’t loved.  That I didn’t deserve to be loved.  My reaction to these feelings was to build walls around my emotions and let no one tear them down. I was certain that my heart could be stone and that I would feel nothing, not happiness nor sadness — for if I let one feeling escape the castle I had built, the others would follow.

And then I met him.  Our conversations were friendly at first.  We talked about our lives and where we lived and worked.  We spoke of our families and our favorite things.  Our relationship was flirtatious and silly and I loved the attention he gave to me.  His kind and loving words were like millions of tiny chisels chipping away the rock over my heart.

I felt worthy.  I felt loved.  I felt like the most beautiful woman in the world.  After weeks of getting to know one another, I went on a five-day vacation without telling him.  When I returned he missed me.  He said he was so happy to see me and asked me never to leave without telling him.  That was the first time I let my guard down.  That was the first time I let him in.

Things that seem too good to be true, often are, and gradually our relationship fell apart.  His attention waned.  He lost interest in me and met someone else.  He gave all his attention to her.  It was a flash of light, as quickly as we met, our relationship was over.

Words were exchanged.  Hurtful words.  I lost control of my feelings.  I was confused because I never really knew what I did to drive him away.  Those old insecurities came flooding back.  I was drowning in my emotions.  I no longer felt loved.  I no longer felt beautiful.

I couldn’t let go of what happened.  I confronted him and somehow he convinced me it was my fault, that I was somehow delusional about our relationship, that I misunderstood what was really going on between us.  He made me think I was feeling things that weren’t really there.  He didn’t love me.

I remember feeling so stupid for ever loving him, that I tried to tell myself this never really happened.  In a rage I took back all the things I said to him.  I told him I didn’t really love him.  Instead of admitting how hurt I was, I told him I was just using him.  It was an attempt to gain control over the situation and it backfired.  He told me he never wanted to speak to me again.  I couldn’t deal with it.  I shut myself off from everyone around me.

I started seeing a therapist.  I wanted so badly to make sense of what had happened.  I felt depressed.  I didn’t want to eat.  I tried to starve myself, thinking that if I were thinner or prettier he would want me again.

Never in my life had I let a man have any power over me.  Why was he any different?  What was it about him that made me lose control?  I couldn’t figure it out.

Dr. G asked me to talk about it, to sort through all the anger and sadness.  I didn’t know if I could do it.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “Who are you? What do you believe to be true about yourself?”

It was a question I didn’t think I could answer.  Who am I?

I’m a woman who loves to be loved.  I want everyone to like me, to see how special I am, to appreciate me for who I am.  I’m a woman who likes to laugh and smile.  I’m a woman who needs more love and affection than most people.  I’m a woman who hates to be rejected.  I’m a woman who is afraid of abandonment.

I thought my reasons for seeing a therapist were to get over the one who hurt me, but as I poured my heart out I realized my feelings had nothing to do with a man loving me and everything to do with me loving myself.

After several long months of getting to know who I was and just being myself, I discovered how great I am.  I learned to be good to myself and to respect who I am.  Gradually, I got over the heartbreak and pain, and I realized the man I thought I loved was simply a lesson to be learned.

We wouldn’t have worked out anyway.  Thinking back on the times we shared together, I realize now he wasn’t as happy as he wanted everyone to believe.  His relationships were complicated.  He depended too much on others to make him happy, to validate who he was.  He was always brooding, and somewhat withdrawn.  He had his own abandonment issues because of his parents’ divorce.

In many ways he reminded me of Dylan McKay, the bad boy character from 90s television show Beverly Hills, 90210.  He even had the great hair to match.  Like Dylan, he was a loner.  While he had friends, he never let them into his life.  He never let them see who he really was.

I can’t say that he was all bad.  He could be kind and sensitive like no other.  He could make a woman feel like the most important person in his world.  He could make you see the same old things in a new light.  He was full of passion, but with that passion was intense heartbreak.  No one could break a heart the way he did.  Everything he says and does, everything he feels is full of intense emotion.

I never thought I could write about that time in my life before now.  I think in so many ways I was embarrassed.  I felt foolish for giving my heart to someone who so easily walked all over it. I realize now that everything happens for reasons we may not know until years later.  He was a lesson to be learned.  He was my Dylan McKay.

October 9, 2008

I Think I’m Just Tired

Over the last few weeks my life has been a roller coaster of emotions.  There are days that I am happy.  And then there are days when I’m sad.  Stressed out.  Frustrated.  Anxious.  Insert feeling here.

I don’t know why I feel like my life is spinning out of control.  Yet I do know.

I know it began when my father had his accident.  I began feeling like time was running out.  That life is too short and there are so many things I have yet to do.

I remember a moment this past summer when I looked at Dawson and began to sob.  It was as though I saw him as an adult, no longer needing his mother to hold his hand while crossing the street.  It was only a split second, yet felt like an eternity, but I thought about growing old.  I thought about my own death.

It scared me so much that I grabbed my son and hugged him so tightly that he began to squirm away.  These irrational feelings come and go.  Feelings of time slipping through my fingers.  I’m only 29 years old.  Young.  And yet I have these visions of turning forty.  Fifty.  Then sixty.  And seventy-five.

I don’t know why it scared me so much.  Perhaps, my father’s accident made me realize how precious our time is on this Earth.  I can’t bear the thought of my parents leaving me one day, but I know it’s inevitable.

For the last few months I’m constantly worrying about ridiculous things.  Like whether or not my house is clean, or if the laundry is put away.  I worry about my financial future and the stock market, and the economy and the election.  I don’t even have the desire to blog because I worry about what I’ll write.

My mind is constantly in a state of panic.  I don’t know how to relax.  I make to-do lists and have no ambition to get any of the stuff done.

This is most likely the reason I struggle with weight and eating healthy.  It’s probably why I suffer insomnia.  It’s contributing to my inability to get pregnant.  And yet, I don’t know how to make it stop.

Maybe I’m just tired.  They say exhaustion makes our perception of things much worse than they really are.

I still workout.  I still try to eat healthy.  I still try to do everything for everybody.

My mind is racing.  I feel like I have attention deficit disorder because my thoughts are spinning like a revolving door.  They drift in, and they drift out.

How do I make it stop?

June 19, 2008

We’re Going to Miss You, Mr. Jones

“Dick Jones, Stevens Point…”

That’s what he said whenever he introduced himself to anyone. Whether it was a friend of many years or a stranger passing on the street, Mr. Jones as I called him, would stop and smile, shake hands and introduce himself.

“Hey there. Dick Jones, Stevens Point…and you?” he’d say, arm extended for that handshake.

He worked at the high school, as a Special Education aid. He always had a smile on his face. He never failed to make his friends laugh, whether it be from a good joke or a playful ape about politics. He loved Irish music, but I think he secretly liked Polkas, even if he never admitted it.

He could talk bullshit with the best of them, and never got angry if you didn’t agree with an opinion. He was just one of those guys who could put a smile on your face with his quirky mannerisms, delightful grin and glimmer in his eye.

Oh how I cried when my father broke the news.

“He had a living will, the team from Madison is coming up for his viable organs, they will be taking him off life support because his chance of recovery is less than 1%.”

I can’t believe I’ll never see Dick again. He was like an uncle to me. I never imagined that when I saw him at the Moose Lodge in April that it would be the last time I’d speak to him.

Memories of our trip to Pulaski Polka Days, just about a year ago, are flooding back. How happy he was just to spend time with his buddy, Frank, my dad. They laughed and joked. They faux fought about politics, Dick being a Democrat and my father a Republican. They discussed the latest happenings at the Moose Lodge and talked about sports and the weather. My eyes weep at the recollection. It’s so heartbreaking.

And then I think of Steve, Dick’s son. I cannot imagine the pain and agony the family is going through. Dear God, please watch over them and be there for them in this time of grief.

How fleeting is this life! It often feels like an eternity, that we have many, many years to live before we grow old — but then suddenly, in the blink of an eye, a life has passed.

This feeling that life is short, it knocks me off my feet, it takes my breath away. One day our hearts are pumping away. Our lungs fill and empty of air. Our minds recall every memory we have created. And then suddenly, quickly, it all vanishes to the great unknown. Even if some of us are blessed to live a century, our lives seem to end too soon.

I find myself wondering what happens after we die. I wonder if Mr. Jones can see us, from wherever he is? Can he feel our hearts breaking? Does he know how much we adored him?

Heavenly Father, I hope so.

Mr. Jones, wherever you are, please know that we will never forget you and we will miss you so very much.

May 20, 2008

Sadness, Anger, Frustration: An Update, Comments Open

I have been going through something the past few months and it’s a subject that I always feel uncomfortable blogging about. I worry that in the midst of my vent I’ll spew something that will offend others and I don’t want to do that. I’ve experienced the repercussions of “blogging out loud” and it doesn’t feel good at all.

Thing is, I’m frustrated and angry and sad and I have to get it out. Stuffing all the emotions to the pit of my stomach isn’t healthy, and maybe just getting down to it and letting it all out will allow me to refocus on the situation.

You see, I want another baby. Doug and I have been trying to get pregnant since last fall. Actually we began trying much earlier than that, a year ago really, but we didn’t focus too hard on it because we didn’t want babymaking to become stressful. Add to that my nagging family members, constantly asking when baby number two would arrive and I was in no mood to put extra pressure on myself.

Month after month I would chart my cycles, pee on ovulation sticks, have sex at the “right time” and wait as patiently as possible hoping that when I took a home pregnancy test, positive lines would appear.

And every month as the big fat negative would stare me in the face, mocking me, the sadness would set in. Followed by anger, frustration and a loss of hope.

Oh, how I try to stay positive. Oh, how I try to not let this bring me down. I pretend that it doesn’t hurt deep inside when others announce their pregnancies. Even when I’m genuinely happy for these women, who deserve to have beautiful babies as much as anyone, part me wants to run away and not think about it. Sometimes I don’t want to go through the congratulatory motions because I feel like I’m creating more hurt for myself. Sometimes I want to scream and yell and curse. But I don’t.

I think about how ridiculous it is. I don’t want to be a jealous woman. I’ve blogged about this subject only a few times before and I feel shitty for doing it. I hate ripping open the wound for all to see. But then the anger sets in and makes me think I have the right to express how I feel.

I keep thinking that my “turn” will come again. That it’s not in the cards at this moment in time, but you know what? That pisses me off even more. And there’s no one to talk to about it. People will never tell you, but they are sick of hearing about the poor girl who can’t seem to get pregnant. I’m that girl. And when I confide in some of my pals, they nod and smile, but I can tell they don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear about it and it’s me. Yet it’s eating me alive.

And what’s worse is there’s nothing that can be said or done to make me feel better. It’s pathetic, really.

This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with conception issues. It took two years to conceive Dawson. I’ve been diagnosed with every fucking female problem imaginable. Fibroids, PCOS, blah, blah, blah. I’ve been going to the gym to distract myself from this frustration, thinking that losing weight will help. And then I start to cry, because how much weight do I need to lose to get pregnant? Dawson will be four years old in September. Will my kids be ten years apart, because I couldn’t get pregnant?

I feel awful thinking and worrying about this crap. And I know it doesn’t help matters. I know that. I’ve been through this before. It still hurts.

My period is due tomorrow. I jumped the gun and peed on the stick today. Negative. I don’t even feel pregnant. Yet I keep holding on to this small glimmer of hope. Through the tears, I keep hoping. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.

I just had to get it all out….

(Comments are closed for now. I’m just not ready to hear what everyone is thinking. I’m sure many will think I’m crazy. I probably sound like a nut job. I know that.)

Updated – Comments are now open. After I stopped dwelling on it, I realized that I need to stop blaming myself and it’s okay to let others support me.

So many of you have sent me e-mails sharing your stories. I’ve discovered my story is not unique and some of you have felt the exact same way that I do. It’s okay to let it out. Scream and yell and curse if you need to. Use the comments as your forum. I admit, just writing my post yesterday was therapeutic and I’m somewhat clear headed today.

Thanks to everyone who e-mailed me. Words cannot express how grateful I am for your support. That alone is helping me to remain hopeful. Thank you.