Time may be a flat circle, but I’d argue that since we’re living in a universe (or perhaps a multiverse), perhaps the flat circle is more of a wheel, a spring, or maybe a set of flat circles stacked atop each other like unlimited pancakes at IHOP. Maybe we’ll get lucky and time will be waves, endlessly breaking against a shore.

Our perception of time perplexes me. Some days slide by fluidly, others drag on endlessly….I’ve blinked and suddenly five years have passed, and now I’m here, still physically in the same place, but living a completely different life than the ones I’ve lived before. I’m pretty sure there’s a saying about the days being long but the years being short, and even though I’m sure I would have argued against that at some point in my life, I now know exactly what that means.

I started to type a paragraph about the material and aesthetic gains of the past year – the house is painted; there are two dogs (and two cats) now; there are windows that actually open (and close); I finally sold the Acura; I don’t work four jobs anymore; my hair is kind of blonde now – but none of those really matter. My life has changed immensely for a much larger and more important reason: I let go, I fell in love, and my world will never be the same.

The feeling of attaining something you’ve sought for a long time but thought was no longer within reach is sublime. Perhaps I’d describe it as “uncertain elation,” the feeling of unbridled joy mixed with an undercurrent of quiet concern, the fear of brevity in the face of the golden glow of contentment, and the humanness of trying to find balance in it all.

Last year, I decided to take a break from love, to let go of the search for “the one” (or someone even sort of close to it), and decided to spend some time with myself. Obviously, it was a drastic measure – I was 32, rapidly approaching 33, and the desire to someday have a family loomed large above me. I remember having the incredibly difficult realization that perhaps children or a family weren’t in my future. I was burnt out, frustrated, and just exhausted. Something had to give, and I clearly wasn’t making choices that were serving my best interests – at a certain point, I’d starting intentionally settling for what I thought was good enough, and as we tend to learn when we take that course of action, sort of good enough simply wasn’t even okay, let alone sustainable in any sort of way.

There were some slight missteps, of course. I attempted a few dates at one point, buoyed by the hope that time alone to reacquaint myself with myself would have had the desired effect of a more focused, critical approach. And it worked – I felt a visceral response of, “No,” or the oft-overlooked, “meh,” and continued on about my business, reminding myself that when it was right, it would feel that way, and reminding myself that settling was out of the question. (Although what is “that way,” really? We’re sold this idea that it will all magically land, so there’s quite a bit of confusion around the actual feeling itself, because it’s impossible to articulate and obviously open for interpretation and subject to the vantage point of its feeler at any given place in space and time.)

I firmly believe that there is something to take away from nearly every interaction, and sometimes, the depth of a single sentiment (or interaction) will somehow settle into your bones and shape your vision in a way you had never expected. My third job as a cake decorator afforded me an unexpected friendship. A tired, overworked, underappreciated assistant manager became a close confidant, and she became my biggest cheerleader. At one point, she said, “someday, you’ll find someone who will meet you exactly where you are,” and despite the fact that I’m sure we’ve all heard that a million times, that time it stuck, settling snugly.

Summer brought an unexpected surprise: my brother and his wife gifted me a puppy at the end of July. I believe the text from my brother said, “I’m sending you three pictures. Pick one.” I’d wanted a dog forever. Someone said to me that they imagined I would get a dog, then find my person. I laughed that off. I kept putting it off. I would look, half-heartedly, wondering if I could manage. I thought I’d wait until my beloved Carl passed, but at this rate, it might be another five years. He’s the toughest cat I know, even though we’re meandering the gentle slope towards the rainbow bridge. (In addition to requiring the addition of fiber to his daily cat soup, he will now only drink out of running bathwater; he refuses his multiple cat fountains…..he’s ridiculous. If you forget to turn his water on, he’ll stand in the bathtub and scream until you turn the water on for him. I love him.) My mom said that she’d help me finance the procurement of a dog, which was surprising, given her feelings towards them. (They’re not her favorite.) I needed one that would be good with cats, good with children, and so on. I didn’t imagine I would have have a puppy, so when I go the pictures from my brother, my heart stopped and there he was, a little black and white and brown puppy, his eyes bright and curious, his little paws irresistible. I knew. I knew right then that he was for me.

I’ve always toyed with the idea of fate, destiny, inevitability, the intertwining of the world in ways we can’t quite comprehend. I will not say that we lack free will, but I believe somewhere that there is something pulling us, if only we’ll listen to it. The universe puts things in front of us, and should we reach out and grab them, we pull ourselves forward or pull them closer. Watson was the right dog at the right time. I pretended to debate. Puppies are expensive. They’re time-consuming. They’re a whole lot. But I felt something pulling me, and I didn’t ignore it. I tugged the thread.

I flew home with him from Austin after having the sweetest phone discussion with the Southwest Airlines agent who cried on the phone when I told her I was getting my very first puppy – she had lost her dog that March and wasn’t sure if she should get another one. I hope she ended up getting one. She gave me advice on puppies, and wished me all the best.

Watson is an Australian Shepherd, and he’s my dog, so obviously he’s a handful. He’s ridiculously smart, gorgeous, fluffy, and adorably sweet. He’s perfect. I fell in love with him immediately, and I think I fall more in love with him every day. He’s currently sleeping on my feet under my desk. I decided that I’d pour all of my energy and attention into caring for and training him, and that perhaps October would be a good time to dip my toes back into the dating world. By then, I imagined, I’d be ready.

Instead, I felt compelled by some odd curiosity, perhaps brought on by lack of sleep from being up every two hours with the dog, and I downloaded an app and added a few photos and answered some questions. I was determined to be nothing but honest, selective in my choices, and incredibly clear about what I was looking for in a potential partner.

The first notification came through. His question was something about what I thought the meaning of life is (based on one of the snippets of text in my brief profile). I answered honestly: I used to think it was love in all forms, with high emphasis on romantic love, but lately, it had been anything to do with separation from the capitalist mindset and my rage against the structures that bind us to drudgery for corporate gain. We chatted back and forth, those long stretches of nearly paragraph-length text that tend to be so rare on internet dating apps, and he asked me if I’d like to meet. I agreed, and after some confusion about scheduling, we set a date and time.

He said later that he’d hesitated; he couldn’t tell what I looked like from my pictures, I was slightly older than him, but something made him reach out anyway. I laugh, because I hovered as well. His pictures also didn’t provide a clear indication of his visage, he was younger, but he had kind eyes. His profile said that he wanted someone who was three things: something, something, and “a little weird.” Well, I was all of those things. So I swiped, responded, and together we set in motion a combined future without knowing what was yet to come.

Of course, that day went nothing like I expected it to – instead of having time to prepare for the date, I found myself working late, trying to get a puppy-sitter to watch 10 week old Watson so I could go out for a few hours, and completely unprepared as far as what to wear, etc. And so I went, frazzled and stressed, eight minutes late.

He was waiting patiently for me outside. I was a bundle of nervous energy, but I’d decided that this was just a practice date anyway (since I imagined I’d be taking a different approach to dating this time and that this likely wouldn’t turn into anything serious – I’d have a couple of drinks, try to be myself rather than present some idealized version of me, and then go home, relieve the puppy-sitter, and make dinner). I babbled on for a bit while we did the cursory introductory talk, and started to find myself settling in and relaxing.

I laugh now to think of how that went – unexpected and intense. Our first date lasted seven hours. Our second date lasted twenty-one. On our fourth date, we planned a beach vacation. On our fifth date, he brought me flowers and steak, we introduced our dogs, I told him I was pretty sure he was my person, and that was that.

Six weeks into knowing each other, we spent five days in Miami, in a gorgeous little place in South Beach, directly across the street from the beach. We ate some of the best (and worst) food of our lives, played in the ocean, laid on the beach, and spent hours pruning ourselves in the hot tub at night. It was glorious. I’ve never taken that much time off of work before, and I’m happily doing so again twice this year, so I can return to Miami and touch the ocean and eat at a restaurant called Bacon Bitch (if it’s still there, which hopefully it is and hopefully it’s amazing), because life is short and because I can.

I remember those early nights, where we’d stay up too late talking about everything and somehow make it to work the next day and function and then do it all over again the next night, when time did that strange thing where it expands while contracting; somehow it felt like forever, both inevitable and yet gently unfolding in front of us, shiny and new.

I can’t tell you what it feels like to feel so genuinely adored and understood; I could try, but it’d get strange and sappy, which it still might. To be seen is so freeing. To be so loved is to be enveloped in endless waves of warmth. I’ve had to stretch past the various things that hold me back, those nagging bits of darkness that live inside all of us that seem to scream louder in some of us than in others. I’m not alone, but that’s not the right word – I’m supported in a way I always dreamed might be possible; I want to grow and reach; I radiate with a warm glow of contentment, certainty, and joy. I am safe. I am home. Together, are we building a life. It’s chaotic, cluttered, and we’re exhausted, but there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

I’ve been resolute in my adherence to the red thread theory: the story goes that you’re tethered by fate – a red thread that will tangle and stretch, but never break, and it will lead you, through the course of your life, to meet exactly the people you need to in a way that will change the course of your life. I know that I’ve traveled down so many different paths in this life, and learned so many things, and finally, in the letting go, it came to me.

You know when you’re on the wrong path, because everything starts to feel muddy and confused, but then you get so far off that path that you can’t even figure out how to get back to it. Eventually, everything is gray. (One of my very favorite books, The Phantom Tollbooth, would likely describe this sensation as “the doldrums,” and it’s not wrong.) Sometimes, you end up putting your head down for so long that you lose your way, and the only way to find it again is to let go. (I’m not religious, but I do love the saying, “Let go and let God.”) It’s like that scene in Dune when he turns off the ornithopter in the middle of a dust storm, realizing that fighting was going to be futile, disastrous even, and trusts that it’ll find its way. And it does. It’s bumpy and awful, but they emerge, alive, and exactly where they’re meant to be.

The realignment of anything internal, be it joy, love, purpose, or whatever else, is one of the most motivating feelings in the world. Somehow, the slightest shifts start to stack up and before you even realize that you’re moving, you’re back on that path, the way forward lit up brilliantly before you; you yourself aglow again.

Time may be a flat circle, but my hope is that it’s like a stack of pancakes or a spring. I’d live this whole life all over again, exactly how it’s unfolded, to get back to where I am right now. We may be destined to repeat everything, and in that pessimism lies the beautiful repetition of the best bits and the occasional explosive expansion of joy. So even if this somehow falls apart, due to future human error or entropy or the inherent impermanence of everything, for now, it is the most wonderful thing, and I’m doing my best never to let my gratitude for this elation slip away.

After what has felt for me like the longest, darkest night (or a variety of moderately dim, often dark, sometimes decently illuminated years), the dawn is breaking and it’s absolutely glorious. I have a small family; I have a dog of my own; I am loved.

The photo below is not the dawn (I am not a morning person; I just got back from a week at the beach and I did not see the sun rise once), but rather an image that makes me feel radiant joy. As it turns out, I am actually capable of relaxation! All you need to do is give me sunshine, a warm, giant body of water, and enough time to let go and just be.

We’ve all come out of the last year changed in one way or another. Perhaps it’s a growing distaste for the general public or the government; perhaps it’s a newfound appreciation for solitude; perhaps it’s the realization that so much of our previous lives required unnecessary performativity in order to maintain our social and professional standing.

I’d like to pretend that we as a collective society leaned into grace and tolerance, kindness and caring, community and understanding, but that’s a farce about which I can’t even pretend to suspend my disbelief, and you should know by now that I’m prone to idealistic fantasizing, so this has been quite the letdown. Faith in humanity reduced. Quite significantly.

I quit my job three weeks before the pandemic started. I had to – the stress was slowly killing me. (I’ll save the juicy bits for my forthcoming post about the treatment of women in the healthcare system, something you likely already know about but need to hear more about.)

After leaving my job, I slept for a week, and decided to submit my graduate school application for a master’s in HR and started applying for jobs. Suddenly, the world ground to a “two-week” halt.

I have a wide range of skills, among them, legal work and nannying. I am nothing if not an excellent drafter of estate planning documents (I have a surprising ability to pay attention to detail, when necessary) and am a fantastic nurturer of young minds. I ended up throwing out my vision for the future (temporarily?), and embraced the new normal of slogging through an empty city (I will say, the lack of traffic during the initial shutdown was nothing short of amazing) to wrangle a resistant, frustrated child through the beginning (and eventual middle and hopeful end) of remote learning. At one point, I ran into my old boss at the grocery store, and she reached out to see if I could pick up some extra legal work since her assistant had to quit to take care of her own school-aged children.

It was an odd experience for me. While everyone else was cooped up at home learning how to bake sourdough bread and having Zoom happy hours, I was working four jobs, scrambling to make ends meet after the world of possibilities as I knew it had shuttered indefinitely. Babysitting, legal work, book editing, and decorating cakes. It became a mind-numbing time, not because I hated the work, but because it was always work and there was never quite enough time for anything. Everything felt dark and slow.

I know that as adult humans, we’ve all developed the capacity to entertain ourselves with a variety of distractions, both healthy and not, but for the children, it was a very disconcerting time. My now 11 year old had just switched schools, and the sudden shift to remote learning was difficult in an already difficult time. She was angry, upset, and scared, and those are all big emotions that are hard to name, and even harder to regulate.

The rules changed constantly, and even though adult me knows that change is the only constant, I still struggle with it, so I can only imagine what the constant state of uncertainty felt like for her. I’m used to being disappointed, but she has yet to learn that the world will never stop letting you down.

My experience with school was that everything just came to me. I know that’s not the normal experience for everyone. Her teacher was not the best remote learning teacher (and I’m not here to cast any sort of judgement, I can’t imagine what that massive switch was like for teachers) – she checked out. There were no lessons, just assignments. The curriculum was already new and different to my kiddo, so not having lessons left her untethered and free-floating, lost in an unfathomable abyss.

I tried to make it fun. I tried to show up for her. I tried to learn new math and teach her old math. I tried to make jokes. I tried to be realistic. I tried to be stern. It was horrible. Every day stretched on, the procrastination and the panic and the insecurity of not knowing built with each passing hour.

We took trampoline breaks. I had stopped going to the gym, obviously, and was grateful for the opportunity to develop what I called “trampoline legs.” She taught me how to do a front handspring – we practiced for hours, laughing at each horrible fall and celebrating the almosts – almost landed it, almost kept that handstand for 5 seconds, almost fell out of the mesh safety net.

We would lay on our backs on the trampoline, watching the clouds. I’ve long been a believer in staring at the sky to ground yourself. I also believe that the process of trying to discern shapes from an ever-shifting medium leads to a creative, flexible approach to thinking through scenarios. It’s a way to teach larger lessons without actually imparting them.

We took walks. We went on bike and scooter rides. (Turns out, I’ve still got it — I can still do little hops on a Razor scooter — which wildly impressed another of my former nanny kids.) Hilariously, we were going to get cupcakes one day, and I was on the scooter and everyone else was on bikes. Three teenage boys scooted past me on those Lime electric scooters and yelled, “Nice scooter, pussy!” at me. I was taken aback. I yelled back, “Why don’t you come say that to my face?” I fully intended to get them in front of me, have them realize I’m an adult, and then threaten to tell their parents and tell them to mind their manners, but they rode off into the afternoon, unabashed and full of adolescent hubris. We had a good laugh about that, and every time I find myself on a scooter, I think to myself, “Nice scooter, pussy!”

We had picnics. We built forts. We went to my house to sit in the hammock and break the monotony. We facetimed everyone we knew. We exhausted every game we had. We fought. I got so sick of dolls and dress up and started trying to get creative with the storylines – sometimes we were secret spies, sometimes we were business owners, sometimes we were graduate students.

In the middle of it all, George Floyd was killed by police in Minneapolis. My child found out about it from a neighbor. Breonna Taylor’s face filled social media. My child knew, and she was terrified. The unrest was growing. I did not protest, although I wanted to. I couldn’t – not with the fear of catching COVID, because I couldn’t afford to take two weeks off of work, and I felt that showing up for my child was more important in that moment. I watched it unfold. I watched her watch it unfold.

One day, we were driving and we passed an abandoned 7-11 with “Fuck the police” painted across the plywood. She said, “Katie, did you see that?” and I said that I hadn’t and asked her to elaborate. She told me, and I told her that those words were being spray-painted around the world because a lot of people were incredibly upset about what was happening.

We had one of those long car talks that day. I pulled up outside her house, and we sat in the car for half an hour. She’d just learned all the curse words, and in the middle of our conversation, she said, “Katie, can I say something?” and I said, of course, always. She said, “This is bullshit.” I looked at her, and I said, “No, this is fucking bullshit.” Her eyes got wide. I went off – my mom instincts and my rage came together in that moment. I looked her in the eyes and told her that I should not be having to have this conversation with a child. I told her that no child should live in fear of other people because of their skin color and that it’s not okay or acceptable. I told her that I will do everything in my power to protect her, to keep her safe, and to put my body in front of her or any child at any point in time. I told her that it was my job as a white person to show up and speak up, and promised her that I would never lie to her, and that I would always work to make her feel seen and safe. We talked about what it feels like to feel scared and afraid and different. We talked about everything. I tend to get intense when I’m in that frame of mind (or always), and after we took a breath, I checked in with her to see how she was feeling. She told me that she’d been feeling really scared, but that she felt a lot better after we talked. I promised her that I would always be there to listen to her and that I would always be there to stand up for her in the world.

Last summer, I was reminded about my purpose as a human. I’ve hated everything for so long, been dejected and disconnected, and generally free-floating into that mysterious abyss of uncertainty. Watching “my” child struggle to make sense of the insanity made me more determined than ever to show up every single day and to give her hope and consistency.

We survived the summer. We survived Mondays of remote learning. (I was doing more full-time legal work by that point, so I only had her one day a week once she started school.) She joined a book club at school and couldn’t wait to tell me all about it. Her eyes lit up. She was finally settling in and feeling secure, and seeing that change in her brought about a sense of relief I hadn’t known I’d needed.

On my birthday, her mom texted me to tell me that they’d run out of children’s pain relief and she’d had to take a pill, but she assured her mom that I’d already taught her how to take them. (I have no recollection of this, but it sounds like something I’d do – I always try to weave in the little things so that she’s ready for the world. Potato peeling lessons, knife skills, skincare, lady stuff, relationships, knowing your worth, etc. I casually drop mentions here and there in the hopes that someday, it’ll all come together in an innate sense of knowing how to be in the world.) Her mom thanked me for all of the lessons that I teach her, tangible and intangible. My heart swelled.

I was at the airport waiting to fly to Chicago recently, and she called me. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and she was calling to tell me she missed me. While we were catching up, she told me about solving problems and how there’s always a way, but sometimes it just takes longer to see. That’s a hundred and twelve percent from me, and I know I’m bragging here, but I feel like the most accomplished woman in the world. Watching her find her way and find herself has brought so much meaning to my life, in a way that she’ll never understand. She’s been such a gift to me.

I’ve recently had several conversations about worth. Success is generally defined as the ability to amass capital, the climbing of the invisible ladder that tethers us to capitalism, the obtaining of expensive goods and the ability to utilize expensive services. I have never subscribed to this, although I would really like to breathe at some point. I have always found worth from experiences such as this past year, as arduous as it was at times.

I was talking to a friend recently – the conversation began with the ominous question, “Why do you hate capitalism?” – about this. I told him I’m not any less intelligent than he is, but I’ve always had a disdain for certain things and it’s prevented me from “succeeding” in some areas. I argued that my worth in this world is measured by the ripples I put out into it, and in that, helping to shape a child’s perception of the world is my greatest accomplishment. It’s not quantifiable, it’s intangible, and yet it’s still incredibly real. I matter to that child. She trusts me. She listens to me. She feels safe with me. We’ve grown together.

My intention for my life has always been to love madly. To love wildly and freely and openly. And while I have allowed the bits of jaded bitterness to swallow the edges of my soul at times, it is experiences like this that keep that bright light at my core burning. Life is best when shared with others. Life is best when you are connected and giving. Life is best when you’re aligned with that purpose, and seeing the fruits of your labor bloom in front of you is the most rewarding experience. That is success.

Because I haven’t been able to write anything in a while (I keep starting and stopping, but mostly just not starting at all), here’s a draft pulled from the archives – this one is from early 2019. I also haven’t checked the hyperlinks. I have no idea as to what they refer; I have no idea if they work. Hope you’re all well.

***

After a particularly frustrating romantic situation ensued early last fall, I found myself explaining to my therapist how I’d written an email response to a man I’d been dating, who had, unexpectedly, cut off contact after sending a rather vague email ostensibly laying the groundwork for a future conversation, to which I’d crafted a detailed and thorough response, expecting it to assist with furthering the conversation when we got around to it. (Of course, to no one’s surprise, that conversation never came.)

As I was fretfully recounting the contents of my response, concerned I’d misstated something in my communication, my therapist began to get angry. I, of course, assumed that I had done something wrong, as is my usual first inclination when I sense a change in mood of someone I’m near. (Being a mostly empathic human being with an interestingly inconsistent emotional upbringing can be rather challenging as messages are often sharply internalized and distributed incorrectly, pointing fingers at myself first.)

Her eyes blazed with fury as she launched into one of the most passionate tirades I’ve witnessed from her. (Have I mentioned that I love this woman? I have been so fortunate to knock it out of the park with both of the therapists I’ve had in my life, and for that, I am eternally grateful.) This, she said, is not a problem only you face. This is a gendered issue. She continued, saying that she’s found herself writing these emails; that her friends have; that she knows not a single woman who hasn’t found themselves in this position: justifying themselves to men.

(For the purposes of this post, please allow for sweeping generalizations rooted in significant societal structures and do not forget that I am fully aware that there are exceptions to everything I’m about to attempt to lay out as undeniable facts.)

It’s more than just long-winded text responses that go ignored. It’s so much more. I forget her exact words, but in summary, it’s that women feel compelled to “dazzle” men. We must be dazzling in order to attract and keep their attention, and when something goes awry, we feel that it must be that we haven’t been dazzling enough. It becomes about us, rather than them. It becomes that we have failed to be bright and sparkly enough, and that it is us who must work on who we are and our approaches. It is that we haven’t done enough, or we’ve done too much, or we just aren’t right. The burden becomes ours. We are not met halfway; there is often no sense of compromise or communication of expectations. It simply is that we, somehow, weren’t enough. And thus, we then struggle to justify everything about us: our behavior, our appearance, our approaches, our reasoning for being the way that we are.

(This article in Jezebel discusses some of my feelings about the situation.)

I was stunned. I had spent many hours crafting an email that I hoped would provide this man insight into who I am as a person, by way of explaining who and how I am. Even as I sat there, with my initial inclination being to argue that of course I wasn’t justifying myself to dazzle a man, the realization settled over me, followed by a sense of moderate frustration.

She was right. I began to justify my actions to her, and she stopped me. It’s funny how now, I am aware of my own justifications, and how often I use them in all facets of my life.

And today, I’m irked again. The dude reached out, after 3 months of silence, and I, being the compassionate idiot that I am, accepted his invitation to lunch, allowed him an apology accompanied by crocodile tears and his own assertion that it had been cowardice that had prompted his silence. But he swore he thought about me every day. I responded: clearly not enough to email me back.

Oh, good. It’s like the dating equivalent of thoughts and prayers. “I may have completely disappeared from your life with no explanation and caused you anxiety and emotional upset, but at least I thought about you. So I’m a decent human being.”

Cowardice is rampant among us all these days. The internet and other means of indirect communication has allowed us to imagine that we are insulated and isolated from having to face the consequences of our own actions. And the wide availability of potential partners that you can meet without having to face the complications of mutual friends only widens the possibility for bad behavior.

I’ve been ghosted twice in my life. The first was after a brief fling with a musician. The second was with the man described above. Both of these stung because of the conversational connections we’d developed and the joy of thoughts unfurling in my brain. They were both quick-witted and funny, and seemed to embrace my irreverent self. And yet, they both evaporated, quickly, unexpectedly, and without explanation.

The musician, in his haste, neglected the fact that we have mutual friends. Thus, the unattached ghosting was ill-advised. And so, I kept his family. Not spitefully or intentionally, but because I love them. One day, last summer, I was in the car with his niece and nephew, whom I babysit with some regularity. From the backseat, I heard, “KatieBarry (they always call me KatieBarry, one word), why did you break up with our uncle?” I answered honestly that one day he stopped calling and I never knew why. And that’s when it happened – the heart-melting-est moment of my life thus far. The little boy piped up, “But KatieBarry, it’s okay; you got to keep us.” My heart broke into a thousand beautiful glittering pieces in that moment, such was the love I felt for them.

[2020 Edit:  I later received an apology. It’s curious how healing it can feel to have someone honestly apologize and explain their actions. I am so grateful. I love and support all journeys of growth. It’s helpful for my own journey, too, to have the chance to explore my feelings of abandonment, my own ways of creating and assuming, my own understanding of connection in this world.]

So as I write this, I’m thinking back on another stinging comment I received some years ago, from the man who wished me to change myself pretty thoroughly to suit him. “I love who you are but not how you are.”

I get it, but I think I disagree with the underlying concept of that statement. I am the sum of my parts. I am both who and how I am. They are mutually exclusive, to a certain extent. I get the counterargument you’re likely formulating now – such that patterns of behavior might be subject to change but core is unalterable. And perhaps the counterargument is correct. But perhaps not.

We are exactly who we are in any given moment, and the goal is not to love an idealized version of another human being. The goal is to accept that human being and love them for the things that are fantastic and in spite of the things that make them human. In that respect, and in the present, the who and the how are intertwined because both states are existing simultaneously. How I am may be subject to change, but cannot be extricated from the current state of identity, and that’s the who/how combination being presented by anyone at any given point. Hence, the cautions against falling in love with potential.

This is not a digression, but rather, the point of the whole thing.

I don’t believe in dazzling. I am wholly myself, and I am blessed with the chameleon-like ability to discuss nearly anything with anyone. I clean up nicely, I look good at galas, and am happiest at home in pajamas on the couch. I am intense from the beginning; I am not going to spend 8 dates with you pretending to be this perfectly pulled-together woman. You will get me, wholly me, but also a wide diverse array of what constitutes me. And look, here I am, justifying.

So, I think the rooted indignation I’m feeling about this whole cowardice/ghosting/justifying thing is at least two-fold. The first fold is that I know who I am, and I get insanely bothered when people pass judgment without having the full context of what comprises the definition of me as a human. Don’t make a series of assumptions based on a small data set. It’s a law of legitimate science and it should be in law in all things. The smaller the data set, the more likely it is that there are variables still yet undiscovered, unconsidered, as yet unknown.

The second is that people who won’t face difficult conversations are cowards. [2020 Edit: I’m currently avoiding having a difficult conversation – not of a romantic nature – and I’m terrified, so my previous statement is landing and I mostly completely disagree with it. I should modify it to read: “The second is that people who won’t face difficult conversations in dating/relationships and instead choose to just abandon the situation while knowing that it’s causing distress for the other party are cowards, even if they’ve got mitigating circumstances like significant emotional baggage themselves.” And yet, we are all human, fallible, fragile creatures. How can we expect so little and so much at the same time from others? I imagine it’s because we should all expect so little and so much of ourselves, too: curiosity, compassion, understanding, and acceptance. But all of that comes from being able to be honest and open with ourselves. It is perhaps that vulnerability has become nearly impossible to attain authentically.)

And perhaps one more fold is that it’s frustrating to expect a certain amount of honesty, or to provide compassion and understanding and openness only to be met with bullshit behavior. It’s downright disrespectful.

And lastly, co-mingled with the honestly/openness issue, there’s the issue of omission/the unsaid. Assumptions are problematic, we all know that, and while honest communication can be difficult, I also think that at times, there’s a massive gap in the experiences between the parties that creates chaos.

There was a time when I was flying to another city in the Midwest (tulip tress! old stone everywhere! amazing plants! barbecue!) to visit a love interest with whom I saw a future. There was so much unsaid between us, no clear definition of intention, and now, after some reflection, I believe it was a mishap caused by me going on a date in Denver with someone who was ill-advised and particularly unpalatable that led my love interest to inform me that he would never feel safe with me.

I was gutted. I had intended nothing by the date, had hoped that we would eventually have the “what are we doing here?” conversation (and thinking back now, perhaps I subconsciously mentioned the date and the weirdness therein in order to passive aggressively prompt that conversation instead of handling it like a mature adult; I don’t know, it’s all lost to time), and rather than keeping a friend by concluding together that we should not pursue a romantic relationship that was going to be difficult to navigate or gaining a partner, all was lost. Even now, I wonder how my experience of that time differs from his. I wonder how I could have communicated better and been more open and honest. I guess it’s a point of continual growth for us all. Introspection is important.

Life is hard. Life is scary, and it’s complicated. You don’t have to fall in love with everyone you meet. You don’t have to reciprocate feelings. You don’t have to do anything, except that you do. It should be well understood that undertaking any attempts at romantic entanglement, be they purely coital, purely intellectual, or anything in between, comes with the assumption that both parties are expected to be clear, to communicate, and to act with respect for the feelings of the other person.

Perhaps you aren’t feeling a romantic connection, or are irked by some behavior that has presented itself. You don’t just run away and dodge it. Have a conversation. How much is lost in the unsaid in-betweens of assumption and experience? Far too much. You just say, Hey, it’s not you, it’s me. (That’s a lie, but at least it’s closure commentary that will give the other person some peace.) You are obligated to clearly conclude the relationship, even if it’s an undefined relationship. It’s compassionate and intentional. It shows integrity.

[2020 Edit: You can see why this post remained a draft – it wandered on and was left unfinished. I have skimmed it and have nothing to add. I don’t know how I’d sum it up. I know that when I began it, I had some grandiose point, and now it’s petered out. Perhaps it’s best left unfinished, as I am thinking that all of this was more a rumination upon the state of things than it was to draw some final conclusion. Life is messy. Love is messy. Communication is messy. We’re all out there trying to do the best that we can without losing too much.]

Oh, surprise, surprise, rape blog again.

I hate this.

I hate what is going on right now as far as the current Supreme Court nominee, Kavanaugh. It’s a fucking hard Kava-no from me.

I haven’t eaten in two days. I have ordered food, looked at food, and taken two bites of food.

Politics is real. What action and inaction politicians are taking has a very real affect. It affects all of us. Especially some of us. Especially in certain situations. This is one of them. I hate the word “triggered” – but here’s the deal – it’s real. It’s a real thing. And it happens when you least expect it, and usually welcome it the least. Now is one of those times.

When I was 12, my father had taken us – and I do mean that – and we were in Eagle, Colorado, staying with some people we’d met at City Market. We were on our way to the movies that night, and I was sitting in the front seat of a car with bench seating. I was in the middle, because I was small. During the drive, the man, a stranger, put his large hand on my small thigh, and left it there. I froze. I stayed frozen. I finally moved to pick up his hand and remove it from my thigh, placing it on his own. That night, I stayed awake, with my back to the wall of the hard bed I was sleeping in, waiting for him to come. He didn’t come. I told no one. Later, when my dad wanted to go back to visit this family, I fought and cried and begged and fought. I got in trouble. I told no one the real reason I didn’t want to go.  I told no one until I was in therapy after college. I told my therapist. Then I told my mom.

When I was 18, I was drugged, along with my pregnant roommate, at a party. I felt the feelings of thoughts escaping my mind, and stared out of a window. I got her home, somehow, safely, and fed her milk while she was throwing up. My muscles didn’t work, and I barely made it to my bed. Bu I somehow managed to save us that night.

When I was 24, I went on three dates with a pilot. I told him, on our first date, that I didn’t want to have sex. We kissed, and everything progressed, and I protested, but when it happened, I froze. I didn’t say no. I remember laying there, in the midst of it, knowing it was a no but not knowing how to get out of it. I stayed silent and it was over.

When I was 24, I was drugged and assaulted my a co-worker. If you have ever read this blog you are familiar with that story. I woke up 12 hours later, naked and damp, on the sixth floor of the Hilton in Midtown, New York City. He was waiting, as I was throwing up in a bathroom, and when he spoke to me he asked me what I remembered. I said nothing. He said, “We just had some fun.” I will never forget the Bud Light bottle on the TV stand. I will never forget that shower, or the rest of the day, or the rest of the rest of my life. That day, I told no one. I later told my bosses. Three months later, I had an emotional breakdown. It wasn’t until way after that that I told my mom. I tell my mom everything. She knew. But she didn’t know exactly what. It was that. The weekend I got home from New York, I cried for 8 hours straight. I sliced my thighs with a  wine opener so I could feel something and stop crying. No one knows that. My brother came to my door that Saturday while I was completely immobilized by tears, oblivious to what was going on, because no one knew, and told me he wasn’t sure what was going on, but that he loved me.

When I was 27, I was drugged at a party. My then-boyfriend came back after being gone for a bit to find both myself and his male cousin not okay. He spent the night taking care of me. It was almost Easter.

When I was 29, my then-boyfriend dismissed my explanation of someone touching my breasts inappropriately at an acro yoga event, saying that because we’d had prior history, I had welcomed it. I hadn’t. I hadn’t welcomed the prior history, either, but I’d frozen then as well. It had been preceded by unwelcome fingers finding me in a hot tub. I had moved, immediately, to another place. I did not say anything.

There is more. There is always more. There’s me at 19 being thrown to the floor of an acquaintance’s apartment; there’s me in Chicago being groped at a bar, shuffling against the wall to prevent it from continuing; there’s more; there’s more; there’s more.

This circus we’re currently undergoing in the political sphere is ridiculous. Not for a single reason. For a hundred reasons. I can’t explain to you the terror and discomfort I feel at night, in the morning, always. I can’t tell you what it’s like to relive my assault over and over again as I read the news. I can’t explain the tears I cried on Election Night 2016. I can’t explain the hatred, the rage, the shame.

My Facebook feed today – and not just today – is full of friends detailing their assaults publicly. This is both beautiful and horrific. Coming clean, coming out, explaining is so freeing, but also so exposing. And of them, most went unreported. There’s a sick statistic out there that says that something like 6% of rapists go to jail.

I don’t doubt that, and I honestly doubt that it’s not a lower percentage.

I can’t report mine. I was naïve at the time, and wasn’t aware that I had options. Honestly, I was more worried about my job than anything else. I didn’t know that I could have sued the company. The statute of limitations has since passed. It’s two years. An ex boyfriend, who was a lovely and supportive human being, looked into it for me. I won’t call New York State and explain to them what happened to me in 2013. Because I can’t and won’t be able to meet the burden of proof and I can’t and won’t handle the emotional damage it would wreak upon me.

I dated older men. I am kinky. I had drunk alcohol that night. Therefore, I must have been complicit. I must have wanted it. I must have invited him in.

I can’t prove otherwise. I don’t have blood tests to show you that I was drugged. I don’t have semen samples to show you that I had sex. I don’t have shit. It is me against the world on this one, and it always will be.

I don’t know what happened to my body in New York in January of 2013. I never will. But something happened, and everything changed. My life will never be the same. I’m lucky, because I wasn’t there for it, consciously. People far stronger than I have weathered the storm that comes from sex they’re there for. It wasn’t until I read an article in April of 2013 about the Steubenville rape case where an economist theorized that rape while you’re unconscious does no lasting psychological damage that all the hell came loose inside of me. I cried for two days; I didn’t sleep; I didn’t eat; I tore at my skin until I bled. It was then that the assault landed in a very real way. It was then that I called my therapist, and he came home from skiing to hear me, and it came out of me for the first time.

My life will never be the same. I have grown and overcome and learned and accepted. And I will never be the person I was before that night. I survived an unemployment hearing in which I was ripped to shreds by my former employer. I spoke bravely and certainly and calmly. And I felt relief. Someone finally heard me. Someone finally asked questions. It was horrible. I won.

To this day, I wonder what will happen if I ever run into any of those people who were complicit in covering up my sexual assault. My boss told me that the HR report was “inconclusive” and that if I told anyone at the company, and my assailant sued the company, it would be on me. He said that to me. I crumpled against the wall after he left my office. That was June of 2013.

I quit.

I went to work at a Dairy Queen and my life has never been the same. My career never recovered. My sense of self esteem that I had worked so carefully to build has never recovered. I have been treading water ever since, staying barely afloat and alive. I do work. I live. I date. I am. But I am not. And I never will be. I am alone. I live on an island of discomfort and fear. I live on an island of uncertainty. I have lost my confidence, my glow, my radiance. I am a shell of the person I was supposed to be. I am darkness and sadness and hurt. I am functional. I am outwardly happy. I am outwardly supportive and focused and attentive. I am none of those things. Not anymore.

I wanted to die.

My friend Gina asked me who would take care of my cat if I were to die, and that’s what saved it. I think of that, often. Carl is still alive. So am I. But what will save me when Carl is gone and the darkness resurfaces, as it does? I can’t die because I’d be letting down my mother. I can’t die because I matter to children. I can’t die because my room isn’t clean and I don’t want to bother anyone.

These are real thoughts.

If you watch these Kavanaugh confirmation hearings and don’t imagine yourself in Christine’s shoes, you’re wrong. Think. Think hard. Think of your whole life and think of everything that has happened to you. If you’re one of the lucky ones who has somehow managed to escape the touching and the groping and the sexual objectification and the assault and the rape and the disbelief and the cover ups and the fucking torture that is the cross-examination, you’re lucky. And you damned well better believe that it could happen to you. Because it will or it might. You can take every precaution and prepare every safeguard and you’re still at risk.

Life is hell. Sexual assault and rape and everything else associated with it is hell. For white men to stand up and deny this is disgusting. I am disgusted with our country, our president, our leadership. I am sick to my stomach tonight.

NO.