The Mask

I've spent much time in writing this blog, thinking about the person I was, the person I am, and the person I want to be. When I read sixtyfivewhatnow, I often wonder how I will choose to spend the latter years of my life. I have done so much, been through whirlwinds; how will I face my future? I think it is the wise thing to wonder and plan, I think it is the normal thing to do. I remember when I was younger, I thought I could live life as a chameleon, being what people wanted (see: Big Bad Wolf); but truly it was more than that, I wore a mask.

It seemed so harmless at first. It began with little things to help me fit in. I had grown up a tom-boy; it was a natural progression as I have no sisters and many brothers. I climbed trees, I wrestled, I belched. So, as I got older, I began to realize that I wasn't like other girls, and in my entrance into adulthood I decided to ease my way into femininity - to be normal. I started with weekly manicures. I sat for hours while a woman in a dust mask filed my nails, glued on tips, and polished them to perfection. I hated it; it was expensive, I couldn't move the entire time, and they were hard to type with. But I got compliments, and I liked those. Then I began working out twice a day for five days a week. The changes in my body were incredible. The men at work became drooling dogs, and I was happy about that.

Things escalated from there; there were hair pieces, spa treatments, and costly makeup. Then there were the clothes. The corsets, and flirty suits, and skin tight dresses. But it could not have been complete without the attitude, the body language, the belief that I was better and held some kind of power over men that I never actually used. I was constantly at odds with myself and the person I genuinely was inside was losing ground every day. I felt cold inside; the men I dated were pawns in my game to see how far I could get them to go for me. How could I get them to prove their devotion? How could I boost my own ego while lowering theirs?

I recognize now that in a way, my treatment of men at that time was really an attempt at getting revenge against my father. But in that moment, I only knew that I derived pleasure from it.

One particular person I met was unexpectedly sweet and real with me despite being an award winning director of commercials. He didn't treat me like property, but like a person; not like a goddess, but like a mortal. At first, this meant nothing to me; everything he knew about me was a lie - he never knew my real name or where I lived or who my family was. I never cared for him - he was just a way for me to spend my time; watching him spend money on me was a sport. It was all manufactured; from my feelings for him down to my false finger nails. It was all a trap for my own amusement.

One day, as I was sitting on his couch, he got down on his knees. He told me how much he loved me, and that he would always love me no matter what - no matter what secrets I was hiding from him, no matter who I really was inside, no matter what I wore or looked like. Something inside me cracked. He had gotten through. He was the only one to realize it was all a false front. He was the only one who actually wanted the real me.

After spending the rest of the day with him, I ran. I stopped taking his phone calls and I was relieved that he didn't really know where I lived. I wasn't ready to face the truth of who I was. I had become some beauty whore - some glamour monster - and although I knew it, I didn't want to give it up. I kept seeing him though, in my mind's eye, down on his knees, so sincerely professing his love for me, and a part of me grinned - this sadistic evil grin of satisfaction, thinking of how I must have broken him when I walked away.

But there was another side of me, the side that hated what I had done, the side that knew I couldn't keep up this act. The side who knew I had violated everything good and holy about my being - and that side was fighting hard to regain control.

A year later, after I returned to myself, I called him and invited him to dinner - my treat. We talked, we laughed, and I apologized. It was hard putting down that mask, but once it was off, I vowed to never wear it again.

Tomorrow, Prom Night. . .

The Big Bad Wolf

I've been reading blogs; sixtyfivewhatnow, non linear thinking, land of shimp. . . I've peeked into other people's lives in an intimate way. In a way I haven't peeked into some of my own friends lives. I've read stories that convince me that although each of our journeys is different we are all the same inside. What does that mean? Are we all normal, or are none of us normal - and more importantly, does it matter? Once upon a time it mattered, it mattered enough for me to want to cause my own end.

How do you sum up heartache, karma, your own self destruction? How do you tell a story in a few paragraphs that weaves throughout your entire life? How do you tame the big bad wolf enough to get him down on paper?

There was a pinnacle, a time when I felt at my physical peek and my mental low, it was the perfect storm. The perfect time for me to fall. I was working for a large firm in the financial industry, one particularly filled with people who embodied bravado and self-importance. I had a sense of pride working there, then that pride turned into conceit. I was a wall flower who had blossomed and then over-bloomed. I went from staying home and painting - never drinking, to attending company get-togethers and having drinks after work, and finally going out dancing and dating almost every night of the week. But I had this weight inside me, a voice, it kept telling me that no matter how much others thought of me, no matter what I did, no matter where I was, I would never be good enough. I would never be truly loved - the best I could hope for is that people might want me. I'd play this dialogue in my head day in and out, the soundtrack to my thoughts was "Jane Says" by Jane's Addiction. The movie of my life was "Eye of The Beholder". I had a whole world in my head of excruciating emotional pain. Pain I wanted to "share" - inflict on the source of my pain, men.

Sometimes this meant dating men for months and months and withholding sex, only to break up with them - they would never hear a peep from me again. Sometimes it meant creating a lie of love, where I would do all I knew would allow them to fall in love with me, but not me, really a character I created in my head. One who had all the qualities they wanted - and usually that character was nothing like the real me. She was someone I created through getting into the psyches of my victims and wearing their desires like a second skin. It didn't matter what they wanted, I would be that for them. And when I felt like they were engrossed with this false love, I would crush them like little bugs, and leave them. Some would get on their knees declaring their love for me, some stalked me, some cried. It's what I wanted. I wanted someone to cry as much as I cried, I wanted them to feel as worthless as I did. I wanted to devastate.

None of them ever really knew me. Most never even knew my true name, or where I lived - they never met my family. I was a piece of fiction, and although the men didn't care in the beginning, I tried to make sure that they did by the end - that was the only way I could get my satisfaction. It was an addiction. Crushing the souls of gorgeous successful men was delectable. It gave me temporary reprieve from my own pain.

One night I was with a man I had been dating for a few months. Sitting on his couch sipping wine and staring out of his window. He asked me what I was thinking, and I told him that I wasn't one of his patients - he was a published psychologist - oh, the irony! Then he told me how beautiful I was, how I had the shapeliest legs he had ever seen, how much he wanted me. It fed my ego and the wretchedness in me. It was what I lived for. He had a tendency to take it to the edge when we had sexual contact. We did out of the ordinary things - partially because I didn't want him penetrating me. He often got S&M-lite on me. That particular night my spidey senses were tingling. I felt strange, extra drunk, it just felt like something wasn't right. Then he kissed me, and began choking me. After a few minutes he stopped and I went to the restroom to compose myself. On my way, I saw handcuffs and a big sheet of plastic crumpled up in a corner. I felt queasy inside. I had been tied up before, but I had no idea what he planned to do with that plastic - it was creepy. That was enough for me. When I came out of the bathroom I excused myself, stumbled down the stairs and out into the street frantically trying to hail a cab. My mind was racing, I thought about all the times languishing in his bed at his home and beach house, listening to other women leave him messages about how much they wished he was there, and how I laughed at them. I thought about how superior I felt. Now I was in a cab fleeing from him. I knew I had to change.

I searched my contacts and actually gave some of the men I dated face-to-face apologies for breaking their hearts. I stopped dated for a year, and I did a lot of soul searching. When I decided to get back into the dating scene, I changed the type of person I dated. I focused on what was on the inside. That's when I met the man I thought I would marry. I liked his spirituality, his work ethic, and I loved the way he treated me. We created new experiences together that were joyous and wholesome. I was happy, for once in my life I was happy. I was normal. On one of our dates, I told him how happy I was. I told him I loved him, and he told me how beautiful I was. Uh-oh, I made a mistake. A few days later he called me and ended it.

I was devastated; I had literally dreamed of marrying this man. I loved him, I wanted him to love me. I fell into some vast gorge of hurt. I didn't want to live, I didn't deserve to live, and this was exactly what I deserved for what I had done all those years. For all of the hearts I crushed. For how cruel I was to so many. I grabbed every bottle I could find in my medicine cabinet and swallowed. Sleeping pills, cold medicine, anything and everything, and I laid down on my couch. It was midnight.

As I began drifting off, I heard the doorbell ring. I staggered to the door - it was my mother. How did she know? What was this? I let her in and I told her that I had broken up with my love. She made my some soup and watched me slowly eat without saying a word. I kept thinking, "I don't want my mother to wake up to a dead body". I was fighting to stay awake. I went to the bathroom and tried to throw up. Nothing came out. All I had was shear will power, I didn't want to tell her what I had done and be rushed to the hospital. That was one of the longest nights I’ve had, but here I am today - my mother saved my life.

Tomorrow, The Accident. . .

The Death of An Uncle

Travelling back in time, your thoughts become clearer on the situations you've been in. Is it embellishment? Is it the benefit of hindsight? This is a natural phenomenon, it's something I think everyone does, looking back and thinking of the things you wished you would have said or done. Things you thought you said, but didn't. I wish I could go back and say the things in my thoughts, especially to my uncle who passed, and that feeling is only normal.

My family is so huge, sometimes we lose touch with each other. I had an uncle who lived four states away that I met as a teenager when my mom tracked down her father. He was so cool - he wasn't like any of my aunts or uncles I grew up with. He was candid, he shared stories with me of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. He taught me life lessons and a bit of tolerance. And like I said, he was cool :) He was in a rock band, but he also had a steady job with the military. He loved children, but he dated strippers. He insisted on order, but he looked like a hippie. That was my uncle.

I met him, we hung, and then, like that, we lost touch. Somehow life had gotten in the way.

He reached out to me again years later, he wanted help re-decorating his house. Every weekend I'd take the over 3 hour drive; and we'd paint, we'd laugh, we'd talk. He'd tell me of his lost love as I reached into his refrigerator for a beer; pictures of my uncle with strippers - nude and partially nude - staring back at me. He'd tell me about going into the desert on a vision quest; peyote, sweat lodges, shamen. He'd tell me of concerts he played, bands he'd met before they became famous. Those weekends were treats for me. Like little candies I got to eat for the price of painting, which is something I love to do. I didn't want the project to end, but it did, and then the visits gradually stopped.

Sometimes we would email each other, but it wasn't the same. I would often think about him; his words, particularly about his lost love, they haunted me. As it is the case with life though, years passed, days coming and going without recognition of human contact with one I cherished in my mind. Then a phone call, "Your uncle's in the hospital - he's in a coma."

Over the Thanksgiving weekend he had slipped into a diabetic coma, thankfully a neighbor found him - his neighbors loved him and watched over him like hawks protecting their nests. I drove to the hospital with my then boyfriend, now husband, and we wondered what condition he would be in when we got there.

Walking into the hospital room and seeing my uncle with the respirator was startling. His eyes were open, but it was like he wasn't there. He was swollen, he was still, he was silent. No more talks. No more stories. No more life? Family and friends, we all spoke to him, we all wanted to feed him back the stories that he had given us, and nourish him with his own wisdom and love. Back at the bed and breakfast, in our little room, I cried with a flood of emotion I didn't know I had, feelings that I did not want to share with my boyfriend, a person I wasn't sure I was going to be with till the end. I wanted to hold back, but my heart wouldn't let me. The grief was too strong; and yet. . . I was comforted, I was held, there were words soothing my soul.

My boyfriend and I travelled back and forth twice, sometimes three times a week, waiting. While we were home, my mother called and said my uncle was conscious - I was so thankful. We went back, and there he was, so surprised and happy to see me. I introduced him to my boyfriend and we all began talking, sharing stories and laughing again. He wanted us to fix up his house. We decided to paint the interior of the entire house and renovate the kitchen, while others in my family did the rest. Once again, I was travelling back and forth, this time, with company.

We would work on the house during the day and visit my uncle at night. He'd ask us to bring him pizza, and Chinese food, his lesson not learned. Maybe more so, he just wanted to live his life, and that meant eating what he wanted to eat. We'd show him pictures of our progress. My boyfriend would rub his feet with lotion and we would both help him stand up. Sometimes, I would leave the two of them alone, and they would talk. After a couple of weeks I confessed to my uncle that I was thinking of ending my relationship. He held my hand and looked me in the eyes and told me not to. He said, "That man loves you, don't be like me, you have to do what's in your heart. It will be a mistake."

Eventually, my uncle was well enough to be moved to a rehabilitation center. He began walking on his own again, and was on his way to returning home. I guess that's why it was such a shock when I got the call that he was dead.

It was so final.

Chaos ruled my brain, I didn't know what to say, do or think, but I knew one thing - I would go to the funeral. Many family members had passed, and I avoided their funerals, but I would go to this one, I can't explain why I chose my uncle's funeral to be the first I had ever attended, but I knew it had to be.

When we arrived, there were a crush of people and cars, tears were already welling in my eyes covered with dark sunglasses, and my mother was being held up by my brothers. So many people loved him, so many people with warm memories. My only regret, it wasn't the funeral he asked for. He sincerely wanted strippers at his funeral who would through thongs on his casket as it was buried. He wanted a party.

Tomorrow, a lost father - the second coming. . .