Love is There.

I think most people expected that Valentine's Day would find me looking kind of like this:

 

 

And I don't think anybody would blame me right now for feeling like I want to shield myself from all those raining hearts.

 

But I like love a lot.  That's why I'm so sad that I've had my heart broken.  I don't get to have that kind of love right now. 

 

On V-Day, one of my friends posted this archived blog post to Facebook(http://www.yarnharlot.ca/blog/archives/2007/02/14/love_is_all_you_need.html), which provided me with some reading to while away the empty hours at work, and also a way to focus on the love I've got instead of what I've been so sorely missing these past few weeks. 

 

Because there is a lot of love in my life.  I have so many great friends who let me cry, who get me drunk, who make me laugh, who hug me, who distract me, who help me feel beautiful, who remind me to breathe, who promise me that one day I'm not going to feel this sad anymore, and remind me that I am actually worth the love I've got and the love that, one day, I'm going to have again. 

 

And actually, it was a pretty good day.

 

Valentine's Day started with a text message from a dear friend with the news that she had given birth to a beautiful and healthy baby girl that morning.  I'm not sure how I could possibly be cranky when my day starts with such great news. 

 

It was important to me that I have a good day and still be able to celebrate love.  When someone tells you he can't be with you any longer and he can't keep trying to make things work, it's really easy to believe that you're not worth the trying, not worth the love that makes you try.  And if it's true that I'm not worth someone else's love, why should I try either? 

 

I should try because deep, in my heart of hearts, I know that there are lots of really great things about me that are worth someone's love, particularly my own.  I'm generous, committed, perseverant, a good listener and honest.  I'm witty, pretty good at helping people see the big picture, and very good at finding the humour in a situation.  I'm a pretty talented musician, singer, writer, actor, and have been known to cut a pretty decent rug from time to time.   I'm a great cook, I'm pretty adventurous with food, and I learned how to roller skate when I was 28.  None of this is to say that I don't have flaws also, but I really think that love is about coping with the flaws because the good stuff is so good.

 

If I try to think about one of the happiest and most awesome times in my life as a single person, I think back to when I wrote this: http://www.hotmisst.blogspot.ca/2010/10/hot-people-unleash-their-secret-weapons.html.  I felt invincible when I wrote that.  I knew I was pretty great, and that sometimes I needed some armour to remind myself.  I lost some of that armour; I disposed of it when I was in the safety of a romantic relationship, thinking the relationship would be armour enough.  I forgot that I should always be my own most steadfast, brave defender.

 

My next project is rebuilding my suit of armour.  And learning to keep that armour safe no matter how safe the arms of another person make me feel. 

Grief is Persistent.

I'm not ok.

And guys, I've been trying.

I'm eating right.  I'm staying active.  I'm maintaining contact with friends.  I'm getting out.  I'm seeking counsel.  I'm staying involved.  I have a to-do list as long as my arm.

These help.  Lots.  But I'm still not ok.

I've been reading a little about the stages of grief lately, for what I think are obvious reasons.  I feel as though they're not really stages for me.  It's not like I'm walking up a set of stairs progressively reaching the upper echelon of acceptance.  My grieving process seems to me to be more of an elaborate spiro-paint picture.

The discussion that initiated our breakup lasted about two hours (or six months, or three years and three months, depending on your vantage point).  In that time, I felt all of the stages of grief.  Even acceptance, when 30 seconds after I left him and drove away, my phone rang.  I was sure it was him calling me to say he'd made a mistake and took it all back.

It was someone else.

The stages of grief continue to spiral.  They feed each other, causing an outbreak.  A vicious circle of crummy emotions.

Denial

The denial is easy.  The last year and a half was mainly long-distance.  I'm used to his not being here.  Most days are totally normal, but for a few phone calls and text messages I'm not getting anymore.  It isn't at all difficult to convince myself for a moment or two that I've just had a bad dream and everything is fine.  Remembering is hard.

Bargaining

I think I've done a decent job of not ACTUALLY bargaining with him since the break-up discussion.  Instead, I'm just making bargains with myself, or God, or the devil, or the great flying spaghetti monster.  IF I just deal with my shit, if I work myself out of my (borderline?) depression into something super happy and chill, if I lose a ton of weight, if I become a completely different and way more awesome person THEN somebody up there or out there will make him see it and he'll change his mind.  Right?

Don't bother setting me straight.  I already know.

Sometimes, though, it's that baseless optimism that gets me through the day.  It's what keeps the depression from swallowing me whole.

Depression

Every time there's a bit of something that I can't deny or bargain my way out of, that's a time that I find myself sobbing in the bathtub or getting teary-eyed while I look for the best deal on paper towel this week.

Once, in my childhood, I crawled to the blind end of my sleeping bag.  Then, someone (probably my brother.  Or my Dad) sat on the open end, trapping me.  It was all a hilarious joke.  I feel suffocated, confined and stuck by the depression part of things.  Problem is, just like thrashing around inside the sleeping bag only made me panic more, fighting the depression doesn't make me any less stuck. 

Acceptance

I'm even trying to work on acceptance, if for no other reason than the possibility that it might hasten the end of the depression.  I try to imagine myself alone.  That alone person imagines herself getting another cat.  This person rethinks her "crazy cat lady" plan.  I try to imagine myself with other people.  Like, BEING with them.  Loving them.  And then I feel guilty because my heart is still with him.  And then we're back to depression.

Anger

I've saved anger for the end.  Not because it's "best for last."  Not because it's going to be the juiciest read.  I've saved it for last because it is the hardest for me to be ok with feeling.  In the way I think of depression swallowing me whole, I think of anger as something chewing me up.  Anger will change me. 

Anger is poisonous.  Being angry at him makes things poisonous between us.  It closes doors on our relationship (whatever that ends up being [there I go...bargaining again]).  It poisons my friendships, because my friends were "our" friends and are still also his friends.  Anger means they have to choose, which they shouldn't have to do, since there's not really a right or a wrong side to this.

But I must admit to some anger.  I'm angry that I couldn't be what he wanted.  I'm angry that I worked so hard at making myself better and that all that work now seems to have been for naught, since I've got another great mountain of sadness and anxiety and self-doubt sitting on my chest after having shoveled the last pile almost all away.  I'm angry at myself for being weak enough to fear that I might never get over him, that I might always be alone, that some part of me is missing without him.

Most of all, I'm angry that this keeps taking so much of my time.  That I can't just man up and move on and start being a happy and fun person again.

But that's what moving on is going to take.  My time.  And I'd better get used to it.  Because I can't run up the stages of grief like a set of stairs, Rocky Balboa-style, much as I would like to.  The spiro-paint will stop when it's finished, and only then will I be ok.

Tears are Pain.

My only goal this week was to make it through a day of work without crying.  It took until Friday, but I made it through Friday's work hours without having to lock myself in the bathroom, unravel all of the work toilet paper, and whisper to myself to keep breathing.  I made it through without running into my office and closing the door when the wrong song came on the piped-in radio.  I managed stifling the lip quiver when one of my clients asked me if I was all settled into the area now, after almost four years, and wasn't I married yet?  Oh well, lots of nice young men out there. 

I made it.

So, I've got work down.  That's about 35 hours of the week.  The other 133 hours are another story.

And I wish they weren't.  Because crying hurts.  Physically.  I spent the weekend with my parents and joked that the reason for my rosy cheeks is that I've been bathing them in warm salt water for the past week.  You know, from my eyes.  And they're burning.  My eyes burn too.  And I have a headache most of the time.  My back aches from those moments when you just can't catch your breath and you start to hyperventilate.  My eyelids are almost purple from being rubbed dry.

Unfortunately, I'm really effing sad.  And I think that's going to be the predominant feeling in my emotional repertoire for some time to come.  Everything makes me cry.

• Remembering - Our relationship had been long distance for the past year and a half.  It's normal to wake up alone.  I forget and think that I might call him later.  And then I remember.
• Showering - Maybe it's about the time of the morning that I start to remember that things are not normal anymore.  Or maybe the privacy of the shower makes me feel comfortable to start sobbing, but I have yet to take a shower without some kind of emotional response.
• Listening to Music - I don't think this is a surprise to anyone.  Between Friday and today I've spent nine hours in the car with my mp3 player.  I've learned that there are many songs I can't listen to right now.  There's the obvious choices - REM's "Everybody Hurts" is a song basically giving you permission to cry it out and sometimes made me tear up anyway.  Neil Young's "Helpless" coming down the hill in North Bay was like someone kicking me in the heart with a steel-toed boot.
• Feeling the Love  - I just need to know that I'm going to be ok.  To be honest, the number of people who have offered kind words, open arms and the space to be really effing sad has been a little bit overwhelming.  At a time when it would be so easy to feel so very lonely, I have never felt so surrounded.  I will still need the reminder (probably quite often), but it's much easier now to believe that I'm going to get through this with more or less all the pieces I started with.
• Silence - Sometimes nothing's happened and I find myself in tears.

Things that don't make me cry include: making a rickety bed with my father at 2 a.m. on a Friday night after a long drive, playing complicated piano music, and sleeping.

The sadness I feel and the accompanying tears are a normal part of the grieving process, I'm told.  I know I can't carry a torch forever, lest I set myself on fire.  Maybe the tears are a safety feature - a built-in fire extinguisher.  But I can't cry forever, no matter how sad I feel.  I'm hoping instead to convert much of my sad energy into handcrafted items for friends, family, and self, feats of athleticism and devastatingly emotionally on point musical performances.  We'll see how this goes. 

When I was driving to my parents' this weekend, there was a tiny section of rainbow over the horizon.  When I was driving back, there was a sliver of new moon smiling at me.  Though I'm currently not particularly devout, I am a Sunday School veteran.  The rainbow was a promise from God that He would never flood the earth again. 

I'm not so naïve as to believe that I'm never going to feel heartbroken again, but I'm going to take it and the smiling moon as a sign from the ether that things are going get better.  Just like everyone keeps saying. 

Standing is Hard.

I've always been able to stand pretty strong in the face of adversity, but this one knocked me pretty hard.

My boyfriend broke up with me on Monday.

Yes.  I'm devastated.
Yes.  I spent the past two day trying to conceal my messy crying while I attended to my day-to-day duties.  My coworkers were awkward, but understanding.
Yes.  I think he's made a huge mistake.

But, as my father so eloquently put it when I called him in tears from a Tim Horton's parking lot just north of Orillia "It takes two, you know."

And I guess that's it.  I've received no real explanation aside from "I just don't think things will work out between us."  And maybe that's enough.  Lord knows I don't need to hear a laundry list of my faults right now.  I'm good enough at making them for myself.

And while I disagree - I think we're two matching puzzle pieces that just haven't found the right sides to fit together, I guess that with too much jamming together, even pieces that fit are going to be dog-eared and be a weak link in the puzzle when they finally find the way they're supposed to go.  I was never hell-bent on finding my matching piece.  I just met him and after a while, was so unflappably sure we fit together.  I hope I've still got all the right ins and outs and corners when someone picks me up again to find where I fit.

And maybe that's why I'm so upset.  When I've grown so tangled and twisted with someone and intertwined so much of my past and present and future with his (there's a lot of intertwining;  I really thought he was it for me), I'm just at a complete loss as to how to cut away all the pieces of him without cutting away great limbs of myself.  I've really never had much luck as an arborist.  Where the fuck do I start?

So, that's how I feel: like a broken puzzle piece holding up a tree that grew twisted around me and died, hoping like hell that when the dead tree falls it doesn't take me down with it.

But I have good friends to hold me steady through the contortions of untangling myself, and to help me clean up the downed branches.  I don't know the answer to a lot of questions, and I don't know that they have any more answers than I do.  But they keep telling me when I ask them.

I'm going to be ok, right?

And now we return to our regularly scheduled programming...

So, I know I've been a huge downer lately.  Obviously, a huge reason that I've been a huge downer is because I've been feeling down, though.  As you know, I've been working through some of my demons.

Sometimes, when you're feeling like things just aren't going right, you need to blog about it, cry to your boyfriend on the phone several times a week, enlist the help of a social worker, and start a band with your friend.

Other times, you just need a fancy-looking drink.  Here's a Licorice Twist, which I lifted from the Spring 2012 issue of the LCBO's Food & Drink magazine.  It's supposed to have lychee in it, but I live in Northern Ontario, so I used guava instead.  Word to the wise: It's not the same.  I found lychee in the grocery store just last week.  Alas, too late.

(c) other 3 percent

A brief explanation

I've been trying to move on from my brief departure from my usual crafting adventures, but I feel that before I do that I must offer some explanation.

I named this blog The Other Three Percent.  I'm sure that at least a few people can guess where that phrase comes from, but for those who cannot, here's the story.  I should note that this is a consolidated account of several events, but here goes anyway.

I was kind of a smartypants growing up.  I followed instructions and did well at just about everything school threw at me.  One day I came home from school with a test I was super-duper proud of.  I got a 97%.  I showed it to my parents.  My father's first reaction was "What happened to the other three percent?"

Now, my father has since explained to me that he was joking.  Sadly, my 11-year-old self internalized some of that question and now I'm always asking myself where the heck the other three percent went.  Because, you know...to lose those three points is a huge tragedy.  Never mind that I have ninety-seven of them in my loot bag already.

I'm not sure what the other three percent really is.  That little bit of not working so hard that everyone needs in their life?  The part of yourself that isn't academic pursuits?  Something I think I lost somewhere?

I think it's the things I do that make me proud of myself - that make up the difference in my shortcomings and make me add up to 100% - which is what I've always expected of myself.

We will soon return to our regularly scheduled programming.

Crawling Out.

 

The turning point, when I realized what was eating me, was a recent experience singing in front of others.  And knowing I was being judged.

I was auditioning for a role in a locally produced musical.  In the scheme of things, not really a high-stakes situation.  Especially since I didn’t have my heart set on a particular role.  I signed up to audition for a principal role, knowing that I likely wouldn’t get it.  I also knew that the music was set in a key that I wasn’t going to be super comfortable with.  Since adolescence there’s been this thing about my voice that I’ve struggled with.  The break.  Lots of singers struggle with the break.  But for me, it was one of the things fuelling my anxiety about singing a solo in front of others.  And I wanted to work on it.

I took lessons. I practiced every day for months.  I could hear the improvement in my voice.  The last few practices prior to my audition, I knew I had it nailed.  And by nailed, I mean, I had done a good job of overcoming the challenges of my voice (not “I nailed it and would totally get the lead role in the musical and become famous forever”, just in case you were confused.)

And then came my turn to audition.  There were nine judges.  There were people there who might form opinions of me and my singing voice.  People who’s opinions I cared a lot about.  And then I felt my homeostatic regulators switch off.  I took a few deep breaths.  The first few bars were great.  But once I hit the first note in the the middle of my break, I knew it had all gone to shit.  The remaining two minutes of the song felt like eons.  I imagined everyone’s ears receiving the wavery, warbly aural information I was sending out, and translating it into judge-y thoughts.

Afterwards, several people told me what a nice voice I had.  How they didn’t know I was such a great singer.  Great job.  Instead of accepting that I had not done the “nailed it” job I knew I could, but had still done a good job since, you know, lots of people had said so, I decided to interpret those compliments as the useless platitudes of polite people.  And I felt like shit for two weeks afterwards.  Because of how my body had failed me again.

And the “again” is important.  Because this miniature crisis I’ve imagined for myself has happened not ONLY because of this recent audition, but because I’m often (almost always) getting pissed off at myself for being unable to overcome the physical and emotional limitations of my personhood (like, you know, getting nervous during nerve-wracking situations, or getting upset when things are upsetting).

I had a good experience last night.  I was invited to a jam night by a friend, at a stranger’s home full of people I’d never met before.  I was terrified.  Like…wet-my-pants terrified.  But I sang along with everyone else.  I picked out a few harmonies.  I let my voice get a little stronger.  People were pointing at me and smiling.  I was getting thumbs-ups.  By the end of the night, I felt like an effing rock star.

So, sometimes I feel like I’m addicted to my own success in the way that normal people are addicted to heroin.  Because last night felt great.  And when I’m not achieving that level of grrrr-eat, the awesome-feelings withdrawal period is long and unbearable and full of irrational tears.

I don’t have a solution to this.  But I’m talking to a counsellor who’s going to help me with some self-acceptance exercises, which is good because I’m having a hard time accepting “not-totally-freaking-awesome” me these days.

In the meantime, though, I think I want to work on managing my nerves.  Last night, alcohol helped.  Sadly, alcohol dependency is something I’m not super keen on adding to my psychological milieu.  So, instead I’m going to have to approach this after-school-special-face-your-fears-style and just keep on finding opportunities to perform.  Which means I’ve got a lot of uncomfortable situations ahead of me.  Hurts so good?