March 31, 2004

The Passenger in the Side Car

Being with me must be hard. Not only am I wildly insecure and a bit mental about some things (dishes must be done ASAP. I turn the fuses off on the electrical outlets once done with them) but the object of my affection is subjected to weird conversations as my head synapses at the speed of sound.

Some examples:

I was looking at a London street map called the London A-Z to determine where my meeting the next day would be, while Mr Y was perusing a car catalog to determine which auto to purchase. I looked up at him.

"Did you know Jesus, Buddha, Zarathustra, and Mohammed all had emotional and spiritual break-throughs when they turned 30?"

He blinked. "You got that out of a street map guide?"

Or about my haircut. Half of me really loves it, and the other half is not sure. I sent Mr. Y a text message saying that I wasn't sure I liked it (for the record, he really likes it). He called me.

Him: What's wrong with the hair?
Me: I think it may make my head look like a butt.

Pause.

Him: What?
Me: My head. I am worried it looks like a butt.
Him: What makes you think it looks like a butt? Ohmigod, I can't believe I just said that.
Me: Said what?
Him: Butt. Only Americans say butt. What makes your head look like an arse?
Me: Just the shape. Or maybe not like a butt, maybe more like a mushroom. Not one of the exotic Asian mushrooms, just a regular mushroom. And I am not interested in my head looking like fungus.

I really do think like that.

Anyway, I shortly leave for Prague with my beloved Mr. Y, so likely not a peep from me until Sunday (although Mr. Y is aware of and a regular reader of my blog, I don't see any opportunity for an internet cafe visit).

And get this-the next time you hear from me I will be 30. That's right. The big day is tomorrow! It feels so weird to think that I will be a whole decade range older, one associated with responsibility, family, and upward mobility. This from a chick that only asks that life give her a working and trustworthy vibrator, warm-strappy sandal weather, and some arms to cuddle into on a nightly basis.

As of this time tomorrow, we will have just stepped off the plane and be heading into Prague, drunk on cheap airline champagne and heady with our first wonderful holiday together, gearing up for the adventure that we are yearning for. Mr Y, despite a ferocious row, has set the whole trip up and is looking forward to this as much as I am.

I love him at 100 miles per hour.


-H.

PS-Happy Birthday Mitzi!

PPS-go ahead. Talk amongst yourselves in my absence.

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March 30, 2004

Do Only Unto Thyself What You'd Never Do Unto Others

I have always hurt myself.

Always.

As far back as I can remember, I would do things to myself, and for my entire life (up until last year, anyway), it was my dirty little secret that I never once told anyone about. Not even Kim. No one.

In my 8mm black and white viewing of my childhood, one of the things I do remember is pulling out my hair. Eyelashes. Hair on my head. Later pulling out arm hairs and being embarrassed about people being able to see the hair on my arm, I would wear sweaters even in the summer.

This progressed over time to bigger, deeper things. I remember as a pre-teen and teenager, I would walk into the kitchen, take out the enormous skillet that we used to toast the most perfect grilled cheese sandwiches in the world, and I would whack my arms with it, in the space between the elbow and the wrist. I would always do the top of the arm, and the amount of strokes varied with the stress and anguish I was feeling. More stress? More whacks.

I never told anyone.

As I got older, things got dicier. Whacking my arms with kitchen utensils just wasn't cutting it.

So I got to cutting it.

Razors became the weapon of choice, small nicks and cuts to my arms that would only satisfy me once they bled. When the thin horizon of red showed up on the pale arms, immediately my stress vanished and my work was done. The blood welling up was a throbbing reminder of what pain was supposed to feel like, how emotions could be real and concrete and could be handled. I am lucky that I have very few scars, actually. Only three or four, tiny Chinese noodle like marks up and down my arm.

And then, as I have written here, I further devolved into burning myself. Always on my hands. And always to the point that it would leave an angry red welt, which I would harass and mitigate with irritation so that it would leave an angry scar in a way that I could explain away. I fell on a barbecue grill. I got it taking cookies out of the oven. A candle fell over.

And this doesn't include the other punishments I put myself through-alcohol, laxatives, starvation. I tried it all (with the exception of drugs. Being an addictive personality, I saw all kinds of levels of that going wrong.)

My therapist mentioned that I seem to be the one person in the world that hates me the most. I think he's right. He also said that I was someone who seems so inordinately hell-bent on self-destruction that intervention would be the only way to save myself.

In other words: seek help, or become a statistic.

Now there's an auspicious beginning.

Self-mutilation seems to be the hip mental illness to have, the ADD of the 90's, the cocaine glamour of the 80's. It's more and more common, and the truth is, I don't think it should be. It's not cool to cut yourself. It's not ok that the warblings of basic teen angst, that time in life when we all suffered, is to whip out a razor and shrug it off. What it really is, is a sign that something is horribly and terribly wrong. I had a conversation with a fellow blogger dear to me that hurt themselves to prove they were invincible. I didn't really follow that path-the truth is, I have the worst confidence and self-esteem in the world. When I hear that I seem "full of myself", I just think: you don't know me at all.

I don't think there's one single reason why I hurt myself, more like a collection. I could never talk about my problems with anyone, I just buried them and moved on, but they lay there like a prickly starfish just beneath the surface anyway, begging me to pay attention to them. In order to not talk about how I felt, I would give myself a physical pain to focus on instead. See? I would tell myself. This is what pain should really feel like. This is pain, not that mamby-pamby shit that you think you are dealing with. Grow the fuck up and get over it.

I think I also did it in order to feel something. I often find myself in situations in which I should feel extraordinary happiness or sadness, and instead I feel nothing. Your beloved grandfather dies? Stop crying as you drive out of the cemetary. Stop thinking about it. Make it go away.

It's not because I am a socio-path and can't feel anything. It's because I don't let myself feel something. If it can't touch me, it can't hurt me.

My therapist and I were working on what causes me to treat myself like a human pincushion when I moved to England, and I am now working on getting a new therapist. At the very base of me, deep in the most horrible and hidden parts of me, something in me hates myself so wildly that all I seek to do is implode. Mr. Y has a hard time accepting what I've done to myself, and the reason he's told me is that he can't stand to see me in pain, to hurt myself, to cause myself angst.

The truth is, the pain causes peace of mind, but I can see his point.

Helen is still broken, and maybe always will be.

But I am staying away from the oven just now, anyway. And that's gotta' mean something.

-H.

PS-Karen, thank you so much for the wonderful book! I can't wait to read it!

PPS-Haircut on the sidebar.

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March 28, 2004

The Battle Begins

There are some split-ups that are easy (as far as breakups go, anyway)-you don't like each other, in fact, you may hate each other. Someone cheated. Someone lied. Someone broke your heart.

Other breakups are substantially harder. Perhaps there was nothing inherintly wrong to begin with. Perhaps it just became a sea of issues, distance, and the inability to reach out to each other. Maybe it was a solid love built on an unstable platform. Or maybe it simply wasn't the right choice. In the end, all you can do is look at the tattered remains of what once was a relationship and mourn its passing.

Mr. Y and I are both facing moving on after the demise of our previous relationships. We are not only finding what was wrong with our past ones, but what must be looked after in this one, to safeguard it. We also are learning about what we have missed terribly in the past lives we had.

And it's the little things, mingled in with great big chunks of problems. My biggest issue with X Partner Unit was that I simply couldn't talk to him. We didn't have that kind of relationship, and we couldn't grow into one, either. When I tried to break through that sound barrier, no matter how gently I tread, he viewed it as an attack on his manhood. He also (as I have stated previously), had a very scary temper, however I was only exposed to it a handful of times in our marriage.

For Mr. Y, the issues seem a bit more mutable, perhaps due as a function to the length of that relationship. The light went out on the relationship a while ago, and what was left for them was a good companionship but-again-without the ability to talk about things. Now he gets to spend time exploring what he and I have in common, and luckily he is finding that it's more than just good chemistry and great sex.

But this doesn't mean that the guilt has let go. From time to time we both suffer deep pangs of guilt over the stress and pain that are in abundance around us. Guilt which makes us take steak knives to each other in an attempt to ease our pain. We always hurt the ones closest to us, after all. So we do our Itchy and Scratchy routine, stabbing each other with emotional ice picks, and then after the fountains of blood have ceased we beg forgiveness for our stupidity and stubbornness.

For Mr. Y, guilt popped up the other night in bed, as we lay side by side talking about how his ex seems to be moving on.

"I want HER to be happy." he said, and I believed him. "SHE deserves it, and I really honestly don't feel weird about it."

"And what about you?" I asked. "What do you deserve?"

"To be put in prison." he replied softly. Hmm. Doesn't bode well.

But a few days later I know what he meant. The stressful call with X Partner Unit about him cleaning out his closet-and cleaning out our cats-had me feeling terrible. And X Partner Unit jets off to China today, and he told me I could call him before he left if I wanted to, he didn't really care. He would be partying hard all weekend anyway. I could hear him shrugging down the phone, dismissing his soon to be ex-wife, while coldly looking around the house and wondering what other remnants of me he could get rid of. I don't blame him. Really.

And I thought about it and thought about it, and a few times I reached for the phone and got ready to call. But each time I snapped the clamshell lid closed on the mobile, deciding that the best thing for both of us would be to start the process of just letting it all go. And X Partner Unit didn't call me, either.

In the battle for Getting Over the Exes, I am not sure who's winning, X Partner Unit or I.

In a battle like this, maybe there are no victors.

-H.

PS-thank you so much, Kat. I just loved my gift, and it will be joining me in Prague! I am saving up for one of your lucious paintings.

PPS-Broadband internet gets installed Monday!

PPPS-On Saturday we adopted a 4 month old baby. View image

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March 26, 2004

A Funny On the Way to Gatwick

Almost a year ago I was on a business trip from the US back to Sweden, and I was routed through the UK. I had to switch airports, though, and go from Heathrow to Gatwick. I had been flying all night, I was pretty fucking tired, and I went to buy a cup of coffee, with my baggage cart piled high. I got some change out of my briefcase, turned and bought the coffee, turned back around, and saw (to my horror) that the briefcase was gone.

Gone.
And with it, my passport, tickets, wallet, mobile phone, credit cards, MD player, and the book that I was happily enjoying.
A tense overnight stay and tearful visit to the US Embassy later, and I was back in business. A bit sheepish, upset, and more than a little insecure that my goods were gone, but heading back to Stockholm anyway.

If you've ever been robbed, you know the utter hatred, hopelessness, and despair that it makes you feel about yourself and your fellow man.

So imagine my surprise when Dear Mate called me and said the police had called him (I had left his number as the contact number, since he was in the UK and I was Sweden-based then). My briefcase, passport, and credit cards had been found dumped in some bushes by a bicycler, and had been turned in. I could go and collect them.

Wow. It almost feels like a sign to me. The gods are looking down and deciding to reward me for being here, for Life Number 6. I have decided to get a tiny statue of the Ganesh-the Hindu god of luck and new beginnings. It certainly seems to be relevant.

So tomorrow I am heading in to the police station in south London to re-claim my items. Although the passport is no longer valid (I reported it stoled), it will be so wonderful to see the stamps of my travels from so many years ago. Of all the goods taken from the bag, that's the only thing that I wanted back. The sentimental value of that passport is unbelievable. I wanted to see the stamps again of my first trip out of the US-to Paris, and in to Kim's arms. My fabulous holiday to the Seychelles, and my heart-warming and tender trip to Jersey. And of course, the trip to Bangkok that brought me to where I am today.

All coming back now, since a stranger had taken a chance and done the right thing. Ganesh is already doing the job.

Strange that three stamps in the passport equate to three men that have so utterly affected my life and my heart.

Although sometimes I have been knocked down, disappointed, and hurt, the kindness and generosity of people will never stop to amaze me, ever.

-H.

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March 25, 2004

Is This My Life?

Yesterday I had a meeting in a different part of London. I got up at oh-God-hundred and hauled myself off to the train station. The night before had been a bit weird-I checked in with X Partner Unit, who has been doing some cleaning out of his own. If I don't take our cats, they will be "gotten rid of". Arrangements are now being made for rabies vaccinations and testing, so that they can bypass the 3 month quarantine (the UK doesn't have rabies, and so all animals entering the UK must be aproved through a 5 month EU process or put in quarantine (aka a kennel and a cage) for 3 months to make sure they don't have the virus. I couldn't put my cats through that, so they will go the approved EU route.) My Swedish farm cats will be joining me later this year (good news, eh Stevie!) and I am so happy about that.

He's packing me out of his life and moving on, and I am glad about that for his sake, but I do miss his friendship. Mr. Y was a sweetheart about it all, and very understanding.

Mr. Y got up with me yesterday morning, even though he didn't need to. Safely secured in his flannel robe I bought him, he sleepily hugged me and provided me with a hot mug of coffee, with just the perfect amount of milk in it. We sat on the couch, sipping the coffee, and when I left I held my hand up and we linked fingers, promising to see each other soon.

Once on the train, I sat there, looking out the window, crossing and uncrossing my legs, moving sleepily on the scratchy green seats. The sun was making an appearance in the low grey sky, and I settled in, iPod earphones in place, music stretching its way through my ears.

I got into Paddington Station, and I am still just so amazed that this is my point of entry into the world of Dream Job. That several times a week I get to slide my way into the Victorian structure, so large and gaping that I could throw a stone towards the curved steel-beamed roof and never come close to hitting it. Is this my life? This new me?

I made my way down to the Underground, amongst the throngs of people. I love that moment when you stand on the tube platform and you can tell a train is coming. The air within the station gets sucked and pulled in, and then with a sudden whoosh it heads out of the tunnel, being displaced by the dogged train, and blows your hair from your face and your bad mood from your soul.

I rode the train, and then switched, and when I emerged I was at the stop you take to see Buckingham Palace. People hustled all around me-men in their business suits looking stressed. Tourists with small backpacks and good walking shoes looking tired but impressed. Double decker buses hauling their daily ware to their destinations and cab drivers menacing the lot of us.

In the building, I was stunned to find that the window behind me overlooked the London Eye and Parliament, just a bit away. The Union Jack flew high on Parliament, flapping in the wind managed by a half-sunny half-grey sky. The meeting commenced, and I dug in, taking action points and discussions, finding my way through the new world of Dream Job.

When the meeting ended, I ate a sandwich staring at the view across the way-Parliament. I work here? Is this my life? It's so amazing to me. It's so incredible that I came all the way from the pit of hell to the dizzying heights I am now. And what a distance there is to fall this time, should the fall come.

Leaving the office, school girls with pleated skirts, minty scents, bunchy-kneed tights and wayward ties danced up and down the sidewalk. My mood was high despite my stress about work, the fracture in the relationship with my family, and my heartbreak over the collapse of relationships around me. Businessmen, heading back the way they came, looked more grim than before. I smiled at each one of them, and although they were startled at first, each one of them smiled back.

And when I got to the train station, Mr. Y was there on a bench waiting for me. I walked up to him, arms flung wide, and engulfed myself in his scent. People walking past us on the platform smiled at us and continued on their way, heading towards their partners, their kitchens, their families, their dream-filled beds.

And later, when we went to bed and after a long session of lovemaking in which he gave me a number of dizzying orgasms before finishing off one for himself, Mr. Y planted a small line of kisses on the curve of my right shoulder. He turned me over on my side, slid his arm around me and hauled my bottom into the warm curve of his pelvis, picked up my breast like a small bag of warm sand and held it in his hand, falling asleep that way.

And as I fell asleep, I thought: this is my life.

Please God don't let me fuck it up somehow.

-H.

PS-exactly one week until I turn 30. Wow!

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March 24, 2004

Refrigerator Magic

Mr. Y and Lloyd can be absolute "lads", in that they act like little boys with Tonka trucks in the sandbox, kicking the sand in the face of the lone scrawny American who wishes to park her tractor there, too. They love to gang up on the lone American chickie and give her grief, usually all done under the guise of friendly drinking.

We spend our evenings watching Lloyd's favortie "Eastenders", which is this English soap opera in which everyone has slept with everyone, hates everyone, or plans on chopping up and cooking everyone, the boys talking about the brilliance that is Jeremy Clarkson (an uppity guy with a Brillo pad for a hairdo that reviews cars and loves to make fun of Americans, all done while trying to fit his gut in under the steering wheel), or one or another of us having to pay up on bets we have had in which we have checked a word in the dictionary and proved ourselves triumphant. They especially like to make fun of American terms and phrases.

Yeah...cause that never gets old.
Losers.

Friday is my night. I claim the TV then. It's my American TV, beer, and pizza night. I have one hour of "Friends", some "Will and Grace", and (up until last week), "Sex and the City". They showed the last episode of that last week, and I cried like a baby.

I also seem to be cleaning a lot-not because they make me, but since I hate clutter, I hate dirty dishes, and I hate not having things in their proper places. That, and I think that loose hairs should be moved out of the bathtub, peach toilet paper should be illegal, and meals don't have to be eaten over the sink.

The boys are a great laugh, though. I really love them.

A bit about Lloyd-he's 30 years old (only just), of Indian descent, and very discreet-he only just revealed that he has recently split up after a long term relationship. He and I went and saw "Starsky and Hutch", we watch terrible TV when Mr.Y is away, and we discuss the pros and cons of the death penalty while knocking out a bottle of wine (I am pro, he is against.)

But sometimes the boys come through in a startling round of sensitivity. Mr. Y gets sensitive to me doing too much washing up, and we truly do take turns making dinner. Lloyd likes to re-adjust the lilies I have bought, making sure they all get equal time in the sun, and he likes to sit beneath them and just take in their deep, woody scent.

And one thing that they have stunned me on is the refrigerator poetry.

You know those stupid magnets that are used to make poetry, all in cheesy Times Roman type on white blocks. I actually hate those things, since (to be honest) I hate clutter. But the boys have these things, and from time to time, I walk into the kitchen and find a new phrase on the fridge. These, to date, are what I have found:

-She blows like a mad dancing queen.
-Sit on my face and drink the lust cup.
-Don't go for my ass you uphill gardener.
-Stop mooning at old boys in the jungle.
-Lick white glory hard from behind and she is in heaven.

But sometimes the boys can be sensitive. So last night I stumbled into the kitchen for a glass of water, and turning on the light, I saw:

"Memories crowd a lonely heart."

Sometimes the boys can touch me with their sweetness.

But once I get all soft on them, they make fun of the way we say Birmingham, Alabama, and then I hate them all over again.

-H.

PS-Happy Birthday, Best Friend. I miss you!

PPS-Abs, thanks for the wonderful card. I loved it!

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March 23, 2004

Luuka The Snowboarding Genius

Our lovely Brass has sent photos of Luuka in Colorado. It looks like they had a wonderful time, and Brass took care to make sure to protect her fragile ears. She is now board for Jersey and the open arms of Rob.

That damn lucky bear.

lu.jpg


-H.

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March 22, 2004

Sky Watching

My eyes change color. Most of the time, they are a strange brownish green, which starts off a bit golden in the color, quickly leach into an odd brown, and then oozes at the edge into a very dark green. But they aren't always that color-sometimes they turn a very murky brown when I drink, and I understand that when I get angry, they get very brown. But when I look up at the sun or if I cry, they get this amazing green color. It's almost like the green you expect to see painted in the children's section in a library, or a first spring blade of grass turn. It's very surreal.

Saturday I walked into the house that I lived in for 2 years and hugged my remnants of my past. I hugged X Partner Unit, both of us with our wedding bands off. I hugged my two cats, and I confess I cried just at holding the compact warmth of them. They made buiscuits on my chest with their paws and offered up their warm white tummies to me, and all I could do was hold them and cry on them.

I packed up all of my belongings, and they all fit into 23 boxes in the dining room. 23 boxes. That is the worth of who I am, the sum total of me. I am a week and a half away from turning 30, I have no equity, and I have two divorces behind me.

It didn't take long to pack me up and ship me out of X Partner Unit's home. We filled up 2 enormous trash bags with the parts of me I didn't want anymore, and took me to the tip, where I was flung over the side of a "burnable" garbage container and will be left to mulch.

There were many tears. Mine, when I hugged my cats and said goodbye to my home. His when I told him that I would always love him and that I am a better person with a better heart for having known and loved him. Ours, as we scrawled our names and signed our marriage away on the court documents. Mine again as I left the house, having to push one of the cats purring soundly off my lap and run out of the house, so as not to try to take her with me. X Partner Unit took me to the airport and dropped me off, hugging me hard, both of us crying, and watching until the swish of the automatic doors at Arlanda closed behind me.

And just like that, I was back on an airplane again, back to England, leaving Sweden.

This time, I think, for good.

And I cried from the moment I entered the terminal. I cried through customs, I cried into the terminal. I called Mr. Y, we had a fight, which made me cry even harder. I got on the plane still crying slightly, despite having a very funny book called "Holy Cow", about a woman's experiences in India. The cabin crew looked very nervous around me and were extremely accommodating. They became even more so when they saw the seat next to the window was occupied by a young woman who was also crying.

When they served me a Sprite and tried to cheer me up, I whispered "It's ok. It's something in the water."

The woman next to me, slender, pale and blond, was crying softly too. She would dab at her eyes with the edge of her pink pashmina shawl wrapped in a knot around her thin shoulders. Her neck was very graceful, and she smelt of apples and heartbreak. She tried to read but kept giving up, and I confess I tried to the the newspaper twice before realizing that nothing was sinking in.

But neither of us could talk to each other. In between us it may have looked like it was just a seat containing my tan cashmere coat and her black Prada bag, but in reality it was two sad women who couldn't have found the words to talk, let alone determine what language to do it in.

And it was then I looked out the window and saw the perfect, blooming white clouds. The sun was out, radiant and dazzling, and all I wanted to do was stick my arm out of the plane and just feel a little patch of sun on my skin, a little moment where the hairs on my arm would turn golden in the light.

I realized, with a start, that it had been a long time since I just sat there and looked out the window on an airplane. I may have flown on hundreds of flights...and all this time I was taking them for granted. I should've been paying attention. There is always more going on outside my hollow aluminum tube.

The clouds broke then, and I saw beneath me was the chopped up dizzying green and the slow, serpentine sprawl of the Thames. And for just one second, my heart felt lighter.

There was England.
Could it be that I felt lighter for being home?
I sat back in my seat and let the sunlight play tag with the seats in the plane, radiating when they hit me, and opening my face to the sunlight.

And when I got off the plane, after customs and after waiting in the world's longest immigration queue (my flight arrived at the exact moment flights from China, somewhere in the Middle East, the U.S. and India had arrived, and all of us were stuck in the "damn foreigners" queue), I stopped in the ladies' room. I walked up to the mirror and looked up, and there it was.

Greener than green eyes.

-H.

PS-broadband access has been ordered.

PPS-Brass has sent fabulous pics of that fabulous Luuka in Colorado, so I will try to get them loaded for tomorrow's post.


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March 19, 2004

Phone Box Blues

I huddled in the dank phone box. I hadn't used one in years, wasn't even sure if I remembered how to. The phone, black, trusty and solid, was inside of a glass phone box which stank of beer and the uncomfortable human scent of urine. I wondered how many people had used the phone booth to relieve themselves after a Friday night pub visit. Then I realized I didn't really care.

I rubbed the side of my shoe around on the pavement, playing with the leather Converse edge. Outside, it was dark and cold and a chill crept in under the bottom of the phone booth. A man in a truck waited outside of the glass windows, watching me standing there crying, and I hated him so much then. My issues were mine, my problems mine. I wanted him to stop watching me, I wanted to throttle the phone through the booth, I wanted to leave.

And above all, I wanted the raging battle with Mr. Y on the phone to end.

The birthday holiday had fallen through, and I was-to be honest-very disappointed. I am so desperate to go away somewhere warm. I feel as though my entire winter has been dark and bitterly cold, spent in the study under layers of clothes, crying and trying to survive. In some stupid metaphor, I feel like the sun will chase it all away.

I'm so tired of being cold.

The holiday had fallen through, and Mr. Y was yelling at me that he was stressed to bits, I had too much pressure on him, why couldn't I be more supportive and understanding? He told me what he had wanted me to say. I hadn't said it.

He brought back the single greatest emotion that I hate-I was a burden. I was a burden, and it freaks me out. I told him he was making me feel that way. He replied that I was making him feel stressed.

We fought until my phone card started beeping, telling me that my fight would keep on going long after my British pounds were gone. We fought about stress, holidays, babies, logistics, and money (and I never fight about money). The truth is, new starts are hard with anyone. When you are people like he and I, and separated by a big puddle of water, they get even worse. It doesn't help that we are dis-entangling ourselves from the old lives (I am flying to Stockholm this weekend to finish packing and to have a discussion with X Partner Unit).

I am so afraid in fights. I think I have had too hard a time with fights with previous people. X Partner Unit and I never fought until the day we returned from our honeymoon on the Italian Riviera. He refused to fight, actually. But that night, we had a big one. He pushed me. I started to leave. He threatened to throw himself off our 8 story balcony if I did. I slept on the couch that night and the next day he brought me a present and a warning-don't drive him to that again.

It became a pattern that when he got angry, I would take a few steps back from him. To be out of range.

I still do that when people get angry with me now.

I want to stop doing that.

In the end, we both calmed down. I ran my fingers up and down the streaky glass, hating that phone booth and hating myself. He told me how much he loves me. I told him the same. When the automatic phone voice came on telling me I had 30 seconds left, I told him. We pulled it together, he talked about being a team, how he was crazy about me, how we need to stop fighting.

Later in the evening, he sent me an sms telling me how much he loved me and how much he wants our new start to go well. I went to bed, full of weird dreams and realizing that I had been taking up the whole bed all night. It is a hard transition-new job, new country, new life. And it's hard for both of us. The comments in the last section were bang on from Jim-we're just stressed and taking it out on each other. We both realize it. We are both going to try to stop.

When the phone card ran out, it disconnected us. I looked at the phone, so old-fashioned, so necessary. I hung up and walked away from that chilly phone booth.

-H.

PS-hopefully more from me later.

PPS-sorry, Solomon. The previous relationships are over. Really over.

UPDATE: Mr. Y has booked us business class tickets to spend 4 days (over my birthday) in Prague, and we will take the Jamaica trip in May.

What a man.

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March 18, 2004

Quickie on a Dreary Day

I am so fucking tired I could burst and only have 30 minutes at this terminal anyway, so a short one from me (although a much longer one coming tomorrow).

Bank account achieved! (Thanks Lloyd...and Guinness, my standby!)

I have spent my entire day squirreled away in an office in Maidenhead (I am not making that up) and now am home. It's raining, freezing, and windy. It is exactly 2 weeks until my 30th birthday and we are not going to Jamaica now.

But please, please, please let us go somewhere. And let it be warm there.

I spent a while last night at the gym here, simply floating, backstroking, and side-stroking my way to calm. I miss Y, X Partner Unit and I have to talk this weekend (where, incidentally, divorce papers await me), and my workload is fun but in all different corners of the UK.

Mr. Y and I have not been getting on. We have fought nearly every evening this week, the first being about a topic heavy on my mind (babies), culminating to last night, in which he was very angry that I didn't call him.

Sometimes I forget that I am not the only one that can get insecure.

-H.

PS-Simon, I just love you. Thank you for the lovely present. If you get a chance, tell Simon you love him too.

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March 16, 2004

What's In a Name?

Ok, a bit of a lighter posting today.

Personal life adjustment aside, I have found England to be very interesting so far. There are some elements of it that I find absolutely charming. Names, for example. They're just so damn cute. The area I live in is called Berkshire (pronounced Bark-shur), and even that is cute. Last names here seem super-cute. Mr. Y's last name, for instance, is cute. In Texas you had a lot of Grossman, Garcia, Smith, and Jones. Here you have names like Pigeon. Partridge. Butterbutt (I am not making that one up. Apparently he was an Admiral in the Navy in WWII. Hopefully not a Rear Admiral.)

Sorry.

And the names just keep getting nice and understanding. Manchester United, for example. How unitarian. The London Monarchs. They had a basketball game the other day between two nice teams, the Brighton Butter Ripples and the Cheltenham Chickpeas (ok, I am exaggerating a little bit there.)

I just think of England as being very cute and welcoming. Helpful and terribly understanding. Or at least I did, up until yesterday, when I attempted to open a bank account.

Then I went for the vodka.

You never think about how hard it is for foreigners. I mean, we all have social security numbers right off the bat. Our school records don't need to be translated into comparable school system records. We can just call a utilities company and sign up for service. We know how things work in our homelands. It's a real learning curve when you get out into the other world.

I booked an appointment at the local branch of the Rumplebottom Bank here in town. I brought with me my passport and visa, a letter from Dream Job, a letter from Y (who has had an account in that bank for 24 years, and vetts my identity. 24 years. Wow. He opened that when I was in kindergarten.) some past credit history from Sweden, and a big smile.

Dork.

Trinny Maplemuffin greeted me and showed me to her desk, a cubicled area with no less than 3 security cameras trained on it, along with a panel of alarms, emergency eyewash, and her personal alarm on her.

Well...at least my money will be safe.

I presented all my information to her.

"Do you have a driving license?" she asked.

I proferred my Texas driving license, which has my mother's address, no picture, and is in my maiden name.

"Oh dear." she replied. "I'm afraid this won't be acceptable at all." (I was pretty sure somewhere in the distance Y was sniggering about this, but she ruled it not ok).

I offered my letter from Dream Job. She didn't like it, since it was mailed to my Swedish address, not my English one. She wanted a utility bill.

"I'm sub-letting a guest room." I replied. "I won't have one."

"You're not on the voters' registration." Maplemuffin sniffed.

"I don't vote here." I replied.

"You should do. It is our responsibility." she replied.

"I'm not English." I countered.

I think that was held against me.

In the end, I was able to preliminarily open an account, in which I even get a gold card. I just can't get the account until I get a sworn affadavit from Dream Job verifying my address and that I am not, indeed, a terrorist, some bloodwork, and a 10 page essay on what we can all do to raise awareness of Earth Day. I also have to bring some of my Swedish bank records.

"But they're in Swedish." I replied.

"Doesn't matter." she replied. "We just need proof."

Right. I have them, but think I will provide my mobile phone bill as a lark.

Just kidding.

I got a phone call from her later in the afternoon. "We will also need you to come back with a sperm sample."

"But I'm a woman." I protested weakly.

"Right. Sorry to be awkward about this. Look forward to receiving that specimen cup. BY-eeeee!"

Tonight I will be writing my essay and getting our flatmate Lloyd drunk so that he will do the cup business.

Nice.

-H.

PS-still no internet access, so if you are commenting here and I am not commenting on your sites, it's not because I don't want to, but because modern technology and karma are thwarting me and preventing me from thus. But will be able to within a week.

PPS-I may have stretched the truth a bit on the above post. Lloyd doesn't actually need to jerk off into a cup. Just a test tube.

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March 15, 2004

Plus One

Well, the event is done and a Hazmat team has been called in to assess the damage.

Mr. Y took me to the family event as the "Plus One" he was allocated, and he phoned his mother, stepfather, two brothers and sisters-in-law, and his three closest friends to warn them of the hurricane. So when we arrived at said event-me in very nice black dress and black cardigan and a spine made out of icicles, I was trembling with nervousness. We entered the dark 16th century building, watching each other, hoping the evening would go well. The world outside the building-chilly, windy, unaware of my trial by fire-was not so welcoming either.

Before we left the house, he turned to me. "I'm going to look out for you," he said.

Thank God.

We were the first to arrive, but others started arriving in fits and starts almost immediately. Mr. Y introduced me to the various arrivals as "This is Helen", and I dutifully shook hands, smiled, and chatted with everyone. In no time, Y's closest mates showed up. Children I have never met ran in circles around indulgent parents, and a slide show of people I never knew was playing endlessly on one wall, full of experiences I had no idea about, eliciting much laughter and commentary from people I didn't know.

The Dog and Pony Show truly began.

Most of these men have all been friends for nearly 35 years or so, and have ancient histories, stories, inside jokes, and ribbings that go back very, very far. There was much back-slappage and merciless teasing, talks of pot bellies and receding hairlines, talk of cars I have never heard of and scouting events gone mad.

His friends were also very, very kind to me.

His best friend, Lewis (the one who commented on the phone if I was the one who caused all the problems) especially went out of his way to talk to me, watch out for me, and stay near me, as Y was dragged to talk to a number of people whom he hadn't seen in ages and I didn't want to feel like the desperate and needy nutcase who needs to hang on his coat-tails (but man I wanted him around me, with his arm around my waist).

Y's brother Adam strode in and shook my hand immediately, face crinkling into a smile, and kissed both my cheeks. We talked for a while, and either he was a fabulous faker or he actually liked me-and I have to say, I think he liked me. Then Y's other brother Sam came in, smiling broadly, and shook my hand. "So you're the one we've heard all about!" he boomed. I grinned in return.

Then Y's Mum came in.
She came to the extended circle I was in, hugged everyone and smiled, but wouldn't look at me. Not even when I introduced myself. She shook my hand then hurriedly looked away.
Great.

Lewis put his arm around my shoulder. "I'll stick by you," he whispered. "Even if it means I'm off the Christmas card list."

More people came in and talked with me, and I found it very easy to talk to them. The only mention of Y's ex-wife (heretofore on this blog known as the pronouns Her or She) came in this form: 3 people told me I was her polar opposite and that I was perfect for Y. That helped. Really.

Most of the group seemed to love to make fun of me being American, so I came up with a standard response when they found out I was from Texas-"Yup. We sit around a campfire eating our genetically modified beans, singing songs about our re-possessed pickup trucks and our dead dogs, then we shoot our guns in the air and vote for George Bush."

Got a laugh every time.

Food time came around, and Y's Mum came around to the tables to tell us to all come eat. She didn't look at me or talk to me. I decided this had to be dealt with-sooner or later we would have to talk, and I can't stand living with the curtain of stress. I went up to her.

"Hi," I said softly, drink in hand. "I wondered if maybe we could chat. I understand you're feeling awkward and I'm feeling awkward, and maybe we could talk to try to remedy this."

"Well, as you know, we are terribly fond of Her, and we hate that She is in so much pain." she said, looking at me.

"I understand, and I too feel awful that people have been hurt. I hope that the situation begins to ease for all parties." And you know-I meant it, too. But her statement still felt like an ice pick through my heart, a comparison that I would always have to live with, a former that would always eclipse the latter.

"And we are so fond of the grandchildren, and all of their pain is just terrible. And we worry that with the new situation we won't have access to them anymore."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Does she think I am going to come in and prevent them meeting up? What?

"I assure you that both Y and I have, first in our priorities, his access and your access to the children. I will do everything in my power to ensure that he sees them and you see them as often as possible. I know I am not a part of this family, but I care for those children too, and they deserve to have all access to their loving families."

She looked at me. "I have been where She is, you know." (I did know-Y's father left her for a younger foreigner, too.) "I have been there, done that, have the T-shirt fort it." (Wow. Very American saying.)

I nodded. "I understand. My mother went through it too. I understand how hard it is to be a single mother, and you've done a wonderful job with your sons."

She looked at me further. "You know what happened to my sister-in-law, don't you?" she asked. I did. She had moved to the US with her husband and children, and was brutally raped and murdered in her bathroom by a fucking lunatic that was in prison and would hopefully stay that way. But Mum proceeded to give me the details, anyway.

I was confused. Was she telling me this since I am an American? That we are all so violent, etc.? I made sympathetic statements but was greatly relieved when she was called away. It appeared that I was extremely unpopular with Mum, as I had expected-Mum and She talk rather regularly, and I know she has heard all of Her side of the story.

I had two choices: drink or go cry in the bathroom. I did what any sane, level-headed woman would do.

I had 3 shots of vodka.
And I hate vodka.

I told Y about the conversation, and he said he saw us talking but hadn't wanted to intervene. I wish he had done-I think I was drowning without recourse. I longed for a hug, but he acted as though there was an electrical fence around me, and I knew he felt awkward about touching me in front of his friends and family.

I felt overwhelmed. Everyone seemed to like me except the Mum, but still-that's one big hurdle to overcome.

At the end of the evening, when two-thirds of the guests had left, the dancing got started. I stood around talking for a bit, then got asked to dance by two or three of Y's friends. At the final dance, Y came up, and all I could see was him. He wrapped his arms around me, and we danced to "Hey Jude" (even though I hate the Beatles), and he spent the entire song kissing me. I kept my eyes closed, kissing him back, as we spun around the dance floor, the lights making red and blue images behind my eyelids, and my body pressed into his.

As we left, Y's brother Adam kissed me and looked at me, warm smile on his face. "It was really nice meeting you, and I truly hope that I get to see you again soon."

When we got home, exhausted, frazzled, stressed, Y wrapped his naked body around me and said he was angry with Mum, though not sure if he would confront her. He also said that he heard a few times that I was very nice, sexy, and young, and this made Y angry. I'm not a trophy wife for him, he told me. He fell in love with me, and it doesn't matter how old I am. He's with me for me, and not for his ego.

I already knew that, but it's nice to hear it.

We fell asleep curled in each other's bodies, shaped like two identical commas under the duvet, and he is now away for a week in Sweden, watching his kids, as She is away on business.

I miss him madly.
I wonder if integrating lives ever gets any easier.

-H.

PS-still no internet access this week. The library and Mailboxes, Etc., must love me.

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March 12, 2004

The Other Helen

Last night we got into it, a nice-sized battle in the war of Guilty Pleasures. We discussed my blog topic from yesterday (he doesn't want to restrict my blogging, and I don't want him to either-I can talk about my feelings here, in one of the few ways that I can) and I tried to get my message across that I don't accept that I broke up the marriage, either. Sure, I was a cause, but perhaps it's like a piece of china-you can't break something that doesn't already have a fracture.

Perhaps I am making something out of nothing. For the first time in my life I am happy, and I simply am not programmed for happy. Perhaps I just don't know how to be. Yesterday my manager turned to me and told me that he was pleased so far with my work and my "get-to-it" attitude, and all I could think was: Don't give me this kind of hope. I don't know how to deal with it.

I told Mr. Y (who is English) last night what I have been worried about inside of myself for a bit, a sensitive and dangerous topic, once that threatens to roll the Ship of Helen. I love him more than I ever knew how to love anyone. I love him more than I love Kim, which makes me feel guilty for saying and destroying the preciousness that is his memory, but it's true.

I am worried that I am the consolation prize. The second best option, the fallback solution to an otherwise designed network architecture. I know that as recently as a few weeks before his break-up, he was working on things in his relationship. So if he was doing that, to me it indicates that I am not the first choice.

He tried to explain it to me otherwise-he could've fixed the marriage if he had just given me up. If he had agreed to never have anything to do with me again, he feels it could've all been fixed. But he didn't want to give me up, so he allowed it all to fall apart. He maintains absolutely that I am not second choice, and I just have to have faith that he's telling the truth.

But no matter how hard he tried to explain it, I just couldn't get it to sink in, and so the torpedos were launched in our Great War and ugliness was said. He got angry when it appeared I was unconvinced. He told me that if I can't find a way to believe his explanation, then I just will have to find a way of living as second best.

My gorgeous darling, didn't you know? Don't you know me enough now, my screwed-up insecurities and sensitivities? If I can't hurt myself, I'll allow you to do it for me. The little jabs and barbs get stored inside of me and are allowed to keep stabbing me, slowly and painfully, in any direction that I move.

I went to bed while he stayed up and talked to our flatmate. When he came to bed, he hugged me closely and we fell asleep. For the first time since Saturday, we did not make love.

I can tell him everything about myself, but I am not allowed to talk about his family, his children, or his ex. And he can tell me everything about himself, but he is not allowed to try to remove the thistles I have built up inside of me. I wonder when the wall of grief will start subsiding. I wonder if we are pushing each other away. I wonder why I felt the need to separate our belongings in the DMZ of our bedroom, to put all of my things in one place together, to take up as little room as possible.

This morning he carefully avoided me and as he left, in the hallway, he asked if I was going to get happier before he came home. I told him I would. I'm not saying we're being hateful to each other, but if either of us opened our mouths a light would come on.

I have some things to do today-go to the bank and try to open an account. Try to get my national insurance number (like a social security number). Try to find a pair of shoes for Saturday night and that I can wear to work without torturing my toes. This was our first fight as a legitimate couple, and I found it to be different than the fights we had when we were not.

And as I sat there, drinking my coffee, I realized with a start that I observed myself saying that I would get happier to him in the hallway. I wasn't there in myself. I was watching.

You can leave a country, but you take the crazy with you.

And I settled back on the couch, coffee mug steaming in my hands, carefully wrapping the glorious cloak of dissassociation around my shoulders, taking comfort in my condition that will help me survive.

-H.

PS-Pam and Andrea, did you want to be added to the Luuka list?

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March 11, 2004

Party Central

I'm getting pretty good at finding places with Internet connections. Next week, I will be able to order my connection, but right now I am...ready for this?...sans pc AND sans laptop AND sans Internet connection.

It's like the end of the world.

Things are still going so well. Yesterday I trooped into London again, for another full day of meetings. Today I got back into my said rented Fiat and hauled my ass up the M25 to a town called Brentwood. I'm getting pretty good at this traffic business!

This weekend is rapidly approaching. I plan on totally taking Oda Mae's advice in the previous post's comments and being extremely polite, kind, and apologetic for all the heartache. I have picked out a "classy but shapely" outfit, but find I am getting more and more stressed up about the meeting. It will be Mr. Y's brother's major birthday bash, with all of their friends and family there.

And my reputation is preceeding me.

Mr. Y decided he should call his closest friends this week and present the info-he hadn't told them that they had split yet. He is bracing his family for it tonight. He rang up his three closest friends and dropped the bomb.

His relationship of nearly 18 years was over.
He was seeing someone new.
She is much younger.

But one of his friends had already heard about me. His reply: Oh, is this the one that caused all the trouble?

Mr. Y's reply: Something like that.

Great.

I am feeling even more nervous than ever before. I don't have any of this common history (how many people are still friends with people that they began grade school with? I can't even remember their names, let alone call them friends). I am the home wrecker. I am the one who came in and caused the problems.

And I absolutely hate taking all of the blame.

I told Mr. Y in bed about how stressed I felt about all of this, how much I fucking hate being the one who "caused all the problems". He hugged me fiercely and told me that he was partially to blame for all of this too.

Weird-no one seems to be commenting on that aspect.

"How does it feel to officially love me?" I asked him, hope waiting for his answer.
"I've always officially loved you." he replied, smiling and kissing me.

He held me tightly and kissed me hard for what seemed like hours, trying to ease the ache out of my brow, my heart, my worries. We made love slowly and easily, side by side on the bed, heating up the little room and the sheets with aborted movement. When we reached the point of orgasm, he pulled out and I felt the hot liquid on my back, covering me in the warm retribution of our actions. He hauled me against him, and we fell asleep like that, stuck together with the glue of our session and the warm scent on sex in the air.

I hope he will stick to me like that on Saturday night, too.

But perhaps in a less phlegmatic way, that is.

-H.

PS-am still not able to get to email and other pages, but will do hopefully tonight!

PPS-Miguel, I hope you and yours are ok today.

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March 09, 2004

Getting Over Petty

Just a short blurb from me, on a borrowed GPRS connection (isn't technology grand?)

My second day of work, and I was asked to take myself to a full day meeting on the otherside of the UK in a town near Ipswich. So I rented a car, bought myself a coffee, and hauled myself over there.

Now, England may look like a tiny country on the map. You may have the same perception as I do, that it will take you 5 hours to traverse the entire length, and then you can buy a Diet Coke and a packet of Starburst and turn back around again.

Well, I am here to tell you that the tiny country has a whole lot of people on the roads. And each one of those people on the roads wants to get in front of the rented Fiat that I hurtle around the M25 at great speeds (speed cameras be damned!) It took me nearly 4 hours to get from where I am staying to this little town, but it was worth it.

I not only got a gorgeous new Motorola mobile phone...but Company X representatives showed up to pitch products to Dream Job.

It was like my ship had come in.
Finally I could torture them and make them pay for my hatred of Company X.

But you know what...I couldn't do it. It wasn't right. These were nice guys, located here in England, they had nothing to do with me being laid off, and in fact had neither of them had even met me before. So I decided the best thing in the world would be to work together.
We did.
I feel better for it.

Now, if any of the Company X representatives from Sweden come over to present, it will be ugly. But I clearly need to do some regional hatchet burying.

I can only get over my hatred so quickly, you see.

The meeting went well, and I really feel charged about my job. I am thoroughly excited about it-not only is it work I can do, but work I want to do. I should have a laptop and internet connection next week, but this week expect blogging at weird times, and I can't get to other pages just now (sorry! My God, it is so frustrating!)

Mr. Y gave me half of my birthday present already-he bought me an iPod. The other half I get in a few weeks, but I already know what it is-he's taking me to Jamaica for a week. I can't think of anything nicer-warmth, sun, sea, and him.

We both woke around 3:30 am this morning, and spent two hours just touching each others' skin with our fingernails, moving against each other, not talking but not needing to.

This weekend will be one wild challenge-I get to meet his family and friends, of whom I have already been judged. More on that later, but for now, I am curling up with lasagne, Mr. Y, and the need to just relax.

-H.

PS-email to me at: everydaystranger{at}hotmail{dot}com

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March 06, 2004

So Long, And Thanks For All The Fish

In just a few hours, my flight leaves. There is so much in my head and in my heart. I feel knotted up in balls, like half of me is absolutely thrilled to bits that I am starting fresh and the other half of me is broken at leaving behind a life I had, a Partner I had, a home I had.

I can't stop crying. Happiness, sadness, guilt, hope, loss, anger, love. The waterworks have been on full blast for the past 24 hours.

I moved to Sweden in November 1999. And now, as of today, I am leaving. Oh, I'll be back-there are logistics to take care of, boxes to finish packing, etc. But this is the biggest step I have ever taken, somehow even bigger than when I left Raleigh, North Carolina and headed for Stockholm that November evening.

So much has happened the past 5 years I can hardly breathe.

I met, loved, and lost Mr. Y.
I met, loved, and lost Partner Unit.
I got married.
I travelled the world.
I jumped out of an airplane.
I worked myself to the bone.
I lost my job.
I got a new one.
I tried to kill myself.
I survived trying to kill myself.
I went into psychotherapy, understanding for the first time in my life what's wrong with me.
I started to write.
Kim died.
I was pregnant, and then I wasn't.

It's like a whole life of experiences in that short time span. A whole life lived in 5 years, and now I am moving on to my next life, Life 6, the Life of a Cat.

I will say goodbye to my perfect and beautiful house, with the wall of pictures. There is one picture of every country we have been to, along with a framed print of Dr. Seuss's "Oh The Places You Will Go" dust cover in the center of the wall. Goodbye to the fireplaces and the hardwood floors. Goodbye to the high ceilings and glassed-in veranda.

Goodbye to my Partner Unit-I will always love you. I will never regret you.
Goodbye to my beautiful Collie Ed-you were the best dog ever. Now get off the couch.
Goodbye to my cats Maggie and Mumin-my sweet potatoes, you are so precious and loving. The trust you have in us was amazing.
Goodbye to my once a week curry lunches with Best Friend-you'd better come visit me, man, or I will kick your ass.
Goodbye to Sweden-thanks for having me. Thanks for teaching me so much. Thanks for helping me start to figure out who I am.
Goodbye to Helen Number 5-It was nice getting to know you, Helen. You have so many good things about you, and yet you have so many bad. I'm sorry for abusing you the way I did. I can't promise that Life Number 6 will be any easier on you, but I do promise that the ride will be interesting.

So with my over-stuffed suitcases, a confused heart, and a whole lot of hope, I head to the airport. And at lunchtime in Sweden, no one will know that a lone woman is travelling to a new life. In the US, you'll be sleeping soundly or eating breakfast. In Asia, perhaps you are opening the bottle of wine and looking for something good on tv. Everyone's lives follow their normal elipses, their dance of usual routines of love, family and hope, and I am airborne somewhere, headed to a place to give me new routines.

I'll be crying, most likely. Good tears, bad tears, anguish and hope. Once I set foot into the airport and Partner Unit drives away (and the parting is going to break both of us up to bits), then it has begun. Life Number 6.

And once the doors out of customs opens in Heathrow, in my minds' eye there is a brilliant white light that offers me anything I can find out of it. I can't see past the white light, I don't know what's there. It's almost like dying, going through the tunnel, and maybe in many ways that part of me, the old part of me, is dying.

And at the end of that white light is a man. A man who is waiting to meet me once I make it through, one who promised to meet me. A man who I hope knows how much I need him and how badly I need to make sure that he doesn't drop me or let me fall, since I am far more fragile than he thinks. When the automatic doors swing shut, I am leaving Sweden, Partner Unit, and Company X with Helen Number 5, and ahead of Helen Number 6 is England, Mr. Y, and Dream Job.

Life Number 6.
Meow.

I leave with the lyrics of Michelle Branch's "Goodbye to You", which will be piping in my ears through my MD player, to keep me strong.

Of all the things I believed in
I just want to get it overwith
Tears form behind my eyes, but I do not cry
Counting the days that pass me by.

I've been searching deep down in my soul.
Words that I'm hearing are starting to get old.
Feels like I'm starting all over again.
The last three years are just pretend.

And I said Goodbye to you
Goodbye to everything that I knew.
You were the one I loved, the one thing that I tried to hold onto.

I used to get lost in your eyes.
And it seems that I can't live a day without you
Closing my eyes and you'll chase my thoughts away
To a place where I am blinded by the light, but it's not right.

Goodbye to you
Goodbye to everything that I knew.
You were the one I loved, the one thing that I tried to hold onto.

And it hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time.
I want what's yours and I want what's mine
I want you, but I'm not giving in this time.

Goodbye to you
Goodbye to everything that I knew.
You were the one I loved, the one thing that I tried to hold onto.

-H.

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March 05, 2004

The Littlest Angel Box

When I was a kid, I heard the story of the Littlest Angel, which I am pleased to see is still in print. Even though I am no longer religious, the underlying message of the story still applies to my life today. The story is basically thus: a little boy angel in heaven needs to come up with a gift for the birth of Jesus. He struggles and struggles, since all of the angels are making a really big deal out of this, and then remembers when he was a little boy on earth he had a box of his favorite treasures. So he goes and gets said box, and presents it to the baby. In it are things like a rock, a feather, and a few other things that I don't remember.

In other words, the box is filled with the most precious things to the little angel that have no monetary value.

Well, I just shipped off my own Littlest Angel Box.

I shipped it to myself in the UK, and it should arrive next week. It's a 10kg (22lb) postal box filled to the brim with things that are so important to me that I would crumble if they went missing. I'm not saying that they will go missing, but I have been through nasty breakups before, and I know what people are capable of doing to each other in the bottom of their blistering heartache. I don't wish to lose these things. I also know that my luggage tomorrow will be packed to the gills, so I want these things to meet me there.

It took me an entire week to think of what to put in my box, but I shipped it off yesterday, creakingly full. There is really nothing of value in the box. I have an uncut emerald that is not in there. Stock certificates. Even Kim's silver box isn't in there, since all of the letters are on the web.

My documents-including birth certificate, passport, diplomas, etc-will be travelling with me, as will the heirloom jewelry I got from my great-grandmother, a wonderful woman that smelled like butter with a heart the size of Montana and who loved me to bits. Other treasures were too big to fit-a blanket knitted for me by my other great-grandmother that I never met (my father's father's mother) which I call my doggie blanket. A needlepoint quilt hand-sewn by my grandmother before her arthritis took the ability to sew away. Photo albums that tell the story of my adult life.

My box is filled with the following:

- Love letters from Mr. Y
- 3 cards from X Partner Unit (he never believed in writing much. I would get one card every Valentine's Day. That was the extent of his writing beliefs.)
- The tabs of the boarding passes from all of the flights I have been on in the last 5 years. I kept them all, to remember where I had been and when.
- The plastic hotel room keys of all the hotels I have stayed in during the last 5 years-so that I can remember what it was like to be out and about.
- The wedding photo of my grandparents, him in his army uniform, my grandmother so young and happy.
- The wedding photo of my great-grandparents-him with a jaunty cap, her with an unlined face that looked exhiliarated and fresh
- My own wedding photo and videotape with X Partner Unit
- A strand of Greek worry beads from the island of Naxos (idle hands are the devil's work, after all).
- A sun catcher from Santorini
- 2 CD backups of all the photos from the past 4 years of my life-my dog. The cats. The flat and then the house. The Seychelles, Malaysia, Turkey, Greece, Partner Unit, friends, family, travels.
- 2 boxes of girl scout cookies
- A pink plastic elephant my grandmother sent me. My grandfather bought it for her on their honeymoon, and she hoped it would bring X Partner Unit and I our own 48 years and 9 months of wedded happiness. Although that looks like it's not going to happen, I'm not giving it up anyway.
- Lotions and body washes from Bath and Body Works. I know-not that special, but important to me. Wanna' know what scent surrounds me? Pick up the Jasmine and Vanilla body lotion. Or the ginger and green tea body wash. That's me.
- The following DVDs which cannot be replaced in Europe: Home for the Holidays (so that I can think of Thanksgiving), E.T. extended version, Schoolhouse Rocks, Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer (the claymation ones, narrated by Fred Astaire-remember those?) and the DVDs I've been sent from my wish list on this blog.
- The following CDs- Sarah McLachlan's Fumbling Towards Ecstasy, John Denver and the Muppets Christmas Carols, Dave Matthews Crash, and Sting's The Soul Cages.
- A silver photo album my mother made me, filled with pictures of my childhood.
- A picture of Kim
- My diving log book
- My first baby doll I was given when I was born, which I still have. She's pretty ugly, something that you would expect Tabitha from Bewitched to be carrying around, and has some crayon marks on her face. I called her Pink Baby, and I will never let her go.

And my greatest treasure in the whole world is a yellow plastic puffer fish bath toy. It's the most valuable thing I own, my inheritance from my beloved grandfather's death. It was the only thing I asked for, the only thing I wanted. I used to play with it in their bathtub when we visited them, and looking at that puffer fish reminds me of their enormous Iowa farm, the smells of cooking bacon and of corn stalks, and the knowledge that my grandfather was somewhere on the farm, working for his family.

That's safely nestled in Mr. Y's bureau. I took him with me to London to interview, you see. Sort of like my wishful thinking good luck charm.

My treasures are what will keep me going when the going gets rough. There's no value in them, really. But they are things I know I can't live without. And as I finish the final 24 hours before I leave Sweden for Life Number 6, I know that I will breathe easier knowing that they are there with me.

What would your box have?

-H.


PS-Brass, my darlin'-how's Luuka?

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:11 AM | Comments (29) | Add Comment
Post contains 1100 words, total size 6 kb.

March 04, 2004

Pizza Box Weddings

In the Summer of 1995, Kim and I were dating. I was taking things very cautiously with him, and was very nervous about dating him-he was quite intense and he caused the strangest reactions in me. I found myself more intricately drawn to him than any man previously. I wanted to go slowly into this one, to take my time and see where we went. It had been 5 months, and we still hadn't even slept together.

One evening, just before he was due to come over to my apartment for dinner and a video, he called-he asked if I would mind being his date to his ex-girlfriend's sisters wedding. His ex-girlfriend, Dana, was everything I was not-tiny, gorgeous, a wealthy banker who owned her own home. Here I was-a university student who lived week-to-week on the Arby's 5-for-5 Roast Beef Sandwich deal and had been known to attend classes wearing my pajamas.

I was not excited about the prospect. But Kim explained that Dana had called begging him to go to Susan's wedding-that Dana's family had always loved Kim and that Dana needed his support, as Susan was marrying in her newly adopted religion-Jehovah's Witness. And as such, Dana needed his support. Kim relented, but only if he got to bring me.

I agreed, knowing that I was putting myself in the mosts uncomfortable position in the world. Not only was I really nervous about meeting his ex, but I had absolutely nothing to wear, and didn't like religious ceremonies. But I knew I had to defend my territory, and so attend it would be.

Kim came over that night bearing an enormous pizza box and a video. He gave me a kiss on the mouth and a tight hug, whispering in my ear (without me even telling him how nervous I was) that I would be fine at the wedding, and that he would be so proud to be seen with me. He handed me the pizza box, and I carried it to the kitchen, grabbing my mis-matched plates and some paper towels, and slid the top open.

There was no pizza inside.

Instead, inside was a beautiful gauzy green dress, a green so deep and perfect that there is no Crayola in imagination that could compare. Kim came up behind me, and smiled.

"I just thought maybe you needed something beautiful to wear. Every woman needs to feel as pretty as she is."

I was touched beyond belief.

Two weeks later, I was at the wedding. Dana came flying down the aisle to hug Kim when we arrived, and she was indeed everything I had feared-perfectly coifed hair. Backless slinky black dress. Tiny high heels encapsulating her perfecly manicured toes. She was a tiny, curvy pretty thing that sparkled with expensive jewelry and perfume. Here I was, in comparison-built of peasant stock, adorned with only a butterfly hairclip in my hair to scoop the masses of red hair that I had off my neck. My shoes were scuffed up and my scent was only soap and herbal shampoo.

But man that green dress was perfect.

Susan's wedding began, and I kid you not-it was so offensive to my liberal feminist leanings that I could have chewed through the temple ceiling. During one part of the exchange of vows, Susan actually recited (looking dreamily into her husband-to-be's eyes) that she would subjugate (ohmigod, they used the word subjugate!) her wishes to the wishes of her husband, and that his needs would always be put first, and that he would always be the decision-maker and man of the household.

I was going to snap the pew in half, but Kim held my hands and I held my peace. It wasn't my wedding, after all, so no way in hell would I ruin anyone else's. But I found all kinds of reserves of "keep your mouth shut, Helen" type resources.

We skipped the reception, went out for dinner and then went back to my place and got drunk, at which point I fell asleep on the couch. When I woke up, he had folded a blanket over me and removed my shoes. Tiptoeing outside of my apartment building, I saw him in his car in the parking lot-asleep. He didn't want to drive drunk, nor did he want to freak me out by staying.

I don't have the dress anymore, and I don't even know what happened to it. All I know is that one evening I held up to the scrutiny of myself. A pizza box held what I needed to feel pretty for one evening, but even more importantly, Kim knew I needed that.

And about modern times-Yesterday morning I parked in BFE in order to get to the embassy (after September 11th, no one is allowed to park near the British or American Embassies anymore, and they are next door to each other), I bravely faced Arctic blast-like weather to head to the British Embassy. Passing the American Embassy, which looks like an enormous Communist-era concrete horror, there was a lone Marine patrolling the perimeter of the Embassy gates, trundling through the knee-high snow, gun at the ready and winter gear on. He looked up at me, lifted his hand, and smiled and waved.

That one gesture made my morning. Sometimes it makes me want to cry when I think about how friendly Americans can be. I waved back and smiled, feeling great that one Marine had made my heart warm just a little bit.

And within 30 minutes, I had entered and left the British Embassy, passport stamped and in my hand.

There are no further hurdles to be had. I'm all set to go. Today will be spent packing.


-H.

T minus 2 days and counting.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:17 AM | Comments (43) | Add Comment
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March 03, 2004

Hallway Confessions

This morning I am off to the embassy, supplied with a book and a cup of coffee while I take up residence there until my passport is processed. I cannot believe that they will delay this due to office furniture, I cannot accept that they hold a desk and a LAN connection over people's futures. I cannot come so far and fail.

My beautiful dog is off to the mother-in-law's this weekend.

Unlike his other visits when Partner Unit and I went on holiday, he won't be coming back.

Sitting in the hallway again, Partner Unit and I talked. Ironic, that after 5 years together we never found a place where we could talk, until the Last Days of Us, in which we find that we can sit on the hardwood floors of the hallway, in casual poses of comfort, and finally air the wounds. The bitter wind whips the side of the house, taking a -5 degree temperature and bending it into factions of razors that sever off fingers and toes.

With solemn sadness we go through the logistics. The housing costs, the furniture. He is thinking of going to China after all, maybe later this year. I took my howling cats to the vet earlier in the day to prepare them for a possible move to the UK, with me, if that happens or if he decides he doesn't want them.

We are friends still, amazingly enough. Perhaps better friends than we have ever been before. I take comfort in his presence and his kindness, and perhaps out of guilt or love I fill the freezer and wine cellar with his favorites, to enjoy and nourish when I am gone.

Last night in the hallway I turned to him, sliding a stockinged foot across the stomach of my dog. "I do love you, you know." I say to him. "I always have and I always will. Maybe we didn't work out, but you should know that-just like Kim-I will always carry you in my heart and love you. I'm so sorry about everything, and mostly I just don't want you to feel that you've wasted your time with me."

He smiles sweetly, and scratches the cat draped on his leg absent-mindedly. "Honey...I will never think that. The 5 years we have had together have been the highlight of my life. I got to experience so much, I learned so much. I will never regret that. And above all, I got to love you."

And it was then, with those words, that I felt my heart truly break. With just that moment, I realized how sorry I feel for never having truly let him into my heart. I am beyond not worthy of a sentiment like that, there's no way on earth I deserve someone feeling like that for me.

I know that I am idealizing things right now-Partner Unit has a vicious temper that can get physical when he unleashes it. We never had the sizzling passion and the chemistry. He never wanted to discuss the past. He never remembers the things I tell him, not even the deep down, jarring, torrential things, and he never really listens to me and takes into consideration my advice.

But he is a good man, one that fought for me, and one that loved me. I just could never let him in, could never tell him the little secrets that lay dormant in me. And it is with this that I realize I can't be with someone that I can't talk to. We tried-believe me, we tried-with marriage counselling, guidelines, attempts to be honest. It just couldn't happen between us.

It would be easier if we hated each other, if we had something solid to walk towards in our hearts. If he knew about Y, I think he would hate me. But we are friends, and I hope we always will be. All I want for him is for a wonderful woman to come in and make his dreams come true, in a way that I couldn't.

With the icy cold snaking through the windowpanes and settling around my fingers, I know that I have to leave here. I have to leave Sweden now. I couldn't stay even if I wanted to-there are no jobs here, and I am not willing (not able) to stay at home and live off of a man. But some things here will always stay with me-the way the snow looks on a cold icy morning. The warm Swedish summers, where the sun is up all night long. And this morning, when in a tribute to an old habit Partner Unit rolled over and wrapped his arms around me, sighing as he settled his face into my hair, I know I will remember him, too.

And as I get ready to head off into Life Number 6, I think: Please, God, please let me know that I am doing the right thing.

-H.

T minus 3 days and counting.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:04 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
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March 02, 2004

The Formers

Now that Life 6 is preparing to embark, I find myself thinking about what's next. I talked to X Partner Unit about this last night, sitting on the cold floor of the hallway, a dog parked across my legs, a cat parked across his.

"Are you scared?" he asked. "You're starting all over again with nothing. You're moving to a new country, a new job, a new flat, and all of this by yourself."

"No, I'm not scared." I said, stroking my dog's ears and missing him already. "That's not scary to me. What's scary to me is making it until Monday morning. Getting to the point where I get on the train and ride into Central London, and then my feet step across the threshold of the building. That's what's scary. Because until I get to that moment, I will be afraid that anything can step in and take it away. Then I will not have survived Company X letting me go. And that, to me, is scarier than moving."

He nods, and then we haul ourselves off the floor, cook some dinner and polish off a bottle of wine.

And I start thinking about the formers. The formers in everything, really. Dream Job is the next job after Company X. The experiences-both good and bad-that I have from Company X will come into play when I start Dream Job. But Company X and I had a bad breakup-I don't look back on them with love or remember the happy times, even though I knew there were those.

It's the same with lovers, I think. How do we deal with the formers? Not ours, for I think our own experiences with love color and flavor who we are, but how do we face those we love?

I dated a parade of losers before I met Kim (and, honestly, I dated a parade of losers after him, too). Kim had a number of ex-girlfriends, almost all of whom he was still good friends with. But the first great love of his life was a woman named Crystal, who had died when he was in his early 20s. He never got over her. And I knew better than to ask him about her, I knew that the grief and longing he had for her was private.

So it must be for the men that I have loved that came after Kim. X Partner Unit won't even discuss him. Mr. Y calls him "The God". Kim's not a God, but I do accept that there is a great deal of reverence in how I hold his memory. I can remember the bad things that happened with him, but I jealously hold him to my heart, pressed in tight where the thorns of this most precious rose can make me bleed with the slightest movement.

So maybe now Mr. Y and I get our acts in gear and are able to be together after falling in love and then falling away from each other all those years ago. But now we are loaded with more baggage, so my question remains-how do we deal with the formers, the people that gave us experiences and love back, and who made us who we are today?

I used to be a jealous person, terribly so, when I was with Kim. The jealousy ate me up, and Kim calmly and gently addressed it. When Kim and I split, I vowed to never be jealous again. What a fucking waste of emotion, no one should feel the bitter tang of being jealous. And, for the most part, I wasn't jealous again. But I can sometimes feel that it could come back again, unbidden, and make me its bitch again. As Kim once said: Just because I don't want to fuck them anymore, doesn't mean I want anyone else to, either.

I thought of some ground ideas:

- Keep the sweet momentos of the past, just don't parade them around. We are both entering into this relationship with a whole series of previous lives. We both have a box that contains all of our love letters, and I intent on keeping my box and I hope Y keeps his. It's nice to look back and remember how we were once loved by someone else.

- Don't compare each other to the past. I don't want to ever be compared to his exes, nor will I compare him to mine. I don't want to hear that she used to do that, so why shouldn't I?

- Wipe the slate clean of traditions and start them over, too. Create new ones together.

- It's ok to feel nostalgic about the past. Just talk about it when it happens.

- Weed out the "we" and "us" terms when discussing the exes.

The jealousy has not set in. Mr. Y is not the first love of my life. I know I am not Y's first love, and if we decide to try to make a go of it together, it's ok-I don't need to be.

I just want to be the last.

-H.

PS-My airline tickets are bought. I leave Saturday at lunchtime. So.... T minus 4 days and counting.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 07:00 AM | Comments (22) | Add Comment
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