June 30, 2004

I Want

So life goes on here, a roller coaster of emotions. I have a doctor visit this morning (called a visit to the surgery here in England, which makes me laugh and think of doctors sprinting through hallways). Not only is it time for a skin cancer check, but I am having some issues-I am so tired all the time. I am cold all the time. And lately when I go to the toilet I leave behind a bowl full of blood, and although I am not a doctor (I just play one on TV), I can't think that can be a good sign (sorry about the graphic qualities of that one).

Maybe it's my evil twin trying to chew its way out.

Gross.

Anyway, there is an airline here called BMI, which is known for having cheap flights if you book way ahead of time. They put forward an offer, set from November this year to March next year. They have 500,000 seats to fill up, so had incredible deals. Mr. Y and I have booked three trips, all for ridiculous prices-it cost £4.00 per person each way, plus taxes. So we have booked:

Palma de Mallorca (an island off the coast of Spain) in November
Amsterdam in December
Alicante (Spain) in January

We haven't booked any trips in September (Emily is coming!) or in October, as we are planning a one-week holiday away together to somewhere warm. We also haven't booked February, as Mr. Y's kids are going on holiday with us for two weeks.

My feet are itching, which means I want to travel somewhere, and luckily Mr. Y and I travel extremely well together (travelling together is a test of a real relationship-if you can survive travel, you can make it!). Living here in Europe has meant that flights to different locations are much cheaper than they are in the U.S., and so I like to take advantage of it. Sometimes I think I hunger to see how other places look, how other people live, how their grocery stores are stocked, how other lives are led.

When we were in Cornwall last weekend, I had a lovely peaceful moment. Mr. Y, Melissa, and two of Jean's kids, Hilda and Rachel, and I were at the beach near Port Issac. The water was far from warm, rain was tumbling from the sky, but Melissa and Rachel decided they wanted to go swimming. Mr. Y and Hilda went to get some coffee, and I rolled up my pant legs and waded into the cold water to hold the towels for the girls.

I never took my eyes off of them, my two freezing mermaid charges, and at one moment the sun broke. The rain fell, capturing little rainbows in my hair and eyes, and the surf pounded in, making my little girls scream with delight. I looked down at my feet, the cold making them white, and saw a purple stone. It was brilliantly purple, laced with sparklies in the light, and I reached a hand into the salty water and pulled it out. I turned it around in my hand, thinking of the perfect moment and thinking of the way it made me feel, like I could make a list of the things I want in my life. I made a list, and then I put the rock in my pocket.

It sits on the windowsill in the bedroom now, only it's not so brilliantly colored. It's more like a brownish color, and the sparklies are gone. It's as though the rock isn't so beautiful unless it's in its natural element, it just can't shine without the Cornish sea pounding over it.

But here is a part of my list:

-I want to be able to look at myself in the mirror and not feel like I don't know the person who looks back at me.
- I want to be with a man who looks at me in a crowd and feels his knees go weak, thinking that I am the most beautiful woman there.
- And I want him to tell me that, too.
- I want to be able to remove 30 years of sins from the relationship with my family. Both theirs and mine.
- I want to be able to tell you how much I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you.
- I want to be able to tell a joke and make people laugh.
- I want to cry at the birth of my child, and I want my man to cry with me.
- I want to have a Christmas that is replete with decorations and laughter.
- I want to not feel so fucking scared when I have to meet new people.
- I want to stop hurting myself.
- I want to be standing there and feel the tug of my child's hand as they ask me for a hug.
- I want to have to carpool my kids to football and ballet.
- I want the freedom of knowing that a fight doesn't mean that we are on the way to breaking up.
- I want to be able to tell people what I think and feel without them getting angry.
- I want to take yoga, horseback riding, and flying lessons.
- I want a dog.
- I want to publish a book and be allowed to work on writing another one.
- I want to never be hit ever again.
- I want to curl up on your lap and watch TV.
- I want to make love in the soft grass of the summer sun.
- I want to go on holiday to a tropical island and snorkel with the brightly colored fish.
- I want my cats to be here now.
- I want the people around me to be happy and relaxed.
- I want to perfect my recipe for the perfect homemade macaroni and cheese.
- I want to know that my rock and I are the perfect color, wherever we go.

A lighter post coming tomorrow.

-H.

PS-My love and thanks to Melanie. She sent me a present, a little stand-in for my cats. It made me cry, and now joins me by my pc.

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June 29, 2004

The Cheese Stands Alone

This weekend wasn't easy. I think in general I got on well with Melissa, and Mr. Y's friend Jean, has three fabulous children that I would very much like to abduct and raise them as my own they are so sweet. But there were a number of tense moments, stresses, and under-currents of people talking about the situation. Somehow I came out of the weekend feeling more confused than ever about a number of issues, and instead of clarifying how I feel and think, I only seem more muddled than ever before.

We spent the weekend in the lower southwest part of England, a part called Cornwall. Cornwall, by my estimation, is one of the most amazing landscapes I have seen yet in England. The surf and coast are wild, the wind whipping, and the roads hedged in by fields that have acted as natural fences for centuries. The house that Jean had rented was built in the 1600's-an immense country-side structure that had a larder complete with stone counters and ghosts in the attic, a house I would give anything to own. Mr. Y and I pitched a tent in the back garden, in a garden fenced in by high hedges.

The house was packed with people, lots of Whovilles with their toys and their noise noise noise noise. There were about 20 adults and one thousand children, all of whom somehow cloned themselves anytime they left the room and came back. There were balloons popping, children laughing, adults shouting, the clink of dishes, people talking...it was overwhelming. And since most of them were Swedish or related to Sweden (Jean and her kids are English but live in Sweden, Melissa perhaps feels more comfortable speaking Swedish), Mr. Y and I got to flex our Swedish muscles. A lot.

You would hear English/Swedish phrases all the time.

"Dad, I fatter nothing." (translates to: Dad, I understand nothing.)
"Mummy, this food is ackligt." (translates to: Mummy, this food is disgusting.)
"Kids! Frukost is ready!" (translates to: Kids, breakfast is ready!)

And so on.

I really can't discuss the weekend, not just because my computer isn't encrypted with an incrimination checker, but because I simply don't know myself what happened or how I feel. I can't seem to make heads or tails of anything, and just when I think I have figured it out or am ok, I get my feet knocked out from under me. I overheard a few things that have me feeling uncomfortable, and I don't know what to do with them but stuff the thoughts into my garbage can in my brain and try to forget them.

There was a Swedish woman there, named Ellen. She and her best friend, Jim (an Englishman) were there, and constantly looking out for each other. I walked into the lounge where they were sitting, talking, and was surprised to see Ellen completely in bits.

I went back to the kitchen and asked Jean what was up, and she told me that Ellen is clinically depressed, and that Jim, who is a psychologist, is currently going through a divorce. Ellen is so depressed she is suicidal and friends keep constant watch on her, she has been forced to retire and has recently gone through a divorce, herself. Jean said sometimes she isn't sure what to do, sometimes she gets so frustrated.

I went back into the lounge and sat down, Ellen not trying to wipe away the tears.

"Listen." I said, softly, not sure why I was doing what I was doing. "I know that people tell you that they understand and that you can talk to them. I know that people tell you that you need to cheer up and that you need to snap out of it. I also know that people may tell you that you wll be so selfish if you try to kill yourself."

She looked at me, aghast. "How do you know this?"she asked.

"I've been there." I replied. "I am there. I too find it hard to face the world. I too have problems finding myself. I too have lost everything. I lost my job, my home, my marriage. And I lost myself. I know that you can't just 'snap out of it'. I know that you can't just 'cheer up'." I turned my right wrist up, showing her the faint spider line. "I tried to kill myself, knowing that it would take the pain away. But you know what? It's not the answer for me. I hurt too many people around me, people that I love and feel terrible about hurting everyday."

Jean was sobbing, holding onto my hand. I looked at my scar, realizing that all those people that I may have hurt...only a few of them are still in my life now. And yet, I know that I need to go on.

"Thank you." Jean whispered. "This is so hard, I am opening too much up of myself to you."

Sister, I know where you are coming from on that one.

We talked a while longer, a little oasis of crazy people in the lounge, and at the end, Jean's eyes were bright, but her smile was calm.

"Do you want a hug?" I asked her.
"I do want a hug," she replied. "But it would make me cry again."

I nodded, not taking offense at all, and certainly not knowing that I would be saying those exact words myself to her within 24 hours. I got up to go.

"Can I get you anything? Some wine? Chocolate?" I asked.
"It won't solve the problem." Ellen hiccupped.
"No, it really won't." I replied honestly. "I'm going for the topical ointment here. The real diagnostic problem will take a bit longer."
Ellen smiled. Jim reached out and took my hand.

"You're amazing." he said, kindly.
"No, I'm really not." I said firmly. "But thanks for thinking of me." I smiled, and left.

When we left Cornwall to go home yesterday, Ellen was shopping, but I left her a note on her dresser.

Dear Ellen,

I am leaving my email address with you, and I want you to know that you can contact me anytime about anything. I will always be there to listen, although I maybe can't help solve the problems. I am leaving my address not just because I genuinely like you, but because I think maybe you and I have things to talk about. And you know-the truth is, I really need a friend, too."

Love
Helen

I don't expect to hear from her-I saw her vulnerable underbelly of aches, and I know that once you show that, you just can't reveal it again, you can't face the person that knows you are the weakest link. But I would love to hear from her. She is where I once was. She loved my risotto. And she offered me a hug and didn't get offended in the slightest when I told her it would just crack the veneer.

-H.

PS-KarmaJenn, Lesley, Ilyka-you got it right. In August, Mr. Y and I are off for 4 days to Venice, Italy.

PPS-Emily, you made my day. Thank you, gorgeous.

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June 25, 2004

The One With The Gawpy Accent

Wish me luck this weekend, as Melissa arrives tomorrow morning.

Mr. Y and I decided that it's important to be part of a community. Now, I am absolutely crap at meeting and getting to know new people, and Mr. Y is perhaps a little bit hesitant as well, but we both view this as an important part of being a new couple: he "lost" most of his joint friends in his divorce, and I "lost" all of mine. So meeting new people and having mutual friends is an important part of building a future together, one that includes getting stupidly drunk with friends at a dinner and barbecue.

So we joined the local arts group-he as someone to assist with sound/lighting, and me as part of the cast.

I was in theatre for a very long time, actually. I not only took classes at a theatre near Dallas, I also taught there, too. I was an actor, director, stage manager...you name it. I was active up until I met, married, and divorced the lighting designer there (ironic, isn't it? I always seem to fall for the guys who have a thing for lights) and then I really no longer had access to the theatre. I then went on to play a role in a UPN series for kids in Dallas, which ran for a few years. The money was shit, and a new possibility came up-I was to play a conservative woman living with her gay brother in NYC, but last minute UPN discovered a niche market in African-American comedies and scrapped the plan.

I quit UPN and acting in general.

A similar TV series, "Will and Grace", was made on a rival network to monster success.

I hope UPN are kicking themselves to this day.

Anyway, Mr. Y and I attended the village fair a few weeks ago and were persuaded to join the new show. The casting was already done, but they were desperate for chorus members so we were welcome if we would sing. Actually, it was for a show that Mr. Y knew very well, since his grand-parents were in a local production of it when he was younger, during the summer week he had to be in it. I couldn't believe it when I heard.

The show they are putting on is "Oklahoma!".

Oh.
My.
God.

Mr. Y and I trooped off to a former World War II bunker where they hold the rehearsals, and immediately it fell into my "This is Really Weird" category. There were about 15 people there, all seated in various arranged "choir" seats. The director, a woman who could masquerade during the day as the village gossip, immediately placed Mr. Y in the back row with the men and put me in the middle row with the altos.

And so it began.

The man playing Curly stood up, pinky ringed finger curled over the perfectly highlighted script. He started speaking to the group of us, clearly pleased with himself. He spoke, and I got a chill down my back as I realized that he was putting on a thick, "I'm-a-Redneck" accent with a bit of a totty English accent.

In fairness, he didn't do too bad.

But the object of his affections, Laurey? Yeah, let's just say she might need a bit of dialect work.

"Ah say, Cur-leeee. Ah jus doan know how Ah shall survive this monstrous event. Wouldja' lahke a cuppa tea?"

And about half of her words sounded like J.R.-Eweing-with-a-stroke meets the Queen of England.

At the break, I went up to the director.

"You know, I am from Texas, and I am happy to help with the accent, if you need it."

Razors of ice shot from her eyes. "Texas is not the same as Oklahoma." she replied, sharp English accent at the ready.

That's for damn sure, ma'am. "No, they aren't, but they are right next to each other and the dialect is similar. I am just offering, perhaps you don't need it."

"Well." she replied, her lips pursing and disappearing into themselves. "We shall see, shall we?"

Ooooh. I already pissed off the director. "Yup. We shall see." I replied. I walked up to Mr. Y, who was drinking a glass of water.

"Hi honey," I said, wrapping my arms around his waist. "Having fun?"
"Ohmigod, this is excruciating." he replied, gulping water. "I am not singing in a show, I will do the lights, but that's it."
"Please?" I asked, thinking how fun it would be to put stage makeup on him.
In answer, he tipped his water glass down the front of my shirt. Thinking quickly, I hugged myself to him, soaking him as well. When we sat down, he got chortles from the men in the back congratulating him on the wet T-Shirt contest. The woman next to me looked at me quizzically, taking in my wet chest.

"I have a drinking problem." I replied smoothly.
"Oh." she said, understanding. "I've heard that about Americans."
This brought on the giggles from me.

The rehearsal kept going-from time to time we would get to sing when Curly and Laurey were deciding to keep their hands off each other, and when we did it was hell. My group, the altos, were clearly out of favor. There were only 4 of us compared to about a thousand sopranos who apparently were engaged in a compeition to see who could shatter the most glass, and the director kept referring to us as "The Number Twos" which put me in immature giggles every time. I would glance back from time to time to see Mr. Y singing away, mouth wide open but looking a bit like a deer trapped in the headlights.

At the end of it, we walked home hand in hand, Mr. Y swearing up and down that he would absolutely not be doing that musical. And to be honest, although I love theatre and want to be involved, I have to be honest-I think "Oklahoma" is a pretty stupid musical. I may be bowing out, too.

But that doesn't stop the irritating songs from bouncing in our heads. I may be doing the laundry and hear, from the bathroom upstairs, the sound of Mr. Y taking a wee and singing at the top of his lungs: "You're doing fine, Oklahoma! Oklahoma! O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A! OKLAHOMA!" rising to a fever-inspired desperate yelling frenzy at the end of it.

But I know the feeling. After all, I'm just a girl who can't say no.

I love living here.

-H.

PS-Karen, I received the books and the Twizzlers-thank you so much, I was sucking the life out of the very last of my Twizzler stock yesterday!

PPS-Last night Mr. Y and I watched The Game, ignoring our tickets to the theatre for an edge-of-the-seat-of-the-couch evening. Miguel-my congratulations. But that goal shouldn't have been disallowed

PPPS-I have been getting a few mails that maybe I am not real, either. You know. Like Pinocchio. Just because Layne disappeared, it doesn't mean that the rest of the blog world is a bunch of smoke and mirrors. I am real, my experiences and thoughts (as fucked up as they are) are real, and everything I write here (except for people's names and a few incidences to protect people I discuss on this blog) are real. Ask Simon (and his new weblog showcase)-he's actually met me and Mr. Y.

PPPPS-And I booked tickets for a long weekend in August for Mr. Y and I. We are off to one of the most romantic places in the world. See if you can guess

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June 24, 2004

Kafka and the Guilt Raven

The Kafka dreams are back. Maybe it's a function of settling into my life, maybe it's a factor of a desperate and ongoing search for a therapist, or maybe it's the fact that no matter how hard I try to keep an even path, the heel of my shoe is constantly getting caught in the cracks.

Mr. Y's daughter Melissa is coming over this weekend, and we are going to Devon to stay in a country house with one of Mr. Y's English friends and her English/Swedish kids (ironically, she was one who was vocal about how he should go back to his wife in the early days, although that perspective has changed completely) and a few Swedish families, in an attempt to celebrate a delayed version of the Swedish Midsommar holidays. I had better work on my rusty brain and make sure my Swedish is intact.

I am nervous to fuck.

I am not good at meeting new people. When I meet new people, in the past I have knocked myself out of my body and taken on some new role. I become this woman who is the life of the party, who swoops in, desperate for people to like her and desperate to not reflect badly on the situation.

Mr. Y hates that woman.

So do I.

I try to keep that woman at bay, to feel when I start to split out of myself and become someone else. Maybe I am not the life of the party when I am myself, but who says I need to be? Why can't I just relax and meet new people without such wild trepidation, such utter fear? More often than not, I will cancel on new events, happy to keep my little self locked up. You can look at the lion in the cage, but you can't get close enough to her.

Even more, I am so nervous about Melissa.

I want her to be happy, I want her to have fun. I confess I want her to like me, but I want her to not feel she is being disloyal to her mother if she does so. I want to not feel so confused when her clinginess sets in. I want to take her fragile feelings and wrap her up in bubble tape, making sure she laughs and is loved to the fullest extent that she deserves in her trusting and innocent life.

I try so hard to be happy and do the right thing, but all around me are the ravages of the damage I cause-cold and informal mails from the family (if I get them at all), hurt feelings and strewn relationships. X Partner Unit called me on Tuesday.

"I have some mail here for you." he said, coldly.
"Oh, sorry." I replied, feeling childish. "I put in the forwarding mail order yesterday, so you should be clear of my mail now. You can just mail it to me now."
"Fine." he replied.
"Er...everything ok? Big Midsommar plans?" I ask, wondering about the phone call.
"Yeah, I'm hoping to get drunk and get laid."
Hmm. I didn't feel upset by his words, I actually do hope he moves on and has a new life full of happiness and sex, but it seemed an odd thing to say.
"Ah. Good. So you're moving on then?" I asked, honestly hoping to have a good dialogue about it.
"I might as well try. It's not like we had enough sex."
Wow. Ok, kid gloves off.
"OK...so it sounds like we can't be friends, then." I replied, testing out the floorboards of the new twist of events.
"Well, we don't talk that much now but it's not like we ever really did before." he replied curtly.
"Right, ok." I said, thinking this call was over. "I'll go now, all ok with the cats?"

Just then, I heard Mumin in the background, crying to be pet. I think my heart fell about a thousand feet into the cold crust of the earth's surface, and all I wanted t odo was reach through the phone line and grab hold of her neck, dragging her to my side of the phone line.

"They're fine. When are you shipping them?" he asked.
"November 28, which is the earliest date." I replied, heart hauling its way back into me.
"Damn. That's so long from now. Fine, whatever."
Click.

The Kafka dreams ravage me. Two nights ago I woke up from an evening of dreaming of exes. Mr. Y was back with his, trying to work it out. I was in court with X Partner Unit, crying and begging for him to forgive me. He perches on a wall like a raven, coldly watching me, and when I squirm and cry and beg for forgiveness, he looks annoyed. When I stand up and start screaming and raging, he cocks his head to take in the sound.

"That's it. That's what you need. Be angry, let it all out." he says softly, before flying away.

Last night I dreamt he euthanized my cats, and no one in my life would listen to how agonizing it was for me, I couldn't talk and shape the words and air over my throat.

Today, brought low by a mis-understanding this morning, I swooped into the office, the rain clouds pregnant and the wind unforgiving. I walked across the Waterloo bridge, battling the wind and angry with everyone around me. A young man holds his hand out.

"Can you spare some change, Miss?" he asks, scruffy blond hair breezing in the wind.
"Sorry." I reply.
"Ok, well have a nice day!" he calls cheerily in return.
I walk on.
Then I stop.
I'm a fucking liar.
I open my wallet and take out a few silver coins and I walk back to him.
"Can you spare some change, Miss?" he asks again, confused.
"You know what? I can." I reply, and place the coins in his hand.

Maybe he buys beer. Maybe he buys a sandwich. Either way, who the hell am I to tell him what he should purchase?

I walk on, nearly to the office, when a cab swings into the road I am crossing, its tires noisy on the pavement. He stops short of hitting me and honks.

I stop walking.
He honks again.
I just stand there and look at him, no emotion on my face.
He starts gesticulating wildly and talking.
I just stand, the wind battling the hair over my face, whipping it around like a halo of hate.
He then sits there and looks at me.
I stare back.

Finally I walk on, and he drives past me, just looking at me. I walk on, thoughts pounding through my head. I am crazy. I am happy. I am a cunt. I am a liar. I am sexy. I am smart. I am alone.

And maybe all or none of them are true.

-H.

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June 22, 2004

What the Hell is the Matter With You?

Mr. Y and I signed up for a new doctor in town. With the NHS, this means visiting the GP and doing a brief physical, getting an NHS number, etc. The form is straightforward-name, age, address, last time you saw a doctor, and a list of boxes that you check yes or no to, the standard things that your pen flies over and makes a tiny mark in a box.

Do you have or have you had heart trouble? No.
Do you have or have you had kidney trouble? No.
Do you or have you had cancer? Yes.
Do you smoke? No.

And then the one that stopped my pen. The one that made me think and made me wonder how to proceed.

Do you have a mental illness?

Do I have a mental illness? Mr. Y flew through his questions ticking no, and there I was, stuck. Do I have a mental illness...

One out of four adults is struck with a mental illness at some point in their lives. Maybe it's you, maybe it's a family member, maybe it's a colleague. It's hard to think about, and even harder for society to accept.

Last June I took a series of tests, written tests that I struggled with the Swedish dictionary with as logistics and emotions are not terms that I regularly dealt with in Swedish. Upon receiving my scores, scored which indicated a million miles an hour of mental illnesses that didn't sound remotely like me, my therapist looked at me kindly and produced a mimeographed copy of a test to me, a copy in creaking and ancient English that produced a sigh of relief from me.

I took the test, the scars on my wrists bright slash marks that lit the way for my pen.

I got the answers.

And all at once my world was thrown up in the air while simultaneously making sense to me.

My entire life has been punctuated by not understanding. My childhood is completely blank, an 8MM film spinning around in my head and not getting anywhere, the images bubbly and dark. My memory kicks in around age 14, at which point it's too overwhelming, it's too much to hold. My adulthood then comes in and kicks the childhood memory's ass, ripping and pulling and tearing my feelings into little pieces.

I have hurt myself from a very young age, starting with pulling out my hair and progressing along a deadly path of eating disorders, frying pans and razors. I have played with serious alcohol addiction. I have raced my car in driving rain, hoping and praying that it would lead to a tangle of twisted metal along the guardrail and my body with it. When the going got rough, I would step out of myself and watch the horrific made-for-TV-movie of me.

My life isn't one life, but is instead 6 distinct and different lives, all of them pock-marked with me desperately changing myself into whomever I was with wanted me to be, as I throw myself on a barbed electric fence desperately seeking acceptance. I was the prodigal child. The reclusive artsy teenager. The young eager bride. The scarily angry chick that would just as soon throw something as talk. The globe-trotting smart-ass. The unemployed lost soul, sitting in a bath of depression, burning her old journals and unable to bathe or breathe.

In the early days, people would tell you that I was the angriest woman they had ever met.

Now I only rank as fucked-up.

I think I would rather be the angry chick.

And now I have abandoned all of those roles, and I live day to day in complete wonderment, wondering if I am getting any closer to Me.

I would be anyone you wanted me to be, as long as you would accept me. As long as you would love me and want me, and even more critically, as long as you would need me. As long as you would tell me I was good, as long as you would tell me what I was doing was what you wanted. I dated a parade of worthless goons, some of whom were abusive, perhaps as some way to try to continue to show myself that no matter how hard I tried, I would never be any good.

It came as no surprise then, after my suicide attempt last January, that my underlying problem was something much more significant than "I have had enough." My foundation was built on weak cement. My structure was unsound. Something had fundamentally gone awry with me, and it had done so from an early age. My psychotherapist didn't know what "prompted" it-my memories are missing, anyway, so there's likely no way to ever know if it's something from my childhood or something chemical.

I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.

Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD, is a big whopper of a problem. 10% of those with this disorder will meet their end by killing themselves. 20% of those in long-term mental institutions have it. It is a problem that absorbs all of you, that drives everything and makes everything hurt.

The DSM IV Diagnostic Criteria for BPD are:

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment.
2. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation
3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self
4. Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating)
5. Recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour
6. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days)
7. Chronic feelings of emptiness
8. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights)
9. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms

I do not have mutiple personalities and I am not psychotic. A doctor described a sufferer of BPD as someone having the emotional equivalent of a third-degree burn-everything hurts. Everything you say that is negative or horrible gets incorporated into who I am and becomes a medal that I wear, pinned upon my naked chest, to make myself feel worse. I have the stunning ability to twist words around in some way so that they damage me at all costs.

Everything hurts.

Sometimes even the good.

Don't think of me any differently-I am still just Helen, with still just the demons in my head. I am not in any way a danger to anyone in society. I will never hurt another person and I am not a danger to anyone....except myself.

And that's where I am a real danger.

I haven't told many people about this. My family knows about it, as well as Mr. Y, Best Friend, and Dear Mate, and two bloggers out there. It is not something that I am proud of. It is not something that I want to advertise in my real life-I can't imagine how people around me would react. Mr. Y tries hard with me-he knows that he has to remember and watch what he says in fights, since I can turn it around against myself from zero to sixty mph in 4 seconds, but it's a struggle for him sometimes, too.

I am coming out with it here on my blog since it was one of the reasons that I started my blog. I had a problem. I am fucked up. I needed to talk. So I found out why and now need to continue therapy (which I am trying to do). To be honest, my psychotherapist in Sweden was great, and I genuinely miss the work we were doing-I felt I was making progress, that things were beginning to make sense.

I will get another therapist. I will try not to be a statistic. I am not owned by BPD, but it does affect how I react to situations. I will try to remove this difficult and painful red C on my chest, I am so tired of the "Crazy" nomenclature, I just want to remove it and burn it from my clothes.

And anyway, once you move the red C, there is still the Scarlet Letter A under there to deal with next.

Do you have a mental illness?

I checked yes.

Then I scratched it out and checked no.

I can only be so honest with my problems.

-H.

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June 21, 2004

When in France...

Friday night Mr. Y and I left for Tunbridge Wells, a nice-sized town in Southern England where I had booked a room for the night in a Hotel Du Vin, a hotel built in a 250 year old manor house. There are 6 Hotel Du Vin in all and I am determined to try them all, for only one reason really-the showers are so fantastic they're like sex.

Really.

We got there and went for a walk around the town, talking about life, our pasts, spending time keeping the shoes on the pavement and the hearts in our chests. It wasn't warm and the sun wasn't out, but it didn't really matter since an ambling about the town was all we wanted anyway.

A quick shower in the better-than-sex shower, and we went to dinner. The Bistro in the hotel is rumored to be one of the best in town, and so we decided to be dull and just walk across the courtyard and dine in. The dinner was superb-as was the wine-but I kept feeling like all of the subjects Mr. Y wanted to talk about were from his previous life. I heard a lot about their first house, their old friends, their trip to the Phillippines. I stopped sitting up when his lucious lips produced the word "we", since I began to know that "we" didn't include little old me.

I was most likely being over-sensitive, and even if I wasn't, then perhaps I wasn't being understanding enough. Perhaps he needed to talk, and this was how he did it. Mr. Y doesn't always have an easy time of talking, it's foreign to him even though our relationship is rather based on talk. I can articulate how I feel most of the time, but I know that's perhaps a function of my constant need to understand just what these little nuggets called emotion actually are. Or maybe I was just imagining the whole thing. Sometimes things build themselves in my head, tiny daggers of ineptitude on my behalf, and maybe this was one of those evenings.

We went for a walk in the grounds with our glasses of wine, through the wrapping vineyards of baby grapes and the bracing chill in the air. Mr. Y grabbed my arm suddenly, stopping my walking.

"Look." he whispered, pointing to a nearby tree.

Not seeing at first what he was referring to, I looked around, before seeing it on the ground, quietly lurking. It was a beautiful fox, a male with that explosive red fur and tipped tail, hindquarters speckled with grey. He was laying down on the grass and just regarded us, not warily or with fright, but rather with open surprise.

I dropped down and started making soothing noises, moving across the vineyard towards him. He stood up and stretched, roughly the size of a beagle, and then turned to face me, not at all threatened. He sat down and twisted his head to the side, cocking his ears to the wind and to me and staring at me full on with quizzing yellow eyes.

He let me get within a meter of him before he stood, stretched with no panic, and then relocated himself another meter away from me, but he still faced me with those glowing yellow eyes, his tail wrapped around his body and his ears keenly tipping towards me.

We went back to the room, tipsy and chilled. I wasn't sure if the evening was a success or not, wasn't sure if I was being over-sensitive or not understanding enough. Curling up in the bed, Mr. Y made soothing noises and told me beautiful things about love, his life, and his heart before we fell asleep curled into one large comma in the immense bed.

I slept deeply, dreaming of yellow eyes and red stretching shoulders, before a delicious movement woke me up and my eyes flittered open to the realization that Mr. Y was under the sheet and his lips were on me, licking me and dipping into me and driving me wild with his fabulous oral sex. He drove me to a shuddering and wild orgasm, those yellow eyes on the ceiling and my spine shattered with pleasure. We then proceeded to have a great deal of loving, fucking sex, moving about the bed and taking up a dozen different positions.

It was four in the morning.

We went on for three hours, bunching up the sheets, stuffing pillows in our mouths to stifle the groans, whispering passion and heat to each other. When he came, we lay again in the curled up commas in the bed but were still unable to keep our hands off each other and started in for round two.

Once we had raised ourselves from the love nest, we went and fetched some breakfast and then checked out, as we had a high-speed catamaran to catch to Calais. The ride was fast and I was giggly, very hands-on and tactile with Mr. Y. Seated in the seats behind us were a cheerleading group from Missouri, all open vowels and excalamations "Ohmigod, isn't this so cool?" I took such comfort in them, their soft nervousness and contant picture taking.

Once in Calais, we headed straight for the massive grocery store Carrefours, in order to indulge in the most English of activities in France.

We needed to buy wine.

France has almost no duty on alcohol, compared with England which puts a £2 duty on all bottles of wine. So walking into a grocery shop was like walking into a toy store, the prices were so low. We wound up buying coffee, fabulous French mustard, some coffee, and 84 bottles of beer, 76 bottles of wine and 4 bottles of champagne. Paying a ridiculously low amount for all of this, we got a laugh at the gentleman in front of us-getting out his wallet to pay for his sausages, he also got out his cigarettes and lit up right there, in the store, at the cash register.

France is a country that walks to its own beat. The French seem to be unfazed by almost anything-they don't get embarrassed, they don't get stressed, and when pressed they make a little puffing noise with their mouth. It was obvious to us-Mr. Y being English and me as an American-that we were the complete combo of what the French hate. But I enjoy France a lot, and find the French attitudes refreshing. If they want something, they'll do it. Walking into Carrefours, we passed a woman carrying a black pillow. Nestled on that pillow was one of the biggest rats I have ever seen in my life, a roly-poly grey and white rat about the size of a small housecat. He was obviously a pet, and the woman clearly wanted him to come along shopping, so come along he did.

We then drove to a small village called St. Riquiers, where we stayed in a 17th Century Norman abbey. Our room was in the attic in what was the servant's quarters, so nestled under the eaves we looked out across the courtyard at a magnificent Gothic church. We went to dinner where, giggling, we realized we were useless at French. I studied French for 8 years and used to be fluent, however I realized that when I spoke French I mishmashed it with Swedish. It was a nightmare. Mr. Y, also a former French speaker, did the same thing. Trying to buy gum, he pointed to the gum he wanted. The woman's hand hovered over the wrong one.

"Nej, nej, nej, nej." he said, shaking his head.
The shopkeeped looked confused.
I leaned in, whispering. "Nej is Swedish. I think you mean 'Non.'"
He pointed to the other one. "I'll take that one, thank you." he said in English, throwing in the towel.

Ordering dinner was an adventure. Mr. Y and I were able to translate most of the menu, but we did things in fits and starts. I could remember half of the words I needed, but not the other half. I ordered my meal and then Mr. Y ordered his. The woman thanked us, eyebrows penciled in with great care, and then headed off.

"What'd you order?" asked Mr. Y.
I tucked my napkin on my lap. "I have absolutely no idea. You?"
"Something to do with lamb." he replied, shrugging and pouring wine.

The meals were fantastic, and I am re-making one of them tonight, a crepe Normandie special called Ficelle Picarde (without the ham, of course).

We went back to the hotel and fell asleep almost immediately. The next morning, we had a rushed round of sex, all lubricant jelly and slippery smoking sex, him flipping me onto my stomach and taking me fast and furious from behind, and then we popped downstairs for petit dejeuner (breakfast). It was the typical French breakfast-croissant with Nutella, cheese and ham. A nearby table had a trembling little French dog, about the size of a football, all shivering quarters and eyes bulging out. He looked like he was either going to crap or be beaten, and he whined constantly for food.

We left the hotel and popped into one more grocery store to buy some stinky cheese-no one does stinky cheese like the French, and we were desperate for some. We whipped through the shop and then headed for the catamarran back to England. This time, the boat was almost empty, and so Mr. Y and I bought the Sunday Times, draped it over his lap, and pretended to read it while I gave him a hand job off and on for most of the ride.

Once we got close to Newhaven, we dashed up to the empty deck and stood in the bracing wind, seeing the Seven Sisters. He held me close against the freezing chill, and wrapping one arm around me, the other hand slid easily into my skirt, finding the moistness and riding me to a gentle orgasm against the railing of the ship.

Weh we docked, we moved back to the cars, opening the doors of the Alfa and rewarded with an immediate smell of stinky cheese. We drove home, hands all over each other, and then once we got to the house we hurriedly unpacked our dipping car of its wine, and then hurried upstairs where we played my favorite game.

Tie me up, tie me down.

And we finished off the oozy weekend with a two hour session.

Fuck I am so in love with this man, I just can't keep my hands off of him.

-H.

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June 18, 2004

The Mantle

I am sitting in the study, by the window, in some comfy large pajamas and drinking coffee. The sky oustide is grey and unwelcoming, as though the seasons god didn't realize it was summer and went derelict on its shift, forgetting to hang the sun out today to warm us up. The house is quiet and dark, and for some reason I am in a classical mood and a little Mahler is twirling around on iTunes.

My life is extraordinary still, in so many ways, but it doesn't cast off the strings of where I have been and what I have left behind. Mr. Y calls it our path of destruction that we have left in our wake, and perhaps that's as good an analogy as anything I could have said. But when the implication is "path of destruction", does that mean the direction we are headed is as controversial as well?

Yesterday would've been my four year wedding anniversary to X Partner Unit. Four years may not seem so long to most, but I can tell you that when we got married I fully intended to see it through. I intended to see it through, but I have always approached love and commitment with a dose of practicality-it is my aim to be with you forever, it is what I want and hope for...but you never know what life is going to throw in your path.

And life threw in my path a lovely Englishman with bluer than blue eyes, and I tripped and fell over him in a very big way.

Today would've been Mr. Y's sixteenth wedding anniversary. They had been together for eighteen years, close to half their lives, and that's a figure that I can't comprehend. It goes along with the fact that some of Mr. Y's friends he has had for almost forty years. Forty years. I have spent my life making friends and then chucking them out of my life as fast as possible in order to avoid any kind of emotional attachment, so the concept of a lifetime of friendship is overwhelming, something that I now want to work towards but I'm outta' the gate awfully late.

We go through some difficult times here. Sometimes when retching and despair go through me at the pain I have caused my ex, I have to stamp the thoughts down into the trash can of my heart, slamming the lid on it and hoping not to get rubbish juice on my hands. When I talk to him and he tells me that he is thinking of selling the house, he's gotten rid of most of the furniture, he's happy and moving on, then I am happy for him. I really, honestly am, and I am also tortured by the fact that I hurt him. He wasn't meant for me, but the kindness he could show makes me want to keep him safe and happy.

It sounds so trite, but I miss my cats so madly it makes me unable to speak. I know, I know-they're cats. But the silent sweet paws that make biscuits on my lap play on my mind. The way they come running to greet me and the absolute trust they have of me-they know you won't chase them with the vacuum. That if you enter the room they don't have to move and that you'll step over them and pet them to boot. That your lap is always open for them. I ache for them in a way that's almost physical and it hurts to know that they can't come until the last weekend in November. I have asked for a kitten, a new member of our joint family that is not in any way a substitute for my girls, but that is some little part of me that also has to do with him, a piece of love and laughter. A confidante in this new world that I have. It got an unreserved no from Mr. Y, so I bide my time and count my days until my girls can get here.

I fucking hate feeling like a burden.

Animals, to me, make a house a home.

Just like to Mr. Y, his kids make a house a home.

Mr. Y battles his own demons, too. When life starts to get him down, the stress and frustration of it, he also falls into the darkness and is unable to make it out. He has deep, unabating guilt about hurting his ex and his children. He misses his kids madly, and I find myself wanting to do anything and everything to try to help out. No, I don't have children (although I want them desperately, and talks about them have historically not gone well) but I know how much he loves them. I want to buy them things they would like and would make their eyes light up over knowing it came from their Daddy (only), to think of things they would like to do when they visit, to try to find ways for him to get to spend holidays with them. I want to take his hurt in my hands and massage it to a warm mushy paste so that we can take it and make it manageable, instead of the warm wall of hurt that builds in his throat and eyes.

But I don't seem to help, and it's dangerous uncharted territory to try to walk in.

We were having problems with this-instead of bonding over an experience that we are both going through, we would attack and defend. It's amazing-we can talk to each other about anything and everything but when it came to this, this experience that we both absolutely know how it feels, we got the swords and sabers out and fought to the death, each of us in an invisible force field composed of our pain. We think we've found a way through that now.

We go to bed.

Not to touch and kiss and suck, but to talk. Vulnerabilities are revealed and honesty somehow flows easier over Egyptian cotton than it does over the ticking of the couch or tile in the kitchen, and so when you are curled up next to someone you love in a place that you love, the words can come out with their real intent, instead of being protected in a layer of barbed thorns.

I asked Mr. Y last night, in the cover of the bed and with his warm and perfect form behind me, knees tucked up behind mine.

"I don't know what to do. I'm worried I can't make you happy." I whisper into the welcome night.
"Don't worry about that." he replied.
"But I do. I worry about it. I don't know that I make you happy."
"You do, Helen. You do make me happy."
"But you seem so unhappy so much." I reply, wondering how to show him what I think.

The guilt is not easy, and I really need it so start subsiding now. Yes, I broke up a family. Yes, I am a homewrecker and I broke my X Partner Unit's heart (and mine with it). Yes, my family and I have completely fallen out over this. And my god, I am so sorry that people have been hurt. But I don't want this heavy mantle of guilt about me now. I want to be able to laugh and be happy and enjoy my new life without feeling the responsibility of burden to the old one. I am so sorry that people have been hurt...but I really want my happiness to be allowed to ooze out of me. Finally. For the first time. I want to laugh and love and dance unreservedly. I want to be able to have a bad hair day without thinking that I have no right to feel bad. I want to love every floorboard of this house without thinking of the pacing done on the old ones, by feet with a heavy heart and toes of sadness. I want to be able to laugh and be touched in public by Mr. Y without the worrying.

This man is the greatest passion I have ever known.

We are not feeling too broken up about the anniversaries, just both aware of them. And he apparently especially so and it makes me feel lost. We're going away tonight, to another branch of the lovely Hotel Du Vin series, and then tomorrow taking a boat to France for an overnight trip. Just because. Just to get away and laugh and relax.

I am happy. I am changing. And I am sorry.

-H.

PS- Tiffani yesterday left my 5000th comment, just narrowly beating Jiminy for it!

PPS- About Layne...I have no idea, actually. I read a bit of Acanit, and I can see a seriously uncanny resemblance to the writing. If Layne is a professional writer just messing about...well I am a little disappointed, but I got a lot out of her writing, so I guess I am thankful. But no one can be write that screwed up without some background in it, so for the person that is Layne out there somewhere, I hope that they are happy and well.

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June 17, 2004

Ascot Races Sing This Song...Doo Dah..Doo Dah...

I survived.

And not only that, but I have to be honest-I had fun.

I take the train to Ascot, carrying my clothes in a brown paper Habitat bag since we were having lunch at a golf club first, so I could change there. The train was actually headed into London, but judging by the big hats and the men's "morning suits" (kind of a strange combination between a tux and what you expect Prince Charles to wear) and top hats, and I knew I was on the right train.

When we got there, my Habitat bag and I made for a taxi and got to the golf club, passing the Ascot High Street and the Royal Meeting, which looked adorned with shops to the likes of Prada and Gucci. Oh yeah. I am not going to fit in here. Women teetered on wobbly stilletos, their bodies cinched up tightly in brightly colored dresses, their hats battended down on their head and wraps travelling over the length of their arms.

After a long conversation with my Pakistani taxi driver (for some reason, I always get chatty taxi drivers that wind up telling me about their life. I certainly don't mind this, only I was feeling a bit stressed then) I get to the golf course and change clothes. The sun was out, the weather was hot, and I was in love with the heat I felt on my shoulders and back.

And I have to tell you-I felt fabulous in The Dress.

My friends: The Dress. This is me standing in front of the glass enclosure, which held the Royal Family for their view of the races.

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And here are two more of me in The Hat.

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We got to the Royal Meeting-about 10 Dream Job employees in all (including my manager and his fiancee, and I like both of them very much so that helped) were accompanied by 4 Company X people. The Company X people were nice albeit hungover (they had attended the Royal Meeting the day before, as well) and they were quick to make sure that the champagne glasses were always full.

I did not object.

Walking in was amazing-we were given a little tag for our clothes to allow us into the boxes, and we settled in. There were 6 races in all, and we would get the chance to watch and bet on all of them. I bet on horse's names that I liked-in the first race I bet on a horse called "Psychiatrist" simply because I thought it was meant to be, and in the second race I placed money on an American horse called "Soldera", since that seemed nice and patriotic to me.

Both lost.

My horse in the third race won, which made me happy. I didn't bet big money, only 2 pounds per horse, but it was nice getting money when my boy won. In case you were in the stands, that was me on my feet yelling "OutgoddamnSTANDING!" when the horse placed.

You can take the girl out of the U.S., but you can't take the U.S. out of the girl.

I collected my 9 pounds winning.

Which I promptly lost in the next race.

Peter, the main Company X contact I work with, took me down to the Paddock area, which is the grass green just in front of the race track, between the Queen's viewing area and the track. It was amazing-all the men in morning suits and all the women in hats. It was like I woke up in Pygmalion, I couldn't believe it.

We were walking around, and then a security guard-also dressed in a morning suit-came up to me.

"Excuse me madame, but you cannot drink the champagne here." he said brusquely.
"I'm sorry?" I asked. "I'm right next to the bar."
"Yes madame I know, but Prince Charles is about to exit here, and you cannot drink in front of him."

Well by God! I gulped down the glass, threw it away, and lo and behold out comes Prince Charles 6 feet in front of me, gets into his car, gives us a wave, and leaves.

Blimey.

The (possible) future King of England just drove by me, and apparently I am not allowed to drink in front of him.

Don't believe me? Check out the driver here:

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We watched the next race by the race track (with Peter nervously warning me that I would not be popular for yelling obscenities if my horse won or lost, that this was the "polite clapping section" only), and I dutifully politely clapped when my horse came in 12th.

The day ended soon enough-after the last race, we were due to go to dinner but I bunked out of it since I really wanted to go home and share my day with Mr. Y (who was not in the best of moods from work and from me asking too many repetitive questions, and I think I failed to cheer him up). The group was due to go to the grandstand with the rest of the Royal Meeting and sing songs like "Rule Britannia", "Land of Hope and Glory" and "God Save the Queen". Since the tune of "God Save the Queen" is, to me, "My Country Tis of Thee", I didn't really think singing was my kind of thing.

I left and headed back to the trains, feeling a bit drunk and a bit happy. When I changed trains in Reading, people stopped and stared at me as I walked down the platform in The Dress and The Hat, and nodded to each other.

"Ascot." they said to each other,

Ascot indeed. I survived. As to my adventure, I have a beautiful dress to show for it. I proved that this little white American girl who spent most of her early life in Air Force housing and other parts of her life in poverty can clean up pretty and appear to be a complete lady (except when my horse wins). And above all, I have seen something that I never in my wildest dreams thought I would do, so all in all I am very pleased that I went.

And I only lost 20 pounds in betting, so that can't be too bad.

-H.

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June 16, 2004

Going to the Races...

So today's the day.

I am off to the Royal Ascot races today (they call it the Royal Meeting here. That sound you hear is me snickering). Can you believe it? I sure as hell can't.

Yesterday, in a flirty girl dress and with the iPod in my ears, I strode out of the train at Waterloo station on my way to work and ran right into the Velvet Goldmine. It was seriously bizarre-there were masses of women in tight dresses, tiny strappy stilettos, and hats more bizarre than anything I had imagined. There was one woman that looked as though she had literally taken an umbrella, covered it in gold sequins and gold velvet fringe, and stuck it upside down on her head.

The tourists were taking pictures like nobody's business and I have to confess, if I'd had my camera there, I would've done it too. The hats were incredible! The people something smack out of "My Fair Lady", had it been done in the 21st Century. I couldn't believe it!

And today, I get to go there, too.

But even better, I get to go there as a special guest and customer of Company X.

The agenda is amazing-we kick off with Pimms on the terrace (I have to confess, I don't like Pimms) and then head to the Royal Meeting for a champagne bonanza, lunch, and then a dinner later which I am bunking out of.

This weekend I bought my hat, a ludicrous feature that is actually kinda' cute. Roughly the size of a massive Thanksgiving turkey platter, it is guaranteed to fit right in. I have little strappy sandals and toes painted fuck-me red. And above all, I have a dress.

The dress.

I saw it yesterday and knew it was meant to be. A sleeveless number in black with a diagonal creamy slash across it, I knew it was The Dress. I tried it on and it fit like a glove, all swirlign goodness along the hip, dropping dramatically to a flaring bottom which is perfect for my new kitten heels. Too late I found the creamy slashy bit was see-through, but what better time than the races, huh? My shoulders-built up from the gym-look great in the dress, and I am not too humble to say that my ass is really quite tasty-looking in the fabulousness that is the perfect dress.

The thing is, I am actually wildly nervous. I don't know why, mixing with the privileged is not usually something I am interested in. But this time I have been invited by the company that ripped my heart out and chucked me over the fence, and not only am I a guest and a customer to them with my position in Dream Job, but I get to spend a whole day in a special box-side seating arrangement sipping champagne, and something inside of me finds that appealing. Maybe it's because I am a girl and just fucking love the bubbly so much. Maybe it's because I survived the job loss and soared from the fiery ashes that were my life. Or maybe it's because I don't hold a grudge against the English branch of Company X-they do make quality hamsters, and I am not too bitter to admit that.

But the truth is, I am taking a train in and wearing my fabulous clothes, but I am a fraud. I wonder if it will be detected at Ascot, when I walk in in The Dress and my crazy hat. Will people look at me and know that I only paid £100 for my whole ensemble? Will they look at me and know that I have a very common background, that in fact some periods of my life were spent in what could only be described as poverty? Will the upper class look at my face and say "Jesus, the riffraff they let in here! She has the look of a home-wrecker, a waste of space that sat in her study in the cold dark Swedish winter, unemployed and hopeless?"

I don't really care if they did think that-I survived, and they didn't. But some part of me wants this to go so well. I never really get the chance to dress up in pretty girl clothes, and I certainly never get to do so with unlimited quantities of champagne.

Mr. Y knows all about these events, and he told me that careers are made and broken there. He says it's a networking deal. I definitely have the wrong approach, I am mostly interested in it from a cultural anthropology perspective. But then, I am a loser like that, and certainly a loser who didn't understand that there was much networking to be done.

The truth is, none of that interests me. I'm not good at office politics and not smart enough for them either. All I know is, I want the chance to see something that I never for a moment thought that I would be privy to seeing, to see it in The Dress, and to see it with champagne in my hand and forgiving and forgetting in my heart.

I will try to network.

I will try to not feel like I am a girl from the wrong side of the tracks crashing a posh party.

I hope my favorite pony wins.

And there will definitely be pictures.

But first-time for breakfast. Extremely posh peanut butter and jelly

-H.

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June 15, 2004

What a Difference a Year Makes

So.

This is what one year looks like.

This blog takes up 10 MG, and uses 998 MG of bandwidth per month. In the past 12 months, I have generally blogged five times a week.

This blog represents my brain, my heart, and my angst. It has saved me and it has caused me problems. It has given me more support than I could have dreamed, and I have met the kindest people. If you open up the web browser on Everyday Stranger, you will find my feelings wrapped around every paragraph and every post. It's all real, and always has been.

I started this blog exactly one year ago today as a way to try to talk about my problems. I didn't know what to do with it in the beginning, it went through the bumps and starts that every blog does. I wanted to try to write out what I was feeling and thinking, in part because I needed to talk, and in part because I wanted to see if I could write, if I had any hope of a future there. Sometimes I look at my blog and think-You know, maye I could make it as a writer. I think of trying to send an agent my blog link and seeing what they think, but then I get scared again and decide: Nope. Can't handle rejection. Just let sleeping dogs lie.

But my blog remains as one of the few places where I can dump my head out on the web and hope that there is someone who knows what it's like. Who knows where I am coming from and why I am going there. Who can explain my feelings to me when I can't even understand them myself.

Just before I started this blog, I received a diagnosis of what is wrong with me, a fundamental design flaw in my architecture, a tear in the ribcage of my infrastructure. I have always been quirky, difficult, and exhausting. After I tried to kill myself I received a diagnosis of why I am that way. This blog was born out of that, and although I have not talked specifically about my diagnosis, I suppose that day is coming.

One year has passed and my god has my life changed so wildly. I stand on the brink of the life I am living and look back at the one I have left behind, and I can't believe I survived the fall. In the past year, I:

- Left Sweden.
- Moved to England.
- Lost my marriage.
- Got the grandest passion I could ever hope for.
- Lost my job from Company X, who owned my soul.
- Got a new job with Dream Job.
- Spend the darkest, blackest winter of my life.
- Was found by Mr. Y.
- Gave up my babies in the Stockholm freezer.
- Met a wonderful blogger friend.
- Turned 30.
- Lost my family.
- Tried to get them back.
- Really lost them this time.
- Moved in with Mr. Y.
- Moved into my dream home.
- Started psychotherapy (but then, unfortunately, had to stop it. The hunt is on for a new Armchair Man).
- Found Lost in Translation.
- Cut off all my hair.
- Found the man above all men, the one I love almost to my detriment.
- Learned that I had a banshee, and she is real and scary and needed.
- Lost my beloved dog.
- Still waiting for my beloved cats.
- Made some amazing and important blog friends.
- Went to Turkey, Estonia, the U.S., the Czech Republic, Northern Ireland, Scotland, and Wales.
- Started learning what it's like to be a stepmother.
- Broke a man's heart.
- Broke my own heart.

And there's more. But another enormous snuffleupagus of a change is that I look in my life, and I find Kim is gone. Somehow in the past year, I have let him go, I quietly accepted that he is dead and I will never, ever see him again. I don't see him in crowds anymore. I don't think he is still alive in the world somewhere, waiting to contact me. He is dead, and although I think of him everyday, I know that he is not with me anymore.

It was said once in my comments section that I seem happy....for now. And sometimes I worry that's true. Laying on Mr. Y last night, my hand tracing circles in the fur on his chest and his arm playing with my ear, I told him that I worry about that myself.

"I am very happy." I whisper.
"Good. That makes me happy." he says back, smiling into the darkness.
"But I worry that something will come in and burst the bubble, that it will take away what we have. I worry that this life is too perfect, too good. I don't want to lose it. Do you think that will happen?"
"I don't think so," he said kindly. "I don't see why anything needs to come in and burst or deflate the bubble."

My life is not perfect-it has hidden valleys of pain and trouble, secret hurts that wander beneath eyelids. I am striving towards a beautiful new life, but the old one still lingers with me and the crazy hasn't cleared up with a dose of aspirin. But one year on, I can't help but think that I am in a much, much better place in life. I am in a job that I enjoy, in a country that makes sense to me, and with a man I can't keep my hands and heart off of.

One year ago I didn't understand anything about my life. Today, I still don't, but it's with laughter that my new world unwraps itself to me-making dinner with this man who makes me think and makes me laugh. A pretty dress and insane hat await me for tomorrow's Ascot Race. Mr. Y and I taking part in a local theatre production (more on both of those later.)

And one year on, my blog is still here. And it's still a baby, still more to go. If you've been reading my brain for a while, thank you.

And I'm sorry I am so screwed up.

So here's to another year of ups and downs, another year of fights and triumphs, another year of recovery and hope amidst the daily dose of Helen-crazy that gets sprinkled liberally on everything I touch.

Let the new year begin.

-H.

PS-Still no broadband, so I am still unable to do much blogging


Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:34 AM | Comments (36) | Add Comment
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June 14, 2004

Sleep With Me

I hadn't been feeling well all Friday afternoon, so an urgent phone call to Mr. Y resulted in me being met at the train station by him in the car, ready to drive me home. We got there just in time-I burst into the house and threw up in the toilet, huddled over the porcelain like a dribbly and unstable creature.

I crawled into the bedroom and slid onto the bed still in my work clothes as Mr. Y changed the duvet cover-nothing in the world more healing than fresh sheets-and then he went off and got me some 7-Up and a cold rag for my forehead. He hugged me, went downstairs and worked from the living room, and I would occasionally wake up and hear the sound of his pc or of his voice on the mobile phone, the sunlight pooling over my legs in the bedroom and the wind rocking the honeysuckle.

Towards the evening, I slunk downstairs and curled up on the couch next to him. He patted me kindly, then went and made us a nice dinner, did the dishes, the laundry, and got me anything I needed. We sat on the couch, him rubbing my shoulders, my feet, my face. Around ten it was bedtime, and we went upstairs to bed.

We got into the bed and followed our usual routine-me laying on my side and him behind me, easing his knees us under mine so that I was practically sitting down on him. One arm fit under his head and the other snaked around, across the hollow between my breasts, and onto my other arm. This is our pattern for falling asleep. It took me a while to get used to it, it's always something new with a new person in the bed, a new body to lean towards a new body to love, but now I find I can't sleep without this position. Even when we are fighting, I know the night will be ok if he just cuddles me before sleep. If we can just do that, I don't have to dread the morning, I don't wake up knowing that the conclusion is still lacking.

We doze a bit, and then I turn over and instead of him turning over too, he wraps himself around me and takes me into himself. I fit the mold of him perfectly, us wrapped up together like a kama sutra pose, and I feel the reassuring warmth and fur of him on my body, welcoming me into himself, holding me close. Our legs are intertwined and my face is pressed deep into his chest, and I love that moment at a thousand miles per hour.

I am sick and not feeling well, so I am not really in the mood for some loving, but he takes my hand and guides it down, to just hold onto him, to not move but just to feel the heat of my hand on him. I take my little finger and run it up and down the perfect structure of him, marvelling at the line of goosebumps that I raise on him.

We fall asleep that way, me wrapped into him and holding onto him. When we wake, I nudge him on his side and then I spoon him, my arm laying snugly across his hip, below his fur on his stomach and across his pelvis. And again, I am amazed at the way that we fit together, the fact that every curve is where it is supposed to be and every part of me wants to be near him.

And then I sleep, tired, ill, and madly in love and lust, and I know that if I have this man in my bed for the rest of my life, then maybe I will be doing something right.

-H.

PS-This week I should break 5,000 comments.

PPS-Tuesday-tomorrow-is also my one year blogging anniversary. Wow.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:14 AM | Comments (10) | Add Comment
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June 11, 2004

The Gong Sounds at Midnight

Our neighborhood (!) had a barbeque last Sunday, an event where everyone brings a side dish and the dead animal that they wish to be grilled (Mr. Y brought lamb and I brought a potato) and we sit outside and drink and talk. The sun was out, we were all in t-shirts and shorts and the wafting smoke from the barbeque was tempting even for a vegetarian like me.

I sat on a bench talking to Karl, a nice IT guy who is into theatre so we got along very well. I am ex-theatre myself, and I can tell you-theatre groups are the most accepting and most dysfunctional of any group in the world. All are welcome, but preferably with baggage. He talked about his divorce with me, sitting on the bench next to me. Mr. Y sat across from me talking to a Belgian engineer and idly playing with my foot. The scene was perfect. Kids were running around the yard and one lone cat stalked the chicken bones relaxing on forgotten paper plates.

Then a father and daughter from number 15 came outside, with their meat for the grill and a bottle of red wine, and I met them and chatted with them. The mother came outside moments later, a bulging pack strapped to her chest, and she handed said bulging pack to the father, who sat down nearby me and started to massage it.

It was a 6 week-old baby.

It was then that my ovaries started knocking on my abdomen wall.

The baby was quiet and sweet, all grabbing infant monkey feet and enormous blue eyes that look much wiser than mine. A tiny white cap snuggled over the forehead and fingernails the size of peppercorns guided fingers in the air, holding on to the fathers rough hands. A small smacking of the lips and an urgent stiff-arm fluttering in the air, and the little one was asleep in no time.

And I have to confess that I couldn't pay attention to Karl anymore, I could barely hear him, all I could hear was the fantastic sound of my body. Not the biological clock going off, that's just sensational garbage. There is no biological clock.

It's more like a biological gong.

And, like a cartoon character, someone had fitted the gong over my head and was banging it loudly, making my entire body vibrate with the quivering need to be a mother.

Luckily I have not reached the point where I am stuffing pillows down my shirt to see what I will look like. But I have reached a point where actually being pregnant doesn't freak me out so badly (I have to be honest-I am not afraid of the pain, I am afraid of the weight gain. Seriously. I know-focusing on the wrong thing, here.)

I have been a mother, but only once, and not for very long. And more and more recently, I know that I want to be one again sometime, but this time to not lose them in such a horrible way, in the toilet of a hardware store as my body started to reject my little ones. Where the bleeding started and didn't stop for days.

I can't have children naturally, and so if Mr. Y and I want kids, it has to be done the IVF way. But in this equation, things are a bit different-since Mr. Y is 12 years older than me and his children are ages 12 and 7, he has been reluctant to try to have children, and I understand this. He sees pros and cons for having a new family with me, and I understand this too. I also see pros and cons, the same ones he does in fact (and please don't have a go at him here for being with me as a "trophy prize", since it's really not like that).

We haven't really spoken so much about it for a while, but I don't think I am very good at explaining this one to him. If you ask me why I want to have a baby, my answer more or less boils down to "Because." Which is a crap answer and I wouldn't accept it either, only I can't narrow it down to one reason. I can't even narrow it down to five. It's a whole host of them, all swirling around emotions, family, and future, acceptance, strength, and hope.

I used to think I would be a terrible mother as I had absolutely zero patience, that I was too screwed up, that I would fall apart if my child didn't love me back. And on some things, I still need work (for instance, repetitive noises make me crazy. I would cave in if someone was administering Chinese water torture in a heartbeat). But other parts of me have changed, have calmed down. I don't feel so stressed when a baby cries now. I don't lose my temper so easily. And, amazingly, my career is not the center of my world anymore-I am not sure what has replaced it, but I do know that I am not living for my job now (wow-thanks Company X).

Mr. Y and I are taking it slowly-we haven't been together for very long and we need time to just be together, to just be a couple, free to touch and talk and love right now. Maybe he and I discuss this again soon, maybe we don't. Will my world end if I don't have kids? Probably not.

But I don't think it will shut the gong up, anyway.

Man I need my cats.

-H.

PS-Latest Carnival of the Vanities is up here.

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June 10, 2004

Wabbit Season! Duck Season! Wabbit Season! Tourist Season!

Switching gears again, allow me to expound on one thing: it is finally warm here in London, it is finally lovely weather, and it is perfect for sitting outside and enjoying a pint.

It is also absolutely swimming with tourists.

I have, in general, zero problem with tourists. I think they're great for the economy and bring a bit of life and sparkle into the area. When I was living in Dallas, smacking into tourists was not a common thing. In Stockholm, they would come by the busload, and usually on one of those American tours that would show people hauling out of the bus in a daze, wearing twisted and tangled up name tags, looking very fatigued and lost and often with no fucking idea what country they were in they had been travelling so much. Perhaps you know the tours I am talkign about -written in bold letters on the side of the bus: See 20 European countries in 4 days! Or: Explore Scandinavia in 6 hours!

Those types.

We actually overheard some American tourists getting off one of those buses, looking absolutely shell-shocked.

"What city are we in, Marge?" asked the husband, looking at the Stockholm castle and rubbing his eyes, trying to add moisture to them.
"I don't know, Earl." whispered Marge, looking like she wanted to cry. "Germany, maybe?"

I hate tours like that. To me, if you want to get to know a city, you need to stay there a bit. I appreciate that in the U.S. we don't get much vacation time, but that's what we are gifted with long lives for-take it easy, pick a country or two at a time. You won't regret learning which bistro is the best, the quiet out-of-the-way spot perfect for al fresco loving, the cobbled streets that are great for walking down.

London is packed, and I love it. But not everyone loves it, and I can understand where they are coming from. When you are running late and trying to rush to a business meeting and run into a throng of giggling girls looking windswept, you don't want to be rude. You don't want to take away their giggly joy at being somewhere that is ultimately very cool. But you do also want them to get the fuck out of the way and stop blocking the entrance to the tube.

You can spot the tourists at twenty paces, and amazingly, you can spot the American ones at fifty. And I can say this. I am an American. I can get on any tube and spot the American tourists right away, and I always lean their way to hear how they talk to confirm. I love hearing their molten vowels and the excitement in their voice. I love it.

The Americans are dressed in their urban combat gear, teevo sandals or hardcore L.L. Bean or REI city hiking shoes. They have layers of clothing wrapped around them and their sunglasses at the ready. But here's what amazes me: it seems like almost all of them have a massive, bulging, burdened backpack. And a great big fuck off water bottle. And, often, a fanny pack.

It amazes me when I see this. So here's some advice if you want it:

Wabbit Wear:

- You're in London. The 20th largest city in the world. In fact, it's roughly the same size as New York City. There is nothing-nothing-that you could wish for in London and not find (er...except Twizzlers). So no need for all the gear-you're in good hands here. Wear what you would do at home-if you would walk around the mall in suburban gear, then go for it. If you wear girly dresses and flip flops, you will fit in fine here. You can buy bottled water on every corner. Really, all you will need is thus: camera, wallet, guidebook, and a map. That's all.

- Whatever you do, don't wear the neck money pouch. The thieves will see you coming. And they will rub their hands in glee.

Wabbit Food:

- Avoid Marmite like the plague. Really. Marmite is a spread that the English either love or hate. I had it explained that it's actually the black gooey stuff that is left in the bottom of the beer vats-it's a yeasty paste that some English spread on toast. It's salty as hell and makes me salivate like Cujo. Mr. Y loves the stuff. Luckily, relationships need to be different.

- English ale is lovely if you give it a chance. It's served "cellar temperature" and has almost no bubbles. It is refreshing, encouraging, and can get you loaded before you know it. I can't recommend it enough.

Wabbit Humor

- Don't be offended if people make comments about Americans or ask about George Bush, guns, or country music. There are stereotypes here like there are stereotypes there. English humor is very deprecating, both self-and everybody else. If they know they are winding you up, then they will keep going for it.

Wabbit Pwotocol:

- When you get off/on the train, tube, or bus, keep moving. Catch up with your travelling companions a bit further up. Stopping just outside the doors in order to chat with your mates will likely get you thrown onto the tracks by a local who is deperate to make a meeting.

- When you exit the stations, stay to the left unless you want to get plowed down by locals in a hurry. It hurts like hell. Honest.

- If you are on a crowded train, then treat it like a crowded elevator. There is elevator etiquette, just as there is train etiquette. People don't talk on packed trains. Unfortunately, you are standing close enough to have sex with people, but that doesn't mean you should talk to the one who's having virtual dick is heading for you.

My project manager from Dream Job, a New Zealander named Bob, told me a story about a completely packed train he was on once.

And for the record, he and I are both big fans of London.

Bob: (sneezing).
Man 1 (loudly): Bless you!
Bob (quietly): Thank you.
Man 1: What a great accent! Where are you from?
Bob: I'm from New Zealand.
Man 1: Really? That's so cool! I'm from America!
Bob notices the whole train is now watching them.
Bob: Er...that's great.
Man 1: What're you doing here, man?
Bob: I work for Worldcom.
Man 1: Really? I have a buddy who just bought stock from Worldcom!
Man 1 looks down towards the other end of the crowded car.
Man 1 (yelling): Hey John! Didn't you just buy stock from Worldcom?
John (a voice from the other end of the car yelling back): Yeah, Mike! I bought it about three months ago.
Man 1: Really? I have a guy from New Zealand here who works for them!
Bob shrinks into a ball as all heads in the train turn to look at the guy from New Zealand who works for Worldcom.

He also says it was the best train ride he ever had.

-H.

PS-Simon is going to give money to charity for every hit he has that is over his benchmark. This is to celebrate his 1000th post. Give him a hit, just so we can hit his wallet too.

PPS-in fact, my one year blogging anniversary is next week. Weird.

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June 09, 2004

Floorboards

When I was a little girl, my grandparents had a farm in Iowa. I remember spending a lot of time there, as my parents zinged back and forth between being together and World War III, spending time in the one-level home that smelled of cigars, salt, and the poofy puffed scent of bread when you open the white breadloaf bag.

I think it was always hot there, the sun smell of soybeans and rippling sunlight hanging just around the air, making the ground vibrate. I didn't really have any friends and I never fit in there. I would spend a lot of time with my imaginary friend, a young Spanish boy named Mario who would walk through the cornstalk rows with me and examine the potato bugs and the dry cracked earth, a boy who disappeared without a trace but for whom I am still grateful for his imaginary company.

The thing about the farm life is that it's a number of lives built on a number of other lives. There is no farm land there that wasn't someone else's farmland before, farmers that just drifted away and disappeared. My grandfather owned what seems to my still child-like memory a whole world of farmland, sometimes we would have to get in the old dusty pickup to get to other fields, me riding in the back trying not to touch the scorching hot sides of the truck bed.

Once I went with him to his further-away fields, and while he was busy on a tractor on one of them I walked along the cornrows in amiable company with my man, Mario. We noticed a patch of unplanted ground, a little cove that had thick grass under the shelter of some trees. Investigating closer, I found it was a small graveyard, a jumble of tombstones falling to the side, the names edging their way back out of the headstone, a family of tombstones grouped under the trees, forgotten.

A whole family, buried and ignored for the rest of their internment.

And no one remembered them.

The Iowa landscape was covered in homes whose owners had simply walked out, closed the door, and gave up. I never knew if they had died, moved house, or were the victims of land repossession. They had simply vanished, leaving their homes to sit by the side of the road, the doors hanging off in a silent gory moan, an aching scream that this was the end of the line and that their days of being a cherished abode were over. Some of the houses were more modern-linoleum countertops and drawers with shiny knobs, drawers that hosted families of mice and daddy long legs. Other homes had lost their sheen-stripped of their paint their wood weathered to a dark gray as they slowly slid into a second stage of repossession, that of the weathered vines and cat-piss smelling cowslips claiming the land back.

Sometimes they had treasures in them-an old abandoned telephone provided hours of entertainment for me. A broken china doll on a shelf, its face cracked into four pieces. Doorknobs that I pretended were pirate treasure. I remember walking around in the houses, nudging the ghosts out of the way, saying Excuse Me as I walked into their territory, tread where their couch once was. And when you got to the top floors, you had to tread more carefully, to weigh each footstep, to find the consequences of each motion. I had to walk carefully, thinking about where to plant each footstep and knowing at any moment that one wrong movement and boom! I would fall through the floor.

I think life can be a lot like those houses. When life is going rough, I walk along the floorboards (both literal and emotional) carefully, wondering where the next footstep will land me. Will I be ok and make my way safely across the floor? Or was I not thinking and said something not well thought-out enough, something that will send my leg through the floorboards and lodge splinters in my shins?

I have grown up but still have to ease my way across the floorboards. I have traded in Mario for a little dose of disassociation. And although I am so happy here, it never causes me to forget that I am still broken inside, still in need of some intense, long-term therapy. And still treading carefully along the floorboards.

Maybe I am just like that broken china doll-although my face looks unbroken, lift the skirt and you can see that my bodice was ripped open a long time ago and all the stuffing was pulled out. And all I want to do is make it across the floor without fucking it all up, to get out of the house and out of that farm, to get out of that state and even out of that country, and get far away from the ghosts that still linger in the cornstalks, that whisper in the sunshine and the crickets, and run and run until I know that any floorboard I cross will support my movement.

-H.

PS-Still no broadband, so still limited blogging and emails.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 08:28 AM | Comments (8) | Add Comment
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June 08, 2004

Pre-Mid-Life Crisis

When I dry my hair, I do so sitting down in front of a mirror, the edges of my robe hiked up around my knees to keep me from getting overheated, and the various tools that I will be needing-hair straightening tongs, etc-scattered around my legs like the rejects of Robot Wars. I dry my hair sitting down as I actually find blow-drying hair to be incredibly boring, and so I read a magazine while I do it. I don't read books while drying the hair as that would imply breaking the spine on the back of the book, and that's tantamount to murder to me, it's that grievous a sin.

Previously, I confess, my magazines of choice have been Marie Claire and Cosmopolitan. I know I shouldn't admit that, but it's true. When I read books, I up the intelligence level, but if I am perusing a magazine, I want it to be the kind that I don't care too much if I have to stop halfway through a magazine article.

Only lately, I have found that it simply no longer applies. How to Have a Wild Holiday Fling! screams one of the headlines. Bikini Body Makeovers! crows another one. I flip through them and can read about erogenous zones, the perfect spray-on suntan, or if black is the new black.

And I find I just don't care about that kind of stuff. Hey man-it's cool, fuck away on your holiday and more power to you. Get a buff bikini body or at least accept that on any beach, there will be women that look better than you and women that look worse. So maybe I have out grown the magazines, but as I idly flipped through Good Housekeeping in the grocery store the other day, I realize I haven't grown up enough for it.

I have officially entered the Getting Older Zone.

In the mirror in the morning, after I use a spackler to apply the heavy anti-wrinkle and anti-aging creams, I check out my eyes and mouth for any signs of a wrinkle, and I have to confess that, at age 30, I am still wrinkle-free. I guess slathering on the anti-wrinkle cream from the age of 20 has helped, but regardless, I am still keeping an eye on it. I wonder too about the rest of me-my mother used to sigh and shake her head, saying that women reach an age where their body isn't so good at losing weight, and their hair thins out and slows down the growth. I look at my short hair in the mirror and hope to god that's not the case-although I have been glad to try the short hair thing, I think the truth is: I am a long-haired chick.

And I am petrified my hair is going to stop growing and leave me with the short hair.

And that everything I eat will cause cottage cheese-like deposits of fat on my hips and stomach.

And that my face is going to get so wrinkled that birds will be building nests in there.

Am I at that age where suddenly society regards you as a woman? If I had been in a car accident 5 years ago at the age of 25, and have been taken to the hospital, I imagine a newspaper story would report it thus:

"A young unidentified woman, looking strikingly like Julia Roberts but without the carp-like mouth, was involved in a serious collision today and is in critical condition at a local area hospital. Doctors say they expect her to make a full recovery and that her ass is in no way hanging out of the back of her gown in any kind of unattractive way."

But now that I am 30, would it be thus?:

"A middle-aged unidentified woman was involved in a serious collision today and is in critical condition at a local area hospital. Doctors are searching for the woman's family to see if they can possibly arrange organ donation, since even if she lives she looks as though she has been rode hard and put up wet."

Would I be referred to by the slogan "middle-aged woman"? Is 30 middle-aged? Is life catching up to me now?

A few weeks ago 2 pints of beer and 2 glasses of wine resulted in the second worst hangover in my life. Ten years ago, I would never have had a hangover like that, in fact ten years ago I didn't even get hangovers. Ten years ago I could sleep until noon, but now I am up by around 9:00 at the absolute latest, and that's only if Mr. Y and I have been at the alcohol and rumpy-bumpy the night before.

Worried that my hair won't grow long again, that my face will get fraught with wrinkles, and that this is the worrisome time in my life that my mother always spoke of, the time when a woman's metabolism changes and she finds that even looking at an ice chip will cause her to gain 15 pounds, I stand before my mirror, hoping my hair will grow, and slather on the moisturizer.

This morning I sit down and get bored off my gourd by Marie Claire, since I haven't identified my magazine genre yet, and anyway I have nothing else to read. I open to the middle, and there it is-coltish looking waif models in bikinis and stillettos. And I look outside at the rising sun, the promise of real heat today, and I take a stand. I turn off the hair dryer, stand up, and throw away the magazine. I am planning on wearing a gauzy flirty girl dress today. I don't need reminding of the fact that I am not a size 2, and never will be. I just want to feel good.

Bin the magazine-I promise you'll feel better even if you don't know whether black is the new black or not.

-H.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:49 AM | Comments (22) | Add Comment
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June 07, 2004

Pssst...Wanna See My World?

Here are a few pictures of our house, the area by where I work, and little parts of my life that make me smile.

This is Saint Paul's Cathedral, in the heart of London. It's also the view from one of the buildings that I go to on a weekly basis.

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It's a lovely view, but perhaps not as impressive as this one, which I pass everytime I walk to work from Waterloo Station, which I like to do.

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You can see why I love it so much-the London Eye, Parliament, Big Ben. Overwhelming, and the day I stop appreciating it is the day I know I'll need to leave. But it still knocks me off my feet every time I see it.

And this is the inside of Waterloo, a station which I think is actually quite nice. Wanna' take a train to Paris? Brussels? Whitney Houston? This is the place.

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This is our local train station, the one that takes me to home. See the figure at the end of the platform? Yup, that's my boy, waiting to pick me up.

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And this is the front of our beloved house. The door that's open? That leads into the living room. Notice the new satellite dish? Oh yeah. I'm in heaven.

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This is the living room, with the iron stove and the bright light that sneaks in through the windows.

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And these are my two prides and joys-Mr. Y, and our plasma TV. Here is Mr. Y installing what he calls our "big fuck-off" surround sound.

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This is our (thus far) empty dining room. It has a gorgeous fireplace and original cabinet in the corner, and you can see a bit of the hardwood floors that I love so much.

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This is the kitchen, back door open to the back garden, where we have a table and chairs, lots of herbs and flowers, and a line that I use to dry our clothes outside. Nothing smells so lovely as crisp clothes that have been dried in the sun, I just love it.

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Almost done now. This is the bedroom, complete with the lovely high bed and the sash window that oozes with fresh air.

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This is the study and the view out the window. In the window is the suncatcher I have carried with me from Greece, and on the PC a pic from our trip to Scotland.

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Finally this is the cricket green in town, where they play cricket on the weekends.

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This is my life. It's a small house on a cricket green, a man with big strong arms, and a little slice of happiness for me.

-H.

PS-The Best of Me Symphony is up here. Check it out, and say hi to Jim-he just lost his job, and I know how that feels-all the support you can get is essential to trying to keep on going.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 09:23 AM | Comments (21) | Add Comment
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June 02, 2004

My Name Is...

This post is simply from my perspective. Before angry trackbacks and hysterical witch-hunts start, lemme' just say...this is just how I feel.

I had to change over the phone service from Lloyd's flat to the new house in Whitney Houston (and for those that missed it, the town is not honestly called Whitney Houston), since it was in my name. So I got to spend forever on the phone trying to do this, when I finally got patched to a nice lady in an Irish call center.

"And would you like the current service plan and tariff that you have on your phone line?" she asked, burr in my ear.

"I guess so, I don't really mind it." I reply, flicking through web pages.

"I can get you a new tariff, one that includes the ability to call Malaysia for a pound a minute from 2:01 am to 2:03 am, if yo're interested. It costs a bit more, though, so maybe you want to ask your husband about it?" she asked.

Something made me stop clicking the keys. I think it was the fact that I realized I was stuck in a horrible vortex of the past, a time when women didn't have the say of the household. I was transported magically back to the 50's, all the while wondering how that would be possible, as I'd never even left Kansas.

Ask my husband about it?

What the fuck was that about?

Even if I was married, I don't see why I need to consult my husband before I change the tariff on the phone bill, unless we're talking a major increase in spending (in which case I think these kinds of things should be discussed.) But there is no way in a freezing-cold-mother-fucking-hell that I will EVER accept that kind of statement. Ask my husband?

Which brings me to this whole business of last names. In my life, I have had 4 last names. That's right. Four. So I think I am qualified to talk about this one.

The first was the name I was given at birth, my father's name. Only it isn't really my father's name, it's his step-father's name, which he took when he immigrated to the US when he was 16. It's an OK name-extremely common in English-speaking countries, and nothing too dramatic. It was just a name. I don't have an especially strong allegiance to my father and I definitely didn't have a strong allegiance to that name, so when I got married at 18 I took my first husband's name.

Now, I didn't really like that last name-my ex was Italian, and the name quite seriously Italian. It was so wildly disorienting and I absolutely never got the hang of it. People would shout at me down the hallway with the name.

"Hey Giuseppe!" they'd holler, but I wouldn't cotton onto the fact that they were talking to me, until they ran up to me.
"Hey Gepetto!" they'd say, panting. "Didn't you hear me?"
"No, I'm a dumbass." I would reply. "I simply cannot remember that my new name is Guido. I'm working on it."

I was never so glad to have back my short simple maiden name as I was when my marriage ended. In fact, I debated taking a whole new name. I wanted to be my own person and rid myself of the names of my father and ex. I wanted to be Just Helen, with Just Helen's Last Name. But the courts cost too much and I can be a lazy cow, so I simply never got around to it.

When I married X Partner Unit 4 years ago I took his name. I took his name as it was important to him that we were a unified family. In truth? I absolutely hated his last name. It was a short, very ugly German last name (before you get the impression that I am anti-German, let me assure you, I am not. But this was an ugly German last name, a taken family name with a dirty history from the war that he and I never could get to the bottom of.)

I didn't like that name. I didn't like having it, as it sounded ridiculous with my first name. It was a real mouthful of consonants and people were always getting it wrong. I took the name as it was important to my Partner that I do so, but I honestly never, ever liked the name. It was even worse when I travelled to Germany on business, as I often did. My real-life first name is either male or female, and it was without fail that I would check into a hotel in Germany, get addressed only in German, and sign in under: Herr ______.

So a little over a year ago I found out that in Sweden you can change your name. You can take an all new name for a small administrative fee, provided that no one else has this name already and the name sounds or is Swedish.

So I did it. I took a name. Actually, I took a very common English name and made a Swedish version of the spelling-it is perfect and I love it. It is a real Swedish name and actually has a Swedish meaning, but it is also relatively well-known in English, and although I spell it differently, I love the name.

It's my name.

And I am keeping it.

So here is the crux of the issue: I have always hated being called Mrs. _____. I hate being called Mrs. _____ for the singular reason that it is not who I want to be identified as. Yes, ok-I was married and I never hid that fact. But that doesn't mean that because I want to be part of a partnership, it suddenly has to change my identity. You can be a family without having a common last name, it's done all the time. And after spending so much time in Europe and seeing that non-married couples have the same rights as married couples, I can see the pros and cons for getting married are slightly less obvious.

This does not mean that I didn't love my husbands (well, ok. I didn't love the first one, but I definitely did love the second one, so I will just address him.) It doesn't mean I wasn't proud of him, or proud to be with him. It had no reflection on him at all, it's a personal preference. I don't like being called Mrs. ____. Please don't call me that. It makes me feel like I am the lesser of the two parties involved in the partnership. It makes me feel like I am "owned" and while I want to be owned, it's only in terms of emotions and orgasms.

I have noticed that in England the banks and financial institutions include the maritial status on their accounts, for their female clientele. However, they don't do this for the men. Check out Mr. Y's credit card, and it says "Y. ________". Check out mine, and it says "Ms. Helen Adelaide". In fact, it had said Mrs. orginally, but I kicked up a ruckus and had them fix it. I don't even understand why it has to say "Ms." What's wrong with Helen Adelaide?

Let me make this clear: people are free to be called whatever they want. You can be called Mrs. John Jones, Bob the Builder, or go by a symbol and be called The Artist Formerly Known as Prince. I don't really care what you go by, call yourself whatever makes you happy. I use the name Helen on this blog, it's not my real name, but I chose it here because it has a history for me and makes me happy. If I am going to be "demanded" to use the last name of my man, then to me it's the same principle as when you get married and are declared "Man and Wife." How archaic. Shouldn't we be "Husband and Wife"? Or "Man and Woman who decided to give this relationship a strong foundation and so are spotting the bill for a crate of champagne for the lot of you"?

For me, I feel second to a man when I am called Mrs. ______. This is for me, for myself, and remember I am a little bit weird. I feel like I am subjugated, like I am inferior. I am not talking about all of womankind here. I don't look at a group of married women and say: "You're inferior. You? You're subjugated? And you, Mrs. Murphy? Oh yeah. You are so second-class." I just personally feel like it makes me second. You see a sign on a law-firm that says "Jones and Jones, Ltd." and you think-Huh. Jones the First is the dad, the elder and more experienced, whereas Jones the second is the son/little brother/wife. I just don't like it.

But if I ever marry again, I can promise you this: I will not be called (for example) Mrs. John Jones. John is his own man. I am my own woman. Maybe I will become Helen Jones, but to be honest I would prefer to keep my last name (my own last name). It doesn't mean I am not proud of my man and not proud of being married to him. It just doesn't suit me to be called Mrs., I personally feel like property from that aspect, and I want to always be sure that he knows who I am-his partner, his lover, his confidante, and his best friend. His equal, in other words. That's what a partnership is about.

-H.

PS-Again, this is just my persepctive. I would prefer if this mail didn't get pinged to THOSE PEOPLE, this is just me explaining to those who witnessed the carnage, and to those who supported me, then I say this: thank you.

PPS-It's happening. One of my beloveds, a lovely Australian blogger named Simon, is finally in my time zone. In fact, he's finally in my city. And believe it or not-he will be in the same Lebanese restaurant as I am tonight, when he and I and Mr. Y meet up. That's right. I am meeting my first blogger, after only just missing Rob (hey Rob-how's that bear, by the way?). Simon sent me a pic of himself so that I would know him when I saw him, and I just have to say: Damn. . So I will verify that Simon is not just a robot that is able to churn out many posts a day. And Simon will be able to verify that I am not a 40-year-old overweight man who wears carpet slippers.

Let the blogging begin

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 06:57 AM | Comments (28) | Add Comment
Post contains 1804 words, total size 10 kb.

June 01, 2004

The Scent and the Feeling

On my keychain are two new keys, long, straight silver keys that open the door to my own world of contentment. In order to put my new keys to life, I had to remove the two keys that I have had on there, two burnished silver keys that unlocked a door to a lovely house in Sweden, a house and a country and a man that no longer own me. I removed the keys-surprisingly with little pain, just a small smile-and dropped them into a box.

That part of me is going now.

The move went surprisingly well. In spite of my thoughts that what I owned lay in two suitcases and a yellow postal box, Mr. Y and I managed to-after two IKEA visits-actually accumulate 4 minivan trips worth of goods. We are nearly done, just some odds and ends and the hanging clothes to move tonight, and with every movement of an arm or a trip into another room, we settle into the skin of our new life in Whitney Houston.

Whitney Houston is a tiny village on the outskirts of two larger towns. Our neighborhood is very clearly populated largely by DINKs-Double Income, No Kids-who spend their mornings and evenings commuting and spend their evenings and weekends trying to unwind as quickly as possible. The village is perhaps on the posh side-a real bakery, no less than 3 wine shops, 2 antique shops, and a children's dance clothing shop are a few of the odd stores on the 'High Street' (the U.S. equivalent of a Main Street).

The house itself is amazing. It's perhaps 150 years old or so, part of a row of terraced houses. The walls are painted a comforting off-white color, and in the living room there is a dark black pot-bellied iron stove. In the dining room (which is currently empty) is an open fireplace, and the kitchen has been updated recently, with light and white in all corners. Up the steep and tiny staircase is the bedroom, study, and bathroom. And in every room but the master bedroom are the original floorboards of the house, old wooden beams with original black square nail heads holding them in place. The wood is so worn that it's smooth to the bare foot, and I love sliding my foot back and forth over the boards, trying to imagine the people that were barefoot on the boards before me, who they were, how they felt.

And if they loved the house as much as I do.

The weather, up until today, has been sunny and lovely, so we keep the front door and back door open, the windows open, access to the breeze and the sun our greatest priority. Light floods the rooms, and the smell of cut grass, sunshine, laughter, cardboard boxes, and hope floats in through the rooms. There are a number of neighborhood cats around, all black and white, and all of them making me absolutely ache for my girls in Sweden, my precious black and white beauties that should be here in about 6 months. One bold creature, with a plaid collar marked by shiny brass bells that tinkle his arrival, boldly walks in and out of our house. The first time he was marked by hesitancy-would we shoo him out? Do we hate cats?-but, upon realizing that he had some friends, would settle for a scratch and a snooze and then wander back out into our garden.

After the first IKEA visit on Saturday, Mr. Y busied himself assembling all the bedroom furniture, while I spent my time potting flowers. I didn't really understand myself why it was that I wanted to tackle a rather less urgent task-there were boxes to be put in the right rooms and unpacked, things to be organized, little jobs by the dozens that were needed. But I parked myself outside, the black and white cat my company. All I knew was that my hands had to be in the dirt, the flowers had to have homes. I had bought a number of patio flowers and window box flowers, and the urge to get them in their place my only thought, even as a little sprinkle of rain pattered down on me, prompting my mate the cat to bail on me.

And despite my inability to grow roses, I bought a rosebush, too. One called 'Happy Times', a vivid orange-pink. Between that, and the lavender I bought (for luck) I have to hope and think that it's a new beginning.

Mr. Y threads his way into me from time to time, wrapping his arms around me. 'You seem so happy, and I love seeing you so happy.' He nuzzles into my hair, my neck, my mind. We eat a large curry on the floor of our living room (couch would be the next day) and drink champagne with each other. We initiate the bedroom and our bed and I lay with my head on his shoulders, as he whispers and kisses my forehead and makes me think luscious things.

The next IKEA visit doesn't go so well, we have a bust-up that we get over in due time, the place and rush of people on a holiday weekend getting on our nerves and getting on our sensitivities. We haul home the rest of the household-a couch, a desk, amenities that we realized we needed. Once home we finish the rest of the house and make up. I cook our first real meal there, just a small Italian meal that is easily made and easier eaten.

Our neighbors, in fits and starts, meet us. Ted and Lori in Number 9. David in Number 7. One helps us move our couch. They have open smiles and kind faces. They tell us of barbecues the neighborhood has, of get-togethers and community. Mr. Y introduces me as his partner, which elicits a thrill and a shock in me. 'Hello, I am Helen.' I say, and shake hands, wondering if they will be people I can be friends with, wondering if I can be friends with people, wondering if this is the beginning or the middle.

And the moments that I sneak in the house are filling my soul. I love the house so fiercely, and it's not even my house, only a rental that I am using as a pumping station to restore the level fluid in my soul. Standing in the kitchen, I know that this is not the place I will live forever, that there is more ahead. But for me this house is not a climb-down, as I simply care too much about it already. And something in the privacy of the walls and the quiet in the neighborhood bring out parts of me that I never knew I had-that I can move and not get stressed to bits. That I can have patience. And it brings other parts of me out more and multiplies them by one thousand-I cuddle next to Mr. Y at night and get choked at how fucking much I love this man. Slipping my hand up and down his back, I don't tell him these thoughts but let them circle in our bed-our bed-and hope they make their way into his dreams.

Standing in the kitchen during the afternoon yesterday, the sun shining in the room and illuminating the blood red geraniums I have in the windowsill. The open door brings a lazy, dozy bee or two in from time to time, smacking the window angrily to get access again to the timesheet of the hive. The smell of the lilacs in the backyard drifting in, a heady scent that I want to implant in my heart. The sound of a leather cricket ball cracking against a willow cricket bat, and then the shouts and joy of the men playing, circles into the room and makes me smile. Upstairs, I hear Mr. Y's drill whizzing away and he sings loudly, from time to time, a few verses of 'Stand By Your Man', making me laugh.

All of these flood my senses and make me love the house just that much more. And maybe this is just calm before a storm-I tend to swing up and down, after all, and the dam of family and custody issues is still threatening to break out from the tiny trickle that it is today-but all I know is I am so happy here, that I so love every inch of this house and every stick of furniture in it, and that this is the happiest I have been since'¦

-H.

PS-The latest Best of Me Symphony is up here.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 11:47 AM | Comments (17) | Add Comment
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