"And it's easy for me, and it's better for the soul..."

It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Work is hectic; my family continually teeters on the edge of a breakdown; and rapidly approaching grad school decisions scare the crap out of me. It's as if all of these major life components met and conspired against my mental health.

This crippling anxiety then infiltrates its way into other aspects of my life. Remember when a smiley-face email from the Hungarian was enough to keep me content? Not so anymore. Now when I try to talk to him I feel like a little girl tugging on his sleeve.

I don't mean to be melodramatic but it seems as if (for the moment at least) my life isn't mine, as if I've lost control. Even though it's tempting to indulge in such broodiness, to bitterly retreat into myself, I know better than to get caught up in this whirlpool of emotion. I try to do little things, do my laundry or finish my book, to regain my footing.

More substantially, I will leave the Hungarian alone for a bit. The decision is my own, and that, in and of itself, is a confidence booster. Listening to (and watching) Jack Peñate helps, too...

cheers to 2010!

Happy New Year! Thank you for being such devoted supporters through 2009. Here's to a new year filled with Life, Love, Relationships and New York City! Cheers!

Huzzah

I just submitted my first (of six) grad school applications a few moments ago, and so, here are the openers to the personal statements that will never be (and one that was)... enjoy?

My grandmother is the most beautiful woman in the world. She is particularly luminous in a photo from 1961. Her wavy short brown hair is pinned back to reveal chunky gold hoop earrings, her makeup impeccable. Surrounded by her three young children with a baby in her arms, she wears a sleeveless white top and a skirt dotted with stars and moons flows around her. Her legs are crossed at the knee with towering white peep-toe pumps at her feet. This photo was taken in Kabul, Afghanistan.


One tugged at my arm to show me her schoolbooks, another pulled me in the direction of her dolls. Each wanted to exhibit her treasured object. "Didi didi! (Sister sister!)" the girls called after me, mischievous eyes twinkling. We played hand clap games and peekaboo and munched on biscuits. A fidgety group stood up to sing a nursery rhyme in English, perfectly, and all giggled at my Hindi accent. Some were former street children, some were turned over by parents who could no longer support them, and yet at Udaan Ghar, a shelter home for street girls just outside of Mumbai, everyone was family, including me, the visitor from abroad.


Over the past five years, each kid has left his or her mark on me. A quirk, a gesture, a surprise gift.

EJ lacks the coordination to carry his lunch tray and open door to the library simultaneously. He knows an awful lot about transportation systems for a third grader, shreds ketchup packets, and throws his arm around me whenever I'm particularly animated while reading to him. Edvin, the Energizer Bunny, liked to be chased. We built flying Lego monstrosities, and each tried to shoot the other's spaceship down. Our down time had me judging his singing abilities a la American Idol. Emmanuel often played me inappropriate hip hop ringtones on his cell phone. We fought epic Connect Four battles, him chanting, "I'm gonna win you!" and me correcting, "No, you're going to beat me." For Valentine's Day, I brought him his favorite candy and iced tea, and the following week, he gifted me with a chocolate Easter bunny. The only girl, Chelsea, had the smallest voice. After the requisite homework help hour, her face would light up for arts and crafts. I pulled out everything I could remember from grade school: stencils, paper bag puppets, construction paper cutouts, and I always left our sessions with a token from her.


He didn't answer my question. Although, it was to be expected.

The "he" in question was a lieutenant general at the German Ministry of Defense who gave a group of American Marshall Memorial Fellows a talk about the German effort in Afghanistan. Despite my staff status, after all this discussion was not intended for me, I piped up during a lull in the question-answer round. I made the comparison between a divided Germany post-World War II and a currently segmented Afghanistan. Japan, solely occupied by the United States, has proved itself to be a great power in the region and in the world, while parts of east Germany still struggle with development-related issues. Given the recent discussion in the news about an "Americanization" of the Afghan war, what was his opinion on the future of the country?

Don't give away the end, the one thing that stays mine

I bought my ticket to Seattle. I leave January 28th and fly back on the 31st. It’s short and it had better be sweet. I’ve run over every possible scenario in my head, including one that involves the LDC chasing after me in the airport, begging me not to end it this way. The entire weekend will probably be much less dramatic than that but I can’t help but devise these ridiculous situations. Nothing about our relationship has been conventional so why should the end be?

The end. I’m already looking at this trip as the period on the much-too-long run-on sentence. I want to end it while I can still control the ending. If it doesn’t end here, with a romantic dinner and a sweet kiss goodbye at the airport, it will end in furious tears six months from now in a phone call across the miles of country that involves “I met someone” and “I really like you but…” And I can’t handle that. I don’t want to handle that. I don’t want to build myself up for the inevitable epic fall. It’s gone much too far already.

On Not Playing the Game

Friday night. A drunk dial from E., whom I have not heard from in a year and a half. I was feeling strange again. I texted the LDC. One last shot to see if he’d respond. He didn’t. Fine, I thought. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, then I don’t want him coaching my Fantasy Football team. It was the most passive aggressive way I could’ve gone about it but I didn’t care. I had tried to be honest and something was still missing. I wanted to take back control.

Sunday afternoon.
A text. “Did you change your fantasy password?”
I was embarrassed. Why was I being such a child? I replayed the 5 second scene in my head of him looking at my text and ignoring it and I felt justified. Ignore.
Ten minutes later, a phone call. Ignore.
Voicemail. “Hey, what’s up. Just wanted to see how your weekend was, if you survived Halloween. So… yeah. I guess… give me a call back when you get this.”
He had never left me a voicemail before. Ever. I caved, and texted.
“Hey, I’ll give you a call later.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. Just would rather talk than text.”
“I know, that’s why I called you.”

I felt shaky and nervous for the rest of the day. I was tearing myself up for something that was so unreal. It wasn’t flesh and blood and yet it was so solidly in my life.

I called later that night, prepared to be completely honest and lay it all out there. I was tired of game playing and wondering.
“You sound weird,” he said, his voice thick with exhaustion.
“Yeah, well… I guess I should probably tell you… I did change my password. I was being completely passive aggressive because I was mad at you. I feel like something is different. We used to talk a lot. I mean… a lot. And now I feel like I don’t hear from you at all. I feel ignored. And I thought maybe you were dating someone, which would make sense, but I asked you about that and you said you weren’t. So I thought maybe you just didn’t want to talk as much, and that’s fine… but I think I deserve to hear that. So I got mad at you.”
It was like dropping a fifty pound sack of flour from my arms. It was everything I wanted to say and no matter what his answer was, I was honest without being crazy. A minor accomplishment.

He laughed. “I’m not ignoring you. And if I haven’t been talking to you as much it’s not a conscious decision. I’m just… having a hard time.” He went on in a meek little voice that I had never heard before. “I feel really alone here. All my friends are in relationships, I’m living with my parents again and I guess I’m… lonely. And it’s really hard liking someone and getting close to someone who lives across the country. So I’m not ignoring you. But maybe I’m just being realistic.” He laughed again. “But I really like coaching your fantasy team. And I know I can get a little competitive, so I’m sorry about that.”

"This has nothing to do with Fantasy Football," I promised. And then I laughed, too. Because while he was trying to explain why I hadn’t heard from him, it wasn’t about me at all. He went on to talk about how he felt restless and confused about what he was doing and where he was and who he was spending his time with. He wanted his friends back, he wanted to be with someone, he wanted his own space again. By the end of our conversation I felt at ease. I knew we wouldn’t go back to texting every ten minutes or talking about how we’d live in San Francisco next year, but I did feel the shift to a more normal friendship.

“I should go to bed,” I yawned. “But I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Yeah, I don’t know what I’m doing tomorrow night but I’ll call you.”
“You don’t have to. I don’t want you thinking I’m the crazy girl who needs a phone call every day.”
“No, I want to. I want to talk to you for longer. I like talking to you… it’s refreshing.”

Progress Report

I went on one pseudo-date with the middle school boyfriend, who then told me via email a few days later that we probably shouldn't be romantic. Now that he is home, he needs me to be his only indie music listening, philosophizing "adult" friend in a sea of comforting albeit regressive personalities. Fine, the ego is bruised, but I understand.

I went on two actual dates with the guy who picked me up at a cafe, who has made a conscious effort to woo me. He is smart and interesting, and we have great conversation. Alas, he doesn't make me giddy.

And I have spent time with P, my former European bike boy now coworker. I found him the most perfect housewarming gift, and so I asked him if I could invite myself over to give it to him. "Of course. You are always welcome, especially if you come bearing gifts." I presented him with a Velveeta cookbook, and we assembled an IKEA dresser. Towards the end of the evening, he playfully tugged at the bow on my skirt and we kissed. Our first since August. We kissed again a week later, in the dark of his hallway, after an evening of party-hopping. His room now fully furnished, I laughed at him for categorizing and alphabetizing his books. Just a few days ago, he proposed soup for lunch. At a cute little restaurant down the way, sitting with our bowls of lentils in front of us, he traded me a Nepal story for one of my Moroccan ones. The next day he set off to Berlin for 10 days, but before leaving the staff lunch, he found me. We touched each other's arms goodbye.

And that night, I felt it.

A pang.

I will miss him.

Year of Maybe

MP and I once talked about her ushering in a "year of yes."* See, MP had read a piece about a young woman who decided to considerably lower her standards, which then led her to accept virtually any advance by the opposite sex. Not exactly the safest way of meeting of men (we are talking about any advance) but intriguing nonetheless.

Here is where I stand on the issue: I don't believe in getting rid of my standards entirely, no, because I recognize my worth. BUT- after having been strung along for the better part of this year by a guy whose intentions were never clear, leaving me hurt, or worse, feeling like an idiot, I see things a bit differently now.

When interested in someone, even if that person showed little to no signs of reciprocating, I would ignore other overtures that came my way. A self-imposed guilt. I realize now that I didn't owe that person anything, least of all my devotion.

Even though I still care about P, my former European bike boy and now coworker, I'm going to entertain other options if they come about. And they have. I went out for sushi and a drink with B, the middle school boyfriend. A guy asked me out at a cafe the other day, and despite not being fully into him, I might just go. Really, what have I got to lose?

My "year of maybe" starts now.

*A couple of months into her "year of yes", MP met the lovely D.

The other way

“It hurts that you have so little faith in me. How could you think I – ”
“No, I didn’t mean it like that, I just . . .”

He was right. I had actually had that little faith in him. I don’t know why. I had no reason to doubt his feelings, his commitment, how into me and this relationship he is. But then why had I assumed the worst of him? Why do I default to a “he doesn’t care” standard rather than the other way around? Why do I expect him not to fulfill expectations?

Because it’s easier.

It’s easier than building up my hopes. It’s easier than having my expectations left unmet. It’s easier to assume the worst and then be all the happier when what actually happens is the best. It’s just easier. Easier not being the one who cares more, the one who tries more, the one who hopes and dreams more.

But easy hurts. Easy makes his twinkling eyes sad. Easy brings that broken tone to his voice. Easy creates a gulf. Easy turns to bitter ashes in my mouth.

I can’t keep doing easy any more.

Speak easy

On this, the seventh day of April, I woke up thinking winter was a thing of the past - after all, didn't I walk around in flats and no jacket just a few days ago? It was spring. I snuggled deeper into bed wondering why my apartment felt so chilly today. Must be because I threw off my blanket. I sleepily shuffled into slippers and prepared to squint as I opened the blinds to let the sunlight in.

Snow.

I have to say a few words tomorrow. I nominated someone for an award and they won, and now they've asked me to say a few words of introduction tomorrow at the awards ceremony. I was about to respond, but as I stared at the blank email window, I paused.

I first learned to be afraid of public speaking in middle school. Everyone always seemed to wish you luck or say 'you'll do fine' or make big eyes if you had a presentation or had to say something on a stage. And so I started looking at the audience, no matter if it was just a classroom full of my own peers, and getting faint tremblings in my heart. Of course before middle school I would get that nervous anticipation, that adrenaline rush, before going on stage, but this was something new. This was that fear of public speaking that everyone talks about. And often what everyone talks about becomes real. And so I, along with, I suppose, 99% of the population, developed a fear of public speaking.

It never got so bad that I couldn't control it, but it did make me shy away from things that would entail public speaking. When I was little being the center of attention was super. What's wrong with everyone looking at you? Wasn't that what I had cried for when I was a wee little babekin and my mom looked away from me and towards my sister? From the time I was a baby until I was about twelve I would take part in at least one play or performance a year. From the age of twelve...well, let's just say my acting career is so far by the wayside now that it's pretty much dug its own grave and shriveled up into it. But I missed it. There's something about being the center of attention that just entices me, attracts me - but still I shy away from it. Talk about inner conflict! I fought against this in college then. I decided it was alright to put myself in positions where I'd have to talk in front of an audience now and then. I joined clubs, I introduced speakers. I still hesitate before taking on things like moot court, but at least I wholeheartedly sign up for classes where I know I'll be required to make a couple of presentations. I ended up where I had been before middle school - still that same jolt of adrenaline, that anticipation, but not fear. Not exactly.

And today, when I thought the winter had said its fond farewells, there it was again on my window pane. And there was that fear of public speaking in the email window on my computer. Swirling down all around, pull out your winter coat, clear your throat, which scarf to wear...

I pulled on my boots and gloves. After all, this snow, whether it's just visiting or here to stay, there's not much I can do about it except to suit up.

I typed "Sure, I'd love to!" That fear of public speaking might surprise me from time to time, but damn it, it isn't here to stay.

Textimony, Part Two

two days later...

Him: Aww. You didn't have to erase me from facebook. Erase me from your life. Before when I called you all I wanted to do was talk. How are you how am I. I wasn't ...
H: asking you for anything. Just you in my life though not much just a hello. Now I don't even have facebook and you won't answer. It's ok but why do you want me to ...
H: disappear? I guess that's what you want. For me to disappear. You want to know nothing about me? About what is going on in my life?
H: And you were the one who said that you check my facebook and myspace everyday. I don't. I just don't want to lose contact. Especially if something important ...
H: happens to me that I wish to share with you. You even put that feature where I can't find you! Ha. It's really ok I understand I just didn't want to lose you all ...
H: together! Ok sorry. I will leave you alonesies. Really. Adios. Good luck!!

Technology, a blessing and a curse.

Textimony

Me: Do you have work tomorrow?
Him: No. I've called you.
H: What's going on?
M: I want to talk to you about it, but if you don't want to it's understandable.
H: Well talk about what first off?
H: Please tell me?
M: Nevermind, just let it be as it is.
H: You can't do that. That's mean. Please? I've tried to call. Just tell me. It's important.
H: I don't even know what's going on.
M: It's been two years since you destroyed me in front of the cafe, and that's just too long.
H: Destroyed is a horrible word. It hurt me so much too you don't even know.
H: What's going on?
M: There's no one new. I'm just done.
H: Ok. I'm sorry. Good luck. I deserve it. I know I do.
H: I deserve to have lost such a wonderful thing in my life. I love you and always always will. I think about you everyday. This is sad.
H: I'm at a loss for words. Or just at a loss. Hope you enjoyed your trip to NYC.
H: I wish the best for you really.

A Resolution.

I completely forgot about the mass emails. Epic in length, heavy on the details, and now, when I look back, admiringly hopeful. What a difference two years makes.

Or maybe not.

When I was rifling through my old sentbox, I didn't expect to see his name. But there it was staring back at me. In one exchange, sent when there was an ocean between us, tips (sit under tree! try a new flavor of ice cream!) to help jog his creativity. In another, anguish over not hearing from him for days, his silence casting a pall over the City of Lights. How did I get to that point?

We should have been over. We were over. Weren't we?

the --- and i are done.
chalk it up to ... i don't really know.
it's so freaking complicated/confusing/convoluted and prob some other twisty co- words.
i was in the city, saw him on tuesday and it was great.
then, i was supposed to spend the night at his place on wednesday and i get to --- round the time he gets off and he basically ignored me and then flipped out in his emo way and told me i should find another place to stay.
and blah blah blah.
he's kind of selfish. and a coward.
ah, i should be so relieved since things were getting so crazy serious, but i am just so so sad.
i cried and cried on wednesday and on the bus home yesterday.
i'm totally fine with people, but when i'm alone i feel the aloneness to my core.

gosh, i'm a huge downer. sorry y'all. but you guys are my support, and the action of writing this is making me feel a bit better.

Sent days before my departure, January 9th, 2007.

In the two years that followed: months of the silent treatment, frustration, persistent phone calls, loneliness, attempts at friendship, manipulative behavior, longing, a second chance, tears. Both parties guilty of all of the above.

We are still talking. Unsurprisingly.

But I'm tired and stuck. I'm done. And I'm resolved.

Appropriate, no?