Brett | this woman's work

Ambivalence: A Vocabulary Lesson

Aug 242010

Claudia commented on the last post about ambivalence and what a hard thing it is to understand let alone live with. And it was making me think about how maybe I knew that word but I didn’t know that word until I was seventeen. Like a lot of voracious teen readers, my vocabulary was impressive but sometimes off. There were words I could define but couldn’t pronounce (still are) and words I knew in context but not out in the natural world, like ambivalent.

I was seventeen and in love. I was madly in love. This was after Joaquin (who I’ve written about plenty) and this was the guy who I thought could maybe wrench Joaquin free from my heart and save me from myself (because I wasn’t yet in therapy so I didn’t know that the only person who could do those two things was ME).

This guy, I know facts about him but not much else. I never really knew him because I was too busy being in love with my idea of him. We were both writers and he was actually good and thought I was good so that was something. He was quite a bit older than I was (6.5 years, which is a lot when you’re 17), had a real job with a desk and everything as well as his own apartment. Me, I was living with my mom; I still had a curfew when we first started dating.

Anyway, to my mind he was brilliant and romantically tortured and way better read than I was. He was also the lived out results of my Electra complex seeing as how he was short and stocky like my dad (although blond where my dad is dark) and charmingly bitter yet personable, also like my dad. I’ve written this before because it’s the most telling — his favorite author was Edgar Rice Burroughs and he had a first edition Hemingway while my dad has a huge collection of Edgar Rice Burroughs first editions and I have since inherited his beloved and beautifully tacky collection of cheap paperback Hemingway novels from back when you could buy them at a dime store.

Ok so it’s embarrassing to admit but basically I fell in love with my dad. What can I say — I hadn’t had therapy yet!!!*

So I was in love, like stupid in love, like head over heels in love. I was an insufferable infatuated 17-year old (actually I was 16 when we first started dating but he broke up with me for awhile and then we got back together). While the target of my overwhelming affection was screwed up enough to fall in love with a depressed and barely post-pubescent woman, he was on the edge of getting healthy enough to realize that this was altogether a Bad Idea, which is how I learned the word “ambivalent.” He would frequently tell me that he was ambivalent about loving me.

Sadly, there is nothing more exciting for a teenager with a Daddy-complex who is still two years away from getting a good counselor than to hear that the great romance of her life (or at least the second great romance of her life) is in jeopardy. So I did what any love-sick girl would do; I doubled my efforts. Did I say I was infatuated? Please. Obsessed? I was twelve stages past obsessed. Naturally I was doomed for a broken heart.

By acknowledging my own culpability in the inevitable demise of our relationship I don’t mean to let this guy totally off the hook because — hello — the guy was dating some years below his peer group. Also before he broke up with me for the second time, he arranged for us to drive several states over for a trip and it was only some years afterward that I realized that if I hadn’t had my tidy little Datsun 310 (or if he’d had his own vehicle) that we would’ve broken up an awful lot earlier. That is to say that not only was he contributing to the delinquency of a minor, he was also using her for her car.

Anyway. Ambivalent. So he kept telling me that he felt ambivalent about loving me and I finally said, “What does that mean?” And he said, “It means that I both want to love you and don’t want to love you.” Like it was a choice while any (in)sane teenage girl could have told him that LOVE was something the universe fated when it signed my beloved’s name upon my heart and so set the stars in motion for us to love each other forever and ever amen until we died still clasped in an embrace that no man (or that slutty girl who is always eying you when we go out dancing, don’t TELL ME that you don’t see her!) could put asunder.

Listen, at that time I would have thought the new Eminem/Rhianna duet was romantic. I was screwed up, people.

Then one day I rode my bike to his house and he was sitting on the front stoop and he announced that he was no longer in love with me. And I rode my little self home, shakily I am sure, and that was the end of it. Except for my continued semi-obsessive, semi-annual phone calls.

He moved in with an older woman a year or so later (and eventually married her) and I met Brett (and eventually married him).

And that, my dearest blog friends, is how I learned what ambivalent meant.

* This ex of mine is now a successful sci fi author and his first book was basically an homage to Tarzan. His recent series is one that I’m positive my dad would LOVE so maybe I should give it to him for Christmas but this somehow seems a little icky, eh?

I know what this means

The Story of My Life, Writing 5 Responses »

Jul 302010

There are these two ex-boyfriends I sometimes dream about and the symbolism for both of them is absolutely clear to me. The first boyfriend appears when I am thinking about my most creative self. He represents my urge to chuck it all and go tearing selfishly around the world living only for my want to write. The second one shows up whenever I’m struggling with my creative career. He represents my need for professional accomplishment as a writer. Back in my youth, I thought that when I was dreaming about them that I was dreaming about THEM but then in my thirties (I think?) I realized I was really dreaming about myself and since I’ve figured that out, it’s made those dreams much more useful to me.

Last night I had a dream about the second one and it was so transparent.

The first part of my dream, I was in his apartment with another writer friend of mine who is at home with small children (younger than mine) and we were discussing her resume and how to work it to help her go back to this career that has nothing to do with writing (and which she’s never had in real life). We were talking about how to structure her resume so that she could get a job that would meet her practical needs (financial, parental and personal) but still give her time to write. You know, like what I’m hoping school will be for me. The ex-boyfriend was sitting at a table away from us scribbling away on notepaper and I leaned in and and said to her, rolling my eyes, “It’s easier for him. He doesn’t have to compartmentalize everything like we do.”

Then in the second part of my dream, I came back through his apartment like the way you might walk through a bus station. This time I was holding Madison’s hand and she was a very little girl. I was holding her hand tightly because I was afraid that she might get into trouble or get hurt in the apartment but at the same time, I wanted her to see the apartment and I wanted the ex-boyfriend to see her. Then I cut through the front door and was relieved that she was still with me.

I mean, really. So transparent.

So the ex-boyfriend is my professional writing career and the conversation in the first part is about feeling resentful that I can’t give the time to my writing career that I’d like to (but also feeling hopeful) and the second part is worrying — as I always worry — that my kids will not get what they need or that I will not get what I need.

I have dreams that are about these things ALL THE TIME. It’s the story of my life. It’s the story of lots of lives (maybe yours).

I find these dreams very comforting even though nothing gets resolved. I find them comforting because they are an acknowledgment of my struggle. Sometimes when I’m feeling excessively grouchy I’ll have a dream and understand that my grouch has to do a bigger frustration than having to wash the towels twice because I left them too long in the washer and they got mildewed. Those dreams are a reminder of my SELF and that I need to keep an eye on that part of me and pay attention to it and remember to nurture it.

The fact that these are ex-boyfriends getting all symbolic up in my dreams also made me think about how pre-Brett I dated boys who had something I wanted. I dated boys who I wanted to be like and then I decided that maybe I would quit looking for these qualities in a partner and instead start looking for these qualities in myself. And then when I started doing that I met Brett. Or more like my heart was open for meeting Brett who is his own self and not an imaginary who-I-want-to-be. Brett enhances my life and enhances me while before those relationships — through no fault of the guys who were in them with me — left me feeling frustrated and insecure and unhappy. It makes sense though because you can’t marry someone to fill up your empty spaces; you have to find someone who gives you the strength and ability and encouragement to fill those spaces up yourself.

Look at that. I started writing about dreams and I ended up writing about marriage. Such is the wandering mind unleashed on a journal, eh?

Prickly

Grad School 19 Responses »

Jul 182010

I have been in a very very very bad mood lately. Part of it’s the heat and part of it is, I think, starting grad school in about a month. I’m nervous about it. I’m not so nervous about DOING it (although I’m worried about juggling) but I’m worried about this great big leap that’s meant to get me to a place I want to be and what if it’s the wrong place? It’s such a huge commitment.

I mean, I don’t think it is the wrong place because I’ve thought this through and counseling has been on my radar since before I graduated college so in my practical mind I’m sure about it but in my less practical, more emotional, more prone to hysterics mind, I’m worried about it.

I don’t like uncertainty.

Well, who does, right? I don’t see anyone lining up for more uncertainty. Professional gamblers, maybe but don’t they always think they have a sure thing? I know it’s nothing special to be extra prickly because you’re making some big move but sadly understanding your feelings doesn’t mean you get to avoid feeling them. I can be pretty intellectual and analytical about this but then I go and sniffle my way through some maudlin television show (or streaming netflix movie like, say, Every Little Step, which was fab and where the people getting the phone calls about getting it or not getting it totally is the way I feel opening an email from an editor to read her response to a pitch.)

I have been online a lot less than I have in several years, too. I’m on Facebook less and Twitter less (Brett is on my Facebook more than I am — he reports the big news to me more often than I catch it! He’s a Facebook vulture! He won’t get his own but he loves mine!) and that’s made me feel less twitchy. Introversion-wise, virtual relationships don’t take as much out of me as in real life relationships do but they can still sometimes overwhelm me. Unbuckling myself from being so social online has been hard in some ways (I like a lot of the people I FaceTwitter with and email with and blog around with) but it’s made my off-line life easier. I have been letting myself sit on the couch and read things that are in no way work-related because I figure this is my summer off before I spend the next two plus years in school but it’s hard to get used to leisure activities. I tend to feel guilty if I’m not doing something that either has billable hours or is useful to the family. Brett keeps saying that my sanity is useful to the family but I don’t believe him since I’ve been nuts for several years now and no one’s seemed to mind all that much.

Speaking of sanity and Brett and the family, they are here now with ice cream and so I’m getting off of the computer.

(Noah just walked in and and said, “Hey, you said you weren’t getting on the computer while we were gone!” And I pointed out that I was blogging, which is fun and not work so there. But seriously, the ice cream’s calling.)

Difficult listening hour

Grad School 8 Responses »

Jun 072010

I have never been an easy person. (Hey, no jokes from the peanut gallery who knew me in my less than virginal teens!) Lately I’ve felt less easy than usual. I’ve felt prickly and awkward and grouchy and oppositional. I don’t mean to be this way (honest) and I cringe inwardly feeling like the chastised kid I used to be.

I was the spoil funner growing up. I spoiled fun movies by rolling my eyes and pointing out the sexism. I ruined conversations like Debbie Downer. I started arguments because I enjoyed debate more than conversation and never met an opinion I couldn’t counter.

In my teens, I was proud of my difficult self. I was difficult with a vengeance because I was tired of trying and failing to be easy only I called it refusing to be a hypocrite. I am still like this sometimes even though I’m old enough to know better. I’m also old enough to know that I am plenty hypocritical so I can’t hide behind my alleged high morals these days.

I have been consciously practicing being more reasonable, which has been harder than it sounds. It’s not so much that I’m a rigid person as much as that I am not always great at knowing when to leave the elephant in the room alone. Or knowing when I’m the only one who thinks there’s an elephant in the room. That’s what I mean about being a Debbie Downer. But lately my practicing has fallen by the wayside because I’m frustrated and itchy trying to figure out what I’ll be doing this fall. Brett called the grad admissions office last week since it was about time we were supposed to hear back (I was huddled under the covers with my fingers in my ears while he called, too nervous to call myself) and they said they haven’t made a decision yet. The suspense has wreaked havoc on all of my good intentions to be calm and lovely. Let me tell you, being married to me right now is a joy. I’m sure Brett’s blood pressure hasn’t benefitted from the decision delay.

Bother.

The kids are trashing the joint

The Story of My Life 1 Response »

Jun 052010

We’ve been having some serious storming in Columbus this week and the kids have been inside more than usual because of it. One of their most favoritest things to do is run wild in the rain but if there’s any lightening around then they have to stay under cover. What this means is that they are CRAZY and LOUD today because they are stuck inside and excited about an event we had this morning (summer reading kick off at the main library downtown) and one we have later today (birthday!). Plus we moved my office out of the basement because we need a dehumidifier down there to clear out the mustiness, which has put my office right in the middle of kid central. I’m sitting here typing at the desk in the kitchen and the kids are next to me wrestling and beating on each other with plastic carrots. (They’re pretending to use each other as drums.)

There are plus sides to being up here mainly that it’s much easier to keep an eye on them and then there are obvious downsides like it’s hard to focus on what I’m doing here with this much happy rough housing happening within arm’s reach. (I just yelled at Noah for hitting Madison too hard with the carrots and she said, and I quote, “Mommy, quit doting on me!” I think I need earplugs but then how would I hear the phone ring when Brett calls for his ride home? Decisions decisions!)

Sometimes our life feels alarmingly make-shift. On my good days I think about how clever we are MacGyvering it all like this and on bad days I wonder when someone is going to come and save us from ourselves. Like because the desk upstairs isn’t erognomically sound and because spending two days on it this week made it impossible for me to use my right arm to raise my coffee mug to my lips this morning, I had Brett fix the creaking top drawer so that I could pull it out and set the keyboard on it to bring it down slightly lower. We found this desk on the curb and took it home because we fell in love with its midcentury drawer pulls and formica top. It is pretty, definitely, but it’s hell for someone who makes her living banging on her keyboard. And I think, who does this? How could my body be falling apart this badly when I’m still piecing things together and making do just to get through the day? I mean, if I’m going to have to get old, couldn’t I at least have all the stuff I expected to get as a grown up? Like financial security and a house that’s big enough to get away from these dang noisy kids and an office with a working desk and a door?

I am in a permanent state of wry amusement, honest to goodness. We are just ridiculous.

But the kids are happy and healthy and after an hour of careful stretching I can type AND drink coffee with my right arm, which is a treat, let me tell you. Which is to say, I’m grateful for the smallness of things like the smooth formica top on our pretty desk and Madison’s vocabulary and Noah’s slapstick sense of humor and thunderstorms in the spring that water the garden so I don’t have to.