sober.

Pink's new song... bears a striking resemblance to another time in my life.



I don't wanna be girl who laughs the loudest,
or the girl who never wants to be alone.
I don't wanna be that call at 4 o'clock in the morning
because I'm the only one you know in the world that won't be home.

Ahh, the sun in blinding,
I stayed up again.
Oh, I am finding
that's not the way I want my story to end

I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me.
But why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside, you're my protection.
So how do I feel this good sober?

I don't want to be the girl who has to fill the silence,
the quiet scares me because it screams the truth.
Please don't tell me that we had that conversation,
I won't remember, save your breath 'cause what's the use?

Ahh, night is calling...
it whispers to me softly "Come and play"
I am falling,
and if I let myself go I'm the only one to blame.

I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me.
But why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside, you're like perfection.
So how do I feel this good sober?

Coming down coming down coming down,
spinning round spinning round spinning round,
looking for myself sober...

Coming down coming down coming down
spinning round spinning round spinning round
looking for myself sober...

When it's good
then it's good
it's SO good,
till it goes bad.
Till you try to find the you that you once had.

I've heard myself cry.
Never again.
Broken down in agony,
just trying to find a friend.

I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me.
But why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside, you're like perfection.
But how do I feel this good sober?

I'm safe up high, nothing can touch me.
But why do I feel this party's over?
No pain inside, you're like perfection.
But how do I feel this good sober?

--"Sober", Pink

rainy days.

I love rainy days. I love the sound, I love the smell, I love the way they make me introspective. There's just something so soothing about the random splatter of raindrops outside, and being safe indoors. It's like nature's beautiful music, only with no lyrics to distract you. Music is such a wonderful writing instrument, but it's words and melodies can sometimes lead you in a direction you were not planning on taking. With the rain, my mind is clear and unobstructed so that I can climb inside and dig around after what's really going on in there.

Today I'm thinking about memories. Obviously, we have memories to help us remember things in our lives. Things so simple as our neighbor's names, and other things sometimes as complicated as preparing our tax returns. Most of us remember our first kiss, our first car, and our wedding day. Some people remember childhood friends and adventures, and others can't remember where they put their keys. No matter the significance, the gravity, or the timelines of our memories, they are the things that help to shape us into who we become as a person. Without memories, we would never change, we would never grow, and we would never adapt to our situations or our surroundings.

However, I find myself wondering why on earth we find ourselves clinging to certain ones? Is it voluntary, or much in the same way as love, do our memories choose us?

The high school football star, you know the one. The guy who constantly reminds everyone around him how he was the big shot in high school. How he caught the winning pass in the last seconds of the championship game, bringing honor and notoriety to his team. This guy is usually in his 40's. Why is he still clinging to this memory? Is it because nothing he's ever done in his life since then has been of any value, or is it purely because he can't help it?

What about those forlorn hearts, wondering about "the one that got away?" Those men and women dreaming of what might have been, fabricating futures and families and entire lives based solely on the memory of a lost love. Their happiness is jeopardized, their souls are tortured, and any new relationships are undermined before they even begin. Do these people have regrets? Do they have nothing better to do? Or are these memories bombarding their minds against their will?

Though it seems to be a perpetual problem amongst all walks of life, I find it difficult to accept that people choose to dwell on the kinds of memories that are causing them pain. Is there some undeniable substance to those memories that refuse to allow a person to let go?

Our mind has been proven time and time again to be the most advanced thing known to man. Sometimes I wonder if there are checks and balances in place within our brains that we are totally unaware of. Maybe some sort of filters and databases so intricately orchestrated, in place and designed to create an individual experience in life that is completely unique to each person.

We may never truly know why we have the memories we have, but it seems that we should at least try to enjoy the ones we have, and make an effort to cultivate new ones every single day. Otherwise, we'll be forever transfixed in the past.

reminiscing.

Well, I just got finished uploading the wedding pics. FINALLY! It's been almost 3 months now, LOL. Anyway, looking back through them all I got a little teary-eyed and emotional. What an amazing weekend it was!! Not only because I married my best friend and my soul mate, but also because of all the people who shared it with us.

It meant so much that you all were there, and I can think of no better way to spend my wedding day than with the friends and family that I love the most!! Thank you to all of you who made our wedding weekend such a spectacular event for us, and I will always treasure the memories that we all made together that wonderful weekend!!

new life.

People keep asking me how I like being married. Has anyone ever really answered with "I hate it!" No... because no one who is newlywed hates it. Duh. Aside from the obvious reasons, I think that's an odd question to ask, but it got me to thinking about some of the "side effects" (if you will) of being married... at least for me.

For one, all the tiny little boxes I've latched shut and packed away neatly in the furthest corners of my memory are starting to come open. I don't know why really, but my theory is that now that my conscious mind is happy, my subconscious mind is ridding itself of all the little things it's been storing away in an effort to keep me sane all these years. Maybe it's natures way of telling me it's time to deal with some of the the things I've been suppressing that once plagued me so, now that I'm happy and in a stable lifestyle?

It seems that I am quite masterful at suppressing things. I never realized it until recently. Probably because my suppression bank is now spilling all over everything. Things are popping back up that I haven't though about in years. Things that now seem silly and so easy to resolve internally, that I have to wonder why I submerged them in the first place.

Old relationship issues resurface more than anything. I think about what once was, what might have been, who I was then, and who I am now. Every single situation is different, and sometimes emotional. It becomes uncontrollable at times and I just have to succumb to the torrent of things unfolding in my mind. I suppose the rush comes from holding them down for so long, but I cannot express the relief I feel once each one has been laid to rest. Finally.

It's funny how when you are happy in your life, and finally in the relationship that fate meant you to be in, that you begin to forget the rest. I find myself mentally flipping through my relationship rolodex, completely unable to remember names. First names, last names, parents' names who I was "close to" at the time, time frames, beginnings and endings are missing... and I know with the eradication of each memory, that little by little, I become truly free.

So how do I like being married? My answer to you is this:

Being married is the most wonderful, satisfying, fulfilling, and gratifying thing I have ever experienced in my entire life! Even those words are not enough in themselves to accurately convey the extraordinary level of my hearts contentment.

hostage.

Angst-y writing: I used to love it. I thrived on the rush of feelings that would come pouring out of my fingertips and onto this page. But now, so much has changed, and I've forgotten how to do it. I don't even know where it comes from anymore. I used to sit down no less than once a week and pound out something stirring to reflect the torment that my soul was being wrought through. I hate to think that just because the emotional torment is gone, that the writing is gone too...

Jerry and I have talked about this several times since we've gotten together, mostly because he has the same problem as I do in this regard. We're happier now than we've ever been because we're together and more in love with each other than either of us could have imagined. But separately as friends, we were two very creative people riddled with angst and a constantly throbbing presence of internal turmoil that could only lend itself to an outlet such as "blog writing". Really painful, heart-wrenching blog writing. These were the days of drinking ourselves under on a daily basis, dating inappropriate people for the sake of companionship, and making bad decisions in a flailing attempt to "fix" ourselves.

I remember this. Vividly. More so at some times than others, but it's still there. I just can't tap into it, which I hate. No one wants to read bright and shiny blogs. They are no fun, and fewer people can relate to them. They certainly do not stir emotion and opinion quite the way a well written angst-y blog does. They do not rouse people you haven't talked to in months to send you messages regarding your sanity and/or proximity to suicidal actions. (Those were my favorites guys, and I love ya for the concern but I was never crazy, promise. LOL!)

Sure I get stressed now, worry a little bit here and there about inconsequential things, but I am not sad, I do not struggle with my inner demons, and I have no one in my life torturing my emotions. So what the hell do I write about?? I am going to figure this out. I am determined to overcome this writers block that is holding my favorite creative outlet hostage.

Stay tuned... I have theories and I am willing to test them at my own expense! ;)

excellent article.

I ran across this article from Oprah.com by Amy Bloom. Simmer down, I'm not that "Oprah worshiping chick"... it was a link from CNN.com, LOL! No matter, it's a great read for both the single and married, and I especially liked the last paragraph because it reminds me identically of Jerry and I:

"We are real and unashamed, even of our faults. I do truly know what he's made of and vice versa. We are both people who want cutmen and foxhole buddies; we see life as wonderful and difficult and requiring energy and stamina and, occasionally, guile. We don't mind any of that.

We are both bossy and demanding and largely unrepentant. We don't mind any of that. We yell. We apologize profusely. We are idiosyncratic in our tastes, and we are both quite confident that our taste is better than most people's (including each other's). We take sex and family and food seriously and organized religion not at all. We are hard to embarrass and we cry like babies. We are each what the other hoped for."


Here's the whole thing for anyone who may be interested:

"Make Sure Spouse has the "Right" Faults"
-Amy Bloom for Oprah.com


It's a good and bad thing to be considered an expert in love. I don't think there's any point in pretending that you get to be an expert by meeting your soul mate early on, going through a few meaningful ups and downs, marrying in a cloud of good taste or even in a meteor shower of funk and crunk, and then dying, 50 or 60 years later, having had a faithful and fulfilling love life. We don't call those people experts. We call them lucky.

People like me, who write about lust and love in fiction and nonfiction, who have clearly made several important and completely necessary detours in their private life, people who have more than one wedding ring in their jewelry box, these people we call experts.

Go figure.

Here's the heart and the head of it: Know yourself, know the other, and face the truth about yourselves.


What 'know yourself' means:

Here's what I noticed after 25 years of being a psychotherapist and 55 years of being a person: There is just about no point in complaining about another person. Not because other people aren't annoying. (My God, there are people who've been put on this earth just to make me roll my eyes and mutter disapprovingly. In my family, as a matter of fact, "other people" is the standard explanation for almost all misfortune.) But because -- especially in intimate relationships -- the complaint about Him or Her will, unfortunately and inevitably, wind its way around to You.

He's often late, which is inconsiderate = I fear not being sufficiently appreciated. Thanks, Dad.

He thinks about his needs first, and mine second = If you express your needs, no one will love you. Thanks, Mom.

Your partner's faults are real (I'm on your side here) and various and even grievous, but those are their faults and, frankly, we're here to talk about you and me.

I went to see my former therapist, for a tune-up, shortly after I remarried. I wanted, on the one hand, to tell him how blissfully happy I was, because I knew that he'd be happy for me, and because I was in that stage of love where I would have paid people to listen to me talk about my wonderful husband. (I had already exhausted my friends, my family, my cleaning lady, and the mailman, who was nice enough to say, regularly, "Sounds like a great guy.") On the other hand, I wanted to complain. My husband was wonderful -- but not perfect. This was very upsetting.

Dr. Shrink: So let me make sure I understand -- on two occasions, in the course of the last year, he had too much to drink and at least once a week he comes home from work later than he said he would, and although he usually calls about being late, he doesn't always, and sometimes you have to poke him to get him to acknowledge that you've been kept waiting.

Amy: Yes. (The implication of my "yes" is: Feel free to sympathize; also, anytime you'd like to discuss his imperfections and their likely source, go right ahead.)

Dr. Shrink: I want to make sure I understand --

Amy: Yes. (Meaning: Let's get started -- he's selfish, possibly unreliable, and impulsive...)

Dr. Shrink: You came to see an expensive psychoanalyst to tell me that the man you married has faults of which you've been aware since you've known him? This is why you're here? Oprah.com: 20 questions to ask before you get married

Amy: Yes.

(So not what I was hoping for.)

We then spend some time on how terrifying I find it to love someone so much and how difficult I find the possibility and the likelihood of disappointment. We do get somewhere, and when Dr. Shrink stops, my best friend takes over. She says to me basically: No one's perfect. It's time you stopped being surprised by this. The question is, Do you take this bundle of faults over some other bundle of faults?

I do.

But it's not enough for me to choose this bundle of faults; if I want a love that lasts, I better know why this bundle suits me so well.

At first, one loves the faults because they are part of the whole adorable love package. She is a sweet and tenderhearted creature, and her inability to ask for a raise, hail a cab, or defend herself from her unpleasant mother are all part of her sweetness.

Of course, someday when you're standing in the rain with your armful of packages and ask her to flag that cab across the street and she says, winsomely, "Oh, darling, I just couldn't -- it's so ... aggressive" -- it will be less adorable.

He is determined and unswerving, which is great; he is also hardheaded and heedless. As much as you like the former, you better be comfortable with the latter as well. Understanding why is worthwhile, and usually involves a quick review of parents.

Whether or not they had a wonderful marriage you hope to emulate or a disaster you hope to avoid, it's helpful to know which parent you identified with and which parent's part you want to play. (Don't even bother trying to escape both of them entirely; to do that, you'd have to be born into another species.)

I think the biggest mistake I've seen in clients and friends and myself is acting on half an understanding: "I don't want to marry my selfish father; look how unhappy he made my sweet mother," sounds like a reasonable, even psychologically astute position, and an awful lot of people (including me) marry their nice mothers (or their nice fathers; bullies come in both genders) and think they've protected themselves. All I can say is: Not so fast, Shorty.

Consider: Marrying your sweet parent may mean that you end up playing the bully's role (someone's got to handle the rough stuff). Alternatively, marrying your dear and gentle dad may mean that you get someone with not just Dad's gentleness but his passivity, avoidance of conflict, and fear of public disapproval as well. The man who comforts you quietly after a battle with your mother is a good father -- do you have any idea what he was like as a husband?

And another thing you ought to wonder about -- why didn't your nice parent get what they wanted from the marriage? I was always saddened by the lack of intimacy in my parents' marriage, which was a burden for my mother and none at all for my father, until I suddenly thought: Why did she marry him?

My mother was good enough, and honest enough, to tell me: I married him because he was tough and ambitious, so I wouldn't have to be. I married him because he was more interesting than the dentists and accountants who asked me. And although I love getting flowers and hearing sweet nothings, and there have been damn few of those, I'm not like you, honey, I don't want intimacy -- I just want companionship and romantic gestures.

As my mother said to me on another occasion: I like the roses, but not if I have to put up with the thorns. Everyone should be so honest with themselves, and her honesty made me aware that I would accept an awful lot of thorns to be with someone who craves intimacy the way I do. (And I got that someone, which is why I now have a very close and often tumultuous marriage, with a degree of attachment that people find either very sweet or very peculiar.)

So know yourself and know your family. For me that means knowing that, as much as I appreciated my mother's sweetness and practical ways, I need a slightly reckless lion more than I need a sensible lamb in my life. (In the dictionary, right next to a number of hard-charging mammals -- including the weasel, famous for attacking animals larger than itself for no reason -- you will see my husband's picture.) So, finally, I married a lion, and although I never pictured myself being the person hanging on to the "oh shit" bar on the passenger side, saying, "For God's sake, honey, slow down!" I do prefer that to being the person who says, regularly, "It's okay, honey, if you're scared, we can turn around."


What 'knowing the other person' means:

When you look at another person's behavior (and please, do look at what he does, not just how he explains what he does. A man with a good and different explanation for each of the five times he's stood you up is a really good...explainer. Did you want to marry a world-class explainer?), the question will arise: Is it character or circumstance? Did he do what he did because of who he is, at his core, or was he pushed to that behavior by circumstance?

Guess what? Pretty much, after 18, it's character, every time. It's true that under extraordinary circumstances -- baby trapped under car, grandmother stuck in burning building -- you might see some hitherto unsuspected heroism emerge in someone you thought had not a drop, and even so, what you learn from that is: He had a drop of heroism in him, after all. But it is also true that even a man pushed to robbing a bakery for bread for his starving child will show who he is by how he conducts himself during the robbery.

It's not true, despite what the advice columnists often write, that a man who leaves his wife for you will eventually leave you. It is true that a man who leaves his wife for you is capable of leaving you, and you would be smart to look at how he conducted himself during his divorce because no matter how crazy, bitter, unreasonable his ex was or is, his behavior reveals his character. You cannot behave cruelly without having some cruelty in your nature (and most of us do). An angry man who honors his obligations gracefully, a man who shows up on time to see his kids, even when their mother behaves badly -- that man is a good bet.

I've also discovered that the Virtuous have their downside. A man who cannot face his own flaws or acknowledge the ugliness (not horrors -- just normal human flaws: envy, jealousy, pettiness) in his nature, a man who will patiently explain, for days on end, that you should not be hurt by his behavior because he's a good guy who didn't mean to hurt you -- may actually prove to be worse company, in the long run, than a guy who behaves badly from time to time and admits it. (Or at least, that's how it is for me. Deeply, Determinedly Virtuous people scare me.) As it turns out, I prefer the full boil to the long simmer and I wish I'd known it sooner.


Know yourselves

Be real and be unashamed, even of your faults. I do truly know what he's made of and vice versa. We are both people who want cutmen and foxhole buddies; we see life as wonderful and difficult and requiring energy and stamina and, occasionally, guile. We don't mind any of that.

We are both bossy and demanding and largely unrepentant. We don't mind any of that. We yell. We apologize profusely. We are idiosyncratic in our tastes, and we are both quite confident that our taste is better than most people's (including each other's). We take sex and family and food seriously and organized religion not at all. We are hard to embarrass and we cry like babies. We are each what the other hoped for.

the aftermath of ike.

Reading over the lyrics to this song now after I have written them out seem really dark. But that's not how I intended my adoration for this song to sound.

Most of you know that Jerry and I live in Houston. Some of you may have noticed that we totally got hammered by Hurricane Ike on September 13th. One week after our wedding day, ironically.

Just in case you don't watch the news, or TV at all for that matter, it was brutal. It still is. Galveston barely exists anymore. Boliver Penninsula is now Boliver Island, and about half of south Houston was under water for days. There are STILL almost a MILLION people here without power. That means no lights, no a/c, no fridge, no laundry, no TV, no cell phone charger, no computer, NOTHING. If you don't have a battery powered radio you're sitting in silence. And when the batteries run out that's it.

On a personal note, there are hundred year old trees down all over our neighborhood. I saw our neighbor's brand new VW Beetle chopped completely IN HALF by a tree. We were without power for over a week, and some are expected to be without power for another 2-3 weeks. We're some of the lucky ones because we just happen to have a street light on our lot.

We had nothing. No grocery stores, no gas, no lights, no ice, nothing. We were, for all intents and purposes, living like colonial settlers. Except it was worse because we knew what it was like to miss those things. I had to stand in front of my refrigerator after day 4 and empty out well over a hundred dollars worth of food into the garbage can. It was painful. When we finally passed out at the end of the day after hours of manual labor cleaning up debris, in a hot bed in a hot room, in a hot house, it was only for as long as our bodies forced us to shut down before we arose again unable to sleep any longer in the heat. It was brutal, all of it.

We had to get our stuff from FEMA for God's sake... if being lumped into the same category as "Katrina Victims" doesn't make you feel like a worthless piece of shit, nothing will.

Anyway, one day this song came on the radio. We had just come from a church up North that was passing out provisions like Ice and Water that you could NOT get anywhere otherwise. These were people in situations just as bad as our own who were volunteering their time to load cases of water into people's trunks. Lined up as we drove away they are all reaching to shake our hands and saying "God Bless" and "Bless You" and I cried. The sheer magnitude of the situation shook me. There truly is still pure goodness in this fucked up world.

So then on the way home, with the windows of the car down and it being a cool day, (under 90... if that's actually considered cool) for a change, comes this song. Just hearing the words and watching the surroundings as we drove through miles and miles of devastation moved me to tears again. Life IS beautiful, and we should cherish it because it is so very fragile. There were some that were not so lucky as we were.

When I think about the wind making our house groan in agony, and shaking the roof of our house so hard I thought it was going to blow right off, or holding my scared and confused little dog as Jerry held scared me, or seeing entire limbs rolling down the street lengthwise, or cars being chopped in half, or HOUSES being chopped in half, or standing on the front porch watching the water inch it's way up the driveway to the house... I really start to appreciate the important things in life. Family, the people in your life who love you, and a God that (I believe) watches out for his children.

Check out the song, and think of those down here who are just trying to survive.


"Life is Beautiful"
-Sixx A.M.

You can't quit until you try,
You can't live until you die,
You can't learn to tell the truth until you learn to lie.
You can't breathe until you choke,
You gotta laugh when you're the joke.

There's nothing like a funeral to make you feel alive.

Just open your eyes,
Just open your eyes and see that life is beautiful.
Will you swear on your life that no one will cry at my funeral?

I know some things that you don't,
I've done things that you won't.
There's nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home.

I was waiting for my hearse,
But what came next was so much worse...
It took a funeral to make me feel alive.

Just open your eyes,
Just open your eyes and see that LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!
Will you swear on your life that no one will cry at my funeral?

Alive, just open your eyes,
Just open your eyes and see that LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL!
Will you swear on your life that no one will cry at my funeral?