The Mirror and the Men in Bars

The English instructor recently used the analogy of "searching for a date at a pub" (his words, not mine) to getting a poem published. "You want to know who you are as a poet, adapt within reason, and don't take it personally when you discover that not every editor will be interested in publishing your work. If you play the game, your odds improve."

Of course, I couldn't just leave that alone. I had to expand on it in my own little way. I recently read an article from Forbes about emotional intelligence, and I wonder if I come across as an "over-sharer" since he gives away nearly no personal data, and I, well, I say all sorts of shit that maybe I shouldn't say to one of my ex-professors. I replied, "Just between you and me, I never had many moments of self-doubt while scouting out the livestock at the local bar. Very few moments of self-consciousness. But I always seemed to get whatever I wanted...Imagine if I was able to have that confidence today, and in every area of my life. I would be insufferable."

Perhaps the bar scene is just kinder to women than men, but I don't remember ever being rejected by someone who I wanted to sleep with. In contrast, I was silently rejected by the New York Times for their most popular column, Modern Love. Sure, men sleep with me (does that say much?), but few of them ever wanted to see me in the following week. Or is it the other way around? Did I initially reject them? Honestly, I don't remember. So, for me, the bar scene is a little easier to navigate than trying to get something published.

I tell myself that if I go out and fuck some stranger, I will feel better about my weight because then, I will know that someone would want to fuck me while I remain (unfortunately) overweight. I am now a statistic, and granted, I have something going against me (the Seroquel), but still, I blame myself, and recently, despite working out four or five days a week, I continue to have a hard time looking at myself in the mirror. Before I put on this dress (my only dress that fits), I look at myself in the reflecting glass, and I couldn't tell if those were fresh stretch marks across my stomach or burns from the heating pad (honestly, they both leave lines of red marks). I'm hoping for a burn.

All of that naive confidence came crashing down. It's useless. I don't understand how in the past, I made a living by taking off my clothes now that I'm, dare I say it?, fat. How did I do it without wondering if someone would notice my cellulite? What happened to me?

My physical therapist told me a couple sessions ago that it looked like I had lost weight (I was wearing black, and there is no way he could notice a four pound weight loss, which I quickly re-gained). The most surprising part is, if I was at the weight I was before I started the Seroquel (when Stanford was worried I didn't weigh enough), he would have never made that remark. You don't tell a skinny person that she/he appears "skinnier." No, you just leave that shit alone.

I want to tell people, both men and women, I want to yell at them, "Hey, I wasn't always this fat, okay? In fact, most of my life, all but the last year, I was rather small!" But you can't make a big deal out of something, unless someone else does (which my neurologist did, but nevermind).

All of this comes back to the English instructor somehow, who I think about on a daily basis. If I followed his lead, I would never talk about exploiting men at bars. Somehow, I feel this compulsion to tell him everything inside my head.

Except for, "why don't we fuck and get it over with?" Because I have a deep, consistent feeling that he would be offended.

9%

Dad opens the refrigerator (we have two, one is mostly for food, and the other is mostly drinks, an assortment of alcohol and Mom's Diet Pepsi's). He notices my craft beer selection, and then asks me, "Do you pick beers by the percentage of alcohol?"

I smile.

"Look at her," he says to my mother. "She's grinning from ear to ear." He focuses back on me. "[Jae], drinking that beer is like drinking a shot of vodka."

I honestly didn't see any problems with this. More buzz for your calories.

"Weak But Here"

Here is a brilliant blog entry by Amara.

The Fresh Perspective

The case manager told me that I should run away from Morpheus when he won't even give me the respect that my "ordinary friends" do.

She was wondering if this was a pattern--clinging to emotionally unavailable men who treat me like shit.

I couldn't see any. My boyfriends in the past have been varying shades of talkative, although two turned out to be abusive (Iago and Mr. FS). My first boyfriend, Dirk, and I talked constantly while we were getting to know each other, and even during our actual relationship. Others follow as similar examples, all the way to the most talkative of all: Joseph. I don't know of anyone in my life who stonewalls as much and effectively as Morpheus.

"When a sad song comes on the radio, it doesn't matter what it is, I want to call her, and then I have to tell myself, 'No!,' " my case manager tells me, speaking of her ex-girlfriend.

"Like you said," I begin, in another part of the conversation, "I don't want to give up on [Morpheus] because that could mean that I never loved him as much as I thought I did."

The New Woman's Modesty

"While popular culture tends to disempower women by telling them they must dress to get men to look at them, the modesty culture tends to disempower women by telling them they must dress to keep men from looking at them," said Evans at the Q Ideas website. "In both cases, the impetus is placed on the woman to accommodate her clothing or her body to the (varied and culturally relative) expectations of men."

--"Toward A New Understanding of Modesty," by Katelyn Beaty, The Atlantic

"It's For You," Part II

My uncle comes to me somewhat pleased. "I check her bottle and it's empty. I even asked her about it, and she said that it's the prescription that Dr. [name] gave her."

He's referring to the bottle of antibiotics for her UTI. I'm a little less than enthusiastic because all of her prescriptions come from her GP here in Yuppieville, and even though the bottle is empty, that doesn't mean that she took two pills, morning and night, every day for a week. For all we know, she took them many pills at one time or skipped a few days until she remembered again. 

"It's For You"

--Staind, "Outside"

I didn't spend much time arguing with Grandma about the necessity of her going back to a doctor to check if her UTI had gone away. This was partially due to the fact that I was busy paying her bills, the fact that my uncle was supposed to be encouraging her to go home with us, and also, I've realized the slow and difficult way that I cannot force my grandmother to care about her health.

"You know, I would like you to see a doctor to decide if your infection has cleared up," I tell her once.

"What infection?" She asks.

"Exactly," I say with futility.

Hey, That Wasn't My Decision

"And I can see through you...inside you're ugly, ugly like me...see to the real you..."

--Staind, "Outside"

I paid off one of grandma's credit cards because she had a little over eleven thousand dollars in one of her checking accounts, no doubt an amount that had been building for months due to the fact that she doesn't pay her bills anymore. It was Discover, and the balance was around six hundred dollars.

I was on phone with American Express (according to my research, grandma has three credit card bills). The customer service representative first offered to let grandma make payments on only 30% of the balance, which was twelve hundred dollars. It was a payment plan for a year, and then the balance would be gone. I asked Grandma if she just wanted to pay it off in one, lump sum. She said no. Then the manager comes onto the line, and offers to reduce the balance by another three hundred dollars if I paid it off in full on that day.

"Do you want to pay it off? It's only nine hundred dollars."

"No."

At this point, my uncle is talking to me, but I can't hear him because I'm paying attention to the conversation on the phone.

I say, holding my hand over the microphone, "What the fuck does it matter? She has the money in her account."

My uncle looks at me sternly, "She doesn't want to. No."

Family Lies and Other Ties, Part II

My uncle and my grandmother and I are sitting down in a booth to have lunch. I'm working on my first beer, and reading news on Facebook (from reliable sources like the Washington Post, the New York Times, the Atlantic and the New Yorker).

My uncle speaks into his phone, "Google, find Western Exterminators."

The salads had just shown up.

"Are you going to call them?" My uncle asks me.

"What do you mean?" I say. "I'm on Facebook right now."

"Get off of Facebook, and call Western Exterminators," he demands.

I do like I'm asked, and I talk on the phone with a representative while my uncle and my grandmother eat their salads.

The main course has arrived, and I'm still on the phone. I sneak in bites of french fries during the conversation with the bug killers.

"Just make this go away, just one more peaceful day..."

--Staind, "It's Been a While"

"Maybe I'm Just Blind..."

"There's another world inside of me that you may never see..."

--Three Doors Down, "When I'm Gone"

I had just arrived at his house, and I was still nervous, so I asked him to pour me some wine.

"I forgot to ask this the last time we saw each other, but do you mind giving me something to remember you by? So, I have it with me?" I pause.

"Sure, what do you want?" He answers without showing much emotion.

"I just realized how weird that sounded! That's like you asking me for one of my pairs of panties." I'm embarrassed.

Lost Thoughts

"What makes you think that you are not enough for one person?" My case manager asks me.

I don't know how to directly answer this question, but I do explain that I don't want to be responsible or in control of someone's whole sexuality, to be someone's only fantasy and desire--hence why I think open relationships are a real possibility.

My case manager just suspected that this was due to my low self-esteem, a truism that a lot of people use to justify a lot of different behaviors and attitudes, almost to the point that low self-esteem has lost its importance and meaning.

"If I told you every negative thought I had about myself..." I begin, but I pause for a second.

"Then it would take all day?" My case manager offers.

"I think it would scare you."

Family Lies and Other Ties

My grandma's GP asked that Grandma return to Yuppieville in a few weeks (two to four) to see if the UTI had cleared up. So, my uncle and I coordinated a trip to Ridgecrest with the idea that we would take her to the doctor (I had the option ready that we might just go to the urgent care clinic there local if she didn't want to come with us).

So, while in the my uncle's truck on the way to Ridgecrest, he told me that he was going to clean up the house a little bit, and would I mind paying her bills? I told him that I would do it.

Which turned into a major job because when we arrived, and I started going through Grandma's paperwork, I asked her if she could find her debit cards (so, I'd have money to pay her debtors). She searches through her purse, and tells me that she doesn't have them--which poses major, obvious problems. Where were her cards, and how long have they been missing, and who, if anyone, has been using them? (Come to find out, they were in her purse the whole time.)

Towards the end of the afternoon, after I had been working on her bills for a while, I told her that I wanted to ask her something serious. I turn to face her. "What do you see happening? Do you want to die here alone?"

"Pretty much" came her reply.

According to the GP and my mother, my grandmother is free to exercise that choice even if it has dire consequences. The doctor and my mother view that taking away her freedoms, freedom to decide her own medical treatment, freedom to live alone, etc., was the most important factor--not the potential negative effects of refusing to treating her own diabetes, and continuing to live with moderate dementia.

For the most part, in all respect to a practicing doctor, I find this to be highly illogical--but my mother claims that this is because I'm a Democrat, and believe in the "nanny state" (which I don't, by the way, but never mind). I refuse to see the wisdom in not forcing someone into treatment until it becomes so painfully obvious that death is imminent or she is a danger to herself or others (she is already a danger to herself, but she wants to die slowly, and I guess that's okay for everyone). Why not exercise preventive medicine, and stop bad things from happening that will be consequences of poor medical management? Risks like having a major stroke or heart attack or kidney failure, serious risks stemming from her diabetes. Then you have all the other risks due to her cognitive decline and memory loss--everything from leaving food to burn on the stove to overdosing on medicine because she keep forgetting that she had already taken her pills. Or getting lost in town when it's a hundred degrees, and then suffering from serious dehydration. Or falling down somewhere in the house, and not being able to call for help because she consistently forgets to pay her phone bills (and often can't find her cellphone), and the company keeps turning off her service. She could just die in there, and no one would notice until I or my uncle come to visit once every few weeks.

What I observed yesterday is that my grandmother constantly complains about the unfortunately unavoidable effects of aging, like pain from joint wear and tear and arthritis. What is particularly odd is that she refuses to do anything about this, despite the fact that she could get pain killers if she went to the doctor. I realized that this is learned helplessness (experiments involving rats have clarified this for us), and a "victimhood" mentality. Life is cruel and unusual, and I'm just going to sit here and refuse to do anything to make my life better. Grandma said more than once during my last visit that her "life couldn't get any worse," an observation that I wholly disagree with. She could be paralyzed from a major stroke, drooling on herself, unable to talk. I understand that explaining to someone who is feeling trapped or otherwise depressed that life could in fact get worse is not helpful for anyone. So, I kept my mouth shut.

During lunch, my grandmother said that if she had to be around the two of us (my uncle and myself) that she would "shoot [herself] in the head."

When I said that joking about suicide was not funny, she responded that she wasn't kidding.

My uncle, who was never very helpful during this whole trip, besides paying for the gas that I couldn't afford, said that he knew where a gun was, he owned one.

Sometimes my grandmother pays lip service to my many concerns, and sometimes she tells me that she doesn't "care" enough to pay her bills or go to the doctor or to remember things when it's obvious that she's forgotten--again--That somehow if she cared enough, she wouldn't be a bitch (her words, not mine) and life's problems would be solved.

"Grandma, you have an illness, but it's not your fault," I told her at one point.

"No, it's because I don't care enough..."

Mostly though, she just lies--to herself and to me, and I find that I have little patience with this. My uncle maintains that it's the dementia, that she just doesn't remember so she fills in the blanks as best she can. However, I find it to be much more insidious than that. A little bit more premeditated. She lies because she tells me what I want to hear--or about some delusion that she carries around with her. Is it really her fault? Is it her responsibility? Well, the doctor and my mother are arguing yes, that Grandma still has the capacity to make her own decisions, and therefore is solely responsible for her own illness--others around her are not to take on that burden. Because Grandma could care more about herself. That she has the clarity of thought to calculate all the possibilities and probabilities in life, and can make a rational decision.

I oppose this viewpoint. It's not about Grandma, it's about family, and family takes care of each other even when they have to make decisions that are hard or initially unpopular.

I was on the phone with my mother, her daughter, when Grandma started in again about how my uncle bought her the wrong size Poise Pads (earlier, she was yelling at him, "you should have known better!"). I said to Grandma, "Grandma, you've already complained about this once."

My mother hissed at me that my attitude was sour.

The Alienated Mind

"The events of the past four months have demonstrated that Donald Trump is not going to solve the problem he was elected to address; neither the underlying economic and social ruptures nor the alienation that emerges from them."

--"The Alienated Mind" by David Brooks, The New York Times

Trust

"Trust is the basis of every relationship. You have to have it," my case manager says.

I tell her the story of how when I told Morpheus that I loved him, he told me that "no, you don't." I told her how initially the words didn't impact me, but my emotional response grew later. I start to cry when I say to her, "He doesn't even trust me enough to believe that I love him...And I told him, 'what can I do to prove it to you? I've always been there for you. Always. I have come to you even in the middle of the night.' "

Verdict on Morpheus

Eventually today during our session, the case manager and I ended up talking about Morpheus. Though she's been in my life for over a year, she had only received glimpses of Morpheus from me. Even today, I never mentioned that he was married when we met.

"You put up this educated persona, and then behind it is a hurt little girl who wants to be seen," she tells me.

Surely, It's Not Over

While she granted that not all first-person writing on the Internet was undignified, there were far too many “solo acts of sensational disclosure” that read like “reverse-engineered headlines.”

--by: Jia Tolentino, The New Yorker, "The Personal-Essay Boom is Over"

The Elitism in Me, Part IV [REVISED]

I had two glasses of wine, and was feeling rather adventurous. I looked over at my mother, and said, "You know, at thirty-three years old, I don't believe I'll ever get married."

"Why not?" She asked, slightly shocked. "You could have been married already--"

"True."

"But you choose to not be married."

Dad entered the conversation at this point. "It's better to be single than in a fucked up marriage."

Mom nodded her head at this.

Of course, I can't accurately compare Morpheus to the English instructor (it wouldn't be fair), even if I do find it curious that both are married with children (or better said, were married when I met them), and (yes) both emotionally unavailable (surely, that says more about me than it does them). I've only known the English instructor for a year, and despite all those emails (way more than I ever exchanged with Morpheus), nothing particularly revealing ever emerged from the conversations.  Morpheus, despite knowing him for almost ten years, well, we never had much for conversation either. Surely, we talked at great lengths while we were together (something I rather enjoy doing with him), but over the years, we haven't seen each other often enough to carry on a long conversation. I've probably spend just as many hours in the English instructor's class or sitting with him after class, as I ever did with Morpheus in his home or a hotel room. Granted, the English instructor never fucked me after class, so you have to take that into consideration (sad, but true).

One particular eye-opening experience was having the English instructor's wife visit class one day during fall semester. She has blonde hair, and is rather small, like my mother. I'd guess she wears a size two. Three of the kids showed up too. The English instructor greeted them casually, "Hi, family." I watched his face, looking for a flicker of affection or a moment of vulnerability on his part. None existed. He looked towards them with the same expression he had on his countenance the five minutes before they arrived. He remained unmoved.

Of course, in those moments, I saw the ex-wife of Morpheus standing there, looking beautiful, as I remembered her leaning into my car and asking me if I still had feelings for her husband. I complimented the ex-wife once while talking to Morpheus, and he said, "She's not that attractive." Well, that was probably one of those harmless lies that Morpheus spoke in order to ease my insecurities. Or some bullshit like that. Trust me, according to Morpheus, their problems didn't originate in the bedroom--nor did they ever grow tired of fucking each other. He had sex with her months into their legal separation (although he did tell me that he hasn't banged with his ex-wife since August of 2016).

Oddly, I don't have this kind of insight into the English instructor.

[Discussion of Open Relationships] Part III

"...she had often compared herself unfavorably with the other women Joe was seeing and worried she was not something enough: creative enough, say, or bold enough." [emphasis is the author's]

--The New York Times, "Is an Open Marriage a Happier Marriage?" by Susan D.

The Elitism in Me, Part III

"Do you think students are demanding more accessibility from their professors?" I ask the English Division Chair at the bar-b-que.

"No," he responds. "You talked about emailing. Some professors don't email. Haven't you met..."

I shake my head, and then realize that yes, I have met a professor at the community college who said on his syllabus that it was preferred that we don't contact him using email, but if we really needed to--However, I never found that this professor was neglectful of his students.

[Discussion of Open Relationships] Part II

"...Would you rather be asleep and have things fall apart? Or rather be alive and have things fall apart?”

--The New York Times, "Is An Open Marriage a Happier Marriage?" by Susan D.

It is Not Finite [Discussion of Loving More Than One Person]

“Love is additive,” he told her. “It is not finite.”

--The New York Times, "Is an Open Marriage A Happier Marriage?" by Susan Dominus

The Elitism in Me, Part II

As I was leaving class after my poetry final, the Poetry Professor and I had a short talk. He told me to "keep writing."

I believe he's under the mistaken impression (one I have never bothered to correct) that I write poetry all the time, that it's a driving, all-encompassing goal that I have. I feel my talents best lie with writing creative nonfiction, but as I explained to the English instructor during an email exchange, people are more tolerant of creative use of language in a poem than in prose, for reasons I don't understand. In fact, the Poetry Professor was very interesting in learning the meaning behind my poems, and most of the time, he extrapolated this by himself. But if he didn't connect with some line, he automatically was curious about it. I don't believe I've had this same reaction when writing prose. If people don't understand something in a nonfiction essay, they immediately assume that they should understand it, and if they don't, then it's the writer's fault for making the sentence (or sentences) vague and confusing. Whereas with poetry, if a reader doesn't comprehend a line or a couple of lines, he/she blames him/herself.

My prose should have the same effect as my poetry, that it leads readers down a path of discovery--for themselves, as well as for me. I got into this argument with the English instructor (which I lost, by the way because he teaches the class, not I) of why do we need thesis statements when the whole fucking paper is about the thesis statement? Do you really need to spell it out for people when it should be clear by the essay as a whole? I found it to be slightly insulting, not only to me, but also to the reader that thesis statements were even needed in a well-written paper. The English instructor warned me that not writing a thesis statement might cost me an A in the future since this is what professors expect and desire. Since the man has written more college-level papers than I have, I conceded.

The Elitism In Me

I went to this English faculty Bar-B-Que mostly because the English Division Chair (kind of the same title as the Department Head at the University) was supposed to be there. That, and there was a slight possibility that the English instructor would show up (he didn't, and he explained that he was going on a trip with his kids that day). And I thought for a moment that I might like to see the Poetry Professor.

The English Division Chair has been fairly friendly to me, even giving me a compliment on my prize-winning poem, saying that there was lots of competition this year (other professors had confessed that in the past, the poetry contest had the least amount of entries with the fiction section having the highest). He was even mused when I kept interrupting his class (I walked in a few times, thinking the room would be clear for English 201C to begin--guess not).

I started to brag at the party about the Poetry professor, telling the English Division Chair (surely, he needs some other, shorter nickname) that despite having five classes, the Poetry Professor was always available and answered his messages quickly.

"That's because he believes in giving short comments..." The English Division Chair says, pauses for a moment, and then continues, "Me? I can't do it." He's referring to the feedback we receive on our essays, which to me is only one small piece of the overall teaching puzzle.

I recover. "Well, he said that if I wanted further feedback to just go and see him during office hours," I say, defending a man who is the sole reason I even attempted writing poetry in the first place (although this had been brewing because of the English instructor's influence and his influence is the biggest reason I took the poetry class--because if the English instructor can quotes lines of poems in the dark, well, so should I). But the Poetry Professor was so peppy and excited and encouraging, he acted like the best thing in the world to happen was students writing poetry. He told the class how creative their poems were, and he told everyone to enter the poetry contest. It's hard to dislike a man who is so invested in his students' futures. It's only after getting to know him some that he expressed the same feelings that all professors have at some point--that it's frustrating trying to teach people who don't put in an effort to learn the material or the art form. I'm assuming that's just part of the job, dealing with unmotivated students who would rather be down at the bar drinking (who does that remind you of?) or having lots of unprotected sex or pissing away the allowance that their parents send them every month (again, remind anyone of me?).

The English Division Chair nods his head in agreement.

Of course, the Poetry professor wasn't able to come because his daughter needed him (she broke her collarbone, and then required surgery and is in recovery).

Out of everyone, including even the English instructor, perhaps it's my Engl 201B professor who shows me the most affection (weird word to use, but it works). He hugs me every time he sees me, and then he always asks about my life, and how I'm doing and what's going on. At the Bar-B-Que, he said to me that I should call him by his first name.

The English Division Chair told me that he reported back to my "mentor" that I had mentioned him during the poetry reading at the award ceremony (he's talking about the Poetry Professor), but no word was made of the English instructor, even though I brought up him directly at the ceremony when explaining all the positive people in my life who made writing this poem possible. The English instructor's name was never spoken the entire time I was at the Bar-B-Que. I wondered if this is because the English instructor is only part time, and somewhat on the outside looking in. I say that, when I really don't know. Perhaps the other professors didn't see a reason to talk about him, even if they actually do like the man.

I wonder sometimes if the English instructor's bravado during class time doesn't translate into the same extrovertedness when dealing with people who aren't sitting behind desks while he speaks. Again, I could only guess.

The award ceremony for the community college's literary journal brought up both positive and negative emotions. I was mildly distracted by the thought that Morpheus didn't even dignify my request that he attend with an answer. He ignored me completely, even after I explained that my feelings were hurt that he wasn't coming. Joseph didn't make it. The English instructor, obviously, didn't make it. However, the Advisor did show up, and I placed him at my family's table, and he met my parents for the first time.

I presented last, a bit like everything was building up to my reading. It was hugely flattering considering the poem was written in around fifteen minutes, and besides changing the last few lines, I left everything unedited. It was pure stream of consciousness. I have spent far greater hours on other works that received no attention at all besides a grade. But I am now officially a published writer.

The Advisor bought me a beer, a Stout (which would be my second of the evening), and by the time I gave the reading, I had a good buzz going on.

Over the past two weeks, I've been trying to decide why the English instructor talks to me at all. I mean, I did confess to be "falling in love" with the man, and being very attracted to him (Perhaps he sums up this inference on the fact that women can be flighty and somewhat silly, and that we can just put the past behind us, as if I'm only eighteen years old, and away from home for the first time). Because I have some good sense (I've been reading all these articles about how I should change the way I talk to myself), I haven't brought the subject up. However, his letters are deeply flattering, if they only contain references to my writing. To me, this is beyond the "good professor act," which I see often on the surface. Pretty much every professor I've encountered has believed that he/she is the beacon of hope for the uneducated, naive masses. It comes with the territory. Usually, once you peel this off, you witness a sincerity in them. That they want to do a good job, and be a positive influence on their students, no matter how tiring the job might be at times. In this sense, the English instructor fits perfectly.

I had a dream about him last night (totally platonic, by the way as if even in my fantasies, I can't imagine being physically intimate with him), and I said, "You're not the type to wear your heart on your sleeve, just an observation." That perfectly sums it up. In this sense, I got Morpheus, except that he's taller, and he quotes poetry, and can write eloquently, both to his advantage and disadvantage (sometimes I think it's easier for writers to hide behind themselves and their excessive use of language, when simple can be better). Oh, yeah, and he doesn't make as much money. It's a real toss-up who's smarter (Morpheus may not be a writer, but he's an excellent verbal bullshitter, which is how I imagine he makes his living), but comparisons like this can't be good for me or my audience.

The English instructor doesn't share Morpheus' materialism, probably because he values other things in life (like intellectual pursuits) more than he idolizes money. Or maybe Morpheus just grew up with this horrible, unending sense that he wasn't good enough, and so, he obsessed with becoming better until there seemed to be no more point in excelling. Except there is. As Morpheus told me, "nothing is ever enough." This is the one trait, to hear him tell it, that he shared with his ex-wife. It's a drive that I simply do not possess. Yes, I want to be one of the intellectual elites, but money is only money, and you can be pretty miserable having a lot of it.

I do have a little elitism in me, otherwise I wouldn't attend English faculty Bar-B-Que's or spend the vast majority of my time socializing with people who are educated far better than I am. In turn, I don't have any "rich" friends. Morpheus knows that in order to be rich, you have to play with other rich people, even if everyone is basically lying about how rich they are.



I often tell myself that one of the major reasons I'm attracted to Morpheus is because of his money (which I've never seen, except for the first two times we met, and he paid me and the agency for my services). Then I remind myself that I like (and am attracted to) a middle class guy, how sweet is that? Maybe I'm not completely empty and superficial.

Critique of Christianity

"Was Hitchens’s critique of Christianity, he said, not as wan and naive as Christianity itself? Christianity had bound together the civilizations of Europe, and now Hitchens wanted to replace it with—well, what exactly? American neoliberal internationalism? Why should anyone care if Christianity was irrational and illiberal, when rationality and liberalism had never been its purpose? Hitchens had missed the point."

--"His Kampf" by Graeme Wood, The Atlantic

Soothe Us

"Horses have a profound effect on humans."

--"Why Close Encounters With Animals Soothe Us," by Charles Siebert, The New York Times

Because We Want To [Discussion of Open Relationships]

"The most important thing this has done for us is remind us that we shouldn’t take each other for granted. Instead, we choose each other over and over because we want to, not because we are simply on autopilot."

--Crystal A., The New York Times, "We Choose Each Other Over and Over Because We Want To"

Outlive Us All

"But it can often feel that the luxury of time has been accompanied by a heightened, commensurate craving for love: Part of the modern condition is wondering who might love us and how that love might be more perfectly expressed, and animals’ new duty is to answer both of those problems, to make this loneliest of ages feel a little less lonely."

--The New York Times, "A Pet Tortoise Who Will Outlive Us All," by Hanya Yanagihara

The More Suitable Mate

“Only a very wise man at the end of his life could make a sound judgment concerning whom, amongst the total possible chances, he ought most profitably to have married,” Tolkien wrote. “Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world, or even with a little more care in this very imperfect one) both partners might have found more suitable mates.”

--"Stop Looking for Your Soul Mate and Try This Instead" by Time, author: Ada Calhoun

A Million First Dates

This article confirmed my fears that Morpheus shouldn't commit to me because the next best thing is just around the corner, and there's another one after that, and again and again.

The Best Advice, Part VIII

I read an article from one of the mainstream news media that said self-compassion was better for us mentally than self-esteem because if you're constantly looking to the outside to re-affirm your worth, then you will be predictably disappointed in yourself or you will grow into narcissism. Whereas with self-compassion, you learn to be kind to your own head, and to admit when you're wrong, and then forgive yourself. You can move on.

I figured that Morpheus wasn't going to be home, or if he was home, he would meet me at the door, and basically tell me to leave. Or I would take a hint, and leave on my own accord. If you look at the past, most of which I can't remember, you will realize that Morpheus has been completely incapable of planning ahead for a time we see each other. In fact, to my knowledge, it's never fucking happened (I pause because the first time we slept together--in a hotel--we might have arranged that a day or two ahead). I don't know why this is when I know he runs his own company, so he does schedule his time, and is able to fulfill obligations to be somewhere at a specific time. It's not like he's a loose cannon, just making it up as he goes along.

My mother is right (damnit), some people don't deserve our time and our efforts because there should be some minimum standard of respectability that goes on between individuals. Morpheus has asked me several times, "why are you so persistent?" It took me a while to come up with an answer. I'm not persistent. I don't treat Morpheus any differently than I do my close friends. If one of my friends went off the technological cliff, and didn't respond to my TXT-messages or emails or voicemails, and the call kept going straight to message, I would be equally freaked out. The LSU Professor and I once discussed this. He said if I didn't hear from him in a few days, then something was seriously wrong (luckily, that never happened).

But why are my emotional needs and my attachment needs so unusual? Well, I don't think they are. People who are in love want to see the person they are in love with--this is normal and to be expected. Even if you're not in love, but like someone, you want to hear from him/her.

Mostly, though, I blame myself (who else am I going to blame? Morpheus?). I assumed that Morpheus would just send me an email, saying that he couldn't see me for some real or made up reason. Then, I could say to myself, "okay, it's fucking over, move on..." But that didn't happen. Instead, I showered (even though it makes my nerve pain many, many times worse), I shaved (everything!), and put lotion on and a dress with leggings and then did my make up, and brushed my hair (I occasionally do that), and I drove to his house.

Sometimes I think to myself, "How dumb do you have to be?" (This is not self-compassion at work.) I have given Morpheus opportunity after opportunity, and yet, I've always been disappointed. He comes and goes as he pleases, even though he's single and he's not hiding this relationship from anyone (or is he?).

It took me until yesterday to realize that no matter what happened between Morpheus and I--even if he called today, and said he was sorry and that he loved me and wanted me to move in and get married, and on and on and on. Still, in the back of my mind, I'd always be wondering when is he going to fuck someone else, who is younger and possibly thinner and probably prettier--even while being committed to me? It's not fair to say that just because a person cheated in one relationship that he/she would continue that pattern on into the next relationship. However, Morpheus and I have that baggage--that history--and you can't forget about it. He lied to the most important person in his life (his wife), and then, at the same time, he lied to me too. I know this. This is what he's capable of. Is it fair to judge him? I don't know, all I know is how it plays into my insecurities that this is a person I can never trust.

In the end, being unable to trust someone (I asked the LSU Professor if he trusted Greta, the love of his life, and he said flatly without hesitation, "No.") makes you unhappy, and can ruin an otherwise good relationship. Maybe in the long run, I wouldn't be happy with Morpheus, although I always naturally assumed that we would be blissful together.

Some of these fears are cultural, and are specific to women. We are in fierce competition with each other, and we are taught that no matter how attractive we are, we run the possibility of losing our mates to someone else. We have an expiration date. Society doesn't think kindly of old women, especially those who are single. The beauty standards for women are very different than they are for men. We put way more effort into our appearance than men do. And the worst part, we're expected to do this. We don't wear make up because we like the shit--why when it's messy and expensive--we tell ourselves we're doing it for us, but if you're home on the couch, do you wear foundation? No, because you're the only one who sees you. But if you get off the couch and walk out into the outside world, well, then priorities change. What about high heels? Who exactly likes wearing something that is uncomfortable and potentially very painful?

The Best Advice, Part VII

"And you're concerned with me being honest with you...I have always been blatantly honest with you, shocking I know..."

--voicemail message left to Morpheus, yesterday

The Best Advice, Part VI

"There are some people who don't deserve to be in your life," my mother tells me yesterday after I hang up with leaving Morpheus a message.

The Best Advice, Part V

"You didn't have the common decency to send me a 30-second email that said, 'hey, I'm not going to be home on Saturday, talk to you later'...You just blew me off...That was officially a dick move."

--Me in my voicemail to Morpheus, yesterday

The Best Advice, Part IV

"Oh, yeah, and you lied. You said we would see each other in a few weeks, and it's been a month..."

--Me in my voicemail to Morpheus

The Best Advice, Part III

"You writers don't know how to keep any secrets," my mother says to me.

The Best Advice, Part II

"And guess what?! I don't trust you...I don't fucking trust you," I say one notch under yelling, leaving out of those angry voicemail messages that I'm sure he'll never give a shit about."...because you lied to me, you lied to [the Wife], and god knows who else!"

The Best Advice

After I return from Morpheus' house, I take the home phone into my bedroom, and call Morpheus.


When I return to the hallway, my mother says, "The best response to this situation is to ignore him, and I mean, forever."

"Did you know who I was talking to?" I say.

"Nope. Didn't need to."

The Review

Today, after COMM class finally finished up, I was walking with one of the students back to her car, and another classmate decided to join us.

The girl said, "It's like a big fish in a small pond..." (she must have been referring to me, who else?) She then explained to me that if I was accepted at Stanford or UC-Berkeley, it would be detrimental to my mental state.

What? Part II

My mother once brought up that when she and my father met, they were both fucked up people. She said that you didn't need to love yourself first because you could love someone else--that the psychologist's truism was wrong. And in return, someone could love you and all your fucked-up-ness without you even being able to see why that is so.

What? Many Reasons to Say "Fuck Off" to Men

So, I keep having this recurring nightmare. Morpheus is injured and in the hospital, and when I see him, I start sobbing uncontrollably, and explaining that I didn't know about his condition, otherwise, I would have come sooner. Last night, in the dream, he was barely recognizable with tubes coming out of him, half of his face covered with gauze, and missing an arm. Again, I cried. In his compromised state, he gave me a ring--a wedding or engagement ring. I remember holding it in my hand (this too has occurred in other nightmares with him in it), and being amazed that we were going to be husband and wife--no matter his physical state.

Of course, when I woke up, I started having anxiety (probably moderate, nothing worth going to the ER for), and I was haunted by the images that were part of my psyche landscape of my sleeping hours. Even the LSU Professor admitted that we didn't know what happened to him. I sent a TXT-message to Harry, asking what I should do. He said to call Morpheus, so when I arrived at the gym, I borrowed their phone, and it rang several times and then went to voicemail. Harry then added that I might want to find him, and check on him.

I sent an email to Morpheus later this afternoon, saying that I needed to know he was okay before I made a big mistake, and that I would arrive at his house sometime between six and seven pm, and if he didn't want me to come, to email me saying so. A little while later, Morpheus responded that he's fine and has family staying with him for a few days, and that he will be very busy until friday.

Now, I'm not stupid, although sometimes I play the part. I know that just because he says he will have time in a few days--that doesn't translate into "we should see each other." But I replied back that I will arrive at his house on Saturday at around six pm, unless he tells me not to do so. I feel like telling him he's a fucking liar (he assured me weeks ago that we would see each other in less than a month).

Do I want to go over there and play nice? No, he should have responded to the first email in which I just asked if he was okay, because my calls were going immediately to voicemail. The appropriate response on his part would have been, "Yes, I'm redirecting your calls for x, y, and z reasons." Or maybe not give a reason at all.

This sounds cliche, but maybe it's true. If Morpheus can't see what a special person I am (I really don't believe I'm a special person, but I do believe that it's possible for other people to think so because that's a big piece of romantic love), then I should just blocked him for eternity, and move on to someone more acceptable and receptive.

I'm sure this situation says something unsavory about me, like I have self-esteem issues, like I'm a fucking doormat, that I'm being taken advantage of, and on and on.

But more importantly, I'm wondering what I'm hoping to accomplish--what's my end goal? And is there any feasible way that it might come true?

The Advisor told me not to be a martyr (he was referring to how I treat my grandmother, but he might as well have been talking about Morpheus). Love the unlovable? Take the time to break through the barriers that keep people afraid? Noble goals, really--I mean, if you're a nun, and doing it for Jesus, not so you can fuck someone.

There is, of course, the major trap that we so often fall into--the idea that we can change people for the better just by our mere presence in their lives. Does it happen? Sure, but it's not the rule. And why would you want to go out and change someone? Shouldn't you love him/her just the fucked up way they are? Ideally, yes. Somehow I feel like someone is better suited to deal with Morpheus, someone a little more laid back, someone who doesn't mind being ignored, someone who isn't quite so persistent. They make these women, some of them even turn out to be trophy wives because they really don't give a shit as long as they have their allowance, and a nice Tesla to drive. They turn a blind eye to all sorts of questionable shit, i.e. their husbands fucking around--because these husbands are rich and entitled. And these rich son of a bitches (like poor men too) objectify women, and break them down into malleable pieces that they can digest--someone who never questions them or never gets angry when they won't skip a golf day to spend time with the "family." Women who sit quietly, and passively allow some man to direct their lives. (I've read articles that suggest this, and then, please watch Billions, and Axlerod's wife, who has immense power over him because she's the mother of their sons, but they hardly spend any time together--and she doesn't seem to do anything all day because she has a housekeeper and a babysitter and a cook and other staff to make her life more comfortable). Do you want to bow to a man? There's nothing wrong with that, no matter what the feminists say (actually there is something wrong with that, but alas!).

I mean, don't all women want to be loved and cared for because of their personality, wit, intellect and accomplishments? Shouldn't a man be impressed if one of "his girls" wins a college-wide poetry contest?

But what happens when the woman breaks the mold, and earns more than most of the men she meets? What then? Does she quit her job, raise a few brats, and hope that in the end, she's loved more? Does she succumb to the domestic role?

The stripper men fall in love with is not the woman they will continue loving because it's all too dirty and risky, and oh, my god, what would the club say?  

Marginalized to Normalized

"Earlier this year, a sophomore, Chloe Vassot, published an essay in the college paper urging white students like her to speak up less in class in certain circumstances. 'I understand that I am not just an individual concerned only with comfort but also a part of a society that I believe will benefit from my silence,' she wrote. She told me that it was a corrective for a system that claimed to value marginalized people but actually normalized them to a voice like hers."

-- "The New Activism of Liberal-Arts Colleges," The New Yorker, by Nathan Heller

Half-In-Love with Death

"I have been half in love with easful Death...
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
         To cease upon the midnight with no pain....

--"Ode to a Nightingale"  by Keats

Fighting With You

"I'd rather fight with you than make love with anyone else."

--Nick Mercer, The Wedding Date

He's next to me on the couch. I don't remember what I said or what we were talking about (I believe it was how we don't see each other very often).

He turns to me slightly, and then says with a sharp tone, "And you think I don't care?!?"

just a fantasy

So, I have this fantasy that he shows up to the award ceremony without telling me beforehand, just to surprise me. Then, I'm happy, and I run up to him and give him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Learning About Death From the News

I asked Morpheus if his best friend knew about me.

He shook his head no.

This actually bothers me for two reasons. One, everyone in my life who is important knows about Morpheus (there are exceptions, of course, I never told Joseph that I was in love with another man while I was his girlfriend, and Lucky doesn't know about Morpheus either just because it never really came up in conversation). Two, if Morpheus was in the hospital or even dead, no one would know to contact me to tell me about his condition (sick, injured and/or dead). Why? Because I do not exist in Morpheus' social circle. I'm in my little bubble, on the outside. So, I would probably learn about his death in the news.

Good to Visit

"When what you really want is to hear from [Morpheus], I wonder if it's wise to block him from your phone before you know why you haven't heard from him."

--Harry's comment on Morpheus

It Would Be Good For You To Visit

"Regardless, if he was in hospital it would be good for u to visit."

--The LSU Professor's comment about Morpheus

Aubade

"I want to have sex right now in this poem with the universe."

--"Aubade" by Bill Hicok

The Runner's High -- The Myth

My mother has just come home from work.

"So, can I tell you this crazy idea I have?"

"What?" She says, slightly distracted.

"I've decided that I want to run a marathon, I figure it will probably take me two years to do it."

"Why would I think that's crazy?"

"Because I'm fat!" I say.

There's silence from my mother, who has her back turned to me. I know she doesn't want to say, hmmm, yes, of course, you're fat. "Well, that doesn't mean anything."

"How many fat marathon runners do you know? None!" I'm excited like the very act of running twenty-six miles and then some will cure me of my body anxieties. "They all look like you."

Dead, Dying Or Otherwise Gravely Disabled [REVISED]

Years ago before we started dating, Dirk and I talked to each other five days a week, almost without fail. In the beginning, it was emails, and then it turned into AOL instant messaging. Then, suddenly one day, he stopped coming online. Days passed, I heard nothing, not even an email. After about five days, I wrote this nasty email, saying basically that if you wanted to dump me, you should have had the decency to tell it to my (online) face. When he finally signed back on to AOL, he explained to me that he had spent the week in the hospital (he is dying slowly of heart failure). He said that he had no way to get in touch with me (because at that point, we hadn't exchanged phone numbers). To be perfectly honest, I never believed him one hundred percent. The excuse was just too convenient.

When I moved to New Jersey to be with him, about six months into our relationship, he started to vomit often. One time, we were at the mall, and he puked in the parking lot. I was at work when he went into the ER a few days later. They hospitalized him. The doctors were nice to me, even though technically, I wasn't family. I was just a girlfriend. One of the physicians discussed his case with me, and mentioned the last time he was in the hospital--that missing week of communication that happened between us.The doctors explained that he had a minor heart attack.

So, I never heard back from Morpheus about whether or not he would attend the award ceremony (the Poetry Professor told me today that my poem won first place). I decided to call him since the last time I ringed him, about six days before, it went straight to his voicemail box. At the time of the first call, I just thought that either he was asleep (it was in the morning) or in a meeting or with his kids and didn't want to be interrupted. This morning, the same thing happened: the call went directly to voicemail.

I freak out. Oh, my god, he runs his business with his cellphone! He wouldn't leave it turned off! There's something majorly wrong! Maybe he's in the hospital. I write a frantic email, explaining that his phone doesn't ring, just goes to voicemail, and to please let me know that he was okay. I left a voicemail message saying essentially the same thing.

By the time I arrive at the dog park, to walk the dog, before class, I start googling to see if I can find his home phone number (which I use to have), so that I can check to see if he's at the house, and that he's alright. When I type in his name in Google, this comes up:

[Morpheus's First and Last Name] Obituary.

Oh, my god, he's fucking dead. 

I click on the link, and yes, a person (51 years old) died who had Morpheus' name. But the middle name was wrong. And, obviously, the age (Morpheus is 41, and will be 42 in June).

By this point, I'm convinced that I have to start calling hospitals, and I should drive to his house to check to make sure that he's not hanging in the shower, dead, and has been left there for days.

After class, I have an equally terrifying thought: maybe he's figured out a way to just send my call directly to voicemail. I don't even know it's possible, but I Google, and sure enough, with an iPhone, you can set up that option.

This hurts. Why would he block my calls from ringing on his phone? He told me while we were together last time that I wasn't calling him enough. It's not like I call him everyday or even every week. I usually just send a TXT-message (I don't know for sure if he hasn't turned off his notifications there too).

I was sad, and then I was angry. It took a while (and $4.99 a month) to block his cellphone. He can't call me, and he can't send me any TXT-messages.

I walked on the treadmill at physical therapy, and came up with a reply:

"So, your phone isn't turned off (could be in "Do Not Disturb" mode, but alas!), you're not in the hospital or in jail. You didn't gang [sic] yourself in the shower. You're fine...

Believe it or not, I was worried something happened to you. So worried in fact, that I was going to drive to your house to check on you, after my class. But then I googled and realized that you are purposefully sending my calls directly to voicemail...

Why? I don't know. Except for the obvious reason that you find me to be a minor inconvenience in your life...

So, likewise, you are blocked. You can't call my cellphone or send me a TXT. I didn't do this because of you, no, I did this so I wouldn't make further attempts to contact you...

If you're dying or otherwise gravely disabled, you can call the house...

If you decide that you just can't live without me and we must get married and have children together, then, sure, shoot me an email. And yes, I accept electronic proposals. Or over the phone, whatever works...

Otherwise if you just want to string me along for another ten years (this is not your fault, I allowed it), well then maybe you should just forget about me...

And you lied to me. But that's what people do. They lie. Even good people lie...Love, [Jae]"




Of course, if he is in the hospital, then that would officially make me an asshole. I hope he sees the humor and the irony in the fact that while he is convinced that I want marriage and children, I actually don't.