Bulls and Matadors

Dating is like being in a bull fight. According to Wikipedia, bullfighting is a physical contest that generally involves humans attempting to publicly subdue, immobilize, or kill a bull, usually according to a set of rules, guidelines, or cultural expectations. The color red attracts the bull initially. But once the bull is drawn into interaction, they are then seduced into immobilization, subdued, or killed. I'm a fan of red flags. These red flags are carried by all sorts of matadors. Some have the intention of handicapping. Some want to domesticate. Others want to terminate. I'm sure there are some matadors that genuinely care and respect for the bulls that are drawn to them, but those nice matadors won't be included in today's ramblings. I am mostly drawn to those matadors who want to handicap me. It is not their intention to build me up, to respect me or care for me with kindness and gentleness, to take the time to get to know me. It is their intention to cut my legs off and leave me bleeding so their own purposes are fulfilled. Mostly that is the need for an ego fix. Or a physical encounter. Or temporary companionship. But none of those matadors can do this if the bull is completely intact. It requires someone who is subdued, muted, restrained, domesticated, tempered, softened, toned down (all synonyms of subdued according to thesaurus.com). My favorite of these synonyms is "toned down." I am reading a book that wisely instructs people who are dating to divulge information in small doses. The author says it takes 3 months before you can connect to someone enough where you trust them to let them in a bit. Unfortunately for me and most of the other women I know, we don't do this. We are not TONED DOWN. We say too much too quickly and opinions are just as quickly formed whether they are accurate or not based on the bit of information we divulged. I am not toned down. I say too much. I have been told on more than one occasion that I am too open and vulnerable. That I'm too trusting and honest. I am the opposite of toned down. I have carried this message with me since I was young. That I'm TOO MUCH. Too passionate. Too honest. Too emotional. Too trusting. Too talkative. Too intense. Just TOO MUCH. Whether it was an accurate message or not, it sure did go in my basket of thoughts that defined me. It's been with me in all my relationships. Whether it was factual or not. I learned to tone it down quickly if I wanted to keep the peace. As my most honest self, I was simply too much. Fiona Apple says it best: "Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills 'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love" I really wish I liked a different color.

Band of Medusas v. Collection of Mary Poppinses

I am made up of equal parts good and bad...aka Medusa and Mary Poppins. Each avatar gets their time. Some more than others. But they all bask in the spotlight at some point. I have two boys. They are in constant motion. I chase them around the house to get their attention. I yell. Loudly sometimes. Homeboys do not listen. They hear my voice but it isn't registering in their brains that I need them to respond or act. This yelling is not a trait I hold dear. It sits in time out much of the time, thinking about what it's done. But it does get out of time out...much to my chagrin...one of the many Medusas I would like to expel from my multiple personalities. Screaming Medusa needs to be entirely banished from the kingdom. I think much of our interactions in life are like this... eternally attempting to get the attention of others. SEE ME! PAY ATTENTION TO ME! VALIDATE ME! AFFIRM ME! And if we don't get it, we pull our Medusa out. We walk around with a running list of who has acknowledged us and who hasn't...filling up precious space in our brains. The people who pay attention to us get a microscopic space on our list, but as with most things, the ones who don't see us take up most of the damn list. The Running-to-Therapy Medusa is kinda one of my favorites. If I had to choose. Just sayin'. I watched Seven Pounds recently. I formed another personality to contradict my Medusas because of that movie. It changed me. For a week at least. That week I was super aware of whether I was impacting the people around me. Did I see them? If I had died in their presence, would they have said about me, a total stranger, that I was kind or funny or sweet? Would they have felt appreciated? Had I made their day a little brighter? Brought a bit of light into the space we shared? Had I SEEN them? Or would they have said (or thought so as to not talk ill of the dead) that I was grouchy and condescending and unappreciative? Would they have felt unsettled even more by my passing because I had filled the space we shared with negativity and sadness? Made them feel even more insignificant than they already naturally did? Had they encountered the I'm-Better-Than-You-Because-I'm-Having-a-Great-Hairday-and-I-am-Much-More-Important-Than-You Medusa? I don't think that needing to be seen is a negative thing. I expect that there are some versions of this need for appreciation that are Mary Poppins. My I-Need-You-To-See-Me-So-Clearly-That-You-Can-Tell-If-I-Flossed Mary Poppins finds satisfaction in having a vivacious personality with an endearing, self-deprecating sense of humor. I get attention from making others laugh and debasing myself so they feel good about themselves. It's a Mary Poppins avatar because homegirl has good intentions. Unfortunately My I-Need-You-To-See-Me-So-Clearly-That-You-Can-Tell-If-I-Flossed Mary Poppins brings with it co-dependency. Which means that I always come last. I accept less than desirable behavior from others, and loving Jesus makes it even more confusing. I think that I am supposed to love others and forgive their behavior. This line is fuzzy for me. Most of the time I need glasses. And bifocals. And contacts. And laser eye surgery. To. See. The. Line. Because I struggle with self-esteem, Hyper-needy Medusa comes out of time out for validation. Which means that I take care of others to be noticed and affirmed. I chase people around to get their attention. Hyper-Needy Medusa is my least favorite one. She surfaces mostly in romantic relationships. Thanks to our contorted belief that our significant other is supposed to embody everything we need, the Super-Sensitive--Insecure-Dissatisfied-I-Changed-My-Outfit-20-Times-Today Medusa makes her appearance, in all her glory. For a woman twice divorced and a survivor of a number of relationships, this Medusa is particularly disconcerting. She likes to beat my Humility-First-Because-I-Love-Jesus Mary Poppins up. That sweet Mary Poppins doesn't stand a chance to the Super-Sensitive--Insecure-Dissatisfied-I-Changed-My-Outfit-20-Times-Today Medusa. Regardless of how many lectures she gets, the Humility-First-Because-I-Love-Jesus Mary Poppins does not obey. So these two women hash it out. One is convinced that all problems corresponding to relationships are the fault only of myself. The other is firmly committed to her belief that she is important regardless of how she is treated. She is able to stand up to all sorts of bullying ways. But this Medusa has close behind her the Running-to-Therapy Medusa (whom I'm very fond of). And it is this Band of Medusas that resides in my head. At any given time. They are all battling for the light. They want equal attention. And homegirls get it. Mary Poppins homegirls never win.

Mad Scientist

It was a typical day in the life of a 40 year old. I wake up in my awesome king sized bed in a large house by the lake. Coffee has already been made. Newspaper has been brought in. Breakfast is cooking. The sprinkler is on watering the grass. Chicken eggs are fresh from the coop in the back yard. The fridge is stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit. My favorite foods are in the pantry. Lunches for my boys have been made and their clothes freshly washed and folded. The doorbell rings. It is my ex delivering my two boys. To my parent's house. I live in a house where everything is cared for as if I have a live in cook/nanny/house keeper/grounds keeper. I pay for nothing yet profit from everything. Totally typical of a 40 year old single mom, right? Not quite. The life I am getting to participate in belongs to my parents. And they are taking care of me and my boys unselfishly because that's who they are. It's what they do. I am a visitor in their home. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder just when my own life will define itself. My friend said to me last night on the breezy patio of my favorite bar that we are constantly reinventing ourselves. This was her response to my asking her how people figure out who they are and what they want, with a crack in my voice. Tears waiting for the cue to fall. Which is never far away. Her words filled my empty places and brought with them a picnic complete with wine and cheese and a blanket on a hill. I did cry. But the tears were sweet and laced with hope. I am the daughter of a Southern Baptist minister. He has been a pastor his whole life. He and my mom married when they were 18 and 19. My mom is a fabulous Household Engineer and a constant friend. I have two siblings, one older and one younger. So not only am I a preacher's daughter. I am also a middle child. Lovely, fantastic combo. I have attempted to navigate life by looking for stability in men. I needed them to tell me who I was. Where I was going in life. And just who I should be. Because of this lamentable fact I have been with a wide spectrum of the opposite sex. Maybe in an attempt to find closeness with my father. Maybe in an attempt to break free of perceived rules in my Southern Baptist world. Maybe just because I'm a rebel and very, very, very curious about human nature. Let's go with the latter. My curiosity supersedes my reason most of the time. I do not have that fearful gene where I run from the different. In fact, I don't view much as different from me. I am sold on the consistent nature of man across the board. We are all in part good and evil. The details of how that manifests itself does not change my belief that we are one in the same. Created by the same amazing God. Because of this curiosity, I get close to people that perhaps I shouldn't. My string of men before my first marriage was a long, knotted rope of dichotomy. They were artists, soccer players, business analysts, ministers, bankers, architects, doctors, lawyers, mechanics, construction workers, writers, comedians... Their personalities also widely varied. Kind, edgy, intelligent, withdrawn, rambunctious, driven, laid back, egotistical, unselfish, honest, seedy... They came from the quiet countryside, the rainy British landscape, bustling cities, slow towns, beautiful scenery, impoverished worlds. Their families were rich, poor, middle class, unknown, stable, abusive, creative, travelers, isolated, tender, formal. And because of this capacious assortment of men, who I was became convoluted and fragile instead of the desired goal -- someone who knew exactly who they were. This undesirable outcome also came with the unpleasant accomplice -- a need for constant companionship, regardless of design, and a bottomless need for validation and assurance. To most this diverse collection looked like an assortment of hasty decisions lacking thought and logic. And usually labeled poor/bad/ugly/stupid/meaningless/foolish/dense/rash/shortsighted decisions. But to me, at the time, they made complete sense. It was akin to being a scientist. I researched human behavior. I gathered data for my own pleasure and inquisitiveness. Therefore my tolerance for other people became unusually high compared to others and my subjects were never alike. It had its benefits, but as with everything it also had negative aspects, this curiosity about humanity. Research, if costly to the one gathering the information, becomes immaterial because the price of the research has exceeded the benefit of the denouement. It's a by-product of studying human behavior through the lens of intimacy. The participants don't escape the consequences. As a result, I have compounded what should have been a pleasant trait and created a blown up negative sphere of repercussions and the cost has been my sanity (at times) but always my amour-propre. So perhaps I was just experimenting with all the different partners. Or perhaps somewhere along the way the experiment itself became the need for someone, anyone, to fulfill me. It's probably a little bit of both. Now that I am a mom, I'm tasked with the job of being cautious with the hearts of my two fascinating boys. Graham has my personality trait of being unafraid. Brady has my personality trait of being inquisitive. And much to the chagrin of almost everyone in my life, they will be exposed to many different people. Which will hopefully be a positive part of them having me as a mom. Or perhaps I will scar them in a way that is irreparable. I would like to meet a parent who doesn't have this fear. In my atypical world, in my parent's world, perhaps I can use my compilation of studies and find purpose and meaning in each one. And create a woman who is comfortable in her own skin. At least for now.