Surprise! This has nothing to do with food.

This is how you begin to recover.

I might make plans to see a movie with this man, or go to a bookstore, but instead, we walk around a lake at sunset, and he might have no idea, but I might be tormenting myself with my decision to say yes, because we’ve spent considerable time together, and touches become more familiar, and time becomes lazy as talk begins to turn to deeper subjects. I might be so nervous, so very near tears, because I know the panic is coming. I might be dreading the things we might discuss, or the questions he might ask. He might tell me about his life, and ask me about mine – family, relationships, history. I might squirm on a stone bench, because it’s inevitable that some of his questions won’t have easy answers. What kinds of things did your family do together when you were little? Are you closer to your mother or your father? What’s your earliest memory? And I might be torn in those moments because I don't expect that he would be so unguarded at going right for the deep questions; I love it, until I realize that, for him - maybe for most? - these aren’t deep questions, and I begin to panic a little at how I might answer them, because, for me, they are some of the deepest questions in life, because the answers only lead to more questions.

Or the panic might swell as he might loop his pinky through mine as we rise from the stone bench and wander together. The wind might blow my hair back just as he looks at me, and I feel exposed to what he sees, and I might think please don’t look closely at me. He might place his hand at the small of my back as I step over a curb, or he might step into my space, might pick something imaginary off my shoulder as we stand under a tree as my brain outruns me and tries to anticipate his every advance, as a prisoner of war might. Or he might brush a thumb across my cheek as I fight the instinct to flinch, as my neck tightens and my eyes flicker downward to the grass almost against my will. Or he might lean in and brush his nose upward against mine, brown eyes wide open, smiling lightly as my brain screams please don’t see me, you have no idea what's happened, or what kind of girlfriend I've been, or what kind I might be with you, we have no idea together, and all I want to do is run away from this sweet man and never look back at what I might leave in his eyes.

I might feel powerless against all this sabotage; I might feel despair. I might find myself suddenly weary of the solitude that brought safety for so long. Without thinking, I might lean my face forward against his in sheer frustration. We might stand there for a moment. 

And he might breathe, almost as a gentle admonition: Lisa. It’s okay.

I might feel everything stop for an instant, as the words brush across my ear, as his cheek is rough and warm against mine; as, in that moment, he is near to the brokenhearted. 

He's right.

And suddenly: I might begin to laugh. Hard.

He might pull back and smile quizzically, and I might reach up to place a reassuring hand at his shoulder while I turn to face the water and feel the angst melt away as I laugh, as tears threaten to flow while I laugh uproariously at a purple sky. Because I think I’m not sure how, but somehow, finally, I may have reached That Point I’d Always Hoped For, or A Point Of No Return.

I think: No more.

No more panic. No more history in present – neither ancient nor modern history. No more fear of pain or failure, or abandonment, or inadequacy, or rejection. No more sabotage. No more anguish. Look where I am, and with whom: I am nowhere but exactly here, standing in this grass, on this day, on holy ground, under this sun filtering through these gauzy clouds, with this man, because I want to be here. Remember? These are good days. Remember? These days are mine - fully, inherently, hard-fought and earned mine. And I will have them, for me, and mine. 

I might turn back to his face, which might be open, and a little uncertain. I might press a hand to the back of his neck and catch him off-guard before I can overthink, and we might be overcome in the liquid, tumbling drama of kissing, I with a sweet man under a tree by the water with my eyes wide open, taking in the renewal of knowing that we are extraordinary, that our present can reframe history’s place in the now.

I might break the kiss and see him smile the way he does, as though he's surprised and waiting. And I might laugh a little more, and slip off my shoes, take his hand, steer him lazily toward the stone bench, and say, “Well, lemme tell ya.”

And that’s how you begin to recover.

i am, and you are.

I deflect what I know, and you probably do the same thing sometimes, because it can seem off-putting to just put it out there, but:

I know that I am extraordinary. 

It can feel off-putting to just put it out there, because we're trained to downplay our strengths, because it's not nice to brag, said your kindergarten teacher. So many people (especially bloggers, I think) thrill in putting all of their weaknesses out there in the name of catharsis and honesty. I do it, too; sometimes it just feels good to air your ugly, because you know other people are reading about it, and you know they can find pieces of their experience in yours. This is comforting, and illuminating, for everyone involved.

Right now, though, I would like you to find pieces of yourself in the fact that we are extraordinary people. We really are. I would like to brag on what I believe is the extraordinary work of an extraordinary God in an ordinary life.

I am one of the strongest, toughest people I know. At most points in my life, I’d already fielded circumstances that would’ve brought grown women (and men) to their knees. Things happen, and sometimes they really rattle me, and sometimes they're devastating. But I am strong like wow; I am scrappy. I am optimistic and hopeful, even joyful, in the face of life and tragedy, and that is extraordinary.

I am insightful, and smart as heck. I am hilarious, and a total nerd, and I never used to be socially awkward, but I am now, which is also hilarious, even to me. I am quick and sharp. My instincts almost always prove correct, and this is one of my favorite things about myself; when I second-guess or move contrary to my gut, it always hurts me later. Always.

I am loyal. I am one of the best friends you will ever have. I will never, ever, ever, ever give up on you, and sometimes, this is not a strength; I believe in anyone’s capacity for more, because if it’s true of one, it’s true of all, including you; including me.

I am super-organized (when I bother) and super-focused (when I’m focused), and I kick butt in the kitchen (except for when I don’t, but we’re not talking about that right now).

I love taking care of people, but nurturing people isn’t in my DNA. Figure that one out.

I am direct, and also fluent in nuance. I know the pain of truth used as weaponry, and I know the pain of violated dignity; I will do neither of these to you. I will neither sugarcoat, as though you were beneath me, nor withhold, as though you don’t deserve better.

I have the capacity (if not always the patience) to master whatever I choose to do. I am invested in bests, and in the hard work necessary to fling my arms upward in the brilliance of a winning sun. I am tenacious, and I will win. I roar it from horseback in half-blue face, Braveheart-style, I roar it in the face of every single overtaking tragedy: I will win.

It hurts me to write those sentences without tempering them somehow, without sticking something on the ends that say something like in some ways or I am also just ordinary. I want to write all of my faults, too – God knows there are many, and you probably know it, too.

But as self-critical and perfectionist as I am (both of which can be good, but neither of which are strengths – see? I did it anyway), I’m sure the faults will show up in, like, the next entry.


I think right now, I’ll just give myself permission to broadcast the extraordinary.

You should do the same. And then let me read it, ‘cause I’m nosy.

know.

Be still and know

That rhythms, ancient as song, 

undulate onward. 

That the rocks lie in wait,

They wait to show you when senses fail, gathering songs

stored in flecks of silver and ruby

That the earth spills forth at your feet laughing,

as pewter flung toward the sun

That the soil between toes sends sparks

Along the currents of your bloodstream as mother’s milk; consuming,

rebuilding.

That the darkness of night

Rolls and thunders to its own, majestic

As the rhythms of the tide

As the ebb-flow, ebb-flow of oceans

inside your ribcage

As the silent tread of sentry-moons spilling

glory across your cheek

That the whole earth surges

In fierce, wild victory, and its living will is untamed

toward what brokenness it heals.

Vibrant underfoot, sparkling in the lungs,

Infusing the skin and dreams of mortals

in perfect living rhythm, always; order and glory

in fixed embrace for broken children

That the trees pull heavenward with arms outflung

in song, climbing themselves

To hallelujah in the highest; they stretch their boughs

As wings

Over you

"things to do on a day off," or "alliteration gone wild."

Follow through. When you wake up in the morning already craving your dinner, which your half-asleep self informs you will be roasted chicken and butternut squash with rosemary, and lemony sautéed green beans – when your self wakes you up telling you this, don’t get lazy and settle for a recipe printed on the back of the ketchup bottle: a horrible-sounding concoction of elbows, ground beef, ketchup, dried minced onion, and Velveeta. Even though you scaled the recipe down to one bowls’ worth (and, okay, even though that crap was delicious), it doesn't feel good.

Fudge the details. Right after you write about your crappy dinner, don’t tell people that you ate neapolitan ice cream with whipped cream for breakfast. If you do, tell them that you considered adding caramel sauce, but felt a little dirty about gilding the lily. I'm not sure why this would make you feel better, though, when your breakfast was made of ice cream.  

Breakfast of champions.

Focus. Tell yourself, so you’ll remember: stop wearing a front-closure bra to your kitchen class. Reaching, moving, turning, carrying, and suddenly, you realize something's wrong because you're suspiciously comfortable. 

Pfffft. Write a really boring blog entry. Seriously... sorry.  

Freeze things. Let the day's culinary crapouts illuminate how bad your eating habits have been for the past few months. Be realistic: the fact that you can't choke anything down most days, then spend a whole day making up for it, veers unintentionally into “eating-disorder” territory. Make a batch of something, like lasagna or vegetable beef soup - portion it out, and stick it in the freezer. And eat it. Your body is probably getting mad at you. 

Fall apart a little. Watch Good Will Hunting three times. Cry seven times. A wrench, a stick, and a belt; I chose the wrench, 'cause fuck him, that's why. Robin Williams stepping into Matt Damon’s space, eyes intense, whispering. Look at me, son. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.  

Finish.. sort of. Get through part of the schoolwork you’ll need for the next few weeks. Try really, really hard to not "go there," and I'm sorry because I  know it sounds so whiny and unpleasant to read, but I just want more than anything to be able to recover my ability to focus; feeling so inadequate and intimidated anymore is not me. Remember when you enjoyed intellectual focus; contemplate your post-degree school plans, and wonder if you'll ever get it all back. Wonder if you'll ever get you back, or if the entire world will feel different forever, if everything you knew is gone, if you'll just have to adapt to a new internal culture. Everything under your feet feels foreign. Feel guilty, right now, that you can focus on writing. 

Forsooth, sweet tooth… Consider baking something ridiculous, just for fun, even though you're not a big sweets/carbs person. Decide on cinnamon streusel coffee cake, but then remember that you’re on the “refueling” upswing of your not-a-budding-eating-disorder. Hm. Resign yourself instead to baking a third-batch of chocolate chip cookies, which you don’t even like, but The Boy likes them, so let him eat them. I really just wanted to cream butter and brown sugar together, anyway, because I love the fluffy, buttery, molasses aroma. 

Frog-paddle. Get in the pool. It’s the perfect exercise, because if you’re sweating, you don’t know it. Swim 25 laps, and be sore the next day.  The German shepherd is very enthusiastic to spend quality time with you, as long as there is no actual getting of wet involved. The only words you speak all day are to her, and they are only Maya. Maya. Maya. Come on. Maya. Stinky girl. Come on. Paddle around until you come face-to-face with a cluster of five dead, bloated frogs in the filter, one of which has only two legs.

Bad goggy. Good company.

Float. Since you're already water-pruny, spend three and a half hours in a bubble bath so hot, you can feel your pulse in your feet. Keep adding hot water. Use a half-bottle of White Tea & Ginger bubblebath, and think about how super-soapy water feels so much silkier than non-soapy. Wish for chardonnay. Fall asleep listening to Sinatra and wake up with water in your ears. Scrub your feet a few times before you realize they’re tan, not dirty, white girl. Resent that the kind-of-annoying kind-of-therapist got this one right. 

Forward-think. Realize that days like this really aren't for you, that there's only so much alone that actually feels good before you start craving more than canine conversation. You need to decide what you're going to do. You need to get another job, and remember that you're good at what you do. You need to do something productive in the meantime, like volunteer. Doing nothing will drive you crazy. When you think about this later, get a little excited; take it as a sign that things are coming around, because going through a bad time is wearisome for a terminal optimist.

Find yourself transfixed by this quote: “This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.”

Plan to have fewer days off. 

Make some phone calls. 

Do not clean your car. 

cursing, chipotle chicken, and cold hard cash.

So to balance the fact that I'm a total sucker for gentle, insightful boys with pretty eyes (puke), let's write about the time I blew off a jerk in perfect style. Because that's a totally healthy way to express my feelings for someone who isn't a jerk.

Right.

A word of warning: Pretty much every time I've used bad words on my blog, I've been quoting someone else. Well, in this entry, I quote me. I say a really bad one. The one that earned Ralphie a mouthful of Life Buoy. And I meant it when I said it. And though it's not typical of me, I'd probably say it again, given the situation. The kitchen is dirty, and there are just some people who don't get the point unless you put an F-word on it. Forewarned. (Seriously: "forewarned" is not the F-word to which I refer.)

There's this guy at school. Not the aforementioned "mister-possibly-wonderful"-type guy. This guy elicits the dictionary definition of "crush," as in "I would consider crushing him with my flip-flop if I saw him skitter out from under my bed." He is slimy. And he likes the ladies. Which is fine, but he's one of those guys: Every woman is naked to him; the clothes are just a challenge. I avoid him.

So I'm standing in line at the student deli to buy a sandwich between classes. Slimy Guy gets in line behind me. He's been particularly slimy lately, so I've been particularly avoidant. In this case, though, I'm willing to put up with a little crap, because I'm starving, and class starts in fifteen minutes (a class he and I have together, incidentally).

We're standing in line, small-talking. We place our orders. We sit at a table to wait for our numbers to be called. Still small-talking. My number is called. I go up to pay. I realize - crap, I've left my money in my car.

Slimy Guy is enthusiastic - I'll get this for you. No, that's okay, I have cash in my car. No, it's fine! I don't mind at all! It's my pleasure! I look at the clock; class starts in ten minutes.

Well, if you're sure you don't mind.  

Not at all. Look at this; me buying you a sandwich. It's like a first date.

Ehhhhhhhhehehehehe. Sure, it is. Just like one. I genuinely appreciate that he's saved me from running out to my car, though, so okay. In the meantime, his sandwich is also ready. We sit down to eat before class.


Blah blah blah blah blah.. he tries to kiss me. With my cheek full of sandwich.

Blah blah blah blah blah.. what?? I squawk through a mouthful of chicken.

Blah blah blah blah blah.. what, you don't want me to?

Blah blah blah blah blah.. no. Not at all. Sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, but no.

Blah blah blah blah blah.. he heaves a pissy sigh, kicks back in his chair, and shakes his head with angry eyes as he rips chunks out of his sandwich with his teeth. Shakes his head. Very quickly very cold. Not another word.


I raise an eyebrow, finish my sandwich while watching Jerry Springer on the wall-mounted TV, and kinda forget he's there. Then I realize he's left. And I think to myself, that took a bizarre, ugly turn; I need to pay him back as soon as possible. So I run out to my car, grab some cash, and head back inside to go to class.

He's already there, along with some other guys. Two guys are talking about their recent Valentine's Day dates with their wives. And, of course, they're guffawing about how I bought her lobster tail, so you know what kind of tail I was waiting for when we got home, know'm sayin'? Hur hur hur hur hur. Boys.

And then Slimy Guy says - loud and proud, and pissy, and not joking -

Don't buy Lisa anything expecting anything in return. She'll shoot you down cold. Cold all over, that's my guess. .

The room goes dead silent. He scoffs self-consciously as he fumbles with his steel; you can tell he already regrets saying it out loud. Heads turn toward Lisa. One guy says dude, really? 

It's not even what he said - someone's always saying something horribly dirty, and it's all in fun. Somehow, we all know just how far to go with each other. Including Slimy Guy.

And that's the point. Because he walked right up to that line, looked me right in the eye, and peed across it. Completely serious. Those words came out swinging.


Most of the guys at my school know me well enough to respect me, and I respect and appreciate them. We get along great. I am, as I was recently told, "one of the guys," which I regard as a compliment. So they're taken aback that Slimy Guy would say something ugly to me, about me, directly to my face.

Lisa didn't like it.

Not one bit. 

I put down my knife (reluctantly), walk over to the table, pull too much cash out of my pocket, and smile.

"You're feelin' a little let down? Lonely, even? Well, here you go." (Toss cash across table.) "Go buy yourself some dinner, and then go fuck yourself. How's that."

The room erupts. Equilibrium restored.

I hold his gaze with one eyebrow raised, until he huffs, picks up the cash, and flounces out of the kitchen like a child. Honestly, it felt a little cheesy, like an after-school special on bullying. But that's okay.

And then I realize, crap... I just threw $20 at him. For a $4 sandwich.

And then I think, hahaha.. he actually took the money. Like a bitch.

Whatever.

It was worth it.

Hope he got steak for dinner that night.

And maybe shot his eye out.

dichotomy: "crush," as in "build."

Some days just leave you shaking. Today was one of those days. It was a crushing day.

Fortunately, the word "crush" has a whole other identity, and I like that one a whole lot more.

Because, I, uh... might have a little crush going on.

I haven't completely made up my mind yet.

It's very interesting. Because let me tell you, it came totally out of the blue. Never saw it coming. Like, bam. They say that's when it happens. (It? I sure ain't looking for it. Which is also when they say it happens. Geez.)

I don't get crushes very often, because they're messy, and they give me literal and figurative headaches. Had any previous crushes worked out the way I had in mind at the time, I wouldn't still be writing about crushes, you know?

This one isn't like many I've had before. It isn't thrilling or distracting, or exciting in a draining kind of way. He has my attention, but I don't think of him all the time, barely every day.

When we're together, we just fall into step, and it's peace. It's just right.

And now that I'm about to write about it, I anticipate coming off embarrassingly, horrifyingly sappy. Here it comes. (Hands you a puke bag and a mint.):

• We don't know each other well, but he tells me you're incredible, and it's so easy to believe him, because he believes it, and I don't know why, because I am average, except that I'm mouthy, with nice eyelashes and good knife skills, but with below-average talent at hitting a perfect mid-rare.
  
• I like cracking him up. He's funny, too, but we're different, and I suspect he finds me funnier than I am simply because I catch him off-guard. I am some bizarre mixture of cynic and optimist; his wholehearted optimism appeals to the better angels of my nature.
• There are Alanis Morissette songs with lyrics like what I resist persists and speaks louder than I know. Those lyrics make me laugh at myself. How does she know.
  
• Frequently, I look up from what I'm doing and I catch him looking at me like he's trying to figure out what's going on in my head. He doesn't try to hide it. He knows I've had bad days lately, and he knows when it's a bad day. He doesn't know why, and he's mostly stopped asking, but he always tries to make it better. It works. I don't know if he knows it works, or how grateful I am.
• It's so easy to look into his eyes. He can hold a gaze, and I love it. He doesn't look away, and I don't want to look away. I like what he sees.  
• Not a single thing about him scares me off.
  

If you know me, you know that I traffic in invulnerability and sarcasm. I want to be grossed out after reading those bullet points. Double grossed-out because I wrote them, and triple grossed-out because I mean them, and quadruple grossed-out because I let you read them.

But I wrote them, and you read them, and hopefully our breakfasts stayed down.

Nobody's perfect, and I'm not painting him on chapel ceilings here. He's just nice, through and through. One of those people who exudes gentleness and insight and infectious hope, who values leaving people in better condition than that in which he found them. You come away from those people feeling warm and grateful, and better about the world. I've needed that.  

It's entirely possible that, when he's looking at me, he's just trying to remember how many loads of laundry are waiting for him at home, or trying to decide between a burger or chicken for dinner (if so, he thinks about dinner and laundry a lot. just saying.). And if that's the case - if it's strictly platonic - I'm happy with it. Right now, I might prefer it.

I think I just like knowing him.

Isn't it interesting, how the sweetest, most perfectly unexpected brush with the beauty-part of reality can take on the cruelest times, and win a little.

self-care, sardonicism, snowstorm smoothies, and not schoolwork (but always schoolwork.)

I'm told, by a serious person in a serious taupe-and-gray office, you should consider treating yourself to a night of self-care.

Okay. So A Night Of Self-Care. What exactly does that mean? she asked dubiously.

Therapist re-crosses legs in a way that I read as defensive. Well, don’t know what self-care means to you. For many people, it means a relaxing time all to yourself. For many women in particular, it might mean spa-type treatments, a bubble bath, maybe a glass of wine or cup of tea, a manicure or pedicure, maybe turning down the lights and reading a favorite book or watching a fun movie. Anything that relaxes you and makes you feel good.

Uh... huh.

Very nice, very earnest, very sincere suggestions. I’m trying to mentally develop this whole what would I do for a night of self-care? thing, and honestly? I’m having a difficult time taking it seriously. I’m having to fight the urge to make fun of those suggestions for pages and pages. It might have something to do with the fact that the suggestion feels trite, like a blanket one-size-fits-girl kind of beauty-as-relaxation thing... but maybe it's just me. (No, it's not.)

You know what relaxes me? Insane amounts of work. And by “relaxes,” I mean “I pass out afterward, sometimes with my shoes still on.” Which counts. 

And I’m sorry, but I’ve spent way too much time in kitchens, and there is nothing non-dirty in a kitchen, so this phrase self-care immediately makes me think of masturbation. Sorry sorry sorry. But I snorted really loudly in a very serious taupe-and-gray office when this suggestion was offered and I had to tell you why.

 

But, so, okay, be cooperative. What would I give myself during A Night Of Self-Care.

For me, a night of self-care can only occur in a completely empty house. No adults. No children. No freaking dogs. Nobody but me. Everybody out. Go to a movie. Go walk around Target. I don’t care where you go; I say this with bottomless love for your face –just get out.

I don’t want to be hungry, because that would make me irritable, which is not relaxing, but I don’t want to cook, because cooking energizes me, which is maybe the opposite of relaxing? But I’ve been in the mood for something really comfort-foody. Like tuna noodle casserole with canned cream of mushroom soup (or equivalent), and the problem with that is that it’s only comfort food if you know exactly how it’s going to taste, if you make it the way it’s been made since you were three. So sure, you can buy it, but then it’s not comfort food. So you should make it yourself. But that’s cooking. So maybe I’d just eat something like cheese. I can always eat cheese. Once, my friend’s two-year-old niece ate nothing but cheese for, like, three days, and ended up so constipated they took her to the ER.

That would not relax me.

The idea of getting things done relaxes me. I have schoolwork to do. Right now, too. Every minute I spend not doing schoolwork, I feel so guilty for all the grace that's been extended to me; every minute I spend trying to do homework, I end up in tears. Shut up. Why are we talking about this. This does not relax me. 

I could lounge in a bubble bath for a few hours and consider it self-care. I could probably fall asleep in a bubble bath and snore like a rhinoceros. I’ll give you that. Well played, Therapist.

Reading is like cooking. Not relaxing. Mani/pedi? I've always wanted fake nails, just for a week or so, just to see what it's like. I have a feeling they'd annoy me and I'd end up ripping them all off, accidentally or otherwise, but at least I'd know.

I’m starting to think I’m just a difficult case. I don’t mean to be. Sorry, Therapist. Don’t get defensive, with your leg-crossing.

What would relax me is if I could find the perfect words for everything I’m thinking and feeling, and write them down, and for those words to not sound self-pitying. Or for the words to carry the kind of energy that conveys where I am in a way that people can connect to, rather than the kinds of words and energy that make people uncomfortable.

I think this: A night all alone, in a very clean house that I spent all day cleaning by myself while bellowing along to too-loud music, with the AC on, like, 68, with an incredibly comfortable sofa, shaved legs, wet hair, down comforter, a fruity smoothie with no sugar and a few shots of coconut rum and I wouldn’t tell anybody, a rainstorm (better: snowstorm), my laptop, and wonderful things to say – words flowing completely unhindered, hitting right at dead-center, beautifully-constructed sentences that are art, and are not huge run-ons like this one.

And tuna noodle casserole.