Change Gonna Come

It would be a lie to say that these last two weeks have not been a complete and total mindfuck.  And though each day my heart gets less achy, and I have stopped irrationally bursting into tears over mundane activities, what’s left is a lot of questions, and a busy brain, and a lot of picking things up and putting them back down again and not knowing what to do next.  And an abnormal amount of anxiety.  Which I guess is normal. 

The hardest part has been the adjustments to my routine.  The not looking at my phone a thousand times a day in anticipation for his calls or his texts, and the adjustment of my disappointment when indeed there is no message waiting for me.  The going to bed and waking up alone part, and knowing its not just a week apart or a business trip.  The eating meals solo part.  The not sharing of all the funny and weird things that happen in a day with someone part.  All parts that suck.  All parts that are messing with my head right now.  Which is just something I’ve got to get used to again.

And to complicate matters, in the midst of all of this, I’ve changed jobs.  Same location but with a new title, a new supervisor, and a new office.  And lots more responsibility.  Over the week, I’ve kept myself distracted by packing up my books and files and trucking across campus to settle in somewhere new, to learn new routines with new office-mates, new procedures and protocols.  Try and pick up where someone else has left off and wondering all the things you worry about in a new job—Will I like this?  Will I be good at it?  Can I do it?

And to even further the disruption, I’m moving to a new apartment to be closer to work in a little under a week, to give the dog a fair chance at being able to pee at least every 8-10 hours with my new schedule.  So my house is a disaster zone of cardboard boxes, newspapers, and cleaning supplies.  And I’ve unearthed things I had forgotten I owned.  And have found dust bunnies the size of full-grown antelope hiding under bookcases I haven’t moved in two years.  And little corners of “gems” covered in dirt and dog hair, nestled in with 45 million pairs of shoes, some random dried-out art supplies, and a magazine (or nine) about food or cottage-style decorating.  I’m all of the sudden feeling like an episode of Hoarders.

Sidenote: I also have three papers left to write for a class that ends on the 22^nd of the month and I just made the choice to scrub the top of the refrigerator with bleach over writing a paper due on Tuesday.  Can we say, avoidance tactics?

I’m 100% overwhelmed.  All the routine changes.  All the stress.  All the must-dos but have-no-energy-or-time-to-dos.  Oh and the just-don’t-wanna-dos.  Like at all.  All the gross piles of dirt and dust and dog hair.  Blech.

And thus my second avoidance tactic (besides the compulsive cleaning and the previously unmentioned, but not to be forgotten friend, vodka) to all of this change has been to put on my softest, oldest, cut-up t-shirt, remove any clothing articles that are binding and/or restrictive to my fat rolls and/or lady parts, and to get under the covers and hide.  And to watch depressing television.

Which, for the record, hasn’t helped much either.  Because I choose shows like Treme and Intervention, which provide temporary relief, as I always think, “well at least I’m not addicted to heroin, have three crack-addicted babies, and/or am recovering from a natural disaster.  And furthermore,” I think, “at least the police aren’t corrupt and there aren’t entire groups of people in Baltimore being ignored because of their race and class”…oh wait.  Nevermind on that one (and damn you, David Simon, for thinking of all the things that make me angry, anxious, and disgusted and making it into yet again another highly-addictive HBO series). 

I’ve blogged about this show before.  And I can’t say it’s the best show on television, but the scenes of jazz fest make me smile and the music makes my heart swell.  Despite the often cheesy storyline, it didn't stop me from watching 11 episodes over the last 4 days.  There are these great scenes with New Orleans legends and they all make me pine for home and for the South.  The Mardi Gras Indians give me goosebumps and I get so goddamned hungry watching the food.  So it’s been a good distraction, albeit a depressing one.

And the whole lying under the covers hiding from the world gig makes me want to go home.  To my mountains.  I lie in bed and wish for the ability to take off on a whim and just escape it all, and to not risk failing a class or losing my job in the process.  To roll the windows down, take the long, windy road home, and sing Gillian Welch until my voice cracks and the sound of cicadas and the river wash me out.  To yell all of my anxieties and worries into the thickets of honeysuckle and wild blackberries, knowing nobody is gonna yell back.  Or judge me.  Unless it’s a black bear.  Or a wild turkey.  And they’re not judging.  They’re just hoping I don’t have a gun.  I crave home and the comfort of the mountains.  The smell of my childhood.  And though I’ve worked hard to surround myself with artwork and pictures that substitute home, it’s just not the same. 

One of the perks of packing up everything I own over the last few days has been that I’ve found pictures and objects that comfort me, things I haven’t looked at in years.  I’ve found sweet cards written to me from my nephews and pictures from high school.  I’ve read ridiculous comments in my yearbooks and remembered all the good, and sometimes sad & hard times I’ve already been through in this little life of mine.  I’ve also managed to squeak a few more days of life out of my previously dead and ancient laptop and dig through the thousands of songs I’ve uploaded over the years.  What a joyful surprise it was to try one last time to plug this sucker in and for it to actually work.  To find the playlists I made for my last breakup and the ones from college that I made for falling in love (and for getting drunk).  The ones I made for when I needed to feel like a real liberal-arts college feminist (oh, Ani).  The ones I made to gain street cred from my students at my first Baltimore City middle school.  The country songs, the bluegrass songs, all of it.  It’s been over a year since I’ve been able to turn on this computer, let alone listen to any of my music.  And I’ve found good company with these old friends. 

I’ve always identified myself as part artist.  But when asked about my medium, I never know what to say.  I’ve played music over the years—a couple years on a piano, a few more on the saxophone.  I sang in a few choirs.  Did musical theatre in high school.  I’ve painted.  I write this blog and some bad poetry, too.  I’ve woven a basket or three.  I’ve thrown pots.  I can knit.  If there were an arts & crafts showdown, I’d take home a prize.  I’m all over shrinky-dinks.  And collages.  But an artist artist I am not. 

I do, however, have a special love affair with music.  Music has magic in it.  And healing power.  And I’m lucky to come from a family of musicians and to have had real music in my life since the day I was born.  It’s been a constant source of energy in my life and the first place I turn to when I can’t figure something out.  Most of my best childhood memories involve live music—or food—or both.   Which is why good live jazz can give me goosebumps and bring tears to my eyes.  And classic rock and roll puts me in a quiet, peaceful state of mind.  And zydeco and bluegrass wakes up that little rhythm monster inside of me and I can’t sit still.  I have to dance.  Or I hear the sound of African drums and I immediately sink low into my hips and begin to rock.  It’s a reflex.  Like blinking.  Or breathing.

So it makes sense that through this grieving process I’ve hardly had a quiet moment. Today’s playlist has included a lot of Allison Krauss, Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams, Nancy Griffith, Patty Griffin, and Gillian Welch.  Music that allows me to close my eyes and transport myself to Western North Carolina.  To a living room with my sisters and their babies.  To a kitchen with my mama.  Music that returns me to my roots.  To my foundation.  The same voices that coached me through my hardest teenage years, nestled in with those who kept me awake for those all-nighters in college, are right here.  Sharing their secrets and revealing their souls.  They’ve been right by my side encouraging me, strengthening me, and keeping me in check that there’s always somebody else worse off (thank you, country music) and that I should probably stop whining. 

Reminding me that there are things that are unshakable in my soul.  Parts of me that will never budge.  No matter how much the world changes around me.  No matter how much life hurts.  That home is inside me, no matter what.

And the world spins madly on...

This week my boyfriend and I decided to end our nearly 9-month relationship. It was a mutual decision, made over one of the hardest, most real conversations I’ve ever had about who we are, what we need, and what we deserve. Despite the healthiness of this break-up, it didn’t prevent my heart from thinking someone had decided to start beating it with a baseball bat. Or that my face might completely fall off from crying for so many hours. Or that someone had just completely knocked the wind out of me. And frankly all of this has left me in a bit of an emotional blur this week. I even cried at Starbucks yesterday. The barista failed to add vanilla to my soy latte, and when I asked her to re-make it, a tear rolled down my cheek and I’m sure she thought to herself, “holy shit this lady is crying over a vanilla latte.” Oh if only we could wear t-shirts that shared what we were going through, so strangers couldn’t pass judgment.

Because I loved this man. And he loved me. But we needed different things from life, something we rarely actually acknowledge when we’re in relationships. How quickly we fall into patterns. Patterns that can be wonderful and fulfilling, but patterns nonetheless. Repetitive motions that might not be really coming from our hearts but rather from our brains, because we’re humans. We like patterns. We like waking up, making coffee, and turning on the shower. Making the same jokes about the morning news. Ironing our clothes and checking our Blackberrys for our first morning meeting. Coming home. Kissing each other on the lips and asking, “How was your day?” as if any of us could really capture what happens in 10 hours in a 30 second bit. Patterns that make us comfortable and safe. But patterns that can start to feel like chains. Like heavy burdens. Routines that make your stomach twisty and uneasy.

I’m a child of divorce. My comfort level with the topic is probably unnaturally high. I come from a true modern family, with all kinds of half-, step-, ex-step- relationships that make sense to me but baffle others. When you’re born into it, you learn to make it work. They’re all my family. They just don’t all necessarily share genes with me. But my definitions for relationships are probably a little different than most. And I think as a way to accommodate all of this chaos, I’ve become someone who is not always the most traditional person. I believe love comes in a thousand forms. I believe that marriage, albeit important and very beautiful, is entered into far too lightly. And for the most part, people do it when they’re too young to know who they are. I like to think I’m not jaded, but I guess that part is semi-unavoidable. I’m just less fascinated by the fairy tale; I’ve never known the fairy tale to exist.

And I’ve spent most of my twenties convincing myself that I’m not entirely sure I ever want to be married. That it’s an archaic institution that plays on some heteronormative Christian value that doesn’t really apply to most humans in 2011. But that’s just my liberal educated pretention talking. What little girl doesn’t at some point dream of her wedding? What angst-filled teenager doesn’t cry herself to sleep because the boy (or girl) she’s convinced herself she’ll marry takes someone else to see the new Superman movie? On some level, we all want the love and security of monogamy. Of marriage. Of family. But the questions becomes when. And where. And how.

Because if my life has taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you don’t know who you are until it’s too late. And sometimes that doesn’t end so well. And so you should really make sure you know who you are before you enter into such serious relationships. You should understand your own check-list. But we’re the worst at taking our own advice. Sometimes the things we know the best are the last to make it to our tongues.

My relationship with R. was amazing. We met online. On our first date we talked for hours. We ate food. We laughed. We had so much to talk about. And our relationship was a lot of that—laughing, eating, and talking. I ignored the timeline of his recent separation and impending divorce. I didn’t listen when people in my life suggested things we’re happening too fast, “especially for a divorced man”. Hah. Listen folks, I’m an expert on divorce. I’ll make the calls.

I was loving and being loved and it felt too good to challenge. I got to know his kids and fell in love with them almost immediately. Just one of those relationships that just happened when neither of us expected it, probably against both of our better judgment. And we had a connection that just worked. Chemistry that neither of us could quite explain. The patterns started working and before I knew it I was knee deep in the children’s section of TJMaxx and starting to enjoy washing the pizza stains out of his son’s t-shirts. One Saturday morning, not too long ago, we were all piled up in the bed. R., his 2 kids, my dog, and me. We were laughing and singing and telling stories. My heart almost stopped beating. It was one of those moments people build an entire lifetime around and here I was borrowing it. It felt so strange and yet so entirely normal. And simple. But breathtaking. And significant. And my palms got sticky with anxiety.

I’m a nurturer and a giver. He’s a protector and a provider. I think the patterns got too simple. Too easy. We both lost sight of who we were in it. The patterns spun themselves even when we didn’t want them to.

And in truth, when we’re really honest with each other and ourselves, we want very different things from our lives right now. He’s a good man. He’s a kind man. But you can’t force timing. You can’t force patterns. Which is why we’re here in this space. Sad. And confused. And spending time a part. Regrouping. Healing. Repairing. And wondering if we’ve made good decisions. And hoping to God we’ve respected each other.

And when I share that I’ve just broken up, everyone asks, “What did he do?” with an assuming tone that says, “men are assholes.” And I fight back the urge to shout. “He didn’t do anything, you assholes!” We stood up for ourselves. We asked for more. We didn’t settle. We decided not to hurt each other. We were grown ups, for once.

Last week I spent the entire week with a large portion of my family. My two older sisters and their families, my mom, my step-dad, an aunt, an uncle, some cousins. A funny combination of halfs- and steps- and ex-steps-, but somehow, a family. On the beach. Oblivious to our titles for each other. Building sandcastles with my nieces and nephews and feeling so damn lucky I could burst. And wishing R. was there to share it with me. And that his kids were there, to complete the circle. But I had this nagging suspicion from somewhere inside that it was just a dream; that there was something looming in my heart. I spent most of the week knowing things were not great with R. Anxious that I knew I was coming home to a big talk.

And I did. And we did. And here we are. And I’m thankful for the words we’ve shared with each other. For the last nine months. For the loving we’ve done. For the clarity I’ve gained. For the things I now know I want that I didn’t know before.

And I’m baffled at the way the world works sometimes. At the ways in which we’re taught our biggest lessons. And how despite a heart feeling like its never going to heal, how the world goes on without you. Life continues to happen. Expectations don’t go away. Flowers still bloom. Grass still grows.

In the time I’ve been dealing with all of this, my brother-in-law’s father has passed away; an enormous oak tree fell at my dad’s house and totaled 2 cars, damaged the horse pasture, and the roof; my childhood best friend’s great-uncle passed away. My best friend is sick and fighting a virus out of her body. My aunt is sick again and a baby has been born. I move to a new apartment in two weeks, started a new job on Friday, and am in an intensive summer class where I’m already a week behind in paper-writing and reading. Life happens. Overwhelmingly so.

As a reminder, I think. As a reality check. That we’re constantly moving, constantly evolving, and perhaps not as cut out for patterns as we think.