Posts Tagged ‘resistance’

You Got Some ‘Splain’in

September 3, 2016

To do.

I have not told you guys something!

I’m off Tinder.

Yup.

It’s official.

I cancelled the app and deleted it off my phone.

Now comes the hard part.

The sit and wait part, the let it happen without looking for it part, the re-integration of lost things and places and experiences, the growing up part.

The.

Oh, dare I say it.

The adulting part.

I did some work at Burning Man and not all of it was fluffing, a lot of it was spiritual work, growth, therapeutic work, allowing myself to look at it like a dusty spa of spirituality and a sort of recovery conference in the desert.

I got my God on.

Heck, I even did a shaman journey.

Yeah, I know, shush.

I have been living in California for 14 years, please, it rubs off.

And I was ready for it.

Especially.

When I ran into my friend who was at the first camp I stayed with ten burns ago.  We hugged and reconnected and talked and I shared my experiences being in graduate school for therapy and psychology and that I want to pursue a doctorate now, I mean, really, it might be time for a new playa name, Dr. Carmen has a nice ring to it you know.

Anyway.

We chatted, he’s a therapist and he also does shaman work and I recalled a time when he had offered to take me on a spirit journey and how I sort of pooh poohed it.

Then.

I found myself wanting to ask when I saw him this past week at the burn.

And.

I found a great big lump of fear on my chest.

Oh.

How interesting.

When I feel that much resistance to something it is rather indicative to me that it’s time to do some work on something.

So.

I asked, and I admitted my fear and then we laughed and he said, of course and then asked me to ponder a question or to sit and be with what it was that I wanted to address.

What popped into my head?

Sober boyfriend.

Yeah, like that.

We met the next day in the heat of the afternoon, in the middle of a white out dust storm.

Things were said, deals were done, navigation of emotions, experiences, lots and lots of therapeutic theory.

He knows his stuff and I recognized a lot of the techniques he used and I wasn’t uncomfortable with the way it went, despite, yes, there being some fear there too, but mostly a curiosity to see what would arrive and an eagerness to address these baffling relationship issues that seem to crop up for me often when I am least expecting or most wanting to have a relationship.

It’s like a wall, glass, that I can feel, that I can see through, but can’t quite figure out how to get to the other side.

We talked and talked and got down to some root things, which when expressed from his perspective was obvious, so obvious, it made me feel a bit baffled then I realized how I am most often unable to see what others see so clearly, I have no perspective on my own life or abilities.

None.

Hearing all the things come out of my friends mouth, with a broader perspective of my history, trauma, and adult male patterning that I did when I was a little girl.

Well.

Fuck.

Of course I tend toward being single.

Hello safety.

I am either chasing after the unavailable boy or I am being the mother to said boy.

I don’t date adult men.

I don’t know how since I hadn’t seen healthy adult relationships growing up as a little girl.

I often tend toward two ways of being in relation to men I want to date.

I have been the mother–my longest lasting relationship was five years and I was definitely the care taker.

And then.

A long series of men, boys, that I chased, who were not often, or ever really interested in dating me romantically.

These paradigms made a lot of sense to me and I think I have been dancing around this knowledge for such a long time that when it was finally revealed it was less a great big aha moment, but more of a softening and relaxing into myself.

I had a lot of compassion for myself and a gentleness that I found so tender that I was in tears just from the relief of that.

So.

My friend made some suggestions.

Stop chasing.

Stop being the mother.

Write it out.

What does an adult man look like, what qualities do I want?

And lastly.

Be patient.

Don’t expect it overnight and stop looking for it.

It won’t be the impetuous passion of a sixteen year old in a romantic crush.

It will probably not be someone I’m crazy wild about at first glance, it will be softer, and I will be pursued and I will be seen and my power, who I am will be my calling card.

He will be strong.

He will not complete me.

I won’t have to mother, and I will not chase.

What a relief.

At first when I deleted Tinder I was pretty ok with it.

Then.

Yes.

I did re-install the app for a half day.

But.

I realized.

Nope.

It doesn’t serve, not after the experience in the dome, in the dust, in the heat, my heart opened, the little girl response to dating laid to rest in the resplendent gold dust light.

My friend said write about it, at least once a day, a paragraph, what my adult man looks like, what I want.

And.

Then.

Heh.

Text him when I start dating.

It won’t be long.

I’m ready.

I am happy, healthy, smart, employed, in graduate school, sober, loving, lovable, funny.

It’s on.

And I’m done with the dating apps and the chase.

I am here and available.

And I don’t need to chase.

I am fucking awesome.

I would date me in a heart beat.

I don’t need fireworks, although passion is lovely, I’m not going to try to make anything happen.

I don’t need to.

It already is.

 

 

And We Have A Winner

April 7, 2016

Finally.

Thanks Tinder.

That took a hot minute.

But fuck me.

Ha.

It was worth the wait.

Oh my.

Was it ever worth the wait.

And.

Whelp.

I’m for sure ready for the school weekend now.

I  printed off my last paper this morning and did my references and took a hot shower, cleaned up the house, did some laundry, ate a nice breakfast and had a lot of coffee.

Not much sleep you know.

Mwahahahaha.

“I told you, you got to go younger, that’s the way,” my friend, a bit smug, even via text, I could tell he was being a bit smug, having been the younger one to my older once upon a time in a land far, far away, the Mission District, before I moved to Paris and all that jazz.

It was fun.

I’ll just leave it at that and delicious and completely made up for the other three bad Tinder dates and the one that cancelled–who still once in a while sends me some weirdo message.

Time to block that shit.

I see it and just delete, but really, why even accept any incoming message?

(Side bar, he just messaged and I just blocked)

That is where I am beginning to see how this app works a little bit.

Oh.

And my paramour gave me the best new word.

“Techtard.”

I am a total techtard!

I was trying to put my address into his phone as we stood next to my scooter after having just had a really, really, really good kiss, and well I couldn’t figure it out.  Could have been the kiss, could have been I’m a “techtard.”

I may go with it was the kiss.

Whew.

That was the best make out.

We had met a cafe I felt comfortable with.

I held firm to meeting where I wanted to meet.

No bars.

I’m not dating anyone, at least not yet, just out there having fun.

Though, truth be told, said gentleman from last night wants to hang out again I am on it.

Seriously.

SERIOUSLY.

Um yeah.

Any way.

I had suggested a cafe close to where I work, but it had closed early and he suggested a bar and I said no, I’m sober, I’m not interested in meeting in a bar, even if I have a good reason to be there.

Somehow a Tinder date does not seem like a good idea for me to go to a bar.

Um, yeah, not so much.

First rule.

Go where I want to go.

Second.

The ball is always in my court.

Always.

I’m not feeling it.

Leave.

There’s no chemistry.

Get the fuck out.

Schedule only on my time frame.

Remember.

I’m not dating.

I don’t have to be flexible, I mean, really, though, I was totally.

I couldn’t do a thing this weekend, school and all, and we seemed to hit it off, via text anyway, so it was worth the investment in time.

Plus.

I had finished the bulk of the paper yesterday morning before I went to work, I didn’t feel any kind of bad about taking the evening off to meet and connect with someone.

Whatever happens it’s an experience.

I am living.

I am not crying my tea cup alone wondering why I’m not out there grooving and shaking.

And.

Hey.

Lest you think this is easy, I had to talk myself into the date.

The man was hot.

HOT.

Ten years younger than me and by the end of my nanny shift, hello, what is that on my shirt?  Don’t think, just brush it off.  I was pretty wiped out.

You know, I only wrote a five page paper before work, then worked a long shift, then yeah, I’m going to go out on a date with someone I have never met before and the last three in person Tinder dates I had were ass, so yeah, you’re tired.

Go home.

Except.

Well.

I knew that resistance feeling.

I recognized it.

There’s a big difference between I need to practice some self care and go home and chill and read and write.

It’s another to self-isolate.

And this, the nagging thought, to cancel the date, was self-isolation.

I could feel it.

So.

I showed up.

Holy shit when he walked in the cafe.

I almost left anyhow.

This guy is not going to see anything in me.

And he’s tall?

Jesus God, thank you, I have been a very good girl, I promise.

Heh.

While he was getting a cup of tea I snagged the two front leather chairs in the front of the cafe and snuggled in.

I was tempted to text a girl friend.

But.

I kept my phone in my purse and promised myself I would stay present.

It was a little awkward at first.

First dates always are.

Then something shifted.

He shifted, I shifted, the conversation deepened.

We talked a lot.

Shoes and ships and sealing wax.

Cabbages and kings.

Family, work, school, Albert Einstein, intelligence, travel, life, experiences, Burning Man.

He shared some music with me.

I pulled out headphones from my bag and plugged into the song, watching the video on the screen, Listener–Wooden Heart.

Holy shit.

I was mesmerized.

I got the tears standing in my eyes.

Then one slipped down my face.

I think I was pretty hidden in my hair, it had fallen across my eyes as I listened to the music and I was just spellbound, heart open and beating and kaboom, kaboom, kaboom.

I remember thinking, well if nothing else, I learned about this incredible new music and I am happy girl for new music to put into my heart.

“I cried too, the first time I heard it,” he said and smiled when I handed back his phone.

“I sort of wear my heart on my sleeve,” I said and wiped my eyes.

Sort of.

Understatement of the fucking year.

The conversation continued.

I don’t even recall what we were talking about but suddenly there was this completely goofy conversation about Muppets and I am laughing so hard in my chair I am snorting and tearing up.

Complete belly laugh.

Now that’s been a while for a first date.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he said.

We got up, used the loo, and walked around the Mission taking photographs and talking this and that until we got back to my scooter.

And how we got the topic of the last Pee Wee Herman movie and bicycles I have no idea.

But suddenly.

He was there, leaning into me.

“Shhh,” he said, taking my face into his hands.

He kissed me.

And um.

Yeah.

The rest is my history to relish privately.

Suffice to say.

I’m a happy lady.

And I have new music to listen to.

#Winning.

 

Go Where the Resistance Is

January 29, 2014

Sheesh.

Why did I call you?

Oh yeah.

Perspective.

Ah.

Go through the difficult stuff, accept that there will be challenges, but I don’t have to allow myself to be hurt and I can get out of my own way.

“Darlin’ you’ve been resisting this for years,” he paused, “you crying yet?”

Affirmative.

I have to stop wearing eye makeup.

Or just surrender to the fact that on the occasion when I connect with certain people in my life I feel safe enough to cry around them.

I was not feeling so safe tonight in my normal spot on Tuesday evenings, there was some disturbances in the force, so to speak, and I felt for the first time what it meant to have some PTSD in my life.

Like I flippantly will acknowledge that I am most comfortable with my back to the wall.

I like to see what the fuck is coming my way.

I like to be prepared for all eventualities.

“Diapers, water, sunblock, sweatshirts, snacks, water bottle, wipes, sand shovel and bucket,” I patted myself down, “phone.”

“Oh yeah,” I said and smile, “babies.”

Or boys.

They are boys really.

I am a good nanny because of that but I forget that just because I am adept at my job that it is an easy job.

It’s not an easy job and I think that I am just some lazy person who has to work really hard to just get by, that struggle means I am doing a good job.

That is such bullshit.

I don’t have to work so hard and I bet if I wasn’t trying so much things would come easier.

I can advocate for myself and as I have been writing about I have some amazing people in my life who are urging me to do just that.

I am the one blocking my way.

Which is why it’s great to have some folks in my corner to give me suggestions and I am, defect of character that still works, a people pleaser.

I don’t want to let my friends down so I will take their suggestions.

Besides I know when I am balking that this is where it’s at.

“You only get hurt when you resist,” he concluded.

And then the tears really did overflow.

I looked up at the tops of the trees brushing the low hanging sky, the fog starting to rumble in like the wet wooly beast it is, weaving through the tops of the trees, obscuring Twin Peaks, a few dense, bright breaks of blue, then grey.

I think that my life is grey.

When that is me resisting.

I am resisting going over to that blue light, that clean, brightness scares me.

You know, I am most comfortable in the dark, hiding behind some clothes.

I used to have nightmares that would keep a therapists in caviar for decades and I remember often in them that I would hide in the closet to escape whatever was coming for me.

I would get in the back of the closet, beneath all the low hanging clothes and burrow under the dirty laundry scattered along the bottom and hope fervently that I just looked like a crumpled bit of laundry in the heap and not the scared child I was trying to still my breath to non-existent.

It wasn’t until recently that I began to wonder if those were really dreams or perhaps memories.

Just because I felt safe did not mean I was.

Hiding in that closet did not save me from being hurt.

It didn’t then and it won’t now.

So, here’s to traveling through the resistance and finding out what is on the other side.

“Honey, I have been doing this for 29 years, and I’m in my sixties, how old are you?  In your forties, you have 40, 50, maybe even 60 years to go, get the fuck out-of-the-way.”

Yes indeed.

Get to living.

“Go to Paris,” he said.

“Paris sucked,” I said, in a hot flash of tenderness that felt like I was poking a canker sore I thought has healed but is still there just below the skin healing slowly.

He laughed.

“No, your perspective sucked,” he said.

“Ah, yes,” I said, “Paris did not suck.”

Sigh.

I know this all sounds vague and nebulous but things are cooking and I am loath to take the cover off the pressure cooker until the meal is done.

Suffice to say I am walking through the resistance, taking the next action in front of me and listening with open ears and an open heart to my advisors, friends, and support network.

It takes a fucking village.

But fortunately I know that my walking through this and all other things that I have gone through, enhances my life and is of great service to others.

I mean I help a lot of people and I don’t do a lot of talking about it.

There’s just no point, it’s just what I do and it keeps me in the mix, in life, showing up, again, so that others will be pleased, but also, because, it saves my life and gives relief from the consistent wah, wah, wah in my brain.

Habits of a life time take some time to break, I have to wear some new grooves into my brain channels.

To that affect I am also going dancing, ecstatic, with one of my best girl friends on Saturday.

Can’t tell you how long I have told to go get my dance on.

Time to suit up and show up and I don’t know, dance, meet new people, spend time with my dear friend.

You know.

Rocking my life.

Because the real resistance is thinking that something needs to happen.

HAPPEN NOW.

To make me better.

I am better, for fuck’s sake, I am great.

I don’t have to always be on this improvement kick–let me stuff yoga, surfing, maybe re-pledge to do the AidsLifcycle ride in 2015, lose some more weight, finish a book, get published, go back to school, take a class in sign language, French, accounting, or make up–the list goes on.

I dont’ have to get up and do a thousand crunches.

Oh yeah, I did that once for about two months.

I was nuts.

Let me stop, pause, look at the resistance and say, go here, rather than go run a marathon, you don’t need to improve.

You just need to take a deep breath and go through.

Going through I am.

Here’s to seeing you on the other side.


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