ithinkillblog

There is little more anguishing than to fall for someone who is truly impossible for you to be with. Shakespeare, Bronte – they warned, it will kill us and drive us mad. Rostand wrote of an even more cruel fate; to be near, to love, to appreciate and to never be with someone.

In my more self-pitying moments, I wonder what awful things I must have done for karma to repeatedly deal with me this way. I must have caused some great torment. How else could it be that I have learned to so readily recognize kindred souls, who are happily devoted to not me.

Mine is a tempered masochism. I find them. They are beautiful. They are kind. They are intelligent, they are powerful and strong, they are tender and open. They convince me to open. Or I convince myself to have hope. Repeating my insanity.

Strangely enough, they even love me. I know this without doubt.

I have a collection; once I find them, it seems I keep them. I cultivate them and they grow. We are better for knowing each other. We are friends and I truly treasure them.

When I was young I tried to will them into loving me in all the aspects that I love them. I put my hope into prayer, into magic. I tried familiarity and availability. I tried absence and mystery. I tried substitutions. I tried tests. I offered salacious promises. I offered kisses. In moments of boldness I misguidedly crossed the line – but only mine.

Every time they chose not me.

It is almost comical to watch, from that place outside myself, as I sit next to them and they find ways to tell me how their love for me is many things, but not enough.

It’s not me. That may even be true because they don’t leave.

As poetically cruel as the universe is, I’ve had my share of those who wanted me to be for them more than I could be. They brought flowers. Wrote poetry. Drew me in a style. Some followed me, watched me, bargained with me, threatened me. Some gave me gifts of food, of drink, of pretty things, of practical things.

I told them it was me. I cared about them in many ways, but not enough.

I know I am not unique in this. Many have been bachelors and spinsters before me, there will be more to come. There are many around me, by choice and by chance.

Still. It is really quite painful. An agony. It is so lonely in the moments when I let the jealousy and the envy creep in. I see them with others. Sometimes the hurt is because I still want them as mine. Usually the hurt is because they have what I want. Or so it appears.  There have even been moments where it is both. Those moments are breathtakingly stunning and numbing and blinding – truly senseless. But there they are. And the pain I feel is deep. Deeply lonely. Deeply insecure. Deeply raw.

And the worst of it is the reminder of the realization which I have tried so many times to put aside, just in case, because if I keep my heart open, if I just believe, if I just hope…but no. I am designed to be alone.

 

 

 

I am, after all, unique.
Or is it unique before all?

There is a magical combination of factors that makes me.
Genetics, psychology, life experience, values… there is no way to list it all but I have been thinking about it of late.

Left-hand dominant (as is 10% of the population).
Hazel eyes (as have 5-8% of the population).
My hair is brown… and red… and now also gray; not curly, not straight – more kinky than wavy.
My skin is pale, and I burn even through cloud cover.
I am short-sighted – requiring glasses to drive a vehicle – and as I age I’ve started to also require a magnifier to read small print.
I’ve been told I smell like sunlight and clean laundry.
I tend to score around 125-131 on measures of IQ.
I have no known allergies to food – but I am allergic to cats, and apparently to coal dust.
Interestingly (at least to me) I prefer cats to dogs…and tree snakes to both.
I am a gay-positive, pro-choice, feminist, socialist… who was raised Roman Catholic, in a conservative rural environment.
I’ve been told my most valuable human trait is my compassion – I also place great value on my curiosity. I am always working on my patience though I know I have a great deal of it.
I like travel for the sake of learning. You are not likely to find me at an all-inclusive resort lying on a beach, but I can be convinced to be still if you give me a good book.
I love language and music. I know the purpose of a semi-colon, and how to pronounce the word. I leave one space after a full stop.
I think I can sing. I have an ear for a tune but musical theory is not a strength.
I can draw, but it doesn’t come easily.
I have good spatial relations skills, and am terrible at numerical sequencing.
I tolerate ignorance; I have little patience for stupidity, intolerance, and cruelty.
When asked to pick a favorite colour, I generally say red – but the colours I am attracted to depend on the weather, the day, my mood and what message I want to send.
I speak one language very well, another very poorly, and I am fascinated by how language shapes thought and what that means to culture. I love the sound of different types of speech and hear regional accents quickly.
I like to be with people who like to share ideas. Otherwise, I prefer to be alone.
I drink. I don’t smoke.
I have good listening skills and a good memory. I can understand non-verbal cues. Some people think I am psychic; sometimes I think I do have more sense than others.
I like puns, and wit, and double-entendre.
I laugh loudly and smile easily. I’m not afraid to cry.

Cold hands..

It’s been a few months, but hey – this isn’t my day job.

I knew when I started this little project that I would probably treat it with the same lack of commitment that I have to writing in my journal. So, it’s been about six months. That’s about right.

Today, I’m just moved to say how much I love my life. Generally, that’s the line that precedes the protagonists announcement of their imminent death… I have no such announcement. It is entirely possible that I will be killed tomorrow, but if that should happen I am blissfully unaware of it today.

I just have a lot to be thankful for and I feel like saying so.

It’s not because I’ve fallen in love, but I’m pleased that I remain open to the possibility. I’ve received no gifts, nor have I had the opportunity to be particularly generous to anyone lately. I haven’t lost weight, gotten a raise, made a new friend, changed jobs, or even bought any new clothes for quite some time. I have nothing in particular to celebrate. I am just taking the time to recognize how blessed, how lucky I am.

I live alone, but I’m not lonely.
I don’t have a lot of money, but I’m not poor.
I can’t sing well, or dance well, but I do both when the mood strikes me anyway.
Neither my mental nor my physical health is perfect, but I’m not sick. (At least I have no formal diagnosis.)
My family… is my family. I’m happy to take the stresses and frustrations that come with every single one of them as much as I get to enjoy their good intentions, quirks, and slightly crazy.
I embarrass myself on a regular basis, but I can be satisfied that my name is still good.
I make mistakes. A lot of mistakes. I’m thankful that the world gives me so many opportunities to learn.
I can read, and that is wonderful!
Today I felt tired, angry, giddy, frustrated, ambivalent, disappointed, tested, overwhelmed, distracted, focused, dedicated, concerned, encouraged, cautious, skeptical, envious, smart, cold, patient, stressed, resigned, excited, pleased, mischievous, melancholy, forgetful, successful, scared, thankful, silly and confused. But not bored.
I found a way to touch over 100 people’s lives today (hopefully for the better) and directly interact with over 25 who I found a way to serve and make smile.
I had at least one good, if not original, idea today.
Today I was honest, and I was kind.

I hope I get to do it all again… and maybe just a tiny bit better… tomorrow.

I don’t expect you were curious, but I’m going to tell you anyway. I never did sleep with my co-worker. Mostly through no fault (or virtue) of my own.

Yup. I’m disappointed in me too.

It’s on rain days like these, when I find my bed-partner is a book, that I would much rather be exploring a different storyline. I wish that the prologue included the first taste of lips, and tongue and teeth. That the shocking revelation in the opening chapters included hot breath on neck, and chest, and hip and thigh. That the subplot followed our hands as they explored the places the hero and heroine’s mouths bypassed . . . at first. That the electricity between the characters made them jump, and writhe, and gasp. That when the plot thickened our mouths finally discovered what our hands had been leading us to. That the rising action was quite self-explanatory. That when the main characters finally opened both eyes they realized that what they saw only heightened what their other senses . . . of smell, and touch, and taste, and sound . . . told them all along. That my story reached an early climax, followed by a shocking twist, and another climax . . . and another. That the denouement brought calm, but also a cliffhanger that let both of us know that there would be more to the story.

What I want right now is to feel the cold rain drenching my clothes, and running down my face and my back as I feel hot kisses on my mouth, and neck, and chest, and nipples. I want to hear the syncopation of the raindrops mix with the zing of zipper teeth parting. I want to hear my partner moan in my ear when my hand reaches for the heat inside. I want to hear my parter gasp when my mouth follows. I want to shiver from the cold and the heat simultaneously. I want to feel the smoothness of skin against the coarseness of hair, the taste and slickness of saliva and sweat mixed with smell of rainwater and ejaculate. I want shuddering, and bucking, and panting, and thrashing, and shouting.

What I’ve got is the quiet whisper of fresh rain on the pavement outside of my window, a detailed imagination, and a fervent hope that I will soon have the chance to practice what word on a page only lets me preach.

My life is governed by the second law of thermodynamics. The first law applies too, but I am reminded of entropy every single day. Simply put, I don’t put enough energy into being organized to avoid occasional chaos.

Today’s example: I am sick with a head cold. I have had a challenging day at work. While valiantly coping with a headache, sore throat, runny nose and a cough that keeps sneaking up on me in the middle of sentences I have managed to put in a solid workday starting at 7:30 am and ending at 6:00 pm. I know that as soon as I get home I am going straight to bed, just as I did yesterday after working from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm. I park my car, turn my key in the lock, change into my pajamas and crawl under the covers . . . only to reach for the last facial tissue in the box.

Sometimes I feel like St. George the Dragon Slayer. Conflict between two employees? Send them to me and I will help cure their madness with empathy and practical coaching! You have to make an important delivery? I will give you my sword, or at least my car so that even though I can’t leave work you can get where you need to go! You think your brother-in-law’s boss is illegally preventing him from taking time off? Let us slay the monster by calling on the higher power of Employment Standards, here is their website and phone number! The department head wants to terminate an employee without giving her an opportunity to explain her behaviour? I will investigate the situation and present possible alternatives to see if we can turn a mistake into a learning experience and a loyal, hardworking employee. I will conquer it all, but at the end of the day when I retire to lick my wounds and heal I will finally be destroyed by running out of a disposable paper-product in which to blow my nose.

(This self-pity, by the way, is the definition of having a martyr complex. Something I am especially susceptible to when I’m sick. Unfortunately, I can’t explain away my verbosity with my illness. That is a character flaw.)

Now I need to go and see how much toilet paper I have left.

The other night I was invited up after a night out. Can I just say . . . it is amazing how many thoughts you can process in the 1.2 seconds within with which it is socially acceptable to think about your response without implying that the invitation was unwelcome or unwarranted. Or maybe it is more honest to say that for most of the evening I’d been thinking about where the night was going. Part of me sincerely hoping for such an invitation, part of me wondering how to best handle it.

Why didn’t I just accept?
I was invited in by a co-worker.

I do envy people who are able to throw caution and potential consequences to the wind. I am not one of those people. I am the person who thinks about all the angles, and truthfully most of the positions (pun intended), I and my prospective bed-mate could find ourselves in. I have absolutely no problem with recreational sex, in theory. In practice I have learned that few people can truly separate a physical connection and an emotional one, and that no matter how many other people can – I can’t. As much fun as I believe I could have had, I found the most honest way I could to excuse myself and gracefully decline. I had to work the next morning.

I know. A bit weak, but my respect for my responsibilities and my position of trust in the company are the reason that I didn’t joyously accept. Since my reluctant but firm departure from a situation that didn’t get as sticky (or as sweaty) as part of me would have liked, I have been both regretful and relieved. I can think of 5 moments in the past week where, whether my judgement in relation to said co-worker was questionable or not, I would have been questioned. Perhaps by others, and perhaps even by the same co-worker who was willing to share a bed with me.

I’ve shared my situation with a small number of trusted friends. The jury seems to be split. Half have given me no more than two weeks until I “see the light” and find my way into that bed. The other half believe my decision was the best I could have made, but they also seem to fear that my resolve with soon dissolve.

It is possible that another opportunity like this will present itself. It is even possible that part of my brain is orchestrating just such an opportunity. If it does, I can’t promise I will make the same decision. It would be more honest to promise that I won’t. At least until then I have earned my position of trust for another day.

Damn ethics.

There was a time in my life where I didn’t accept compliments well. Not only was that disrespectful to the person paying me the compliment, it was a waste. I’ve come to understand that compliments, regardless of who pays them or how often, don’t deserve to be ‘refuse-d.’ Rather than treating them like garbage I’ve learned to reduce their waste by accepting them, recycle them by paying them forward, and even reuse them . . . by writing them down.

I’m not sure how I got started, but one day I decided to keep a record of some of the compliments I’d received. It was a time when rather than smartphones we carried daytimers. (I didn’t even have a mobile back then.) I saved a few pages at the front for quick reference and I used the back of the first page. Eventually I need the back of the second and the third page as well. Some of those compliments made my list because they were quirky or creative, some because they were simple and sincere, and some simply because they felt good.

Whenever I had one of those ‘little red hen moments’ – you know the kind. They are the moments when you think you are doing all the work yourself (even if that might not be true) and are feeling underappreciated. “Who will help me plant the wheat? said the little red hen. “Not I.” said the dog. “Not I.” said the duck.” (and so on) “Then I’ll do it myself!” Whenever I had one of those moments and needed a little appreciation I could look at my page of compliments and remember how good it felt when I received them. That was often enough to refocus me on what I needed to do. Sometimes I looked at them to re-live the warm, champagne-tingly feeling simply because I wanted to.

Today I received a wonderful compliment. A compliment so lovely to hear that I just had to write it down. Short and sweet, all that was said was, “You’re fantastic.” I thanked my praise giver with a great big smile, a thank you, and I let that person know how good it made me feel. It felt fantastic.

Now I’m looking forward to paying it forward, because something else I’ve been reminded of in the past couple of days is how good it feels to make someone else feel good. When I wrote my “Good men.” post I did so assuming it might never be read, after all I’m new to this whole blogging thing. I’m making public posts but I didn’t think about all the web-tracking tools out there that notify people when they are mentioned, quoted or referenced (I gotta get me some o’ those.) I just wanted to put something good out into the ethers. I’m very pleased that my post was well-received by both men. They both kindly took the time to comment in a way that accepted my compliment, thanked me for it, and let me know how it made them feel. That felt fantastic.

Today, I need to talk about two men who deserve some applause for the good they do. I am not particularly close to them. I haven’t even seen either of them in person for some years now, but both have been acting like the kind of person I aspire to be. Not perfect; just good, willing to stand up for what they believe, and happy to share some humour and fun along the way.

My recent interactions with both of these men have been through social media, and I’m impressed with how they are balancing the use of these platforms to promote an agenda of anti-violence with solid, bold, direct messages while still being accessible, personable and funny.

Chad. I met Chad when we were volunteering together. He has gone on to become the Executive Director of the Rainbow Resource Centre in Winnipeg where he and his team help the gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgendered and two-spirit people in our community (http://www.rainbowresourcecentre.org/). Chad is out there killing ignorance with kindness. He’s not afraid to call out bad behaviour, educate people on what would be better, and give them the tools to join him in supporting a better alternative. He is doing simple, meaningful things and he is thanking others for doing the same. The best part is how he tempers all of the good with some good healthy fun. A link to a petition in support of Manitoba Bill 18 and a shout out to some college staff and students to helped a person in need, followed by a picture of kittens with mittens. A post about ending the AIDS epidemic and a post thanking MPs for supporting legislation that defends equality, followed by a reference to a fantasically hilarious movie from the 1980s and a funny self-depricating post about his morning run. Chad’s ability to balance calls for action with appreciation and laugher make me aware of the work we need to do out there and on ourselves, and he shows us a good time. Medicine with a spoon full of sugar, so to speak. I admire this efforts and love his humour.

Gaz. I met Gaz when I took a course from him – one of my best learning experiences ever (http://thebestdefenseprogram.wordpress.com/about/). He continues to teach counter-violence and he demonstrates with passion what victim-blaming is and why it’s wrong. Gaz isn’t afraid to call bullshit when he sees it. He’s also good at seeing what others miss. Gaz uses strong language, and it’s warranted. He’s quick to celebrate and share good ideas, he encourages people to really think and determine their own perspectives, and can poke mile-wide holes in meaningless rhetoric based in power-hoarding. Gaz shares information and gives people simple options for how to act with self-respect and equity. He combines this with a sharp, sarcastic, no stupid deed should go unchallenged sense of humour. He will post an outstanding video challenging people to stop being inactive bystanders to assault and share a righteously angry rant from an assault-survivor about how she was assaulted but not broken, but he has also shared a link to a super-hot pole-dance. He will write about the primary, secondary, tertiary and quatrinary victims of sexual assault and about how men have a responsibilty to make both public and private spaces safer for women, but he also posts pictures of his very handsome dogs, his tattoo and a 2 minute video of a ‘singing cat’ with an uncannily human-like voice. Gaz is ‘a good read’ and a good guy. I love that he is both ‘no-nonsense’ and ‘full of nonsense.’

I am very lucky to have a lot of good men in my life who I am close with. I have a number of male friends I get to see regularly who impress me with their honor, kindness, intelligence, sincerity and humour just like Chad and Gaz. Today, I felt a need to say thanks to all of them but to Chad and Gaz in particular because they are putting themselves out there loud and proud as for helping and against harming.

I truly admire the genuine confidence both of these men have.
They have earned my respect.

I posted something about the Catholic Church and Pope Francis today. For some reason, considering it is a Saturday in spring, I’m getting a lot of reaction. Maybe because Easter is the next weekend. Really, the Catholic Church could not have chosen a more fabulous time to manage a change in leadership. Credit where it’s due.

People are essentially agreeing with me – some more vehemently than others. This isn’t a surprise because I really only post and share with friends. Nevertheless, I’m feeling quite responsible for moderating the discussion. I believe in what I said, but I was very careful to say it in a non-antagonistic way. Even though I only post to friends I am posting on Facebook and that, just like this, is ultimately a public medium. The more passionate someone’s comment to my post, the more I feel a need to return comment. I’m realizing, I should probably stop.

Lately, I’ve been quite outgoing on public media platforms. I’ve asked people who follow me on Twitter, have friended me on Facebook, and who communicate with me directly via email to support a charity organization I believe is going good work. I’ve shared my perspective on a few issues that people can be quite touchy about . . . and I’ve been careful to present my perspective honestly while not demanding that others agree with me. I’ve been so Canadianly careful about that, I fear that my moderating comments combined with my posts might be coming across a bit ‘holier than thou.’

So, not only do I need to let go of the idea that I need to moderate people’s comments on my posts. I find that I need to use this platform to publicly (although cowardly as I am writing anonymously) confess . . . I think I’m right.

I think that I am right and those who don’t agree with me are wrong. Common, and ridiculous. And I am utterly and completely guilty of it every single day. That, and worse. I totally get off on giving other people advice. I love it. I am proud and excited and happy when I have a reason to tell or show someone else how they can be a better person. Well, what I think of as a better person. I revel in it. Whether it is a friend, or a sibling, or a co-worker I am having a conversation with, if I see an opportunity to ‘show them the light’ I am all over it.

Of course, I believe the advice I am giving is good advice. Help one another, stop violence, do charity work, be patient, be sincere, accept help now and pay it forward later, and so on. It’s hard advice to argue with. I must be annoying as hell.

In my own imaginings, I am wise – like King Solomon, Ghandi, Mandella. It feels so good when the right words come out of my mouth. There is actually a little sentient part of me that goes, “Oh… that’s good!” There is another part of me that says, “You are such a pompous hypocrite.” I don’t know if that means I am balanced, or imbalanced.

Another thing, in case you think my perverted pleasure just comes from giving advice that is only half of it. I love being admired for it. I am the proverbial ‘pig in shit’ when I come up with something pithy and the recipient of my pontificating says I’ve been helpful. In those moments I feel fantastic, wonderful, awesome, almost transcendent. It’s addictive.

If only I could live as purely as I work so hard to pretend I do. I’m no guru. I am a common, overweight, plain, middle-aged person of average intelligence. I have no credentials for this self-appointed mentor and coach post I’ve assumed. If I have any chance at redemption here, perhaps it is that I’m willing to keep working on identifying and fixing my flaws. I’m not very good at it, but I’m willing to keep trying. In the meantime, as addictions go, this one has been pretty cheap.