The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

my star don't shine

"Invalid Entry" 

I'm still digging myself out from under the rubble of expectations and broken decrees.

It's odd to me how I've finally found a situation which feels more comfortable and well-suited to me than any other before it, just when I'd given up on the idea of ever being content. Eight years ago, in the midst of all my emotional drama, I shuddered on the living room floor when I suddenly realized that I didn't necessarily think death was a bad thing, anymore. Oh, I wasn't suicidal, hadn't developed any course of action in my head which would extinguish the glaring lights, but I was thinking about what peace there might be in it, and I began to understand all the jumpers, the pill-poppers, the noose-necked and the track-sitters more than I ever had before. I didn't want to die, but I did finally understand the longing in others to do so, and what scared me more than anything was the possibility that I would one day long for it too.

The thing that surprises me the most about emotions is how they can so easily switch on and off. I try to remember this on the days when I opt to sit in the dark. I think about how full of life I suddenly felt when I discovered M. and admitted to him that I was falling in love with him. I remember that warm gush of life as it came out of me, and hearing my daughter's newborn lamb cries as I erupted with happy tears, unable to make association with any kind of sadness. There have been weeks (sometimes more) of low-level feelings which would cling to me like sticky cobwebs, fooling me into believing all the wicked things the spiders would whisper in my ear, only to wake one morning to clarity, fused with spring and fall, chocolate and peanut butter. The possibilities for better are just as great as those for worse. When I'm down, I know that there is still a good chance it's going to improve. It usually does.

My parents used to tell people I was going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or a world-class novelist. My dad nearly exploded with pride when I got into a highly coveted journalism program at a well-known university, telling people I'd be some kind of correspondent one day, that I was going to 'be somebody'. Even I bought into it, thinking I was no one until I became that person I was meant to become. I still don't really understand why I walked away from it, though, that thing I'd worked so hard for. I remember getting onto the bus and looking back at the city I'd only recently moved to and thinking 'this is it, I'm not going back'. I never did. My father took months to speak to me as though I were the daughter he knew again. For so many excrutiating weeks I was nothing more than a face at the dinner table, someone to grunt at. It hurt me a lot, because of the two of my parents, my father was the one I respected the most. Now that I'm a parent and I know how much I want for my child, I can only imagine how it must feel to watch her turn her back on something I believe is her proper destiny. It must hurt.

I do love words, though. I do love tapping away on a keyboard and I relish finding ways of conveying my thoughts or stories so that others might find a little of themselves in them. Can I see myself running through the streets of Baghdad dodging bullets or grenades? No. Can I envision myself sitting down with the likes of Vladimir Putin or George W. Bush to discuss foreign policy, genocide, the economic crisis? No. I like to write but I don't know why and I try not to think too much about it. It feels good, it makes sense for me, but I don't know if I'd be any good at following a formula or stifling my personal opinions. Maybe I'm just trying to justify a stupid decision I made years ago, or maybe I did the right thing. I'm not sure the answer to this will ever come to light.

When I talk about M. and my love for him, I realize that it might be a little much at times, particularly if the reader is experiencing some difficulties in his/her own personal life. When I'm feeling bitter, the last thing I want is to read the honey-coloured words of some delusional nymphet who has just had her sixth sexual experience of the day with a man whose penis possesses the power to rouse the dead. I don't want to hear about the great job offer, the way the air smells like flowers, the extra money in the bank account or the way the hair looks perfect today. It's infantile, I know it, but what that kind of writing does is pour vinegar on my open sores. When I am healed, when the blood has stopped running, when the skin is unmarred and feels like camembert to the naked finger, I am ready to hear about the miracles in the lives of others.

Before beginning this entry, I thought about what M. does which might make him less wonderful in my eyes, but I decided to abandon it. I've written about those things before, in moments of anger, and right now I'm not wanting to magnify those flaws because it distorts my view. The big picture is this: he took me away from a life which wasn't working, one I had naively chosen for myself and resigned to live and die in, until he made me see there were options. He helped me rebuild everything that had fallen down around me, and is still working at it, mostly without complaint. He somehow took the dark feelings from the forefront and pushed them to the back, where they belong, leading me to believe that the love of others does have the power to quell the tossing, black waters. He made a baby with me, and he loves her, takes care of her, and I see him watching her at times with a kind of wondrous disbelief in his face and it moves me. When we do have sex (oh, I sense a complaint coming on), it is infinitely better than any other sex I've had in my life, and I don't say that in a disparaging way to R. There is some kind of bodily kinship that closes the seam and keeps it tight, and my only grievance is that he is so much in his head, so easily loses himself in his work that he doesn't always sense my rage or desire from in the other room. I could do with a bit more of it, which I told him recently, and he said 'whenever you want, baby', but I know he'll go on as he always does. He is himself, and I can't change that, but I can try to initiate a little more.

He is encouraging, but he knows when to pull back and let me figure things out on my own, and I appreciate his patience because I take forever to do things. I still need a job, and I know he wonders about what I'm doing, but he also knows that I tend to need to move at my own pace, that my only successes in life have come from moments when I found the determination to go after what I truly wanted. I never succeed when I move on account of the expectations of others.

Am I ordinary? In many ways, absolutely. Whenever someone has told me that I am 'amazing' or 'interesting', I am always clumsy with a response because I am almost never ready to hear it. My former co-workers used to say it a fair amount, once I'd take off the manager hat and talk to them as myself. You're too smart to be here!, or, You could do anything, were things I've heard more than once. Maybe, though, it should be enough to just believe it.

I haven't given up, not yet. I am not going to turn my back on my dreams just because fear tells me to. How would we ever move forward if everyone subscribed to that philosophy? Certainly, not everyone is meant to be 'somebody' in the sense that their name is known, that their reputation is one of talent or genius. I am likely not meant to be a 'somebody', and this is not necessarily a bad thing. Still, I believe everyone has a destiny, something they are meant to go after and accomplish and that it should feel good while they're doing it. For some this might be working in a coffee shop and for others, it might be in becoming a world-class surgeon. What people don't always consider is that the woman who works in the coffee shop might be getting more out of her interactions with the patrons than a lawyer does in a courtroom. She might be the person who gives the right advice as she is wiping up a table to someone who is floundering personally, or she might make a child smile when she slips them a complimentary donut. Both of these things bring about a kind of shininess reserved for stars and diamonds catching light.

I like to think that the best of everything has yet to come. What so many people make a mistake in doing is in accepting that the possibilities have passed by, that their potential was something lost in the fires of youth. There is always a bit of potentiality when you open your eyes in the morning, no matter your circumstance.

Right now, I am happier than I was for years just looking at the family I've helped build. I am happy for the red walls in the living room, the tea in the pot on the counter, the movie 'Sideways' which I will finish watching (for the twentieth time) after the wee one goes off to her bed. I am happy that I love books and that they love me and that I managed to hang the garland off the book case last night without help and without injuring myself. He says he will help me make ornaments today, and I marvel at this because I've never known a man to want to. It's not all bad, this life, and I am making a point of being grateful.

This does not mean I'll never want to shine, though. There is still something in me that wants for more, and I'll never want it to go away.