They're Calling Me on My Shit
If you put it out there, they will comment. Strangers and friends. But best of all, readers. Usually the intense questions come to my email. Because they're personal. And that's thoughtful. But this is a blog for God's sakes and I put it out there, so they can't be the only ones who have wondered these things. Questioned my thought process. Luckily, I have the answers. Not all of them pretty.
The first good question: Why did I open the door to The Fireman? Well, as I see it, whether it be him or another man, it's pretty much this: Sometimes I open the door because I'm curious. Sometimes I open the door because I'm hopeful. Other times, it's because I just don't know any better. But it's always because I want answers. Why would he show up after all this time? Why isn't he embarrassed? Why does he think I'll open the door? Why me? And of course, the simple truth is... I never get any of the answers I want. But I always do realize that I was a fool. And perhaps that gets me a little closer to where I should be. Self respect? Self esteem? I'm working on it. And maybe I think opening the door will help me close the door once and for all. And that by closing it, it will get me closer to a man who actually sees me for me. And likes me for that. Flaws and all.
Here's the thing (which should be painfully obvious by now): I don't understand men. At all. My father left us when I was four. Soon after, he had a new, improved family who did us one better. And that was that. A wonderful legacy of a man I couldn't depend on to give me answers about what men do. Men who don't have mean streaks, that is. Sure, there were the bad things he said to me when I was young. (Not to beat a dead horse), but he told me I was fat and ugly and no man would ever want to be with me. Well, he never said that stuff to my sister. And no wonder why she's the one who got married, right? And she even burned down our kitchen cooking french fries when she was a teenager, so it wasn't like she was programmed to be anyone's model wife.
Then, I won homecoming. When I was anorexic. That was the only time my dad ever showed up to one of my events. And I won alot of stuff when I was growing up. I was an overachiever. That's where I got all of my validation, the outside world. That's why this whole outside world being cruel to me is kind of not working for me. Much like my dad taking credit for me as an anorexic homecoming winner was kind of an eye-opener. I knew there was something wrong with that. Why didn't he?
Most of my life, I was scared that if men got too close, they'd see all the things that were wrong with me. (Insecurities compliments of my dad and me and whoever else seems appropriately blameable... but it still all comes down to me, right? I mean, there are kids who have it much worse. And didn't spend $10k + on a therapist). Nonetheless, this wonderful self esteem package has been a joy to shed. That's why this public display of honesty is funny albeit horrifying to my family who would never read my blog. And it's been illuminating for my friends who would. And for me, it's been me. For better and for worse. And it's been important for that reason. Because I spent twenty-something odd years pretending everything was okay. And it wasn't. And that's why I'm here: I'm a late bloomer.
One of my best friends since I was growing up lost both of her parents in a car accident when she was 13 years-old. She's an amazing person. She taught me how to be a friend. She taught me a lot of things. We went to elementary school, junior high school, and high school together. We were Brownies, varsity cheerleaders and on homecoming court together. Yet, it took us until our twenties to talk about pain-- because I hid shit. And she handled her shit better. I was in awe. Always shocked by how she had the self esteem and courage I could never find. So I asked her about. How was it possible that she lost her parents at such a young age and she was able to be so strong. Able to move past things. And she said something that was pretty powerful. "Even though my parents weren't here very long, they taught me I could be anything I wanted to be and that I was special." Amen for them. And, amen for her.
In another email-to-me comment, another one of my best friends since high school wondered what the ex-convict meant when he wrote his comment. I can't speak for him, but he always said that he thought I'd be successful one day (just what every woman wants to hear from a man she's sleeping with who she won't be seeing anymore). That he wanted to know how I was. But I couldn't talk to him anymore. That's why I gave him the address for blog. Did I really think he'd read it? No. But later, he told me he did... only when we got into an argument and he told me he was done reading it. Then, I kind of forgot. And that's why I was so surprised. Do I like that he's reading? Sure. It means that even though I didn't matter in the way I wanted to matter to him, I did matter. And that's a beautiful thing.
The last time I talked to my father was about five months ago. He heard about my bankruptcy and the downward turn of my career/life from his ex-wife, my ex-stepmother-- a woman who has had so much plastic surgery she looks like a cat (and kids with my dad who are far worse off than me, by the way who were doing who knows what during all the plastic surgeries)-- she had found out about my fabulous life circumstances from my sister (who is clearly rooting for me...um, yeah... no, she was never a cheerleader). When my father called me-- the second conversation I've had with him since I was 18 years old-- that's 2 in 19 years-- well, shock of all shocks, he was mocking me. He was cruel. He clearly wanted to see me fail. And he was delighted that I was. (I don't use that term loosely -- "delighted", that is). My friend who lost her parents said that she would have hung up on him. And why didn't I? I don't know. Maybe it's the same reason that I answer the door.
When I open the door-- whether it be for my father, whether it be for a man I want to be with or a man I was with for whatever reason-- it's usually because for once, I want to believe that the answer will be different. Whether I know it will be or not. It's because for once, I want to believe that I'll see what I want to see. That I'll hear what I want to hear. And no matter what my past, no matter what my age, I don't ever want to lose the hope that someday I will.
The first good question: Why did I open the door to The Fireman? Well, as I see it, whether it be him or another man, it's pretty much this: Sometimes I open the door because I'm curious. Sometimes I open the door because I'm hopeful. Other times, it's because I just don't know any better. But it's always because I want answers. Why would he show up after all this time? Why isn't he embarrassed? Why does he think I'll open the door? Why me? And of course, the simple truth is... I never get any of the answers I want. But I always do realize that I was a fool. And perhaps that gets me a little closer to where I should be. Self respect? Self esteem? I'm working on it. And maybe I think opening the door will help me close the door once and for all. And that by closing it, it will get me closer to a man who actually sees me for me. And likes me for that. Flaws and all.
Here's the thing (which should be painfully obvious by now): I don't understand men. At all. My father left us when I was four. Soon after, he had a new, improved family who did us one better. And that was that. A wonderful legacy of a man I couldn't depend on to give me answers about what men do. Men who don't have mean streaks, that is. Sure, there were the bad things he said to me when I was young. (Not to beat a dead horse), but he told me I was fat and ugly and no man would ever want to be with me. Well, he never said that stuff to my sister. And no wonder why she's the one who got married, right? And she even burned down our kitchen cooking french fries when she was a teenager, so it wasn't like she was programmed to be anyone's model wife.
Then, I won homecoming. When I was anorexic. That was the only time my dad ever showed up to one of my events. And I won alot of stuff when I was growing up. I was an overachiever. That's where I got all of my validation, the outside world. That's why this whole outside world being cruel to me is kind of not working for me. Much like my dad taking credit for me as an anorexic homecoming winner was kind of an eye-opener. I knew there was something wrong with that. Why didn't he?
Most of my life, I was scared that if men got too close, they'd see all the things that were wrong with me. (Insecurities compliments of my dad and me and whoever else seems appropriately blameable... but it still all comes down to me, right? I mean, there are kids who have it much worse. And didn't spend $10k + on a therapist). Nonetheless, this wonderful self esteem package has been a joy to shed. That's why this public display of honesty is funny albeit horrifying to my family who would never read my blog. And it's been illuminating for my friends who would. And for me, it's been me. For better and for worse. And it's been important for that reason. Because I spent twenty-something odd years pretending everything was okay. And it wasn't. And that's why I'm here: I'm a late bloomer.
One of my best friends since I was growing up lost both of her parents in a car accident when she was 13 years-old. She's an amazing person. She taught me how to be a friend. She taught me a lot of things. We went to elementary school, junior high school, and high school together. We were Brownies, varsity cheerleaders and on homecoming court together. Yet, it took us until our twenties to talk about pain-- because I hid shit. And she handled her shit better. I was in awe. Always shocked by how she had the self esteem and courage I could never find. So I asked her about. How was it possible that she lost her parents at such a young age and she was able to be so strong. Able to move past things. And she said something that was pretty powerful. "Even though my parents weren't here very long, they taught me I could be anything I wanted to be and that I was special." Amen for them. And, amen for her.
In another email-to-me comment, another one of my best friends since high school wondered what the ex-convict meant when he wrote his comment. I can't speak for him, but he always said that he thought I'd be successful one day (just what every woman wants to hear from a man she's sleeping with who she won't be seeing anymore). That he wanted to know how I was. But I couldn't talk to him anymore. That's why I gave him the address for blog. Did I really think he'd read it? No. But later, he told me he did... only when we got into an argument and he told me he was done reading it. Then, I kind of forgot. And that's why I was so surprised. Do I like that he's reading? Sure. It means that even though I didn't matter in the way I wanted to matter to him, I did matter. And that's a beautiful thing.
The last time I talked to my father was about five months ago. He heard about my bankruptcy and the downward turn of my career/life from his ex-wife, my ex-stepmother-- a woman who has had so much plastic surgery she looks like a cat (and kids with my dad who are far worse off than me, by the way who were doing who knows what during all the plastic surgeries)-- she had found out about my fabulous life circumstances from my sister (who is clearly rooting for me...um, yeah... no, she was never a cheerleader). When my father called me-- the second conversation I've had with him since I was 18 years old-- that's 2 in 19 years-- well, shock of all shocks, he was mocking me. He was cruel. He clearly wanted to see me fail. And he was delighted that I was. (I don't use that term loosely -- "delighted", that is). My friend who lost her parents said that she would have hung up on him. And why didn't I? I don't know. Maybe it's the same reason that I answer the door.
When I open the door-- whether it be for my father, whether it be for a man I want to be with or a man I was with for whatever reason-- it's usually because for once, I want to believe that the answer will be different. Whether I know it will be or not. It's because for once, I want to believe that I'll see what I want to see. That I'll hear what I want to hear. And no matter what my past, no matter what my age, I don't ever want to lose the hope that someday I will.
posted by jodypwrites | 5:58 PM
3 Comments:
The heart wants what the heart wants. Don't change. Be yourself. You're doing fine.
Wow! That was the best one yet! Thank you Jody for living out loud. :) We could all benefit from a little more of that.
By the way, I'm with you...that door would have opened before the knocking was done! Curiosity killed the cat - but better to be a dead cat than a living turtle.
Jody - that really was excellent, I agree with DM. I'm now utterly addicted to your blog... keep writing...
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