"...Before You Speak of Love."

I have been hearing people say for years now, "You can't love anyone if you can't love yourself first." I've been thinking about that lately & I have come to believe that that is horse shit. I think that is putting the cart before the shitty horse and I'll tell you why: All you have to do is look at a new born baby. If you are truly honest (and not the parents) you can see nothing but a pitiless innocence there, and it's chilling. Sure they are usually cute and adorable, and everyone oohs, and aahhhs over them, but that's mainly because most people are terrified of them: They have no loyalty, no conscience, no scruple, no qualms, and the reason, evolutionarily speaking, that they can't do anything for themselves is that they'd probably go on blood-soaked killing rampages, murdering everyone within range of their merciless gazes, whenever anyone made them cry, if they had that physical capacity. We learn to love ourselves by being loved, just like it says in The Velveteen Rabbit. And that takes time. I feel like I have been loved very well by a great many people and animals, all out of proportion to what I deserve, and I try to love others back, as well. Certain others. Not all. First failing. And my love itself even when bestowed, is not perfect, it's a work in progress, and will never be unconditional as say, a dog's love is for it's companion (I detest the term "master" when referring to human/animal relationships almost as much as I detest it when referring to human/human relationships.), or as universal as say, St. Francis' love, (second and third failings) and I know this for a fact because I believe we reap what we sow. (Let me interrupt myself here to say that I am aware of the dissonance inherent in knowing something for a fact based on my beliefs. I'm not mounting a crusade based on them, nor am I persecuting anyone so I'm just going to let it slide here, OK? It's just a blog.) I would much rather not be a victim of love gone wrong. I would rather hope that I have the capacity to learn, change and grow. But the evidence, as made apparent by my results, is that I have learned nothing, changed mostly just my hairstyle, and grown only in girth. It's very painful for a coward such as myself to look at my real actions, my real motives, my real intentions. Going back to 2001 when I had PTDS (Post-Traumatic Divorce Syndrome), I hooked up with a man I'll call John, because that's his name. We met in Divorce Group Therapy (Hahahahahaha! I'm a genius), so of course it was doomed, and seriously, I just wanted someone who would be nice to me and tell me I looked pretty and have sex whenever I wanted to and he fit the bill. By the time the relationship ended we were both pretty much done with each other and to this day there are no hard feelings over that. The second one was also the very last one. Why did I think round 2 would be any different from round 1? Because, I am essentially the same person, that's why and apparently I still believe in fairy tales! The third was Brian, who was hysterically funny and DYN-O-MITE in the sack, but was missing a few emotional chips. He was my rebound from #2 and if I am completely honest (Ouch! That hurts!) I used him to bolster my ego and get over #2 (like my friend Meg says, "The best way to get over one guy is to get under another!"). Unfortunately, after about 6 months we got attached or at least I got attached, and then I ended up getting hurt when the scorpion acted like a scorpion and stung me. I really had no right to be surprised, cheating cheaters who cheat will always end up cheating, just like scorpions and bees will always sting. Then there was He-Who-Shall-Never-Be-Named, mainly because I am ashamed that I ever let it get as far as it got. He annoyed the FUCK out of me, (come to think of it, they all except #2/#5 annoyed me, but he was the most annoying of all) but he pursued me relentlessly and for a really long time and I finally just gave in. I was tired and vulnerable and it looked like it would be a little more fun than introspection so I went along with it, and I distinctly remember thinking to myself, "At least he'll never leave me...". So, one night about 20 months in, as I was trying not to listen to his inane blathering on and on about something or another while cooking me dinner (Gawd, I'm a self-centered bitch and apparently all you have to do to get me to stick around is feed me), that little inner voice, the one that I always know I should listen to but usually don't because my ego is running the show said, "You're settling." I was a little startled and then I said back, "Yeah. I'm OK with that." Well, apparently the Universe was not OK with that, because a month or 2 later he left me for a newly sober, overweight crack-head (how does a crack-head get fat, anyway?) he met while visiting his daughter in jail(!!!) Yes, I am aware that I dodged a huge fat fucking bullet. HOWEVER! What does it say about me??? It says I am insecure. I am afraid. I look to others to 'save' me. So in all my dealings I was never honest, at least not with myself, and I got back exactly what I put out-dishonesty. With #2/#5, I tried to be honest, as honest as I could be, but I was concentrating on walking a fine line between sharing and dumping. I kept some big things from him. I told myself it was a burden and he didn't need to know. But the cold facts are these: a.) my ego was in image-management mode and b.) there was a kind of irrational caprice at the center of him that would strike without warning every now and then. And I deliberately chose to ignore that. So there I am - being all dishonest with myself and others, and whadday know? I got hurt. Huh. Who'da thunk it? My therapist says (he doesn't claim to have coined it, just passes it on) "Love, before you speak of love." I'm going to give that a try. It's going to be a stretch.

The Velveteen Rabbit, or How To Become Real

As you may have surmised from my last couple of blog posts, or if you know me personally, I was 'let go' by my man-cub, about 3 months ago. He's a wonderful person, and I understand him not wanting to be with me, I mean, shit, I frequently don't want to be with me, but I'm stuck here. Still, it blows. To add insult to injury, I was invited to five - count 'em! FIVE weddings this late summer/fall. (I'm not sure what heinous deed I must have perpetrated in another life to engender this particular type of payback bitch-slap, but it must have been a doozy!) Four of them were dear friends of mine, one was a dear friend of his who is now a new friend of mine (but of course I let him have that wedding...I'm not a monster).

The first, my dear, darling friend Meg's, was a beautiful 4 day event starting with a BBQ and including a spectacular Wedding Eve dinner cruise on Lake Union and culminating in a sweet, simple and elegant ceremony outside in the 'back yard' of Cafe Juanita, with dinner inside afterward. The food was simply amazing. The bride was GORGEOUS and well, how many times can I say elegant before you say, "OK, elegant, elegant, we get it."

Next up was his friend Jennifer's wedding, and since I did not attend I can't give any first hand accounts, but according to posts on Facebook it was almost as  lovely as the bride herself.

Third in line was my dear, sweet, charming, kind and perfect-in-every-way friend Sarah (not to take away from any of my other friends, but well, Sarah IS perfect, and no one else on the planet is. Sorry. You are all FABULOUS and I love you but Sarah is special, as anyone who has ever known her will attest). The wedding weekend took place in Leavenworth at the splendid Sleeping Lady Lodge (she married a Sikh; there's no such thing as a small, modest, laid-back Sikh wedding. It was a freaking BLAST!!!!!!). I shared a cabin with my Favorite Cousin Lily* who was flown in from NY to photograph the nuptials (www.lilykesselman.com/) and all the surrounding activity. I have known Sarah since she was seven years old and I was on the wrong side of 30. We did not have a faux mother-daughter relationship, or an auntie-niece relationship, or a mentor-student relationship. We were friends, from the get-go. I know it sounds odd, but she was always wise beyond her years and I have always been immature and petty, so when she was seven we were a pretty good match! She was only a little more mature than I at that point. She finally met a man (Virtaj) who understands that he (likewise, I) are not worthy of her, and he vowed to spend the rest of his life trying to be deserving of her love. (We all heard you, Virtaj. There were like, 120 witnesses.) One of the readings, which I usually kind of hate and secretly roll my eyes over during all wedding ceremonies, was from The Velveteen Rabbit. Leave it to Sarah to find the one passage that could have made me cry, and to see past the child's nursery theme into what is at the core of the matter, which is of course, love. I want to share it with you, dear reader...

THERE once was a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid. He was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.

For a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon everyone else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real. The model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms. The Rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles. Even Timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by disabled soldiers, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was connected to the Government. Between them all the poor little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.

The Skin Horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others. He was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces. He was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive and boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else. For nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those play things that are old and wise and experienced like the Skin Horse understand all about it.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But those things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"I suppose you are real?" said the Rabbit. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Skin Horse might be sensitive. But the Skin Horse only smiled.

"The Boy's Uncle made me Real," he said. "That was a great many years ago; but once you are Real you can't become unreal again. It lasts for always."

That passage gets to me in so many ways, on so many levels, not the least of which is the disturbing term "Skin Horse". What the fuck is that? Anyway, "Does it hurt?" Hell yes. I wish I didn't mind it so much, but I will take it over the alternative. I'm pretty sure I don't break easily, or have to be too carefully kept, but I prolly have one or two or 18 sharp edges. Working on that.

The fourth one was Genevieve and Peter's wedding, this past weekend on San Juan Island. They are a lovely, delightful couple, and well-matched in every way. She is particularly beautiful but more importantly, wickedly funny. I arrived solo (as usual) and was instantly set-upon by a youngish man I know who accosted me and said, "Hey Kate are you still dating that cool musician guy, D_____?" "Ummm, no, no I'm not", I replied. "Oh. That's too bad. I really like him", said he. "Yeah, me too. Thanks for bringing that up. Here. Now. In front of everyone. At a wedding." Asshole. OK, to be fair, this guy is definitely NOT an asshole, but I have been in a really bad mood now for like 3+ months and I'm getting a little short tempered. (OK, fine: more short tempered than usual) Anyway, this darling young woman I know sidles up to me as I'm standing awkwardly, alone, at yet another fucking wedding reception and asks if I perchance know the man with the dark curly hair I was just speaking with and if I know whether or not he is single. I answer affirmatively and then I decide to be the bigger person and introduce them, and then I decide to become somewhat officious and meddlesome (OK, fine: more officious and meddlesome than usual) and arrange the place cards so they are sitting across from each other at dinner. Well, the rest, as they say, is history because he asked her out and they had their first date the next night and their second is coming up. So I guess you can add "match-making" to my skill-set!

The fifth and final wedding is being held at the end of the month in Hawaii, and I won't be able to attend. Too far away, too much money, and this time I'd be stuck on an island thousands of miles away at a wedding, all by myself, with no one to talk to or hang out with. Sorry, even I am not that much of a glutton for punishment. I adore Kristi, but I just. can't. do it. Forgive me, Kristi! I'll send a nice gift!

*I'm contractually obligated to call her Favorite Cousin Lily. Don't get your panties in a bunch, all hundreds of other cousins!!! See the August 2011 post for more information on Favorite Cousin Lily.

Just Because I Don't Talk To You Anymore Doesn't Mean I Don't Love You...

Her: How long have you loved him? Me: Since the day I met him. Her: How long ago was that? Me: Eight years, four months and around 2 days. But no one's counting. Her: But you have been with others since the first breakup, over eight years ago, right? Me: Yes, of course. I am not a saint or a martyr. Look, think of it like a wheel: There is the center hub, which is him at the core of my being. Then there are spokes radiating to the outer rim of who I am. All the others attached themselves out there. The center position was already filled. By him. Her: Are you sure there's no chance you will ever be together? Me: Yes. Her: How do your know? Are you psychic? Me: I know because at the end of the day, no matter what I say or do, no matter what he says or does, no matter what anyone in the universe says or does, I am still me. Her: Oh. I see. I'm sorry. Me: Me too. Her: How do you keep, you know, going on? Me: I think when you strip away all the stuff clinging to who I am, what I am most of all, despite all outward appearances, is practical. It isn't practical for me to not go on. It is too easy to die. Anyone can do that. It's much harder to endure pain and keep living, and keep my eyes peeled for happiness, or peace or even just fun. Also, I'm naturally very curious and I frequently startle myself by how easily my grief is able to be pierced by anyone or anything that makes me think. Then I start thinking and wondering and imagining and paying more attention and then I know dying of a broken heart is not something I am capable of. But it's OK, I'm good at other things. Her: Like what? Me: Like talking to strangers like you on an airplane, for instance. Her: Huh. Yeah, you are good at that.