Burning Bridges

“It don’t matter which way you go

When you’re callin’ the highway your home

When every old town’s just the past burning down

It don’t matter which way you go.”

Waylon Jennigs, Reno and Me

This is a story. A story of burning bridges, allowing time to pass – settling it aflame and watching it burn again.

Something happened in my life recently that caused me to look back to my more recent past. I’ve felt miserable since it happened – miserable since he tried to walk back into my life. I knew it wasn’t a good time for me to be alone, so I picked up my journal and walked to the pub near my house.

While I waited for my order, I opened my journal. I intended to get back into the habit of expressing gratitude. Instead I found myself flipping through the pages, wondering what had happened to the gal that had written those words just over two years ago. I was stressed, but I was hopeful. I was happy. I was in l in love and I expressed love to so many. I had my heart broken and saw it mended again. I don’t recognize her, the person that penned those words of love, hope and happiness, but I want to be her. She radiates a life perspective that I miss very much.

She felt connected to everything. She heard the heartbeat of the Universe. I'll find you again, Cherished Version of Myself.

I had to ask myself how I got to where I am now. I have been accused of not being entirely transparent (notably by anonymous strangers), of painting myself in the best possible light while throwing someone else under the bus. I see that as an untrue accusation. I’m about to tell the story of what is arguably my greatest shame in life.

Several years ago I met a man. He was mysterious and intriguing. He was intelligent and witty. He brought a sense of excitement to my life on many levels. We had an intense attraction to one another. It boiled down to the most savage sense of carnality; we existed in our own orbit, drawn to each other in a very visceral sense. On another level, we connected intellectually.

I’ve only called him Spaniard. That’s right, Fucking Spaniard. He had a knack for picking up the pieces in my life when I could not.

Then I learned about Her. Not just Her, but others as well. I was oblivious. I had even been in his house and didn’t think for once that there was another woman in his life. I blindly believed what he told me and easily explained away things that should have been regarded with suspicion. The words regarding his own personal life were often few, and that should have sent me packing. I know better now, but I didn’t then. He wasn’t married to Her, but I’m sure he was a key figure in Her life and I’m certain She didn’t know about me.

When I knew his secret I cut him out of my life. 

Fate must have cursed me when our paths crossed again. I found myself a willing participant in older patterns of behavior. Our connection had only intensified by the time we spent apart.

We immersed ourselves in our formed religion of acts of worship for the other.

So, there I was, carrying on with a man that I knew was spoken for. We carried on for a couple of months. I was acting against my own moral compass, causing a growing dissonance between what was at the center of my core and what I was doing. It was literally tearing me apart from the inside out. 

I turned to a poor coping mechanism I relied on after I found myself in the wake of an assault. I'm not sure if it was coping or self harm, but I tried to drink myself into oblivion once again.

The war I was waging on myself escalated. It came to a peak when I woke up one night in a detox center. I had no idea how I’d gotten there. I was afraid. I was shamed. A woman next to me was coming down from her cocaine high. I don’t belong here. All I could think about was Merlin and that I needed to be home with him. He needed me to be there. An officer pulled me aside to talk to me. He told me to be comforted by the fact that I hadn’t hurt anyone and I was unlike the ‘regulars’ he saw come in and out of there. He said this was my wakeup call. I’d made a bad decision.

I had to take a time out. I had to force myself to look inward and face my actions. I was knowingly causing potential harm to a person I didn’t even know. I was the other woman. I was the one destroying someone else’s life solely for my own selfish wants and desires. Spaniard had to go.

I'm not proud of the role I played in this.

I eventually realized he was a danger to me. I don’t say a danger to everyone, because I can’t speak for them. I can speak for his personality type and mine. He has an ability to compartmentalize his life and it scares me. He had me, he had Her, he had others. These were separate lives to him. Perhaps it scares me because I’ve never met anyone with that ability. Maybe it scares me for good reason. I don’t know the answer right now.

Working as a trainer for FBI hostage negotiators, Spaniard has some very potent psychological tools. For his line of work, that’s an asset. For me, that’s toxic. I fail to compartmentalize my own life and I have no basis in tactics of manipulation or psychological warfare. My involvement with him would only lead to my own self destruction – possibly slitting my wrists and bleeding out. He told me that we were linked and would not be severed. For my own survival, he and I could not coexist.

It would only lead to destruction - and it would be mine. Possibly Hers, too.

I pray that She would never now about me. I pray She never knows about the others because I imagine that would be devastating. I don’t know if I could live with myself if She knew that I didn’t consider how my actions would affect Her because I didn’t care. I was only after what made me feel happy.

Then I sent an e-mail to Spaniard. I knew a face to face conversation with him would result in his continued presence in my life to some capacity. I typed out as compassionately as I could that he could simply not be a part of my life – and this was for my own emotional wellbeing. I tried to explain that we simply couldn’t be. His response was that until I could accept unconditional love I was to never contact him again.

Done.

Time passed. I moved to another part of the city. I never contacted him again. It had been a little over a year when he sent me an e-mail. I blocked his e-mail. A month later he sent me a text. I changed my number. Yesterday, he called me at work. At. Work. I listened in shocked silence. I asked him how he found my number. He told me he simply called and asked for me. I told him I couldn’t talk. I was working. He asked if I still had his number. I lied and said I did. He told me to use it sometime and then I hung up the phone.

This is one representation of part of the internal commotion taking place in my psyche.

I’ve thought for some time that if he wanted to find me he would. I hope my assumption is wrong. After Spaniard sent the e-mail, I thought I saw him at the pub near my house when I was out with my brother. I must have looked terrified. My brother noticed me watching the man across the room, visibly worried. I couldn’t see his face, he had his back turned to me, but he had the same physique, he wore similar clothes, his voice sounded familiar. I had to explain. I had to tell my brother about my actions of selfish stupidity. There have been no Spaniard sightings since then.

So, he found me at work. I’d never give him that number. Hell, I’d even moved on to another department since I last saw Spaniard. The bastard called me from a blocked number. I felt myself hit with a wave of emotions I’m still struggling to identify. Offhand, I’d say I feel fear, anger, and shame. The only thing I’m certain of is that he can’t be in my life. He just can’t.

I did the only thing I could think of, which was to call our safety department at work. I explained my situation. The woman who listened was understanding and empathetic. She recommended that I remove all traces of myself online, starting with LinkedIn. I invested my time in that wretched profile so potential employers would hire me. I’m not ready to give it up yet.

My employer has flagged me in our system. No one can look me up in our online database. While administration has my information, an alert pops up to not give any of my information. It’s as if I don’t exist where I work. I’ve turned his name over to our safety department. If Spaniard tries to use his ties with law enforcement he won’t get anywhere.

And that’s my story of burning bridges. That’s my story of paying for my sins on Earth. During my lowest point, when I woke up in a detox center next to people coming down off of some pretty hardcore stuff – I feel as if a part of me died that night and I’ve failed to resurrect it.

I have no secrets now. I’ll work on finding the person I lost during my lowest point in my recent adult life. Maybe I’ll dance in the ashes after I’ve watched it all burn down. 

These Boots Are Made For Walking

“Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation.” – Rumi

I’ve been working on my own emotional well-being lately. It’s hard to move past resentment when people keep adding to it. Rather than shroud my thoughts with a mask of vague statements I’ll speak as plainly as possible. My family has a knack for nagging or guilting me into doing things . . . this time around it has to do with visiting my mother who is recovering from a back surgery. I can’t stand much to be around her, there’s too much bad blood between us and there’s been more than one occasion in which I’ve wanted to throw up my hands and ask why we even bother with this charade anymore. She wants the privilege of saying she has a daughter, but she doesn’t really want a daughter. I simply want to be as far removed from the situation as possible and they want to pull me back in. Why?!

On a side note, I'm off of medications entirely. I only managed to do that when I was finally out of that house. She hasn't made the connection between the two yet. 

You've managed to free yourself of the burden of me. You can quit exuding a forced maternal-like instinct.

When I’m frustrated with the double standards, mixed messages and feeling of never being good enough, I remind myself that there was a time in my life when I was loved unconditionally. I try to remember their faces, their voices, what it felt like to have that solid foundation of patience and understanding and tell myself that they’re still with me, even if I don’t always feel at one with the Universe. They’re in my DNA – they pulse through my veins and perhaps I’m with them now in some other dimension in time.

" . . . and death was his road to awe." I'll see you in the next life if not again in this one.

Aside from the hound (that goes without saying, really), I put myself first. When it comes to friendships, activities and this amusing process of dating I refuse to be around someone who is a vortex of anger, negativity and resentment. This is not the outlook in life I want. It’s not that I’ve never had my moments, because I have. I just choose not to live in those moments . . . forever. I’ve set high standards for myself and I fully intend to stick to them. In hindsight, this has led to some amusing scenarios.

Meet my online dating inbox. 

If a guy says he’s going to call and doesn’t that’s it. Seriously. I’ve had a few try to contact me after pulling something like that and I let my silence speak for me. I refuse to put up with that kind of nonsense. I refuse to put up with degrading behavior.  I was out for sushi with someone and he couldn’t take his eyes off my chest. I get it. I have boobs. They’re pretty amazing . . . . but there’s more to me than that. Thanks for the seaweed salad, guy. I won’t miss you.

Something like that. 

I met someone for coffee over the weekend. His nervousness made me feel badly for him; he was visibly shaky. I told him lets skip coffee and have a glass of wine at my place instead. He calmed down a little and started to open up a bit after my constant reassurance that this isn’t a competition and I’d really like to know who he is as a human being, not how much money he makes or the amount of success he’s had in life. He had potential . . . . and then he corrected a grammatical typo on one of my text messages last night. Alright Mr. Grammar Nazi, meet my Doc Marten boots. I will gladly take out my boots for the men that insist that I operate around their schedule to meet them in person (no thank you), the men who feel the need to point out my inferiorities to feel better about themselves, the flaky men, the untruthful men and also the ones who can’t quite manage to pull their gaze away from my cleavage . . . My boots are ready, gentlemen!

Actually . . . it was Autocorrect's fault. 

I’ve had only a couple of people tell me I’m being too picky. I very much disagree with that statement. I just have standards and I refuse to compromise. There’s nothing wrong with seeing my own value. Also, it took me a long time to see my worth in this life. I’ll be holding onto that rather than letting some random idiot wreck it completely just because someone thinks I should be in a relationship and am *still* single because I’m just plain too picky. I think those people should meet my boots as well. While I’m on a roll, I think my faux maternal figure can meet my Doc Martens, too. There. I said it. I feel better. 

Obviously not my Doc Martens . . . . . but I'm really crushing on these boots right now. 

"I was dead, then alive. Weeping, then laughing. The power of love came into me, and I became fierce like a lion, then tender like the evening star." - Rumi

Sweetest Downfall

When god (aka tango instructor) spoke to me during my emotional breakdown, she said something that I’ve been churning over in my mind since, “Don’t’ live with regret.” She mentioned the biblical story of Sodom and Gomorrah; the characters were turned to salt when they looked back. Moral of the story: don’t look back. Look forward instead. That’s a lot easier said than done, but I’m still trying. This doesn’t mean we don’t learn from our experiences and mistakes, it simply means we don’t live in the past – in what has already taken place – in the things we cannot change.

Live in the moment and make it beautiful - I'm still trying to get there.

I’ve touted a good deal of regret with me for many years; and not just regret, but also guilt. I feel guilt for the life I live sometimes – because I ask myself why I’m a college graduate and my sister has been swallowed by life and I have no idea how even start looking for her. I regret that I don’t know how to find her and I regret that I couldn’t do more for her. Then I have to look at it like a rational person, What could I have possibly done differently? The answer is nothing. I have to let that go. We were children. There’s a very unpleasant feeling that comes with being a powerless child. I keep reminding myself that I’m no longer a powerless child, but someone who has a say in her future and her here and now.

Then there are the people from my past I carry with me like heavy weights – because I feel guilt over having some measure of success in this life and know that they suffer for their choices. I’ve made choices, too – I just feel that somehow it was luck of the draw. I have to remind myself that while that is a small part of the equation, it’s not the whole equation. I didn’t choose the same path and that’s why I have no criminal record or teenage children before I make it to thirty or in a really bad marriage. Granted, I almost made that mistake once. I dodged a bullet.

Then there’s regret over lashing out at the wrong person. My sweetest downfall in life was loving someone deeper than I knew myself capable and seeing the beauty in life again. Before that time in my life and before the Beloved and I crossed paths again I felt as if my life was drifting in a black sea. It’s still mind blowing to me that joy can be a trigger simply because it’s as emotionally strong as fear. I regret the words I said when I was both confused and in pain and even still now I wish I could take it all back, but there’s no rewind button to this life we’re living, is there? I’m quite certain that’s my biggest regret in life. And there are times I regret hardly being able to speak to him the few times I’ve seen him since . . . . so I remind myself that regret is a destructive force and I can’t keep living if I’m too busy beating myself up.

"You are my sweetest downfall

I loved you first, I loved you first

Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth

I have to go, I have to go

Your hair was long when we first met . . . 

Samson came to my bed 

Told me that my hair was red

Told me that I was beautiful and came into my bed

Oh I cut his hair myself one night

A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light

And he told me that I'd done alright

And he kissed me 'til the mornin' light . . . " - Regina Spektor

So while I honor the practice of not berating myself, I have noted things that I most certainly do not regret. I don’t regret ever being owned by my dogs; those two furry babies have been my constant joy and comfort since one precious little lady literally walked into my life and the other was a treasure I sought out. I don’t regret ever purchasing or wearing a fake engagement ring. It’s either boosted my confidence because I don’t feel like I have to hide away or it really does have mystical powers that ward off predatory douchebags. I don’t regret all the times I tried and failed. I don’t regret starting tango only because I wanted another means of connection with someone; the dance turned into one of the best forms of therapy. Overall, I don’t regret moving to Portland. Sure, the sun practically never shines here – but my time here has been far more enriching than any experience the Central Valley could have possibly offered.

I confess my quads are killing me - but I am so going to own this mother f-er

I don’t regret starting a couch to 5k challenge with my co-worker; I was quite certain I was near death on day 1 – yet here I am and we’re still chipping away at it. I don't regret that my hardest lesson learned in life was also my sweetest downfall. I don’t regret living, losing, loving or crying. I don’t regret who I am, either – quirky gal with occasional meltdowns, PTSD rage and hesitation blended with a whole lot of laughter. I often say ‘I regret nothing!’ in jest – I’m thinking that’s something I should start taking seriously. Lastly, I don't regret the expensive dress I just ordered so I can showcase the tattoo I'm getting in a couple of weeks. 

Okay . . . not quite as dramatic - but it's still going to be awesome.

The Perfect Trifecta

“So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.” -  Slyvia Plath

When the dust finally settled from the departure of my beloved Miss Cassie I returned to tango with the urging of a great friend. I am so very happy to be dancing again – even more so at the moment because I’ve been experiencing withdrawal symptoms due to the gift that keeps on giving: the wretched flu. The damn thing knocked me on my arse for a little over a week.

Since returning to tango I’ve had an entire new set of observations. Perhaps the most startling epiphany was the realization of how very shy I actually am. It’s a bizarre thing. I’m outgoing enough. I make a point of talking to people who are obviously new to tango, have come alone, or are just having a tough night. What’s killing me at the moment is the cabaceo. I only dance with a person I’m comfortable with – which is generally with men who are old enough to be my father. It’s my comfort zone.  I find myself not only making extreme attempts to avoid eye contact with a lot of people, but also blushing and quickly turning away if eye contact is accidentally made.

I do this, too. Lame.

I’ve reflected a little on my strange reaction to men my age. The only conclusion I can come to is that my male counterparts intimidate me. I don’t pretend to know why and I foresee more years of therapy in my near future. I have to remind myself from time to time that I have come a long way. There was a time I couldn’t bear to be around a male presence because I was terrified. My only grievance with this part of my personality is that I’m quite certain I come across as a snob and this couldn’t be further from the truth.

I might have been a shark in my past life.

I judge myself enough for ten people. I don’t need anyone else to add to the mix. I recently discovered that one of the trademarks of PTSD is survivor’s guilt. That new little bit of knowledge explained quite a bit. I feel guilty about damn near everything and am always asking ‘Why?’ What have I done in lifetime that warrants the life I have now compared to others who were brought up in similar if not identical situations? I cry for the people I knew who barely survived it and are left with severe emotional scars, a dead end life and drug addictions. I cry for the sister I haven’t seen in nearly 20 years. I don’t even know if she’s still alive. I’m afraid to look because I’m afraid of the answer. I have to keep telling myself that their lives are out of my control and there wasn’t anything I could have done differently to make things better for them. I have to keep repeating that to myself until I finally believe it. I’m not there yet.

"The worst guilt is to accept an unearned guilt." - Ayn Rand

Something else from the tango realm has been a bit of a grievance. Since I’ve returned to tango I’ve crossed paths with a couple of folks that I never cared to see again. It’s not a huge community. It was bound to happen eventually. My grievance is that they ask me to dance. When you know I don’t like or trust you, why bother? I don’t turn them down because I don’t want to make a scene. I dance with them and am on my highest form of alert the entire time. In fact, I’m working extra hard when I dance with them so I’m not the recipient of some a**hat’s short fuse. Not only do they ask me to dance every time they run into me, but they also close embrace me and I do not like it. My assumption is that one person forgot that he did not treat me with kindness when I first started tango and the other is trying to get under my skin in the most underhanded way possible. Still, these are assumptions and not proven truths.

I'd much rather do this when I'm asked to dance by an unsavory character. 

All grievances aside, tango is still something I look forward to every week despite being a wretched shy, blushing thing and catering to a couple of people I really don’t care for. I can’t wait to snuggle up next to one of my favorite people and share a wonderful dance.

An ethereal form of serenity.

I was raving to a friend about tango recently. I had a breakup but wasn’t upset about it because life is so pleasant at the moment. I have a job I love, a basset hound that I adore and tango. As she pointed out, it’s the perfect trifecta. I’m not bothered by being single. In fact, it’s nice to not have someone demanding that I cater to their every whim. It’s nice to have the freedom to do my own thing and just be. It’s a lovely life. Nothing beats a doting dog, a fulfilling job and tango cuddling.

Who could ever resist this face?!

Sometimes I think I should start dating again; this is mainly because the society around me thinks I must be flawed because I’m single. I have issues with this because I have no desire whatsoever to invite another person in my life and anytime the thought of dating even crosses my mind I immediately browse through the dating ads on craigslist just to remind me that there’s mainly smut and bottom feeders waiting for me. No thank you. I’ll take my simple, perfect little trinity.