Men

Growing up I held onto the secret regarding being molested by my step-father because I believed John would kill my Mother if I did not.  He dragged me by my hair and showed me the little vials at the top of the medicine cabinet.  “See these?  I can kill her anytime.  I can kill her and no one will know I did it.  I am a doctor.  I know how.”  I believed him, and although I toyed with telling and letting her die, in the end I could not.  So, I kept my mouth shut and the secret buried until I was seventeen.  I held on in the face of everything, and I swore that when I grew up nothing like this would ever happen again.  If someone tried to rape me, they would have to kill me first.

I did not know that some promises–even the deepest ones of all–cannot always be kept.

When I first began to talk about being molested, I would say, “He touched me.”  I never used the “R” word–rape-to describe it.  In fact, I would secretly breathe a sigh of relief that he never had vaginal sex with me.  I would whisper to myself, “At least I was not raped.”  As a Junior at Wheaton College, I went to a meeting of “Christians For Biblical Equality,” where a woman spoke about sexual assault.  She described sexual assault–the real term for rape–as being whenever someone forcibly penetrates another, whether this be by penis, hand, bottle, stick, etc.  As she spoke, a little animated movie began in my head of this dark blackness–all in deep tones of gray–with a motion of a hand in-and-out, in-and-out.  It played over and over to the point I could no longer hear a word she said.  I could make that movie today or draw it for you–it remains so vivid.  This image thrust me into counseling within the week, which then led to a three week stint in a women’s mental health unit the following February.  Once the movie began to play, the truth did as well.  I became flooded with memories of being molested daily at home for five years.  All the images I pushed away in my fierce determination to survive rose up and spilled out like hot lava.  A purge began.  I had been sexually assaulted.  However, the “R” word hung in the air like a suspended universe waiting to fall or explode.  I just could not let the word fall upon me.

I still try to only say that I had been sexually assaulted or molested.  I tell people by saying, “This is not a secret…I was molested as a child.”  I just avoid the “R” word in its many manifestations.  I avoid talking about it…personally…seeing movies where there is a rape…listening to stories about rape…the news about someone being raped.  I try to keep the “R” word out of my life all together.  At one point I did try to let it sit on my tongue.  I leaned up against the word while going to a Rape Survivor Group circa 1992.  I just never could own it as a word to describe me or what happened to me.  I left the group–the women in it were too depressing–and for the most part try to keep anyone who has been molested or raped out of my inner circle.  I never want it to be the point of connection, for rape is not life-giving or hopeful.

I tend not to think too much about the particulars of what happened any longer–the movie does not play.  I dealt with the actual events a long time ago.  In fact, when I was in the women’s mental health unit, I can remember thinking about how the easy task was to deal with the rock thrown in the water–the molestation itself.  The hard work was going to be all those ripple currents of not what John did, but instead what I do to myself as a result.  I feel like I have spent the last fifteen years of my life chasing those down one-by-one and healing them as best as I can.  I keep at it because I want to be strong and healthy.  I keep at it because I do not want being molested to be the centerpiece of my life–I want redemption to be front and center.  Ultimately, I do not want that rock to fuck up not only the past but the future as well.  I do have deep moments of fragility, and in those moments I fear the rock is all there is.  I sink low some moments, terrified that “John won” and got all the good of me and the good possibilities of my life.  Just some…not all, and definitely not most.  But some.

Part of why I avoid any stories about rape is I do not want my own emotional dial to be affected.  I possess my push-buttons, just like anyone else, so keeping rape off of my radar screen keeps me focused on the living in the present, even as I am healing from the past.  I try, but I do not always succeed at this avoidance.  Most times I weather the conversation or topic well, but every now and again my wires become tripped and alarm rings though me.  When this happens, I know something still needs to be dealt with from the deep well of pain and loss in my life.  Case in point: While hitting the elliptical at my trainer’s, I was going through the channels.  I caught a clip of women talking on Oprah about rape in marriage.  I tend not to watch Oprah any longer, but I found myself mesmerized by this one story.  The “expert” on the show talked about how “no” means no–even in a relationship.  I was caught off guard, even as I know that to be true.  I preach it to my nieces.  I will emphatically say it to anyone listening.  However there was one night a couple of years ago where I pretended to forget this truth all together because the actual truth was excruciatingly painful.

The story is simple: I was making out naked with a boy, whom at the time was a new love interest.  This was probably our third or fourth date, and most definitely the first time we had been naked.  No sex…just kissing and cuddling after a great massage.  We talked about not having sex–I was clear I was not ready to sleep with him.  He agreed.  So there we are, in the first throes of attraction, lust and friendship, and all of a sudden I feel this sharp pain.  I thought I hurt my back.*  We shifted positions a bit.  Then it happened again and he said, “Oops.  I’m sorry.”  I repeated that I was not ready to have sex.  He repeated to enter me without my permission.  (I can still see the smirk on his face.)

I did not leave.  I did not argue.  I did not protest.  I just curled up in a ball crying softly while he drifted off to sleep.  About two hours later I woke him up.  I told him, “I did not want to have sex yet, but that cannot be our first time.  Please make love to me.  Make whatever that was go away.”  He did; it did not.  I tried to bury it to the point of never telling a soul.  And then I found myself on that damned elliptical with all my buttons pushed stopping to try and catch my breath that was knocked out of me with those simple true words: “no” means no.

I look back now and see how I needed to get up and get out of there.  I see now that I stayed with him for a long time after that–five months actually–needing him to love me because if he loved me then what happened would not have happened.  I stayed even when I knew he we did not share the same value regarding integrity.  I stayed despite the fact we were so different.  I stayed because I thought he was the best guy I ever dated.  I stayed because of all the other beautiful things I saw him to be, which is not dissimilar from John who was an amazing doctor and a pedophile.  I stayed even as I saw the deep rage within him and his unwillingness to deal with his own demons.  I kept trying to reinvent that moment right up until the moment he left me and left me devastated.   Lastly, I see how I held onto my rage at him leaving me because there was this part of me that could not understand how he could leave me after I stayed even after what he did.  He owed me.  He owed me his love and devotion–yet of what value were either?

(The truth can be so disjointed and tragic when we begin to finally tell it to ourselves.)

I know what happened with him happened because of those places in me still broken from John.  Obi Wan (therapist of all therapists) has really worked with me to understand how we are innately drawn to those who will hurt us in the most familiar of ways.  So terribly sad to think I somehow chose this little power play because deep inside it was known and safe.  (Safe in the way the devil you know is better than the possible devil you don’t.)  I realize now my part in all of this–especially in why I stayed long past the point I needed to leave.  But none of my own responsibility takes away from what happened that night, and the promise I made myself that was broken.  None of it takes away from what he did, which was to violate me and my stated desires.  None of it takes away from the fact that he penetrated me knowing I did not want him to and even after I asked him to stop.

I still cannot say the “R” word though.  I just cannot, although I know it fits.

*I recently read in Dan Savage’s column that the opposite of an orgasm is actually a back spasm, which makes sense to me given these events.

Note: This post took over six weeks to complete.  Secrets can be very powerful, which is why I finally forced myself to finish writing it–to eradicate the power this one has held over me for more than two years.  Frank Warren, who does Post Secret, stamps all of the books he signs with “Free your secrets and become who you are.”  I feel this is one of the messiest posts I have written to date, but also the most freeing.  Sometimes you just have to speak the messy truth in order to become who you really are–a whole and healed person.  If you have been molested, raped or date raped, please seek help.  None of us are innately prepared to heal from these things alone.  Cosmo (of all places, I know!) has compiled a short list of places to get help here.

I often feel there is a ghost in the room when dating: the Ghost of Relationships Past. You know, the girl who broke his heart? He missed all the signs–the selfishness, the petty lies, the deep resentments, and prejudices–and gave her all of himself regardless. Now that the signs finally catapulted him to a place of recognition of who she really was, what she really was not capable of, and that indeed their relationship was doomed, he is adrift from his dreams for his life because they all included her. Her–not you. She looms over every exchange, every hope, every little moment where your heart cries out “God…he is so amazing.” He is amazing, and he is amazingly broken. He is broken beyond your repair. He must fix (i.e. heal) himself, which you want for him. You want it for him and in that small corner where you light a candle for him (birthday cake sized so as to not get your hopes up too much) you want it for your life as well; you want him for your life as well. In the meantime, strength requires that you do not get into a love triangle with the Ghost of Relationships Past. Strength to resist this love triangle is always easier said than done.

Being a young woman in my thirties, I know a thing or two about dating men who have tried to stuff their Ghosts in a closet. The funny thing about these Ghosts, they always escape the closet eventually. Slippery buggers! Their hazy smoke permeates moments. With one ex-boyfriend I was shocked to learn that he almost never reached an orgasm through sex. Without even realizing the severity of what I was asking I inquired, “What did your ex-girlfriends make of that?” He replied, “None of them cared. They were just happy to have me focus on them.” In one swift moment all his Ghosts began to swirl around us. What they did. What they did not do. The pattern of being with women for whom his needs were never a priority emerged, and I–the naive one–foolishly believed that by loving him and caring for his needs I would show him what real love was. I did. I did what they would not–could not–do.

He left me to go back to one of those Ghosts.

Is it not amazing how we feel so much more comfortable in the rut of horrible relationship patterns than we do in the uncharted territory of intimacy? Logic would dictate that if you put your hand on the hot stove and are burned, you learn to never put your hand on a stove that is hot again. I am learning–by looking at my own patterns in love–that logic rarely comes into play when we make decisions about whom we will be in a relationship with. This may seem an oxymoron–to make a “decision” about love when it certainly feels like it is not a choice but an emotional by-product of chemistry. However, we do choose. We have patterns where we are comfortable, and without even realizing it we go right for the person whom will fit our pattern. Of course the opposite is true too, we reject those who do not fit this pattern.

Our pattern seeking love-making leads the boy with the controlling alcoholic mother to the girl who will control him and be out of control themselves. Our pattern seeking love-making will lead the girl to the boy who will present one face to the world and have a private rage that leads him to sexual betrayal, just like her father from before–at least that was once my story. These patterns are just that–patterns–not destiny. They are emotional habits that have to be broken in order to be free from them. These habits relate not just to the type of people we feel drawn to, but also those “old tapes” we play in our head. The tapes that say we are not good at relationships. The tapes that say we are unworthy of love. The tapes that say all men are hateful and irresponsible jerks. The tapes that say women are needy bitches. So how do we make new ones? I believe new habits cannot be formed until we face ourselves–not in judgment but in the twin lights of insight (psychological understanding) and epiphany (spirit/love understanding). In addressing the places we attempted to get our root needs met through unhealthy patterns and broken emotional neediness, we open ourselves to allowing unconditional love to flow in us, towards our very own hearts, and then towards others. The old ways set aside through hard intentionality. New mantras of love for our minds to use even when our heart’s old longings for brokenness attempt to get us in trouble.

Building new patterns may seem utterly impossible when we first start out. Not only to us, but also to those who we call friend. A dear friend of mine is just beginning this journey himself to re-write his heart patterns, and in so doing excise the Ghost of Relationships Past. His circle keeps encouraging him to sleep around a bit as the way to expedite this exorcism. I find this to be the relationship equivalent of when a couple looses a baby through miscarriage or still birth and are told by “loving” folks that they are young and can have another baby–as if another baby will “fix” the terrible grief of losing their child. In general, moving on seems to be our modus operandi, but we never really do move on if our patterns are any indication. What my friend’s inner circle fails to realize is most assuredly he will end up dating someone exactly like his ex. He will become involved with someone who will not only leave him devastated but also further sunken into his own fears that he is indeed unlovable. This is the main problem with these terrible patterns informed by the Ghost of Relationships Past–they reaffirm our worst fears about ourselves, our lives, and the impossibility of our dreams coming true.

I have this image of the Ghost of Relationships Past as an elephant chasing you down in the forest. The first instinct–the pattern–is to run away from the elephant. Your gut tells you, “If you do not run, it will kill you.” Really? I cannot believe running is the only choice we have. I believe in healing. Sometimes the only healing available requires facing down the elephant, killing it, and then eating it. The elephant–the pain of the past–must become part of who you are. Take in the lessons, and let the shit go. Otherwise, we will just be destined to be chased by those elephants the rest of our lives–they travel in herds after all. For me, that is one pattern I cannot afford to live within.

I know a great deal about these patterns because I am daily working daily to re-write my own. (Eating my own elephant, so to speak.) Out of compassion, I want to be close to those who are hurting. I also know that a smart lovely boy in the throws of pain will never be healthy enough to deserve my love or truly love me back, even as my heart strings might want to pull me in that direction. I learned the hard way–the very hard way–that you cannot make up for the pain inflicted by the Ghost of Relationship Past. He has to heal himself before you can be with him. Just as you must heal your own heart before he can be with you. Healing allows for true intimacy, the goal of all relationships. And healing–sweet beautiful healing–has one of the most amazing gifts to give us when we embrace it. Healing gives us the gift of freeing those Ghosts once and for all so we are free to love fully present in this moment.

Bon appetit!

I find myself on a precipice. The mountain climbed…the sorrow of a broken childhood, of a broken child behind me. The battle scars emblazon my side, my hands, my feet. I carried the first most horrid of crosses. I survived the plunge of the sword, for John tried to take my very life away by stealing my spirit, my youth, my hope. I did not die. I would not die.

I waited a terribly long time to open to the nakedness love and intimacy require. I ventured first with those safe, manageable, less. I thought I met my equal; I was wrong. In choosing to look away when he lied, I pretended he would not lie to me. He did. I almost died, and almost spent the wellspring of my hope on the despair I became enveloped in when he lied and left. I did not die. I would not die.

Hope; she is my constant friend. She stands with me on this ledge between the past and the future, so uncertain but always imagined. I see us standing against the wind, which whips through our hair. We laugh. We cry. We dream the most amazing of dreams for my life. The sun blazes and the sky dances with colour as we put to bed the despair of this last season of my life. How strange I find it that the setting sun seems to fall so much faster than the heat of the noonday sun. Why?

So my dear love, here I come. Are you ready?

Let us be clear about what I need from you, for I am completely clear about what I will offer you. I need fusion. I do not pine for fireworks shattering the sky with a million stars here for only a moment. I do not desire the rapid fast burn of a nuclear love. I survived one of those, and the apocalypse devastates everyone in its path. No. Give me fusion. Give me two whole people coming together creating a fire between them impossible alone. Leave the divided spirit, the divided desires, the divided will, the divided atom behind. Join. Merge. Intertwine with me. Let us be more than we could have ever imagined on our own. Leave the ashes of simple fireworks to fall back to the earth. Let us be a galaxy all our own.

I will give you creativity. Nothing will be boring. I will always find new ways to laugh and play. I will give you integrity. I will tell you the truth. I will be kind. I will be generous. (Shall we compete to see who can be more so?) I will embrace you as you are, and dream your dreams of all you can do and create for this world. I will give to others. I will not forget you. I will write my name on your heart. I will cheer you on towards your prize. I will pray for kindness and doors to open to you. I will place a soothing balm on your wounds when the doors crash into your broken body. I may not pick you up–for you will have to do that for yourself–but I will lay beside you and kiss you sweetly until you have the strength to rise. I will question. I will fold the laundry. I will be my own person. I will have my own life and friends. I will be good to your family and friends. I will forgive. I will believe in you no matter what they say. I will trust you. I will honor the man you are. I will value your gifts and never think you a pansy. I will fight for you, and at times with you. I will apologize. I will seek your forgiveness. I will deserve it. I will love you. I will fuck you. I will lay you down. I will tenderly caress you. I will make love to you and discover your body anew even as the years pass us by. Every wrinkle, every laugh line, every sag, every cell will be counted with affection. I will embrace your changes. You will be mine, and I will be yours.

Are you ready? Here I come.

Please let me into your secret places. Let me see you. Let me love only you. I know we have it in us to do this together and to create something more than we can possibly imagine.

I stand on the precipice with Hope beside me.

Acknowledgment: The inspiration for this piece comes from Sarah McLachlan’s song “Answer.”

PHOTO CREDIT: Philip Brooker

Big. HUGE. Announcement:

It is official: I am in the Urban Dictionary for “Tribble Factor” from my post Tank Top Wearing Man Candy. I can die a happy woman now knowing my legacy will live on after me. No, not a child. No, not the work I do with those sick and in a crisis and their families. No, not for leading the world toward peace (every Beauty Queen’s deepest desire, of course it might have helped if I was actually a Beauty Queen). No, the thing that has guaranteed me imortality is getting this into the Urban Dictionary. See!

You can go out to my definition by clicking here, and be sure to give it a “Thumbs Up!”

We live in an age where we are supposed to be confident, have a positive self esteem, and know our gifts. We are also supposed to not be too confident, too braggadocios, or feel we are better than anyone else at something—even if we are. The Greeks were concerned with “hubris” or pride, but hubris always was more about causing harm to another than being realistic about one’s own abilities. If I say that I am good at something, is that done to shame or humiliate you? Even if I say I am better at something? For instance, I am very good at spacial relationships, color, and home design. I decorate my own space in a way that fits who I am. I do not expect anyone else to do it the same way. When consulted on someone else’s design project, I try to offer suggestions in keeping with their tastes…a kind of expert opinion. My opinion is not offered to belittle or threaten, only to guide and support.

We all need expertise. Seeking out an expert requires four things: 1) An acknowledgment that we do not possess the ability or knowledge to complete a process or project; 2) An understanding someone else does possess the ability or knowledge we lack; 3) A willingness to seek out someone else to help with this process or project; and 4) To place our trust in that person to provide the help needed so our main goal—completing the process or project—is met. A simple analogy would be seeking out a car mechanic to fix a broken automobile. But what about more complicated processes, like finding the right doctor when you have been diagnosed with Stage IV cancer? Do you just go to any oncologist? Probably not. At minimum, you seek the opinions of others to find out who specializes in treating the cancer you have. If at all possible, you will travel to where “the best” specialist practices. Why? Because we all understand that even within the realm of “expertise” there are “experts.”

However, sometimes we do not seek out expert help even when we need it most. Why? I think we are often afraid of our limitations, and admitting we need help in some manner means admitting there are areas we do not possess the power we want to have over our lives. I once dated a guy who refused mid-panic attack, to go to a doctor or seek out counseling. Why? The answer given was something along the lines of, “I just don’t do that.” This same guy would call Katmandu if it meant being put in-touch with an expert regarding something he was interested in and needed help with because this type of expert help did not seem like an affront to his masculinity or a threat to the ways he had always “done” his life. Therapy, on the other hand, did feel threatening. He was himself an expert at something, and he relished being able to teach that expertise to others. In fact, he was quite good at it. Yet he would not consider that the inner workings of his being needed some expert attention.

Pride going before the fall?

On the one hand, we have harmful hubris where we try to belittle someone for not being the same as us in some fundamental way we consider paramount to our sense of having a worthwhile existence. On the other hand, we allow our own sense of self-protection to get in the way of accepting the very help we need the most. Pride, self-confidence, hubris, need, problems, and just plain old stupidity make for an awful mess. I am left wondering how to make sense of myself—especially the things I am good at—without needing to add the caveats of the things I am bad at. For instance, “I am really good at understanding where a person is coming from when they describe a problem to me, but I am not good at parking my car straight!” These two things have nothing to do with one another, yet I find myself smooshing them up close when identifying the areas of my greatest strengths. Somehow—in the name of not being too prideful—we feel the social pressure to always add the caveat of “but.”

One night, Pixie and I were talking about relationships. She kept encouraging me that when it comes to being open and revealing myself as a part of intimacy, I did the “right thing” in past relationships. She also used her famous line of: “You are the prize. You deserve to be won.” In other words, Pixie loves me and thinks I am a great girl. I got caught up in our conversation and began to list my gifts and strengths. At one point, she laughed and said, “Yeah…those, and humble too.” I know she meant no harm whatsoever, but the point is clear from a social construct standpoint; you need to believe in yourself, but only to a point. After you reach that point, you enter the world of bragging and need to be brought back to “reality.”

Really?

I often am told that I am intimidating. I am good at a great deal of things. (This is where I would now normally enter all the other things I am not good at, but in an exercise of restraint I am resisting—painfully.) I feel like one of my greatest strengths is playing to people’s gifts. I try and focus on the good stuff. In areas I wish someone would “grow the fuck up,” if I see even one little improvement, I will bless it up and down as good. I figure that complimenting the goodness and ignoring the ickiness goes a long way. I know I receive this back from others too. So why then am I intimidating?

I think one reason is that I just go for the truth no matter what. I am willing to say the hard stuff—almost never to hurt and almost always to heal. I feel so much of my life was lived in a dungeon of fear and lies that I cannot imagine perpetuating those things in my here-and-now. My truth does include the areas where I have some growing edges, but on the whole I am very happy with the woman I am in the world. I am proud of my willingness to grow, change, accept help, invest in others, and care with a sense of radical welcome. I am a neat person, and I do not want to lord that over anyone, or deny my beauty at the altar of social graces.

One of my Clinical Pastoral Education supervisors told me she felt my greatest challenge was to accept being “extraordinary.” My current journey has brought me back to this challenge. In looking back at the extraordinary seven year-old within and the creativity and gumption she utilized to survive, I find myself embracing my own gifts in a new way. I am also working to resist the social urge to offer up disclaimers or stories of “imperfection.” Not because I seek to be perfect–I do not. I only want to fully accept the extraordinary woman within and let go of the fear of being great because it might bring further isolation.

Here is my favourite quote from Marianne Williamson:

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate, but that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some; it is in everyone. And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

Here are my favourite things about me; humility not included:

• Kindness
• Compassion
• Understanding
• Creativity—both with colour and design and with problem solving
• Ability to forgive and forget
• Ability to change
• Ability to move on after great pain
• Scrappy
• A survivor
• Good cook
• Good listener
• Good story teller
• Will go out of my way for a friend
• Tenacious
• Smart—scary smart
• Ingenious
• Loving
• Generous, even when it hurts sometimes
• Not just focused on myself and what I want or what is convenient for me
• Quick learner
• Not afraid to get hurt—most of the time
• Patient
• Take the long view
• Have gumption
• Tell the truth
• Wicked funny, but not mean spirited
• Curious
• Open
• Liberal
• Willing to learn/be taught
• I get “it”
• Cool in my own book nerd way
• Pretty
• Emotionally honest
• I set goals and follow-through
• Willing to seek out help and take advice from others
• Trust my inner voice
• Athletic
• Able to walk out to the precipices of life with people
• Sexy
• A good and honest writer
• An excellent public speaker
• Able to meet people where they are
• An excellent hugger, but an even better kisser—among other things I am creative at
• Well read
• Stellar vocabulary
• Analytical
• Reasonable
• Logical
• Sweet
• Not afraid of sacrifice
• Willing to laugh at myself

What are yours?

As I have been pondering the strange working of my inner child, who at the moment seems to be more of an “outie” than an “innie,” I began to wonder what she looks like. In my mind’s eye, I do not have me at age seven fixed. If anything, I would tell you how I was so much taller than everyone else, awkward, not as pretty, frumpy, and that I had big feet. I set out all my picture boxes and began to look for this girl, only to find a sweet looking beautiful seven year-old with hair the same colour I pay to achieve these days. She looks no different than her friends, although her smile is often more genuine. She seems to laugh from the heart. She does not look frumpy, and by today’s standards rather cute. She does have big feet though–some things never change! Mostly, what I notice about her physically is her eyes. When I was little people would often comment about what big eyes I had–Red Riding Hood style. Here is my formal Seventh Birthday Photograph, where my big eyes really are noticeable:

This is also the same little girl who met a man who would molest her for the first time when he asked her if it was ok to marry her mother. Accepting the molestation went hand-in-hand with the proposal–”I will be your Daddy, and you will let me touch you.” The deep earth shattering need to be loved and accepted by a father after my own real Daddy’s death was met with this bittersweet promise from John. Here are Mother, me and John running through a deluge of birdseed on their wedding day:

Looking at these photographs brings the tears–they flow so easily right now–but these photos also evoke in me a sense of my own strength. I am just a little girl. A sweet lovely child who would write to her Grandmother letters about how her Grandmother was a “doll” and her “very best friend.” This is also the same little girl who stood before her whole congregation with her hands clenched around the microphone and prayed her friend would not die, who laid close to death in the Intensive Care Unit, because she just could not take one more person she loved dying. This little girl ingeniously went away to Summer Camp and made her mother a ceramic dog, given her Mother swore to ANYONE who would listen that her next dog would be ceramic. Jacquie Turner gave her present to her mother, accepted the bestowed gratitude, and then asked, “Now that you have your ceramic dog, can we please get a real one for me?” The Lhaso God would bring her–Mindy–would become her companion and confidant. They would hide together in the closet away from John and snuggle. Is it any wonder having a dog represents life to me still?

gratuitous photo of Emma

This little girl also survived. Can you imagine that? I think now of being harmed in some way, and I do not know how I would make it through except that I know I can because I already did! Somehow–luckily–the gifts of the happy accident of my birth, combined with my lifelong desire to listen to the Still Small Voice of Love inside me, have given me the courage to fight for my life again and again. The most vulnerable and youngest version of me was assaulted in the most vile and vicious ways. And that child–she lived! She fought her way out with the hope–the imagination–that things would change and not always be the same way. She found beautiful ways to express herself, mostly through art. The same love and imagination about God and God’s creativity and love for humanity still beats in my own heart today. She was full of gifts–so am I.

When I look at these photographs of little seven year-old Jacquie Turner I am in awe. This child survived so I might have this precious life I now live. This child survived so I might thrive. This child survived because love is stronger than death–or all of the other ways we seek to destroy ourselves and others. This child survived the best way she knew how, including eating ice cream to try and make John go away and to make the bad feelings go away too. I owe her my very life, so when she is running around on fire and screaming for cupcakes, I understand. I just owe it to her to comfort her with compassion and with honesty, and only every so often a yummy dessert. I owe our future better than just hiding in the closets of my life with Emma, hoping the bad men won’t come and hurt us.

She survived so I could have a real life. I owe her living mine to the fullest.

In the recent past, everytime I went to lose the rest of the weight I gained as a kid, not to mention the 10 “Post Apocalyptic” (aka post-break-up) pounds, I gained a tiny bit of weight instead. The earth would feel like it was shifting beneath me when someone would mention how I looked thinner, and then the cupcake eating would commence. After dropping over 70 pounds, to find my weight creeping back up with repeated attempts to lose weight was more than discouraging–heartbreaking would be the right word. I knew I was not gaining weight because I longed for The Bean to come back or felt some sense of unresolved emotion towards him. No! I was doing this to myself when I would feel the earth tilt. But why the tilt?

Here is my mental loop: I lose more weight, I become more attractive and desirable to men. I become more desirable, I could even end up dating someone more than three times (my limit last year before booting someone to the curb), and fall in-love. I fall in-love, am vulnerable, and then I could get left. Again. I do not want to go through that again–even as a deep part in me acknowledges this is always the risk of love–so I put on the weight to be less desirable, less attractive, and more safe. Build the walls. Keep out the love. Stay safe.

I could see it, but I felt utterly powerless and without creativity to address the issue. Since December, I could articulate this, and since December I have had at least 5 cupcakes!!! (I could go for one right now while writing this…and let me tell you that if you are in the market for a cupcake the ones at Fresh Market are TO DIE FOR!)

Did I mention that I really am not a big cake or cupcake person? I think (under normal conditions) that they are too sweet. I prefer soft serve ice cream or yogurt to any other dessert. Sweet, but not too sweet. Cold, smooth, creamy. I do not really like cupcakes! Yet here I am CRAVING cupcakes every time I drop a bloody pound.

Everyone has their own way of dealing with their problems. Amongst my loved ones we have a smattering of potato chip munching, cigarette smoking, workaholic, motorcycle riding, Jesus loving, Diet Coke drinking, scrap booking, gambling alcoholics. And those are just the ones who live on the West Coast of Florida! I believe in having a multitude of tricks–mostly healthy–in my arsenal, so when one fails another is at the ready. I ride my bike like a feign; I ration the chocolate; I talk to friends and family; I go for a walk; I play with Emma; I write this blog–but those fucking cupcakes kept calling out to me. “Don’t lose weight! Stay where you are! You will feel so much better and more calm when you have one! Everything will be fine if you just get up and go have a cupcake! Drink it with skim milk–then it won’t be that fattening! You rode your bike twice already today–have another cupcake!”

Fucking cupcakes.

The cupcakes are not the real issue, so having run out of other RATIONAL coping skills I marched myself back to therapy. Now to appreciate my current therapeutic experience, you must first picture a Datsun 280 ZX driving aging Hippie with a “No Nukes” bumper sticker and a Grateful Dead “quilt” (don’t ask) on his wall with his diplomas. The ponytail, vintage Danish/early 80’s office furniture, and Converse canvas sneakers round out the “ambiance.” This is a guy who sits back, listens to every word, is so non-judgmental and smart you suspect he had you figured out when you made the appointment, and then talks to you in such a practical gentle manner that you wonder why the hell you are paying him to tell you what you already know. But then again, knowing is not my issue. Figuring out what to do next is.

Like any therapist worth their salt, Obi-Wan Kenobi (the therapist) poked around in my past in order to get to know me. I did mention to him on the phone that I needed help in the “here and now” and that I had “dealt with a lot of the shit of the past, and really was not looking to dredge up that stuff or start again looking at it.” Uh-huh.

Given how my past includes the issues of disease, death, abandonment, molestation, threats of suicide and homicide, stalking, rape, and trust–I tend to be wary of beginning any new venture in therapy despite how much good it has done me in the past. I always feel defensive and want to shout at the new therapist, “I am ok! I have worked really hard! I am not as fucked up as you will assume I am! Please give me some credit! Please validate my journey before I met you! I am strong! I will kick your ass if I need to!” And under my breath I whisper, “I am totally scared shitless that the past will haunt me again and the next time I won’t make it. I worry that I am a failure at this healing business because I still am working on the weight stuff and because despair still finds me. I cannot control being vulnerable. I hate being in a relationship because I know there are no guarantees. I want to be loved because I have a lot to give, but trust seems like to high a price to pay. I am lonely sometimes. I want someone else to validate my worthiness to be loved, although I know I must believe that for myself first…but sometimes I am so full of doubt I don’t know how to.”

I cannot help but wonder: Why do I feel so creative, capable and strong and also feel so stuck, inadequate and fragile sometimes?

Obi-Wan listened and listened well. He told me my life has been made up of the big issues–not the small ones. They will always be with me. They will always be tinder for some jerk to come along and set fire to…or just life will set them on fire. Life is hard after all. I was vigilant with The Bean, but next time I need to pay better attention to the signs that someone is not healthy. A healthy person and an unhealthy person equal an unhealthy relationship. The Bean left, and my old shit got set on fire.

“Your inner 7 year-old is running around on fire screaming her head off inside of you. You will need to help her heal from The Bean before you can find your way to transcendence and then losing the weight.”

I love this image because it fits. I got it instantly. The Bean is only the second person since Daddy died my inner 7 year-old ever loved and trusted. John, my molesting murderous stalking step-father was the first. After not loving or trusting any man, she loved The Bean. He was fun! He gave her bike, promised to teach her how to do a cartwheel, saw all the good in her–the capacity to trust, to love, to experience, to excel–encouraged her to play, liked how smart she was, and he let her know in a myriad of ways that he would not betray her trust in him. And then he did, which only happened because I–the grown up Jacqueline–let him get close enough to her for her to get hurt. He hurt her. I betrayed her.

Obi-Wan pointed out to me that with The Bean seven-year old Jacquie finally went to sleep and rested. She still would wake up and cry sometimes out of fear, but the fact that I allowed myself to get so close to The Bean that I would allow myself to imagine really being with someone demonstrated my just how far and healthy I am–with her as a part of me. I had earned her trust enough to work through her immature and naive fears, which are never placated with rationality. Nurture yes, but logic no. More than anyone, she trusted me to keep her safe and to tell her who she could trust. More than anyone, she feels I let her down.

Seven year-old Jacquie only knows one way to deal with her terror when she feels she is in a trap where she will lose BIG again. She builds walls…walls of fat. These walls keep the fear at bay, the bad men away, and her safely protected against anymore betrayal or abandonment. They work for her–she is seven after all–but they do not work for me. I am on a journey now to comfort her, build up the trust with her again, and help her to let go of cupcakes making the world tilt right again.

What components make up a “real man?” I hear men talking about not being a “pussy”–i.e. not being a woman–and illuminating the characteristics of being real. These contests often rely more on brawn than the strength of character. You took the dive off the cliff into the ocean’s cool waters. Can you be man enough to leap into a woman’s warm embrace and find solace there? You made the deal of a lifetime. Will you follow-through? You are a good person. Will you live by your word even when it is hard and difficult? Your body can lift the weight of another off the ground. Can you trust another person with your underbelly and know they will not sucker punch you when you are as vulnerable as Atlas?*

I do not think it is easy to be a real man in this unreal world. The weight of the world is firmly placed on men’s shoulders. They bear the burden of protection–physical and financial–from those men and women who utilize their power and brutality to harm the rest of us. Having integrity in the face of a rat race where lying and cheating are expectations, not exceptions, cannot be easy. Working unreal hours must make some men long for the days without electricity, where they were forced to draw up to the fire like Pa Ingalls by seven most nights. How many men do I know who have trouble sleeping? So much to do and so little time. Too much pressure all around to do, to be, to accomplish, to achieve, to surpass. No wonder many of them approach women in much the same manner they would a business deal. What is in it for me?

The so-called Men’s Movement attempts to move men towards a more egalitarian understanding of their gender role in life, while also addressing the often forgotten needs of fathers, the mythology of masculinity, and a reclaiming of it, amongst others. The Promise Keepers charge their followers to adhere to a moral Christian code within the confines of a narrow theology based on misogyny and a broken patriarchy. The gift within the Promise Keepers ideology is its focus on men keeping their word to the women in their lives and calling them to submission to God’s authority over their own self interests. The problem–as is often the case–is whose version of God’s authority wins? The God who smites those he hates? The God who kills the first born children of the enemy? The God who affirms women being seen as chattel? The God who commands colicky babies be smashed against a wall? Or instead will it be the God willing to hang on a tree like so many who are persecuted for their beliefs? Will it be the God of the poor and ill? Will it be the God who calls a woman to lead and not just serve? Will it be the God of Love for all persons, or just the God of persons not unlike themselves?

I see so many men who suffer in this world of flux and responsibility as they seek to rise above the patterns of destruction and disenfranchisement. I cheer them on towards the prize of a life of meaning! I also am cheering one of them on towards finding me, for I know I have the gifts, gumption and giving nature to make a real partnership with someone work. I do not aspire to sucker punch the man of my heart like so many women seem to be doing these days–I know, I keep dating their ex’s. I am so very tired of hearing story after story from men about the inhuman ways women treat them out of spite. Women need to celebrate the beauty and the strength of the men in their lives, and stop with the gender assassination every-time “he” does not do what “she” wants. For myself, I consciously work on never saying “MEN!” in response to some bad thing a particular male person did. I also correct my friends on this point, and name all the singular men of integrity I know–all of whom have an uncommon grace, but are not as rare as some might think.

I, myself, am looking for a man of uncommon grace. After recently finishing Kate Braestrup’s book Here If You Need Me, I felt inspired to articulate ten core qualities he will need to possess. Kate is an Unitarian Universalist minister serving as a Chaplain to the Game Wardens of Maine, and her book speaks of so much of what I find to be meaningful about walking beside people in ordinary and extraordinary ways as a Chaplain. She did not set out on that path, only finding it her calling after her husband died. Towards the end of the book, she writes an amazing passage about a conversation she and her four children have casually one day where they describe what the next man in their lives will be like, having been left hurt and disillusioned by the last. Simple words written by a child’s pencil end up on their fridge, and in time a man fitting those descriptors and so much more comes into all of their lives.

Here are the ten I put on my refrigerator:

1. Funny
2. Integrity
3. Smart
4. No children (or ex-wife)
5. Wants children
6. Willing to go to church
7. Kind hearted
8. Left
9. Serves
10. Active

There are some things, however, I “wish” for but did not make my top ten. Some of them include: rides a bike, reads books, loves dogs, never wears tank tops (click here to find out why), and has a purpose. I think being heterosexual falls into the “goes without saying” category! My friends, The Boys, were quick to point out that they would make the cut on my wishes and needs lists, but alas given they are Gay, they would N.O.T! That is the funny thing about lists, they are just starting off places. I am not looking for anything in anyone I do not have to offer, and I am more than mere words on a page. He must be too.

As I look over the list, I find myself surprised that Plant Geek was really the one person I dated who fit these the very best. And The Bean? He turned out to be 60% Guy. No thank you. I want my 100% Man, with all the surprises of what else makes him unique and special meted out along the way. This is what will make him real to me in the end–the aspects I cannot define but will cherish through the joy of knowing him. And in the meantime, I continue to focus on the joy of being me in the world and on the places I need to grow and change. I have a”little life left in me yet.”

Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside this woman’s work,
This woman’s world.
Ooh, it’s hard on the man,
Now his part is over.
Now starts the craft of the father.

I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.

I should be crying, but I just can’t let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can’t stop thinking

Of all the things I should’ve said,
That I never said.
All the things we should’ve done,
Though we never did.
All the things I should’ve given,
But I didn’t.

Oh, darling, make it go,
Make it go away.

Give me these moments back.
Give them back to me.
Give me that little kiss.
Give me your hand.**

*”Farnese Atlas” Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli, Naples, Italy

The image and idea of the tenderness of men–like Atlas–comes from Norah Vincent’s amazing book Self Made Man.

** From Kate Bush’s “This Woman’s Work.”

My friend Pixie and I recently began a series of conversations about yummy older men we know. She takes her son to a sexy sixty-something therapist who projects confidence, knowledge and humor in such a way Pixie is more than a tad mesmerized. I have The Scoundrel, amongst others. We agree these men project a kind of allure younger men just do not possess; but why? What makes these men so interesting and intriguing to two thirty-something young women who normally date men YOUNGER than they are?

Now the simple answer might be: You girls have Father issues! I agree we need to consider this possibility, but for myself I reject this explanation. For one thing, spending $100,000 on therapy dealt with the vast majority of my issues. For another, I have been blessed by having a whole series of lovely men serve as mentors to my life in one way or another: Steve Gilchrist, Kirk Whiteside, Tommy Russell, Dennis Nason, Joe Holland, Joe Moran, Raymond Hargrove, Richard Congdon and Bill Koch…to name a few. These men filled the gaps the death of my father and the arrival of John created for me. At all the points in my growing up excellent role models of what it meant to be a man of integrity met me where I was and nurtured me. For me, I reject the idea of my attraction to an older man being equated to unfulfilled Father needs; Pixie will need to speak for herself!

I must admit how surprised I am to find older men so deeply attractive at this juncture of my life, for I have coveted younger men. Feeling I arrived at the Party of Life so late, I really felt owed a younger man with whom I could build the life I thought I might want with the “right person.” I wanted my chance at bat without the already told stories of ex-wives, children, or dreams broken. I wanted my own love story no one else ever had, and I felt I deserved it because of everything I went through to even get to the Party of Life at all. I can remember when I first started dating The Bean feeling like all the shit of the past was somehow more bearable because the path finally revealed a boy who was excited about who I was in the world and who did not seem intimidated by me or my gifts. Appearances were misleading in that regards, but it did fulfill a fantasy of a sort…for a time. In retrospect, I realize his presence also revealed a deep need in me–namely my desire to be with someone who is excited about who I am and what I bring to the world. I also want to feel that way about him.

I think part of why I never thought much about men older than me relates to my mother marrying someone 19 years her senior–twice! In fact, her current husband is her youngest one ever at just 16 years older. I saw a beautiful 39 year-old woman bury her husband, and Daddy being older played a role in his death. My half sisters had him into their twenties. I could not help but think if Mother had married someone younger I would not have lost my Dad at six. I just could never understand what she found so damn attractive in him when she was 32 and he was 51. I did not understand until Maria’s funeral.

At Maria’s funeral, her husband spoke. His eulogy marked her life and his own. He made the comment: “Forty years ago I can remember being a young man and wondering what my life would be–how it would turn out. Now most of life’s questions have been answered…” In that one moment, I got it. I understood how Daddy offered Mother a man who was not lost or searching to figure out who he was in the world. He offered her a man who possessed self assurance and was settled. He had already become. Mother, at 32, also had already become. She had her own money, a career to be proud of, position, clout, and most importantly, Mother knew exactly who she was.

Pixie and I have been dating all these boys who whine and moan about not knowing what they want to be when they finally grow up. When exactly that will be, we really do not know. I read that adolescence has been extended way past where Evolution would place it because of all of our modern luxuries, and I must say I believe this to be true. How many men do I meet who are in their late twenties or thirties who still have no idea who they are, what they want to contribute to the good of the world, or what passion lights their fire? I know plenty of men who have no idea where they stand on any number of issues–other than a cursory “yes” or “no”–and I know plenty of men more than willing to highlight all of the problems in others or in the world but never willing to do one damn thing about any of it or the shit in their own lives! These same men seem to always meet women not up to their standards, calling many of the women they meet “irrational, emotional, crazy bitches.” And–here is the real kicker–they would rather be with the “crazy bitch” who tells them exactly who they are than be with the woman who wants to know them and delight in their dreams for their life coming true!

I cannot help but wonder: Is it wrong to want to be with a man who does not call his friends a “pussy” when they do not “man-up” and do something the Boy-Code demands? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who wants to spend time cozying up to your pussy, but who also does not think you are just a piece of ass? Is is wrong to want to be with a man who can handle listening to your perspective without needing to call you a cunt behind your back when you are right and he is wrong? Is it wrong to want to be with a man who admires you and in whom you can be proud?

No.

But why does it seem these men only come in older packages these days?

I do believe there is such a thing as too old. The widower of a former patient who is in his eighties likes to tell me how he is in love with me and invites me to live in his home. Silly me, but I do not think it is real love. I think he just needs someone to empty his urinal! He keeps saying to me, “Age is only a number.” Yes; if you are an older man and win the Evolutionary Lottery and have a younger woman interested in you. But when she rejects you because you are too old, it is because age is the only number that counts. As I asked my friend Stepford, “Is there such a thing as too young for an older man?” Probably not. But there is such a thing as too old for us younger girls. Pixie and I will keep up the debate about the age threshold, and keep admiring those yummy older men we know. How could we not? They are self-assured sexy personified!

My Dear Faithful Reader,

We have come to the first anniversary of my blog. First of all, thank you so very much for the affirmation of reading my blog (some of you more than my own Mama!) and sharing with me the places my writing touched you and your story. I must say I am rather surprised by all of this! What started as a way to post photos of my then six week-old puppy Emma–who was still living with her Birth Mother at the time–transformed into something I never expected. I grieved the loss of a meaningful relationship. I worked through much of what it meant for me to work as a hospice chaplain. I highlighted the hilarities of my dating life. And, most importantly, I educated you on men in tank tops!

Given Top Ten Lists are so passe I say, “Nine is Fine!” Here are my favourite nine posts from this last year:

9. I Heart Atheists! This post is dedicated to my patient “Hank,” of whom I wrote. I am glad he is no longer struggling to breathe or to find love.

8. Posting My Big Secret This post received the most private email because people were worried about me. In many ways it was the hardest to write. I reveled an important secret, and in so doing found a way to tell my closest and dearest just how much despair (my definition of anti-hope) I felt following the break-up. This post continues to have meaning for me due to my continuing love of Post Secret, and because I hope by exposing my pain–even as a minister–others fearing the only way through is out might feel comforted.

7. I’m Coming Out: Jesus Know About My Vibrator The year’s most embarrassing and second funniest post. I still cringe when people ask me for my website address thinking about them reading this particular post. Of course this is exactly why it is on this list–I am a glutton for embarrassing myself on this blog with the bitter truth. For the record–and thankfully–I have had sex since I wrote this post! (Once.)

6. The Whispering God Where is God when bad things happen to good people? In part, this post contains my answer to this question and my own thinking about God’s intervention–and lack there of–in our lives.

5. 40 Reasons I Make A Great Girlfriend (and her evil twin 40 Reason I Will Drive You Crazy & Am Not Perfect) This was so much fun, and I met my friend in Austria through putting up the “Great Girlfriend” list on craigslist.

4. A Rose Garden Relationship I continue to think about what I wrote in this post. If there is such a thing as your own writing being a gift to you, it would be this post. I feel it helped me clarify what relationship values continue to remain important to me and also what I ultimately have to offer all of my relationships, including the one I have with myself.

3. You Play, You Pay This post about my prayer for my Aunt Charlyne to come to terms with her cancer and still remains at the forefront of my thinking about her. She finished her second round of chemo, and she will find out next week the results of her latest PET scan. She told us at Christmas she feels the cancer is spreading.  All my work with patients has taught me our bodies tell us the truth–even long before the tests and doctors do–so I cannot help but wonder if hers is telling her a truth now. I do not know what will happen with her body, but I know she will be surrounded by love regardless of the outcome. This is what matters most.

2. Tank Top Wearing Man Candy? The single funniest thing I have ever written! I cannot see a man in a tank top without thinking: “Baby, if you only knew how I felt about THAT!” If you love it too, please go out to Urban Dictionary and suggest “The Tribble Factor” for a word/definition.

1. The Mango Tree My homage to my father and the continuing bonds of love death cannot separate us from and how these bonds continue to inform our present and propel us into our future.

Here is to a wonderful Year Two!

The first time I can ever remember feeling that I loved someone just because they existed and because of who they were to me was when I was three and thought the preacher’s son was just soooo cute. He came to my fourth birthday party, and I knew it was love. The kind of love I practiced with my Barbie and Ken or between Snoopy and every other toy I possessed. He played the Toilet Paper Mummy Game with me, lurking quietly most of the time. In retrospect, the boy had to have hated being forced to go to some younger girl’s party. I was oblivious to this, and only thought he was soooo perfect to marry one day. I cried the day his father announced they were leaving the church. I only saw him one more time–on a visit back to Miami when I was in the eighth grade. I felt relieved that the love one feels at four can be gotten out of at 14! My first love–who never really knew I or my love existed–morphed into a jerk in a military school uniform! What was I thinking?

me at four

Falling in-love and wondering “What was I thinking?” seem to go hand-in-hand sometimes. We humans spend vast quantities of time, money and attention trying to sort out just why it is we fall in-love. Whole forests have given their lives for this exercise…with us waxing poetic, writing and re-writing love letters, and making music for some love who just has to know how we feel about them or feel about their departure from our lives. Whole blogs too! (But I am not naming any names here…gotta have some self-respect!) Yet we still seem at such a loss. Why is it after all these years we still don’t have a clue? Maybe it is because Evolution is such a slow and painstaking process? Or maybe we really do not want to know–it would ruin it for everyone!?

My friend Paulina Ballerina differs from me greatly when it comes to love. She believes that you fall in-love first, and then over time you may find the person worthy of your deep true love. She has been with her current beau for almost two years, and she readily admits she is “in-love” with him. She also says she could love him, but she does not–yet. After two years? I find her position amazing and a bit ludicrous as well. No wonder I am her opposite. I tend to love first, and then if I really love someone and trust them I may begin to allow myself the luxury of falling in-love as well. In my relationships of any sort, I love easily. I look to the good in those around me and value who they are right from the start. “Love” seems the only word fitting for what I see in them and cherish. Opening up my heart to fall in-love, well…that is a whole other matter. For me, falling in-love is a byproduct of trust and quite honestly I never have been in-love.

I find no small measure of shame mentioning this given my age–36–and general sense that I am in fact not the kind of girl boys like, let alone fall for. Dave The Porn Guy (don’t even get me started on how the minister knows the porn producer) put it to me this way: “Just cause a girl is a ten in the categories of personality, intelligence, generosity and success, does not mean she will find a man. She has to be at least a seven in the looks category to get a man of equal or greater value. So, if you are a one or a two in the looks category, and you are a ten in the other areas, you have three choices–1) Give up on finding a man who is your equal emotionally and intellectually. Those guys can get any girl they want because women do not put the same emphasis on looks and so even if they are butt ugly they can land an all-around 10; 2) Become a lesbian; or 3) Go for the loser who works at McDonald’s and who feels grateful to land any girl, even one smarter, who makes more money, and who has a better background than he does. He is a one and won’t balk at dating a one.”

So falling in-love has to do with being a one versus a ten, instead of being “the one?”

I do not agree with all of Dave The Porn Guy’s assessment of the situation–consider the source after all. The guy left his PhD program to make porn, find easy “hott” ass, and avoid depth at all costs. He also refuses to be with the woman he calls the “love of [his] life” out of what seems to amount to just old fashioned fear. However, Dave The Porn Guy did hit a nerve with me reminiscent of how I felt about myself when I was three and four. Even at that young age I felt embarrassed by my feelings. I also felt out-of-control. The little boy did not like me, and I had all these feelings for him. How could I feel something for someone and they not feel it back? These feelings left me vulnerable to ridicule and to others having power over me. How easily my little girl friends could shame me with a few teasing comments! Somehow I equated this vulnerability to my not being worthy of him–or anyone else for that matter–falling in-love with me. Listening to Dave The Porn Guy punch me in every soft underbelly spot of fear I have posses woke me up a bit. Maybe no one ever falls in-love with me because I walk around certain they never could?

No wonder I look for all the good in someone and have to trust them deeply before I can ever even ponder falling in-love with them…it is just too risky otherwise.

My friend Pixie broke up with the guy she was seeing. She is in her early thirties and has two teenage boys, whereas he has no children and is in his late twenties. She knows who she is; he is still defining himself. She is in-touch with her body, mind, emotions and spirit. He knows his mind, but the rest of him has a way of getting away from him or being completely stuffed down or ignored. She opens up under stress and blooms into being her best self. When the trial or tribulation passes–as they always do–she feels the pride and the exhaustion. She knows she has it in her to weather whatever storms come her way. She is a survivor. She knows when she must retreat into a haven of love, friendship and rest. She knows that if she does not nurture her soul, no one else will. He…well, he sees stress as something to be avoided at all costs. He runs into a den of silence and retreats from the difficult emotions–in others and in himself.

After Paul, our friend and co-worker’s husband, was murdered Pixie turned to the guy she was dating. She was upset. Her heart broke for Teri, and she worked hard to support those of us in the epicenter of this nuclear holocaust of violence, loss, unanswerable questions, and grief. She sat with me the night he was killed at dinner, and drove me home after I swilled down two cocktails. I rarely drink, but the day deserved a drink to Paul’s memory and one to dull mine. She called me faithfully and sat beside me at the funeral. She held my loss as she held her own. She got angry at the way our company put my Social Worker and I through the wringer and then slapped us in the face with a “stay strong for the patients” without considering that we had nothing left to give. Spent, she needed to talk. She reached out to the guy, and he responded, “I don’t understand why Jacqueline and you are so upset?”

The dividing line was drawn, and he is now gone from her inner life.

I understand completely. When something terrible happens those of us in the epicenter of pain-especially those of us who are caregivers–we need the ones we are closest to in life to provide a safe shelter from the storm and fallout. We need the voices of Love and Friendship to say to us, “I am here for you, so you can be there for them.” We will repay the favor ten-fold. We will love you with undying affection and gratitude. Knowing that your arms will entwine our battered bodies and spirits gives us the courage to face the deepest darkness humanity wrecks upon one another. Your help so we can alight upon a resting place makes all the difference in the world. A quick “let me come and take you to dinner” matters more than all the money in the world.

Unfortunately, sometimes we get only silence. I think what happened with Pixie and her beau is worse though. The accusation is that if we were not upset–because somehow being upset about someone you know being murdered and how that devastates one you love deeply is irrational–then there would not be a reason to be upset. It seems so neat and tidy, but painful feelings are never clean. They are always messy and leave us discombobulated in their wake. As well they should! I do not want to live my life prepared for the worse-case scenario. I would never get out of bed! So, I will stumble, tremble, and fall down when the shit hits the fan. The reproach and silence that can come from even those we trust the most adds insult to injury. No wonder Pixie drew the line.

The person I was seeing at the time was very busy with his life, so I tried to not burden him with it all. I let him call me. Unfortunately, when he would call to check on me he would also talk A LOT about his “irrational and crazy” ex-wife. A dividing line was drawn the night before the funeral, and when he asked me if I would ever be seeing him again I had to tell him the truth–I would not.

And then there are those who just get what we need. When Paul died I wrote a pain-filled email to The Scoundrel, who was living in Paris at the time. He wrote back saying: “This is very very horrible. I love you and kiss you on the head…….I’m sorry………It’s just so horrible….Do you have a friend who can hold you? xxxxx”

So I told The Scoundrel the truth…there was no one to hold me. The feeling that overcame me when he wrote those words to me was “emptiness.” Somehow emptiness seems better than longing. Emptiness implies being open and ready to receive, just the right fit has not come yet to sit in that space with me. Longing is when the one you count on to sit beside you when you are beside yourself cannot or will not come. This is what happened with Pixie–she longed for him to be with her, but he fell to the other side of the dividing line.

Since my father’s death in 1977 I rarely dream of him. One dream during college where I realized the old man telling me not to “throw my heart away” on the man with the Southern Drawl was Daddy just as I awakened ashamed to not have recognized him in time to talk to him. Another dream in High School where my friend and I hit a man on a bike during a terrible and blinding storm. I saw the man was Daddy, and became horrified since we killed him. In my dream, I ran home to tell Mother only for her to laugh as she put on lipstick saying, “He’s been dead for years.”

I am an avid dreamer. In fact, if I could make one film it would be of my dreams. In my dreams I see colours I never see in my life. In my dreams the feelings seem more vivid too. There is an urgency, even with the dreams full of pleasure and humor. Sometimes I wake up laughing…sometimes crying. Often the dreams seem more real than real. Do you ever feel that way? I fall deeply into them and often have to tell some poor soul what happened before the day is set right. This is a pattern from childhood. The funny thing about dreams is that their true significance to us remains only with the one who had the dream. Dreams are completely singular. No one else remembers them–at least not unless we are paying them for their expertise and interpretation! Yet, they become part of our personal history nonetheless.

When I was a little girl I had a dream about a boy from my class I had a terrible crush on that year. As my mother attempted to patiently listen to all the gory details of the dream, she could not resist the temptation to tease me. “Sounds like a nightmare to me Jacqueline.” I replied, “Oh no Mommy; it was a wonderful-mare.”

The week I graduated from Seminary I had my only “wonderful-mare” of Daddy. In the dream, I had just moved into a beautiful and modern building where I could see the ocean. As I descended the grand staircase to the lobby I asked a girl about where I could get ice cream, and she directed me to the boardwalk and an ice cream stand in the sand. As I walked the boardwalk, I went into an antique shop looking for forks for a party. I found my friend Jennifer, and we in turn came upon my “sister” and her “husband.” My “brother-in-law” and I left them to look at an art book in the shop and went off to hunt for the ice cream. He wore a blue button down rolled at the sleeves with madras shorts and brown leather flip flops. I held his hand. He asked me about how things were going. I broke down in tears–now knowing he was in fact my father–and we sat down on a nearby bench. I asked him if I would ever find love, stating that I wanted someone wonderful like him. He laughed and told me I did not want him but someone better! I said, “Oh Daddy, who is better than you?” He pulled me close and told me, “You’ll see.” I asked him if he was proud of me and all that I was about and doing in the world. He kissed the top of my head and told me he was. I can remember seeing the mascara stains on his shirt and apologizing. He again laughed saying, “I am wash and wear.” (Perfectly Daddy in every way.)

We got up and walked hand-in-hand out to the special ice cream stand in the sand, which turned out to be a Dairy Queen (I was robbed!). As we stood in line contemplating our selections, he turned to me. “Jacqueline. You have to promise me something.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“Jacqueline listen to me–this is very important–you have to promise me that no matter what happens you will remember the joy.”

“Yes Daddy.”

“No. Jacqueline. Listen to me! You must remember the joy. No matter what.”

“I will Daddy. I promise.”

“Remember the joy Jacqueline. Remember the joy.”

When I awoke the next morning my heart was humming with the melody of “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy Down In My Heart.” I could not figure out why. Then I remembered someone told me to remember the joy. I sat straight up in bed and remembered Daddy! Daddy was the one who told me to remember the joy! The whole dream flooded back to me, and I still hold it as tightly as I did then. My one visit from my long gone beloved. How could I not?

I believe in joy over happiness because of its transcendent quality. I believe in the joy of my life because of the love and connection I feel to those I love and to the world all around me. Sometimes it takes my breath away to consider just how much beauty and love there really is all around me and in me at any given moment. My daily worship comes from drinking in the sky when I walk or ride my bike with Emma. These are not religious moments, but I touch Spirit and Love and all that is more than the dissected parts. I touch wholeness. I feel the creativity–the endless creativity–all around me. I recently read a really brilliant line about God being restless and unable to specialize as evidenced by the sheer plethora of divergent organisms.* My contemplative time in the splendor of nature makes me giggle with this thought. The abundance of creativity is because of God’s obvious lack of focus!

Sometimes the sheer brilliance is so much, and I am so overtaken with the joy, I stop in my tracks. I stand still and try and photograph with my mind a singular moment that is not just what my eyes see, but all of the ways my senses are on fire from the beauty, the stillness, the colours, the quality of the air, the hints of perfume lighting upon me. Recently I had just such a moment. The moon was rising and greeting me to the East, just as the sun set in all its bright pinks and oranges. I felt caught between them flooded with joy…pure unadulterated joy.

I could not help but wonder to myself, “When was there another so perfect moment of joy?” And without warning all the joy of listening, watching, laughing, talking to, being with, and touching The Bean overcame me. The rage and hatred at him and myself all spent, I remembered the joy. I burst into a flood of tears and longing for a path that my head never lets my heart look down any longer. I thought of Ann Hampton Callaway’s song where she wonders if there is “some kind of heaven” where old love can go to be used by a long since gone lover when they need it most desperately. I prayed there is–for him and for me.

I remembered the joy between the rising moon and the setting sun; it was a challenge in every way.

*I cannot remember where. Let me know if this sounds familiar to you!

PHOTO CREDIT: The Bean

My Team Secretary, Teri Beroldi-Rein, asked me to write up her feelings about her murdered husband. These words were read by the Broward County Sheriff’s Office Chaplain at his funeral on Teri’s behalf. During the service, I could not help but think how this lovely and lively man dedicated to public service deserved just such a send-off. Only he also deserved to have it come after he died an old man in his bed, not as a “reward” for being murdered. Utterly unbelievable!

The most moving part for me was the drive to the graveside and seeing all the people lined up on the side of the road with their hands over their hearts and heads bowed. Paul deserved their respect, and I am glad he received this honor. He may have died senselessly, but he also died doing what he loved–public service.

Photo Credit: ALBERT DIAZ/MIAMI HERALD STAFF

In honor of Deputy Paul Rein October 5, 1931 - November 7, 2007

Photo Credit: BSO ONLINE PHOTO

Here are her thoughts and my words:

I must admit it is hard to find words to describe what is in my heart about Paul. I know it, but words just don’t seem to be enough. How can I describe all those little moments of living with someone? A knee brushed at the dinner table with a quick smile, a brief phone call to say “I love you,” his hand holding mine…a million little things that wrote his name again and again on my heart. Our love is like that…so tiny it wiggled right into each and every cell of my being and so large that it overwhelmed me with a million kindnesses.

To say that Paul was a good man seems an insignificant way to describe the purity of his goodness that touched all he did and all he knew. I never could believe I found such a beautiful person to spend my life with after years raising my family alone. My family loved him the moment they met him, and they love him for the way he brought happiness and love to my life. But Paul was never just focused on his family: He reached out with that same goodness to friend, neighbor and stranger alike.

One day Paul and I walked through the grocery store and a young man approached us. He asked Paul if he remembered transporting him to court. Paul told him he did and asked, “Did you do what I told you to do?” The young man told him that he had in fact listened to Paul’s wise advice and cleaned up his act. He had a job and was doing well. You should have seen the look of pride on Paul’s face! His encouragement made a difference in that young man’s life. You should have seen the look of pride in my own face. What an honor to spend my life with the kind of man who would not just look at someone who made a mistake as a nobody, but as someone needing a little fatherly advice to get them back on the right path.

I did not just love my husband; I also admired him. His tenderness, wisdom and willingness to give his very best inspired me. Paul knew what it meant to work hard. He grew up poor, so life was always a struggle in his family. Yet he grew up to do the right thing and live his life with integrity and purpose…he and all of his buddies from the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Those guys remained friends these last 70 years. Unbelievable! “The German.” “Germs.” “The Weasel.” “Cooney.” “Mayor.” “Pucky.” “Jake the Snake.” These are just some of the nicknames the guys went by. Imagine my surprise when one of their wives called the house one day asking for “Pucky.” I had no idea who that was! Paul admitted that in fact he was “Pucky.” His father gave him the nickname when he was a small boy, and it stuck with the neighborhood boys. I felt like I finally crossed into his precious inner circle of friends when I found out about “Pucky!”

Paul never took the happiness we had together for granted or took for granted my devotion to him. He knew what a special love we have. Just the other day we were watching “Dancing With the Stars,” and he danced around the den asking me to dance. I see him there full of life, joy, playfulness and love. I see him in all the stories people tell me of his goodness towards them. I see him faithfully going with me different places, not wanting to miss a moment of being together. I see the light of pride in his eyes the night I converted to Judaism. And I see him every night when I would come home and he would say to me, “Here is my darling. Here is my sweetheart. How was your day?”

Paul is my darling. Paul is my sweetheart. I will miss him deeply all the days of my life.

I often think of the themes in my life as acting like boomerangs. Something may happen to me–a great pain or loss–that sends out the very best of me scatted against the wind, but eventually they all return to their rightful home within me. This last year has been full of this kind of scattering, and if you have ever read my blog, you know what I am talking about. A year of more challenges and stress than my body, mind or spirit could handle, and a heart so broken I thought it was beyond repair for most of this year.

Now there is just something about a list that I dearly love. Lists organize my life! I have running lists for the things I need, the things I want to accomplish (like having more sex in the coming year–twice in 12 months is just not enough!!!), lists of places I want to experience, lists of problems I am facing, and, well, the list goes on and on and on… This blog has been full of some great lists:

• A list of my experiences right up to my blindsided break-up: Post-Mortem: My November
• A list of the reasons why I am a good girlfriend: 40 Reasons I Make a Good Girlfriend
• A list of all diseases, losses and freak-outs of the last year: The Stress Mess
• A list of why I don’t trust men in tank tops (and my personal favourite post): Tank Top Wearing Man Candy?
• Not to mention the list of all the men I loved before (go on and hum it, you know you want to): The Dating Game

So in honor of my little list making fetish, I offer up on my one-year anniversary since this unbelievable year began with my emergency root canal the following list of all my gratitude for what this last year gave me–in no particular order:

1. My Ordination. This day was full of more love than I could have ever imagined, and I have drawn deeply from those waters this year.
2. Surviving This Year! If you read “Posting My Big Secret” and “Shift Change” you know that this is an ACCOMPLISHMENT all by itself! Not only do I feel I survived, but I feel stronger, happier and more at peace with who I am than at any other point in my life.
3. EMMA! Gotta love Miss Puppy Girl. She is my joy. We have really fallen in love these last few months, especially after her mean cousin Morgan left! Morgan, my niece, is part of the Puppy Gestapo. Her departure turned on the “My Mommie is not a meanine.” light over Emma’s head. Plus, she is FINALLY growing up…a little bit. She still has to wear a leash in the house–all the better to catch her and take my stolen bra out of her mouth with!!

   

4. Paparazzo. I have said it before, and I will say it again: I do not know how I would have made it through without him. I tease him that he is always “pulling my pigtails,” i.e. driving me nuts just because he can. Yesterday morning while doing crunches on the living room floor, Emma bit my ponytail and pulled hard. The more I would go to stop her the more she would pull. I ended up in a pool of tears and laughter! No wonder the two of them love each other so much–they are cut from the same cloth!
5. Casa Derby. I lived for 2.5 years without my own belongings, so coming home in February filled my heart in ways I cannot even describe. I missed my Red Turkey Rug! I missed my books, music, bed, sofa and enough dishes to host a party for an army. How sweet it is to be home again. Moving home also brought new friends and neighbours. They met me mid Apocalypse and adopted me straight away. I needed the affirmation of new friends, and so I am grateful the latest incarnation of Casa Derby came with some.
6. My Mama and My Sista. These two continue to show me love, love, love, even when I am only full of fear and despair.
7. My Work and Team. I get unbelievable joy knowing I am doing the kind of work that crosses the religious divide and finds people right where they are and ministers to their hurting hearts in that place. My patients and their families are my teachers, and I value their lessons. Ministering to my atheist patient this year, and the work in general, has given me my inspiration as I apply to Vanderbilt’s PhD program. I also have a wonderful team to work with, but especially my manager, my social worker, my secretary, and my nurses Wendy and Lisa. They all make each day a worthy sacrifice. (Trust me! At what I make, the word “sacrifice” is perfect.)
8. My Bereavement Group. If I ever have a friend go through a crushing break-up, I will immediately buy them Alan Wolfelt’s book Understanding Your Grief: Ten Essential Touchstones for Finding Hope and Healing Your Heart . Working through this book with my group, and the group’s grieving processes in general, helped me to identify that what happened to me was just the normal grief one experiences when someone you love dies. I suddenly no longer felt so isolated in my grieving, and listening to them give voice to their mourning, gave me an opportunity to accept my own. Once I got that the person I knew and loved did in fact die–metaphorically and literally, in as much as that person was no longer real or real in my life–I could finally find the courage to accept the past as it was, accept the me that I truly am, and move on towards my own best future.
9. My Bike. My Bike. My Bike. I love my shitty bike, and I am accepting cash donations (through PayPal of course) towards my next ride. It may just be one of the crappiest bikes on the planet for someone to ride 50-70 miles a week on, but she keeps on going strong. I love waving to the guys mowing my golf course at 6:30 in the morning with their headlights shining out in the dark. I love riding with Emma! I just love riding her period. Giant, Specialized and Cannondale may get quite a bit of my internet window shopping, but she gets my attention day-in-and-day-out. I would have gained a TON of weight without the bike given my knee, so I am so appreciative to have this bike even if it is not all that good of one or all that cool. She does what she is supposed to do–for the most part–and I am grateful.
10. My Blogs. Writing has given voice to my despair and to my hope, both of whom are constant partners in my dance of life. The affirmation of my faithful readers and the new friends I have made as a result, gave wings to the fact that I did in fact have a meaningful future without the one I had loved. He and I began a conversation–an important one for me personally and one of importance for the world in which we live–and when it ended abruptly I feared the conversation died too. In working on this blog and Don’t Be A Christian (which will be more fully operational January 2008), I found new partners in that conversation, found I could do it on my own (dammit!!!!), and the impetus to be bold enough to go after a PhD. I was once sent an email from someone wondering if this blog was the beginning of something else because she could sense something brewing in me from my writing. The truth is the blog began as a way to show photos of my new puppy! What it has become astounds me, but I also know it has been central to my healing and to my reaffirmation that indeed my middle name is hope.

There are certain songs that have supported me too, but especially the words to two Bjork songs: The whole of “All is Full of Love.” I keep reminding myself that I am full of love to both give and receive, and although it may not come from the places I expected, it is always right there within me and for me. The other song is “It’s Not Up To You.” The lyrics are amazing. She sings, “I wake up and the day feels broken. I tilt my head. I’m trying to get an angle…if you wake up and the day feels broken, just lean into the crack…notice how it sparkles.” This has been a year of leaning into the crack, and much to my surprise it has sparkled in ways unimaginable last year. Me too. I still sparkle.

With gratitude for the 525,600 minutes of this last unbelievable year,

Rev. Jacqueline Hope Derby

Photo Credit: PAPARAZZO

Studying for the GRE–the Graduate Record Exam–has created a crushing pain in my spirit. This pain envelops me and leaves me paralyzed at times. Why? Now I do like to call the GRE “The Graduate Retching Exam” because of all of the math, which I worked hard (okay, not that hard) to forget as promptly as it was no longer needed, but that is not why. The reasons why have much more to do with feeling I am putting my feet on a path that will take me away from a dream for my life…the dream to be married and have a baby. I feel I am choosing to give birth to ideas instead of a family, and I am afraid of the loneliness this path might bring.

I did not date for all of my teens and twenties. I never kissed anyone. I never felt anyone was even interested in me as a girl, let alone as a girlfriend. I got the message very early on that I was not in-fact, “girlfriend material.” Oh sure, I had guy friends. They love me! But I was never enough…not pretty enough, not thin enough, not cool enough, etc. Or I was too much. Too smart. Too opinionated. Too radical. Too fat. Too fucked up by my past. I kept getting the message that if I could just be, well, not me, then and only then would I deserve the love and respect of the men I liked or was involved with (after my thirtieth birthday).

Much of why I did not date for so long had to do with me and only me. I was just terrified of anyone coming near me. Terrified they would get close and see how fractured I was from being molested. I did not want anyone to see me naked. Shit! I hardly let anyone see any skin when I was fully clothed, always in long shirts buttoned way up even in the Miami summer. I felt so unsure of who I was as a woman. What did that even mean? I was asexual in many ways. I never looked at a guy and thought about sleeping with him, actually that still takes a lot of work on my part. Those feelings never come easily because even my fantasy life is cautionary. The one place where I could have a real mental free-for-all, and I judiciously practice safe sex with only emotionally well-known partners, who I actually do not know because I refuse to fantasize about people I know but am not dating! In other words, in order to get it up for an imaginary boyfriend I have to create a whole back story, emotions, etc. It is a whole hell of a lot of work!

Somehow I made it though that wilderness and found a way to be naked physically with The First, but I kept much of my true self to myself. I can see now that I only slept him because it was safe and controllable. Well, those and the fact that he would sleep with me. I was thirty-one after all and a virgin. I just wanted to have sex because I was afraid that if I did not at that point I never would. What a terrifying thought, but also a real one. I see that other than The Bean, everyone I ever got naked with had some element of safety to them. My biggest safety net being that if they were fucked up in some manner, then I felt it would be okay if I was a little too.

You get what you pay for; right?

After Plant Geek broke up with me because he “could not be attracted to someone like me” and just went out with me because “I was so healing,” I called Tammy Wayne to pour out my heart. I felt like I worked so hard through therapy, getting up at six in the morning to work out and drop some fucking weight, trying to accept my body, my heart, my mind, etc., and to actually trust and be naked with someone. I worked so hard, but no one was going to love me. I still was not good enough. I still was too much or not enough. I got all “dressed up” for the love party, and regardless got stuck against the wall with the other “flowers” nobody wanted. I came away from that conversation feeling like I poured it all out and maybe could just accept that it was not going to be my destiny to be loved in time to have a baby. Yes; it might happen, but it was unlikely.

Then I met The Bean and really trusted and loved someone for the first time in my whole life. I was thirty-five, and it finally happened to me. But only to me.

Here I am. I am thirty-six now, and I walked, crawled, dug, scratched, ran, swam and Tae Bo’d my way out of the hell of my first twenty-five years. I made it, but I still have never been loved by a man. I have never laid against someone in the dark and heard them whisper “I love you.” in my ear. Maybe the me that exists is not “girlfriend material?” I may be the “exception to the rule” girl, and as much as guys might want that in some ways, the truth is it scares the shit out of them. Scares me too sometimes, like right this very moment. I see what a fucking challenge I am! I take life seriously. I take my life very seriously. I am passionate to a fault. I insist on being me. I do not let myself get away with much, but I especially do not let my emotions go without investigation. Need proof? Here I am, up from bed, writing down all of my feelings on this topic well past my bedtime, with a stack of wadded up tissues on the desk from crying so hard as I write this.

I started this particular thread months ago and called it “Baby Blues.” I wanted to articulate a deep understanding about who I am fundamentally and my own acknowledgment of the price I might pay for being me. I am me. Just me. I only want to be me, but the message I get from most men I know or have known is: “Could you be a little less?” Often men tell me how “silly” I am. This “silliness” is usually over “thinking too much” or giving a rat’s ass about something they feel is a ridiculous waste of time. I often hear Madonna’s “What It Feels Like For A Girl” playing in my head during those moments of confrontation over my “silliness.”

Hurt that’s not supposed to show
And tears that fall when no one knows
When you’re trying hard to be your best
Could you be a little less

Do you know what it feels like for a girl
Do you know what it feels like in this world
What it feels like for a girl

Strong inside but you don’t know it
Good little girls they never show it
When you open up your mouth to speak
Could you be a little weak

I made it this far in my life because of my own inner strength. I made it because I believe in a Love greater than my own comprehension that weaves us all together. I made it because of all of the love from those in my life who never want me to be weak, or less, or other. In large part, I loved The Bean because he never called me silly or gave me the impression that I was not enough or too much. (Granted, he did feel this way and told me so after we split.)

My mother really valued what The Bean brought to my life because she understands how lonely and isolating being smart in my way has been for me. Sometimes I wonder if during my life she has felt ill equipped to help me with these feelings? I think her own pain at his leaving had a lot to do with feeling like finally there was someone in my life who not only got me, but also genuinely was excited to discover all my inner nooks and crannies. She sees me, but does not always get me. And it is the “getting me” part that is difficult to do and difficult to accept without wanting me to “be a little less.”

So when I think of my own “baby blues,” I realize I could get married and have a baby. If it was THE most important thing to me, I would allocate all of my resources to it. I would be willing to give up certain things that I consider paramount, like my career or calling. It would also require a willingness to dumb myself down in order to find someone who might consider me both girlfriend and wife material. I am not saying all men would require this, instead I offer that if marriage and a baby are the most important thing to me I would do anything to get them, even that.

Marriage and a family are not that important to me. I will not give up on who I am or what matters to me in order to have them. At thirty-six I must acknowledge the time reality of finding the right person to add to who and what my life is already about is not in my favor. And then there is Grad School. My mother is right when she tells me how she hears how lonely and isolated I am right now intellectually. She kicks me in the butt over the GRE because she knows I need what a graduate program can bring me, and what I have sorely longed for since The Bean left.

I will be the first to admit that I freaked out when Mr. Joy  told me that he did not see himself leaving South Florida or having a child. I freaked out because I feel like that desire of mine is just a small thread in my hands. I can feel the weight of the world and my own sense of calling pulling against that fragile thread. One day it might very well be fully un-spooled and gone forever. We parted ways given the heartbreak destiny we could see awaiting us, and I am still a little bit sad. The worst part was the wanting to stay in South Florida, not the baby part, in my final analysis. I do not want to give up the dreams I am in fact willing to do anything difficult or painstaking to achieve…not for anyone. I am only “Jacqueline Material” after all, and if Jacqueline finds herself a girlfriend, or wife, or mother, then great; but I must remain Jacqueline regardless of the roles and responsibilities of my life.

I would not want to be anyone less.

I just began dating Mr. Joy. He radiates happiness, hence the nickname. We got to talking about the one word we would use to describe one another from the night of our first date. My word for him was “happy;” he chose “fun” for me. Don’t you just love it when you meet someone and they radiate love and hope? I want to be like that, and even though in some ways I am what one person once called “ridiculously optimistic,” there are parts of me that deeply remember all the sadness and lack in my life thus far. I get up and keep trying not because of some silly ignorance at the truths of life, but out of sheer force will to not allow the shit of my life to win and weigh me down.

That shit has been a real pest this last year. I feel a wind blowing through my soul and lifting it up and out. This process is difficult; I have used it as a fuel to get to this place in my life. I use it at work to create Healing Bridges day-after-day. Yet I still trip on the old fears of abandonment, value and loss. Life has been offering me opportunities of late to let go of the past and my fears of the future and just live in the gift of the present. I feel like Mr. Joy is a part of that gift in the now for me. My Cousin Bopper believes life brings you what I need, and I need joy in my life. I already have it in my family, friends, in who I am, and in my sweet Emma.

In that spirit I offer you the following photographs of glee and bliss, also known as “Emma goes for a bike ride with her Mama.”

The dog trainer came out a week ago and hooked up a “Canine-Cruiser” to my bike. Emma is attached by a bungee chord. We are riding about 4 miles a day now. She loves it!

And her Mama loves how she comes home POOPED OUT!

My busy puppy has finally found her inner napper.

Can you feel the love?

Emma truly makes our home The Glee Club!

The “HBO” chair was my Granddaddy, Heber Burton Osborne’s. Emma loves it too!

All photographs were taken by our wonderful Paparazzo and his bazillion dollar new camera.

Do you know what “rumination” is? “It means obsessing about problems, about a loss, about any kind of a setback or ambiguity without moving past thought into the realm of action.” (link to article by Ellen McGrath) You know…when you mind spins out of control. My mind is constantly going, but when it spins I can feel the difference in my body. I feel the tilt of the Earth. My thoughts circular, so I just keep looping back to where I started. I get stuck. I feel trapped. Despair overwhelms me.

My recent Healing Touch workshop stopped all the rumination. Somehow–like a hand reaching out and grasping my spinning mind and heart–the healing took hold in me in those gentle moments of comfort and learning. I found silence. I found peace. I found love. I lay on the table, and the latch opened. The spring released. I felt hope again.

The hope seeping into my spirit feels like an in-breaking. A little crack in the wall of helplessness. A shift change. Not a 180 degree turnaround, but a five percent move. These last nine months of my life have been full of noise, and now the volume is finally turned down enough to think, pray and hope again. I feel it in my bones.

When I lay on the table during the different practice sessions, all I felt was love. I would clear my mind, focus on my breath, and love would come to me. I could feel the love towards myself especially. A forgiveness. A prayer of thanksgiving for who I am and the joy I know I bring to life. A gratitude too for all the love in my life. I kept thinking about how much love Paparazzo has given me this year, and how much I love him. He is so beautiful, funny and kind. I thought of my family and how my aunt’s cancer has given us the gift of closeness. We lost some measure of it when my Grandmother died. I thought of my friends and how they encircle me with tenderness and fidelity.

I also thought about work. I realized I am missing out on being creative, and the places where I feel like I can soar creatively speaking seem to also be the places where the system of corporate chaplaincy requires acquiescence. I thought of the love I have for my patients and their families. I told myself, “I forgive you for having such a shitty first year there.” I also realize I cannot serve my call to God and also serve a corporate mindset. I made a promise to myself to stop trying. I still am some days, but then I play a new mantra in my head: “Do what you think is best as a minister, for them and for yourself.” I feel more empowered and much much less angry. I am still working on the fear though.

I did not think of The Bean. Somehow I guess that is important. I recently went over the worst of what he could have or might have done–the cheating, the lying, the pretending–and imagined sitting there hearing a full confession. I said all the hurtful things I could say in my heart and realized they were only directed towards myself. All the feelings of failure were about my not being good enough, and I felt terribly uncomfortable speaking to myself that way. So, I imagined the conversation again, but this time I thought only of loving myself as I am right now. In that imaginary confession my response was understanding. Pity, even. None of it belonged to me any more. Maybe it never did…

I came away from the Healing Touch experience and reached out for some help. I must say I am rather proud of myself on that front! Not easy, but so necessary. I do not feel like I am in it alone, which is always a place of despair for me. In allowing my heart to feel the love of those who support me and believe in me, I decided it would be okay to tell some of them exactly where I am–even the messy parts about wanting and planning to die in January. I cannot even begin to tell you how hard saying those words was, but I did. I said them.

Little changes. My life looks much the same as it did prior to the workshop, but I feel the new trajectory that the five percent shift change brought about. I feel open to all sorts of new possibilities, and I am even going to apply for a PhD program in NashVegas. I may not end up there, but I want to keep the future open to go wherever Love leads. Ah….Love leading me…I guess that is what I got connected back to in those moments of quiet. I know it seems like there was a lot of thinking, but these thoughts all came to me like the smells wafting out from a kitchen. They perfumed the air of my mind.

Here is a favourite quote from the poet Rumi that sums up where my mind and spirit are working to rest right now:

Reason is powerless in the expression of Love. Love alone is capable of revealing the truth of Love and being a Lover. If you want to live, die in Love; die in Love if you want to remain alive.

It is funny…this post has been simmering in my mind this last week and reworked quite a few times. Normally, when I sit down to write I write passionately and furiously. Everything sort of pours out. Not this time. Not now. The change–the letting go–the settling–took the stinger out of it all.

After writing my last post about my sexless love life and dating disasters, I felt inspired. I put up my list (basically–I did make some small edits) on Craigslist to try and dip back into the dating pool. I received many interesting responses, including quite a few lists from men of their own Top 40 Reasons to date them! Some of which were really beautiful. Although I did get a bit offended that this one guy thought I was too much of cow to date, but did use my list to create his own list and then posted it on CL to attract the skinnier girls. WTF? I am too ugly, but my list is too good to pass up copying? PLAHHHEEESE!

I also got quite a few men saying that not only was a the “perfect” girlfriend, I would also make the “perfect” wife, partner, etc. I found myself always writing back to them to let them know how un-perfect I really am. Too much pressure to live up to, in my estimation. I was also totally flattered. So, in the spirit of full disclosure and imperfection, I offer to you the following list…with many thanks to Janeane Garofalo for the perfect quotation to start off my own thinking about what it means to be imperfect me:

“Many people feel that mass acceptance and smooth socialization are desirable life paths for a young adult… Many people are often wrong… Don’t bother being nice. Being popular and well liked is not in your best interest. Let me be more clear; if you behave in a manner pleasing to most, then you are probably doing something wrong. The masses have never been arbiters of the sublime, and they often fail to recognize the truly great individual. Taking into account the public’s regrettable lack of taste, it is incumbent upon you not to fit in.”

- Janeane Garofalo

1. I do not want to think or be just like everyone else.
2. I hate the suburbs. Architecture should be interesting and diverse; it should surprise you. Most suburbs are based on the idea that everybody wants basically the same thing.
3. I prefer old to new. I would rather recover an old chair fifty times than buy a new one. And if I buy a new one, I want to make sure it is well made so my grandkids can recover it fifty times.
4. I do not want my children–if I ever have any–to fit in completely at school. I want them to have it tough. I want them to have to build emotional muscles and empathy, which only comes from the school of ridicule.
5. I will judge you based on what kind of car you drive. If you have a gas guzzling SUV in the city, I will look down on you. If you are a man in your forties with three hundred dollar shoes and an expensive haircut and drive a Cadillac convertible, I will think you are the scuzzy Sugar Daddy type. If you drive a Mini Cooper, I will think you have a clown fetish.
6. I hate the words “nice” and “fine.” They mean absolutely nothing. My acronym for “nice” is: Not Into Connecting Emotionally. And from the movie The Italian Job, fine stands for: Freaked-Out, Insecure, Needy and Emotional. Let’s use them in an exemplar sentence: Only really nice people ask you how you are doing and when you say “fine” are satisfied.
7. I will freak out about the emotional strain of working with patients who are gravely ill, dying or dead sometimes. I will be bouncing off the walls and need copious amounts of holding to settle down. Sex and sleep help too.
8. I cry when I am exhausted, feel like I cannot express my emotions, or feel overwhelmed by not meeting my own internal high marks for myself. You are not responsible for this, but I appreciate it when you do not make me feel like shit for crying. I cannot handle the pressure of whatever is making me cry and then the added pressure of trying not to cry because you do not want me to, with the bad feelings that you cannot allow me to cry and just be there for me, which lead to the subsequent feelings that you must not even care about me.
9. I hate moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I hate it if anyone else folds for me. I am a total weirdo about folding. I love. I need it. I gotta do it for myself.
10. I will talk and talk and talk when I feel lost, happy, excited, overwhelmed and/or needy. If I can just be quiet with you, know that I finally trust you enough to do so and love you deeply.
11. I am skittish about opening up my heart to you and begin to question how I can make it if you leave me and break my heart. Stick with me, and I will sort it out and stop holding on too tightly. This gets really bad between the fourth and fifth month, and finally gets better after the sixth. Can you last that long?
12. I will try and run away between the second and third month. See above.
13. I love giving head and might make you pass out from my ministrations. You will go nuts!
14. When I feel insecure I will pay for everything, even though I will never make more money than you do.
15. I will remember everything you say. This can be a really good thing, because if you say you love Cookies and Cream Ice Cream, I will not only remember but get your favourite kind for you as a surprise. If you say you will do something for me, I will remember when you do not. You will not be able to get away with anything.
16. I have integrity about everything I do. I even obey the rules at the dog park! You will not be able to get away with shit.
17. I will put my dog before you if she needs food, walking, etc.
18. I go to bed early and get up early. I hate waking up though, so I will hit the snooze just enough times to make you want to throw the clock right at me.
19. I will make you an amazing dinner and expect you to clean up the dishes. If you do not offer, I will resent you for thinking I should do everything for you. If you do offer and I say “no,” I mean it.
20. I am both super analytical and super emotive. I think logically about everything, including my feelings.
21. I ask tons of questions.
22. I will talk to anyone.
23. I will challenge you and all of your assumptions.
24. I will not allow you to criticize faith traditions from a strictly anti-fundamentalist standpoint. You will have to dig deeper than that.
25. I narrate my life through the lenses of loss, hope, despair, faith, logic, creativity and curiosity.
26. I will laugh until I cry, and cry until I laugh. You may feel like you are on a roller coaster!
27. I will be fatalistic sometimes and sit down (metaphorically) and not want to get back up.
28. I will get back up, and I will not allow you to not get back up too. If you try to hide the shit of your life and say it does not mean anything, I will force the issue as it pertains to us or your wellbeing. I will leave you if you refuse to help yourself grow the fuck up and deal.
29. I never get my car washed enough!
30. I will try and find an explanation for everything.
31. I will not allow you to make racist comments or jokes in my presence. I won’t let your family or friends do it either. If I think you do behind my back, I will leave you.
32. I will not like it when you refer to not doing something as being a “pussy.” The worst insult to most men is to call them a woman. I hate that.
33. If you tell me your definition of what it means to be a “real man in the world” but then you totally disregard that and act like a self indulgent boy, I will see your crap and call you on it.
34. I know how to use power tools.
35. I will want to do it on my own, even when I really need your help. I will hint at needing the help and hope you offer. Then I will say “No, I can do it on my own.” at least once before accepting your help.
36. I am on time, almost always. When I am running late, I am so late I will want to cancel.
37. My body will never be what it would have been if I had not gained 40 pounds in fourth grade, and learned to protect myself with food and fat. I keep working on this one.
38. I freak out about feeling the overwhelming weight of scarcity–of which there has been a lot in my life–but will still try to find ways to be generous in the middle of that. If you looked at my check book at any given moment, you may find that I spent my last $20 on you or doing something with you so you would not know just how bad it really is to be a poor chaplain. I walk around terrified about this much of the time.
39. I will explain when I do not have to because I will be afraid you will not love me for being human, needing things, or needing human kindness too.
40. I will analyze everything. E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G. I am working on letting go more and just being. This is hard for me, but I want to change so my life can have less anxiety over trying to figure everything out. I do not do well with emotional messiness, but I have plenty in my own spirit. I am sure that once I figure this out I will no longer need to analyze everything quite so much. (Irony intended!)

Can you handle Little Miss Imperfection?

So, I had to cut the latest date loose. Dear Lord! What is up with a guy being in his thirties and having “fish mouth” when it comes to kissing? (Think guppy or bottom feeder in the tank.) Ewwww. First, there was Woody Woodpecker with all the in and out, in and out of that jack hammer of a tongue, and now Fish Mouth! What is the dating world coming to?

I told Paparazzo–after properly grossing him out with a full on description of Fish Mouth–that I sometimes feel like I ended up on the Clearance Rack at a bookstore. All the best sellers have been scooped up. Some returned, mind you, but the best of the best were bought a long ass time ago. I somehow ended up next to: From Guy to Guru: Divorcees Do New Delhi and Accept Your Fetish: A Guide On How To Braid Your Nose Hair. Am I the rare first edition tucked under all the trashy novels and travel guides to Siberia? Or am I just sad story of yet another 30-something “great girl” who cannot find a good man gathering dust?

My thirties have been rough in the dating department. Let’s see: I spent the first 497 days a virgin. Not that good of a start, but also just the way my life unfolded. Thank God for day 498!! I loved three people these last five years, but only totally loved one of them. I have had sex with three people in my whole life, and made out naked with another 2.5. I realize I cannot put “2.5″ without some explanation…oh wait! Yes I can! This is my blog and I can do whatever I want! Let’s just say that only one of us was nakkid, which is why it does not really count all the way. I also have spent 61 of the last 76 months without sex at all! What is a girl to do? From a strictly statistical standpoint, these numbers do not bode well for my sexual future.

(Please do not post the statistical results of my sex-less future based on these numbers in the “Comments” section of this post. Give a girl a break. I will not be able to face myself in the mirror, let alone my destiny if I knew THE TRUTH. Ignorance is bliss after all.)

Now, let me just tell you: I make for a great girlfriend. In fact, I have been known to be the “exception to the rule” kind of girlfriend. I zig–in a very peaceful and understanding manner–when a guy thinks I will zag just because of my chromosomes. Need space to play video games naked? I understand. I need space to pluck my eyebrows, fold my sheets (I get too much pleasure from being able to fold a fitted sheet.), and blow fart kisses on Emma the Puppy’s belly. Not to mention, how can I talk about you behind your back if you are always around!?

I have a lot of compassion, creativity, humor, understanding, fun and intelligence to offer. And I cook too! I am never above helping–although I will resent you just a tiny bit if I Magic Erase your whole fucking house a couple of days before you break up with me–or too snitty to laugh at my own ridiculous behavior. I will even try and–brace yourself–change! Yes, that is right folks. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby, will change and grow the hell up if need be. I also practice forgiveness and unconditional love towards others and self.

And did I mention that I have only had sex 15 of the last 76 months? I am always down for making up for lost time.

How about those 40 reasons? Feel free to pass them along to any completely single, completely heterosexual man who reads books, eat vegetables, likes to go bike riding, enjoys witty whip smart women, and is willing to consider a woman who owes the price of a Ferrari to Duke Divinity School (oh and younger than 36–my age–is always encouraged). Here they are:

1. I think really fast.
2. I give Diana, Gladys and Roberta a run for their money in my car!
3. I own my share of sexy heels, but I am almost always in flats or sandals.
4. I will do the right thing even if it hurts to do it.
5. I can cook most anything I try, but I really should not bake.
6. I’ll laugh with you but not at you…okay, maybe at you sometimes.
7. I have a dog who can make a room warmer just by panting.
8. I can do puzzles, but I cannot park worth shit.
9. I color coordinate my bra and panties to what I am wearing.
10. I am honest and kind.
11. I would rather go for a walk or a bike ride than watch TV all the time.
12. I love to give massages.
13. I kiss like I mean it.
14. I am pretty much happy wherever I am.
15. I am weird and entertaining…at least that is what my friends say.
16. I once fed a boa constrictor a live chicken.
17. I over tip.
18. I like ice cream, but not too much ice cream. I will share.
19. I went back to finish my degree after flunking out the first go around, taking a 3.5 year break and changing majors–again! I also got my master’s from “The Harvard of the South.”
20. I know how to pop pop-corn on the stove.
21. I never sleep with homeless guys or idiots…call it my anti-fetish.
22. I dream of being a published writer.
23. I take imaginary vacations on the internet.
24. I love cooking for my friends and having dinner parties, but not a party girl at all.
25. I pump my own gas.
26. I like it rough and gentle…and gentle and rough…and then rough and gentle. I like it. I like it a lot.
27. I set goals and write them down. I make lists. I always put “have more sex” on both.
28. My mother says I am her favorite daughter. I am an only child.
29. I don’t chew with my mouth open…but I will laugh.
30. I am really good at listening, even though I love telling a good story.
31. I can order dinner without freaking out about needing to make a decision.
32. I am spiritual, not religious and super liberal. I am a minister.
33. I work stuff out over throwing temper tantrums.
34. I love good books, baths, and boys.
35. I rarely have too much to drink.
36. Everyone calls me “sweetheart.” I guess it is my vibe.
37. I like (this week) Damian Rice, Stevie Wonder, Sia and Bjork.
38. I never mind doing it myself, but I also will ask for help. I believe in Relationship Chi.
39. I love boy films over chick flicks.
40. I am game for anything.

Back when I dated Plant Geek, I would often go to sleep in his bed with his hand on the center of my back. Sweet comfort found with a simple hand. Sweet safety in touch. A gentle connection. Even after he and I parted ways, I would lay restless in my bed and just think of the hand to my back and then tumble into a peaceful rest. Just the thought; it was all I needed.

In another relationship, I learned even more deeply the power of touch. I never heard of Reiki before this small introduction. I must admit to being both open and skeptical. Despite my own spirituality, I often put my analytical mind into overdrive and question, question, question. My first experiences with Reiki forced me to reassess some places in me needing to just be and not think. As the other hands held me and meditated over me, I felt the release of pent up energy and fear. Tears would often well up and spill out on the bed. I learned how much I internalized my life and how the scars of my life were flaring right in the depths of my body and disrupting my energy.

I knew of the word “chakra” but could not tell you anything about them. Now I can name all seven of them and their functions. I can assess them and work to try to find a balance in my energy fields and in those of others. (Here is a great link to a page about them and their functions.) My Root Chakra–that which grounds me to this planet and informs my sense of safety–often gets out of whack. The first line of the meditation for the Root Chakra on the above page says: “It is safe to me to be here.” As I said, when Plant Geek first put that one hand on my back I felt safe. The other experiences with this type of healing touch rooted me deeper to my life, my place on this planet, and the abundence of life and possiblity.

Unfortunatley, as soon as any new trauma occurs with me the first thing to go is my sense of rootedness. I can remember being very sick with a virus when I was 23 and in bed for a month. My fever did not fully break for two months, and in the beginning they soared over 103 degrees F. Delusions came and went. At some point, Mother crawled in my bed and fell asleep. I awoke to find her there and became terrified at this stranger in my bed. I did not remember who she was. I screamed out, “Who are you?” I was certain she was there to kill me. She told me that she was my mother. I cried, “I do not have a mother!” I can remember the feeling of dread overcoming me. I knew, just knew, I did not have a Mother. She calmly reassured me that in fact I did have a mother, and she was my mother. I finally realized who she was and began weeping. “I do have a mother.” I fell into her arms and cried out all my terror.

I fell back to earth and found my gounding again in her healing embrace.

My patients often describe to me feeling the pull of death upon them. Dying does not hurt or cause them fear, but when they tumble back into their beds and awake to find themselves back on earth they report feeling disorientated and unsure. I understand. I can still float away easily. Maybe this is why I feel the most protected and at peace when I am in water? The warm cocoon makes the floating feel normal and not do discombobulating. Alas, I am not a fish. I live here on Terra Firma and being rooted heals the feelings of being able to fall right off the planet’s edge. Being rooted to my life helps me feel real and of value.

Those first tender and amazing experiences with Reiki opened my spirit to the healing powers of touch. I do not mean this in the way one might experience a charismatic or ecstatic moment of miraculous healing that looks exactly the way the one seeking the healing expects…i.e. “I was blind, but now I see.” No, this type of healing is more about inner vision than anything else. This healing is about seeing yourself as you really are–the true you created by love, existing in love, persisting in love. This healing is about inner peace, creative hope, and forgiveness. Yes. Forgiveness. As Carolyn Myss said, “Every great act of healing is preceded by an even greater act of forgiveness.” This healing is about allowing the flow–the Chi–to be about unconditional love towards self and others.

I attended a workshop this weekend on Healing Touch. After witnessing a patient die whisper quiet and with minimal problems, when her disease normally creates a gruesome death, I became entralled with learning about Healing Touch. Her daughter has taken many workshops and did a great deal of energy work with her to facilitate this peaceful death. Healing Touch does facilitate peace, and my workshop served as a wonderful reminder of the need in my life for my spiritual practices to root and ground me as I provide compassionate care and touch to my patients. It reminded me of the need in my life for my spiritual practices to root and ground me to my own life and the process of my own healing.

As I lay on the table during a Chakra Clearing–one of the most profound experiences of tranquility I have ever experienced–I lay there thinking about my need for touch. Touch connects us one to another. When the one we love leaves, we miss not only their presence in our lives but also laying down on the sweet bed of love and companionship and resting in their tender embrace. The widows in my bereavement group tell me how utterly painful it is to crawl into their too empty beds and weep over the one person who would hold them in their void…the one person missing from their lives.

I need to be held and assured. I need that tender embrace. I need the hand on my back in the middle of the dark nights of my life. I need all the “compromised” places of disorganized energy to be healed with the gentlest of touch and by the kindest of hearts. I need the hands that heal placed on me.

I am waiting.

The first time I met a new patient of mine, I found myself surprised to see her sitting outside on the patio given that she is on Continuous Care. We only put you on Continuous Care when you are having medication issues or for immanency, and I heard she was on due to her death being expected shortly. A young woman in her fifties shrivelled from cancer and aged by at least thirty years. The visit with her was short given how easily exhausted she becomes. She fell asleep numerous times while we spoke–even in the middle of sentences–so I sat quietly praying for her and for her daughters.

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love my nieces. I will do anything for them. In many ways they contain God’s greatest gift to me. No matter how much they might drive me nuts, I always can come around for them. I just love them–and forgive them and me for our humanness–that much. So when I meet other young women of a similar age, I find my heart picks up the same rhythm it has around Morgan and Piano Girl. For this reason, I offered to come back and speak at a more convenient time to my patient’s twenty-something daughter. I thought about my nieces and what they might need from a chaplain if Sista was dying. And I gave thanks that for at least one more minute I am young and cute (if I do say so myself), which goes a long way in reaching out to someone also young and cute and facing one of the most horrible losses of her life.

I arrived as agreed and met “Stacy” in the parking lot of their complex. Right on time, she came whirrling into the lot in her bright orange sports car. The car fit her personality, at least what I saw of it ever so briefly on my first visit. We went inside and she flitted around like a butterfly on acid ordering Chinese food, talking to her mother, and to our nurse. For a brief moment I thought she was going to cancel our conversation, but finally she looked up at me and asked, “So, where do we do this thing?” We ended up sitting next to each other on the couch and with a rush she began.

“I am really having a hard time. I can’t lose my mom–you know, I kind of still have hope she will pull through this–but I also know in my head that she is going to die. I do not trust anyone. I need help, but I can’t let anyone help me. I push people away. I am really independent like that. I think my sister is going to take a leave of absence and come down. My boyfriend is always trying to help me…but I have to find ways to pay him back. I feel bad if he stays to help me, like he has better things to be doing than helping me with my mom or because I am scared. And my friend from work–well, I pushed her away a couple of weeks ago. I always do that. I have a hard time making friends, especially with girls. I do not trust them. Not that I trust guys, mind you, because they all cheat. I mean my dad–before he died–cheated on my mom. My step-dad too. Every man cheats. I know my boyfriend cannot be trusted. My step-dad beat my mom, but he helped so much financially. She stayed with him because of us. I do not know who to trust or have help, so yes I am young but it is all up to me. That is why I like to help people and want to help people for a living. I am good at that. So, what exactly is it that you can do to help me?”

As I sat there listening to her I felt prepared. I heard this story once before, just with a slightly different cast of characters. At the time, the story was just a personal history. I filed it under “everybody goes through shit” and this is the shit The Bean went through. I look back now and see the signs he would eventually implode, but at the time the story was just that. A story. History. Past tense. Over. Done with. The imploding, however, got my attention as I lay devestated from the nuclear fall-out.

I looked at her ever so softly and asked, “Who was the alchoholic…your mom or your step-father?” The answer: Both of them.

I read a book about Adult Children of Alcoholics after The Bean imploded and left. I paid attention. I saw much of my own family dynamics, and the ways I continue to practice day after day healthier ways of living and relating in the world. I saw just how fucking hard it is, as best I can for someone who did not grow up that way, and how much work it takes to really deal again and again with it as it comes up. I learned some things I shared with this terrified girl, most importantly that being in relationships–especially intimate or fragile ones–wakens the beast of fear and that she did not have to reinvent the wheel to find her way to safety. The path has been walked by many, and they are availible to help her find her way.

When she repeated to me again that she just cannot trust anyone, I gave her the only promise I know: “You can learn to trust yourself, so that when people fail you–and they will because we are all human and make mistakes, even Chaplains– you will trust yourself to get through it and figure it out.”

I sat there so grateful I grew up in some terribly important ways…so grateful all the imploding shit was not just left to rot out me and my heart, but could be used for good somehow. All of a sudden, in one conversation all the pain of this terrible heartbreak was bearable. All of a sudden, I was glad I met The Bean, and I was ready to say that I do not regret meeting him. All of a sudden, everything was okay. All of a sudden, everything came full circle.

Now this is the place where some of my dear readers might be saying to themselves, “Yes. Everything happens for a reason.” I do not believe in that lie. If everything happens for a reason, then The Puppet Master we call fate, or destiny, or God, is intentionally causing terrible things to happen to us in order to teach us a lesson. I posses no freedom of action, just freedom of emotional reaction until I get to whatever reaction this Puppet Master has deemed pleasing to itself. No thank you.

I do, however, believe things happen for the reason we give them. I believe in our limitless creativity, which I think continually surprises God in its joy, love, forgiveness and at times, cruelty. I am the one who can with all the love in the universe take back a thing meant only for my harm and find a way to make it into something life giving for myself or others. I am the one who can invite God into that space to whisper in my ear “potential” when my heart is crying out “impossibility.” I am the one who can forgive, let go, reshape, build anew, and design good things for my life with whatever comes my way. As I said to Stacy, I can trust myself even when others prove untrustworthy.

So, I changed what I wrote about him in The Dating Game.

Here is the old version:

The Bean. Bank Robber, Cynic, Musician, Writer and Atheist. I must admit that he possess lovely qualities: whip-smart, funny, kind, playful, an amazing teacher, generous, fun to be around, reads books, talks about real things, compassionate. Or at least that was The Bean I experienced until his ex-girlfriend called, he went to have dessert until after 2 in the morning, and… Loving him changed me forever and in beautiful ways. I never want losing him to take away those things or change me into someone more cynical, more fearful, and less trusting, but so far, it has. I only want to be my true self–like I was when I met him and with him– regardless of the pain he caused when he left. Although he is the only person I feel I ever really “fell in love with,” none of it remains as sweet as it might of if we had broken-up over not being good together and with integrity. He said, “I only dated you because I was lonely.” I believe this to be true. Unfair. Wrong. But true, even if only in part. Given this, I wish I never met him, which is terribly hard and painful to say, but given the lies my joy was based on, it is also really honest. No one likes to be the fool, even if everybody plays one sometime, so every memory, every thought, every feeling became tainted in one cruel week. As I said, I wish I never met him.

Here is the new:

The Bean. Bank Robber, Cynic, Musician, Writer and Atheist. I must admit that he possess lovely qualities: whip-smart, funny, kind, playful, an amazing teacher, generous, fun to be around, reads books, talks about real things, compassionate. This is The Bean I experienced until he “imploded” (his word). Loving him changed me forever and in beautiful ways. I never want losing him to take away those things or change me into someone more cynical, more fearful, and less trusting, so I have worked very hard and intentionally to not let them. I only want to be my true self–like I was when I met him and with him–because I really like her. She is a good girl. I think I understand now that he did the very best that he could do, and even while it may not have been the very best for himself or for me, it was all he was capable of. The day it ended I told him I remember who he really is. He replied, “I am glad one of us still does because I don’t.” I carry that beautiful, imaginative, kind young man who really gets it in my heart and only want the best for him. I want that for me too. I give us both countless amounts of freedom to find it for ourselves, by ourselves.

Amen. So be it.

A recent post of mine contained the story of the first time I had sex at thirty-one, and some of my complicated past that contributed to the long period of abstinence in my life. I worked on this particular story for over a year given it will appear at the bottom of a photograph of me fifteen feet high in Paris later this year. I worked hard, but I never could seem to capture all of what I wanted. The story is complex for me with many different currents running through.

I was raised in a fairly spiritually conservative environment, although with my stepfather being a physician and Mother being a nurse, science was never downplayed in my home as irrelevant. In fact, quite the opposite was true. I like to joke that although I was not allowed to read anything I considered important during dinner–say, Nancy Drew–my parents would allow the Bible, the Journal of American Medicine, and Science magazine to be read…their only exceptions. They wove together science and Christianity to help teach me about my sexuality. Anatomical drawings on the back of Burger King placemats detailed every falopian tube and prostate gland. “Wait to have sex until you are married in order to be safe,” their spiritual message.

The irony, of course, was the same caring physician sitting across from me and quizzing me about ovulation cycles also went home and molested me day-after-day. A wonderful doctor and a terrible father rolled into one human being. I received all sorts of education from him, some of which I still work to process and heal from. I can remember being in the hospital at twenty-one and seeing my name on the psych unit’s Team Workroom dry erase board. Beside my name were the words “violent abuse.” You’re telling me.

The year of my going into this hospital for three weeks became the major turning point in my whole life. The staff taught me coping skills I still use and practice. I know I would be dead by my own hand without all I learned there. A seminal moment for me came when the therapist working with me took my hands, placed them in my crotch and said, “One day you will want a man to touch you there, and that will be okay.” I did not believe I would ever want to be touched, but I did know I wanted to want to be touched. She lit a match.

The fire of my own sexuality burns within me fifteen years after her words. Christians, ministers, faithful persons, etc. do not talk about these fires unless forced to speak of our own limited understanding of sexuality or when we are trying to put them out in another. How much disconnect and fear have the so-called faithful roused up against homosexuality? I often think the real problem is not with anyone else’s sexuality, but instead the problem lies in our not being able to deal with our own. Christians historically look to scripture to teach them about sexuality, even with its limited understanding of human relationships, genetics, reproduction and the equality of all persons, male, female, trans-gendered, gay, straight, bi-sexual.

I must say I possess a bit of trepidation speaking about my own sexual identity and exploration because of both the shame of being molested and the imposed upon shame of my historic religious tradition. Christians are really bad about making the body and its desires something “ungodly” and despairing anyone who dares to embrace what God gave them. We have whole churches where membership requires a myriad of lies in order to participate. I grew up Southern Baptist, and the inside “joke” is not if there are any gays in the church, but if there are any choir directors who are not. I do not find this funny; I find it tragic and fundamentally against everything I believe following Jesus ought to be about. For me, following Jesus requires that we speak the truth of who we are and practice radical difficult love and inclusion of those in our midst. I cannot help but wonder what amazing things would happen in our congregations if we embraced the GLBT community in such a way as to help their gifts flourish in our midst, instead of insisting they hide their God-given lights under the proveribial bushel/closet?

So, I am coming out. I, Jacqueline Hope Derby–wait!–REVEREND Jacqueline Hope Derby own a vibrator, and I love it. Jesus loves me and my truth. I know the Jesus of “do not fear” would never want shame in any form to fill me because of the truth of who I am. Here is my truth: I am a woman. I am a minister. I am a sexual person. I know my own body. I would not survive sexual dry spells without my vibrator. I am not married, nor have I ever been. I love men and love having sex with them. I chose to do this one at a time and in a relationship. This is me.

Writing this story for my artist friend has pushed me to uncover some old shame left in my heart. In the end, I tossed out the prior version and re-wrote my piece for him. This time I left behind the fear of being “found out” and said just want I really wanted to say. I hope when you read these words you will feel provoked, comforted, inspired, angry, and mostly curious about your own God-given sexual self. Here is the final story that will appear with my picture:

When was the first time I had sex? Was it at seven? Twenty-one? Thirty-one? Thirty-five?

Was it the first time my stepfather molested me? He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands ran up my thighs while we watched cartoons.

Did I lose my virginity the first time I had an orgasm? Finding a book on female masturbation the summer I was twenty-one taught me about my body. The book inspired me to explore my own body and sexuality, but I still felt shame. My self-exploration a secret; my sexuality known only to me.

Was it when I first had sex at thirty-one? I still covered my real body with layer upon layer of fat, but I allowed certain parts of me to be seen, touched and explored by a good friend. I kept most of my heart locked away from him though. Sometimes it felt like I was watching us have sex and not really present in the moment. I slept with him because I could and because I knew nothing real and lasting would ever happen between us. He was safe.

Or did I lose my virginity last year when I fell in-love for the first time? Many of the layers of fat gone, I let him touch, taste and see every single inch of my body and my heart. Sometimes sleeping with him would cause me to laugh hysterically, the waves of bliss overwhelming me. At other times, I would cry without understanding the deep wellspring of complicated emotions pouring out. I imagined door-after-door in my locked soul opening up as the pure light of love poured into the rooms and illuminated them. Shame melted away. I found my heart and body capable of things I thought the abuse stole away from me forever.

After six months he left me saying he only dated me because he was lonely. I almost died. Am I a virgin again?

I am trapped in the Rage Cage. I want to let go of all of my anger, but I just do not seem to be able to do this…yet. I feel my body, mind and soul overflowing with rage. Rage at The Bean for all the unanswered questions and betrayal. Rage at work for trying so hard, and rage because I leave feeling overwhelmed, overworked and angry. Rage at striving so diligently to heal the past because sometimes feel I got to the party too late…what is it all worth? Rage at not being paid a living wage. Rage at myself for feeling entitled even when I know better. Rage at Mother for putting even more pressure on me right when I need her to just swoop in and help me out, again. Rage at needing help at all; rage at needing help right now. Rage at my body for falling down before I could heal my heart.

I am trapped in the Rage Cage.

I will admit I once was an Oprah devotee. Certain moments stay with me. Maya Angelou saying, “You did then what you knew best to do. Now that you know better, do better.” A group of very angry lesbians talking about misogyny (an important topic that I agree with many of them on) and a woman in the audience asking, “If you hate men so much, why do you try so hard to look like them?” Damn! I just about died laughing, and to the credit of those amazing women, they did too. And then there was the time Andrew Vachss sat with Oprah for an hour talking about sexual abuse. Oprah’s public struggle to make sense of the sexual abuse in her past helped me to come out of the proverbial closet. I give her all credit for helping to debunk the stigma and for showing that women who have been raped can possess real strength and beauty.

She sat there heavily upon her chair speaking to him and not quite agreeing with him about the rage victims of sexual abuse carry with them. Andrew Vachss said, “Your anger is the weight you carry.”  She immediately understood and agreed.  Epiphany!

The light went on for me in that one sentence too.  Why am I here fifteen years later and still sorting this one out?

I had so much anger then. Anger at Daddy for dying, my sisters for leaving, my Mother for bringing John into our home, and anger at John for hurting me so profoundly my DNA altered. I write these things now and feel so little of the sting. No. The sting is not gone completely, but mostly now just makes me uncomfortable when the present reveals a place of vulnerability. So much of this anger has been released. As I spent the last few years working my ass off–literally–and saw the pounds slipping away one painful ounce at a time, I saw the anger melt and the Rage Cage lift.

I survived these last months in some part due to eating to lessen the blows to my shattered defenses. So much has happened to me this year that I find myself in a brand new Rage Cage. I keep sorting through all the reasons why I am so angry, and trying to figure out what I need to do to let go of this anger that is hurting me. I want to go back to the place where I feel free and strong, not where I eat to stuff down my rage at my circumstances and failed or flawed relationships. Now do not misunderstand, I believe anger is an important and healthy response…to begin with. I also know at some point we all must let go because the anger only destroys us like an insidious cancer. I can feel it eating away at my optimism, my spunk, my trust, and my openness.

Ultimately, I want my anger to morph into a fuel to empower me to love more, and love with a greater attention to detail. I realize this may seem strange, but “passion to love” is too similar to “passion to hate” for me to ignore anger’s power when it comes to love. Letting anger melt allows real love and intimacy to grow. I know, I have seen it happen in me before, but it seems to happen only when I let go of the past being any different. (Going back to my post on forgiveness.) Ultimately, I want it to empower me to forgive and practice grace and mercy towards myself and others. Practicing grace and mercy are key. Grace being the place where I extend unconditional favour, and mercy being the place where I extend unconditional abandonment of my expectations in the face of them not being met. I need both right now because I keep hearing myself saying–pleading really–both out loud and in my head, “I am just one person!”

As I rode my bike on Thrusday morning, I envisioned myself in the Rage Cage. I fell deep within its claustrophobic den out of all the anger I feel towards The Bean. Add to this the rage at myself for both hitting below the belt twice when he left and for not seeing it all coming down the pike, and my whole being felt oppressed. I see all the “trying” and all the ways I feel like I am failing, not just flailing about. I thought about what I needed and what I want, and I counted all the ways these go left unanswered. The bars just seemed to get stronger and press more tightly against my already ravaged body. I looked it over for a door, bars I might bend to wiggle through, a lock for a key or key for a lock…I just want a way out.

I do not possess the needed tools to just “poof” myself out of the Rage Cage. No fairy dust. No magic wand. I did, however, find rather unexpectedly a tear-filled conversation, with a small epiphany, helped alleviate my shrinking prison bars. My epiphany? Letting go of The Bean being wrong feels like letting go of my being wronged. Just admitting this all too human fact allowed grace and mercy to find me for a bit and for them to apply their tender balms of understanding and acceptance.

I cannot help wondering how much longer this will all take, but I also know that when I am no longer hurting to the point food makes it all feel better the Rage Cage will be lifting off of me.

I sat yesterday for a photograph that will be fifteen feet high when the show opens in Paris later this year. Under the photograph of me will be the story of the first time I had sex. Here is what I wrote:

June 2002

I had no idea how people went from dressed to naked and fucking. Thirty-one and a virgin. I did not even know what I looked like naked! I stopped paying attention.

I spent my thirtieth year looking hard in the mirror at my naked form. Imagine my dismay to learn that my breasts fallen down after years of ignorance and lack of care! When did my belly become so squishy? I hate my arms. This is me? My skin glows! I have beautiful shoulders. I love the turn of my chin and full lips. The small of my back has a tuft of wispy blond hair that calls out to be caressed.

I will admit I had phone sex prior to having real sex. The phone sex did nothing to keep us from being shy and anxious; it did not last long. Soon we found ourselves naked, kissing, holding and fondling. He touched me where I wanted him to touch me. We did not have sex right away, but when we did—damn. I could not tell up from down or left from right. I was taken completely unaware by what it felt like to be touched by a man. We made love; we had sex; we fucked. My first time with him was sweet, passionate, lovely but not tentative. I remember that, but it was not the best sex we ever had. The best sex came one night when he and I made love at four in the morning, and I could see this orange glow in my room even though it was pitch black.

June 1977

I was six when my father died. It was just my mother and me.

March 1978

After my father’s death, more than anything I wanted to be normal again and have a Daddy. The first time John put his hands on my crotch and fondled me, he asked me if it would be okay if he married my Mother. I happily said, “Yes.”

He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands running up my thighs while we watched Little House on the Prairie.

January 1982

I threatened to tell on him and what kind of person he was. He pulled me by my hair into his bathroom. I remember how tiny the little glass bottles with metal lids lined the top shelf. He pointed to them and told me that he could kill Mother any time he wanted. He was a doctor; he could do it in ways no one would suspect. Then it would just be the two of us. I needed to “shut my God damn mouth.”

He kicked me on the floor when he turned to leave.

July 2007

I fell totally in-love last year. The woman I saw reflected in his eyes was the same one I see in my own. He left me, and I almost died.

But I did not die. I am stronger than that. No more games of Hide and Seek for me. I still get scared that I will not survive Love’s brutality, but I also know the walls must never be stronger than the woman I truly am. My beauty comes through. I see me, even when men don’t.

I recently wrote about “Bastards and New Boyfriends.” Since then, I keep thinking about the last paragraph…about wanting someone who will hold me to the task of dealing with my life and letting go so I am really free to love without the shit of my life weighing me, and then us, down. I keep looking at what my niece Morgan calls “One horrible minute at the end of a relationship that caused you seven months of hell.” I keep trying to figure it all out, as if the past contains a secret I must decipher in order to be worthy of love in the future.

I want to let it all go, but I am still angry sometimes. Angry about how much more scared I am now than before I met The Bean. Angry at him for not treating me with respect when he left, and how that cuts at my self-esteem even when I do not want it to. Angry at myself for not being the “typical girl” about a lot of things. He always called me “an exception to the rule” because I do not act like what many guys expect from their girlfriend–I understand the need for alone time to play Half-Life every now and again–and I do not wig out easily. Should I have been demanding and dramatic and needy? “No.” And that answer leads me back to where I started: Content with who I am and how I act in the world. Glad not to be with “That Bastard,” and scared shitless I will carry Baggage a la The Bean, which will hurt my ability to give trust and my true “exception to the rule” heart to someone who will love and respect me.

Do I need to forgive him?

I spoke about this with my friend Harlot last weekend. I confessed to her that I lied to The Bean in April when I told him I forgave him. Bull……shit! He never even apologized. He only said, “Ditto.” to my apology and blessing for his life. I think of him as a total emotional coward, and I do not want to be that way. But how do you forgive someone who is not even sorry? Harlot’s take on forgiveness is that it falls into two categories: 1) Someone asks for it, and then it is up to you to accept and let go. You may not forgive them, but they did their part in the asking; or 2) You look back at the past and let go of it being any different than it was. You no longer replay every conversation, every moment, every move and try to figure out what you could do differently. You allow the past, even as horrible as it was, to stand. This is not a “get out of jail free card.” They are still responsible and accountable. You just let go of holding onto it and trying to shape the past into another form.

I think this idea of the nature of forgiveness is just brilliant.

I started off by saying, “I keep trying to figure it all out, as if the past contains a secret I must decipher in order to be worthy of love in the future. ” For this kind of forgiveness to come into my life, I must accept the past as it was. The Instant-Reply-Button has to be left alone. No more conversations with The Bean in my head. No more wondering why all of this happened. No more regretting the past. No more doubting myself and my ability to love. No more doubting my ability to pick the right person for my life. No more projecting his shit onto my own sense of worthiness. No more wishing it was different. Acceptance in my present of the truth of the past. It is just what happened, and I cannot change it anymore than I can change him.

I can, however, change myself and forgive the past for not being any different than it was.

Isn’t it funny how letting go of wanting the past to be different can be so hard? I mean, it already happened! I do not own or have access to a Time Machine. It’s not like I could–or would–go back. The acceptance still has not come easy. Why do we replay every moment when we know the outcome will be the same every time?

Charlie Peacock has a song called “Forgiveness.” I remember this one line…”The one thing we need more than to be understood or to be known is forgiveness.” How true it is.

In the summer of 1977–the summer Daddy died–a mango tree was planted in our back-yard. Dear friends of my family gave the tree to us shortly before they moved back home to India. The father finished his PhD at the University of Miami, so it was not too long after Daddy died that the tree was planted. Their six-year old daughter and I played and attended kindergarten together. I can remember jumping on the mattresses at her house. They sat on the floor, so her mother felt our safety was not endangered! Her home always smelled of warm spices. I can remember being jealous of the pretty red dot her mother painted so carefully on her forehead. I can remember the cool embrace of her mother and father, always so glad to see me come to play. Her parents’ car had rotten floorboards, so you had to hold up your feet. I loved watching the road go by, especially in the rain.

The tree commemorated my friendship with their daughter, Mother’s addiction to mangoes, and Daddy’s life. I can remember the father digging the hole and planting the tree. A small tree, with stakes and ropes to keep it upright. The hole was too big, but my Mother felt it would help the tree to mulch around it, so it was never fully filled in to the top of the hole. Year after year, the best of the table scraps, grass clippings, and refuse went under that tree. Even the dead bunnies from a prolific surprise by my rabbit Baron (who then became “Baroness”) went under this tree. The offerings to the gods never were as thoughtful or as sacred as what we offered our dear mango tree.

When we sold the house ten years later, we still had never tasted one mango off our blessed tree. She never bloomed. Not once.

We sold the house on 100th Street to a Greek Orthodox priest. He invited to his open house to see all the renovations he made to our old home. We walked through the house noting each change, including the central air conditioning we never had. My room was now an office. The interior garden taken out, paved and a big hot tub put in its place. The Buddhas and totems were gone. A huge satellite dish could be seen looming in the back yard. So much change, yet so much the same. We walked through the master bedroom and bath, then the laundry room, which put us at the very back of the patio and overlooking the back-yard. Mother and I saw it at the same time. The mango tree laden with fruit.

Mother turned to me and said, “It is time to go.”

Once upon a time, I dated Plant Geek. Plant Geek is getting a PhD in Horticulture from the University of Florida and works down in South Dade studying Mamey for his dissertation. His adviser went to Costa Rica for six months in 2005. Plant Geek house sat and dog sat in his absence, and this was the time of our dating.

We walked around the yard, moving between all the various fruit trees and plants. What else would you expect from a horticulture professor specializing in tropical fruit?! When we came to one particular mango tree, Plant Geek started to pick some of them off for me and Mother. He always considered himself to be her “Dealer,” given she really is a Mango Junkie. And what a good Dealer! More varieties. More mangoes. Needless to say, Ms. Audrey loved how it worked out that I dated Plant Geek during mango season!

As we stood under the tree, so laden with fruit, I thought of our tree on 100th Street. I told Plant Geek the whole story of our mango tree–even the dead bunnies–and how it never blossomed or gave us fruit. I told him about finding her drooping with fruit just a year later. I wanted to know one thing: Why?

He told me the answer was simple. We had been too good to the tree. Trees need stress in-order to bloom and give off fruit. Reproduction, which is what the fruit is all about to the tree, comes about when the tree gets scared it might die and so it sends forth the fruit to ensure its survival in the next generation. In commercial growing, he told me, they actually use drought and flood to force stress their trees into better production. Our tree never experienced a single stressful moment until we sold the house to a man not quite as dedicated to her nurturing. She did the only thing possible. She freaked out! She brought forth fruit for her survival.

Daddy died thirty years ago today, and his death ushered in a terrible drought in my life. From his death June 28th, 1977 until the one year anniversary, I saw more than some see in a lifetime. Daddy, Grammy, and my best friend from church all died. My sisters came to Mother and told her they never wanted to see us or have anything to do with us again. With them went their husbands, Aunt Clem and Grammy, before she died later in the Fall. Our dinner table went from nine to two in less than one month. I was molested for the first time the following spring when John asked me if he could marry my Mother. You might find this strange, but I do not think being molested was the worst thing that ever happened to me. Losing my family like that has proven to be the most powerful loss of my life.

I see six year-old girls and think about how innocent and little I was. Who of us can process so much loss at one time, let alone a six year-old? I still work at it. I get scared of losing those I love, and as a result, I get scared of loving too much. The place I see this the most is in my intimate relationships, and unfortunately, the only place to work on these fears is in an intimate relationship. I just cannot touch it otherwise. I do not know if I will ever find anyone who can love me through the adjustments…I thought I had, but I was wrong. I pray I do.

In the meantime, I embrace with gratitude all the love wrapping itself around my life. My Mother continues to be such a source of love, affirmation, help and friendship. She is one of my Soul Mates in life. My Sista is too. Who would I be without her? My own biological half-sisters left thirty years ago, but Sista has been in my life for the whole of it. Our blood may not be the same, but our hearts are one. She is my champion, best friend, mentor, and pain in my ass! Love truly is thicker than blood.

I have such amazing and lovely friends. My other soul mate is Tammy Wayne. I can always count on her to remember me, what I love, who I love, and celebrate my life. Paparazzo’s patience may have been pushed to the limits with all the grieving these last six months brought, but he never wavered in his love for me. Harlot never fails to call me. Paulina Ballerina always accepts me. Miss Douglas, Fundraiser, My Best Friend, the list goes on and on. I really do possess more love than I know what to do with from both friends and family. When I was ordained last fall, the most beautiful moment for me came during “The Laying On of Hands.” Being surrounded by all of these loved ones blessing me and my calling to walk beside all of God’s children surpassed any other moment of my life. I felt more love in that one moment than I had ever experienced in my life.

See. My mango tree is laden with fruit.

After a really funny conversation with Paparazzo last night, I thought I would share with you, my dear readers, my thoughts on the importance of a new boyfriend to help get over the last one. See, I am now in that place where I realize that although it is always possible that The Bean might gets scads of therapy, deal with emotional integrity towards himself and others, and actually apologize for all the cruelty towards me at the end of our relationship when he bailed and most likely had sex with his ex-girlfriend while I was at home praying he would finally be able to put her rejection behind him, I also realize it is highly unlikely. * I also think it is possible I might one day be a size 2, but only after being put away in the Internment Camps and starved for my beliefs…if I make it that long! I am built for a camp-fire roast, literally!

Being a realist–such as I am–I do not sit around and think The Bean will come back to me in any way shape or form. I also still miss him. I wish I never met him, and I miss him. As I said before, being smart and thinking about the things I do has been lonely in my life. The Bean has been the only person I ever met to really “get me” and want to talk about those things with me. I felt like my whole life opened up with him, and being so wrong about him left me devastated. Shit! Friends and family alike would come up to me and say, “He’s a keeper.” I did not know we would make it in the long term–he is an Atheist; me a real live Reverend–but I agreed with them from a character standpoint. I knew–just knew–in my heart that regardless of our love story, our friendship would be lifelong.

I was wrong.

So, I feel I finally have arrived in that place where I can see myself with someone else. I feel ready for New Boyfriend. I also know, there is nothing like New Boyfriend to help me get over the last lingering longing and thoughts about “That Bastard!” When I first started dating The Bean, I can remember thinking, “Oh. My. God. He is so wonderful. Thank you JESUS he is so amazing and different from Plant Geek!” I think the Number One Expectation we have in a new relationship comes from the place of our greatest pain with the last one; we want the new one to act as the total opposite of the old one in one key way. This proved true with The Bean. I never felt more beautiful or sexy than when I was with him. With Plant Geek, I never felt more ugly and undesirable.

Over time and while dating The Bean, I would think of Plant Geek and miss the fact I could cook for him and he would eat the vegetables off the plate without complaining or looking like he was about to throw-up. Never wanted to get back with him, but I could value certain aspects of him as he moved from “That Bastard” to “A Guy I Used to Date.” The Bean is still in the place of “That Bastard,” and only New Boyfriend can help move him along. Call it Relationship Physics. The only other force great enough to move a guy along in your heart–and not always–is for them to be arrested for a crime they committed. I think it is key for them to have actually done the offense, otherwise feelings of protection and defense for “That Bastard” will rise up and over take all the hard emotional work you did to get over him already. Nothing like a wrongfully accused ex-love to send a girl back to the Mint Chip, her therapist, and tissue box of tears while listening to “Stand By Your Man.” Now a good armed robbery, and the lingering feelings for “That Bastard” are gone!!!

I may have turned to Mint Chip Ice Cream to help me deal with “That Bastard” in the beginning, but I am now in a place of riding that shit off every morning at six on my Relationship Swag, aka my bike.  Now I am in a place where I choose New Boyfriend over the armed robbery. I do not get to have sex with the robbery scenario, but with the New Boyfriend…oh yeah…chicka bow wow.

I must take some responsibility for dating these bastards, otherwise I am destined to repeat the offense and be back here writing about it AGAIN in a year’s time. As entertaining as that may be for you, my poor heart needs more kindness than another round with an emotionally unhealthy guy. Of course the fact that neither of them were as emotionally healthy as I thought (or decided to perceive) is all on me. Plant Geek admitted he dated me because I was “so healing” given both of his parents are dead. The Bean admitted he dated me because of “being lonely.” My fault for dating both of them!

I realize I looked for men who had been through something because I have been through so much. I wanted it to be okay to have a complicated past. My niece, Morgan, lives with me right now. She said almost the same thing to me at the pool last night about her ex. She thought he “got her” because he had been through stuff. She said, “None of the guys in school are attractive to me because they have had it too easy.” Uh-oh. She too has been put through the wringer by her father, so she looks for the guy who won’t judge her for his actions. Just like me.

Maybe the right New Boyfriend is the one who will really think twice about all the shit I have been through, and the one who will really look at me hard to see how well I dealt with it, deal with it, and have a plan to deal with it, before offering his love to me. Someone who puts real value on emotional health and does not want to try to rescue me or teach me how to trust. Someone who expects me to do those things for myself. (See Red Flags on the Field of Love for more on this topic.)

And can he also read books, talk about real things, be kind, be funny, have a good job, want children, have beautiful thick thighs, AND eat vegetables?

Nahhh….that might be asking for too much…vegetables and funny???? What am I thinking!?

* One problem with dating is that I get asked “Why did you and The Bean break-up?” I still do not have a good answer for this, but given how badly saying “We were closer than ever, and forty-eight hours later his ex of fifteen months called and he left me.” has gone, I now have a new line. “It just did not work out because we are too different.” Every single one of these guys, plus some friends, tell me that he slept with her. The only explanation that fits. I actually asked The Bean the next night if he had slept with her. He said that he had not, but he also was pressed up against a wall (literally), looking at me with this look of horror, and telling me that he hoped I could remember who he really is because he could not. Not really understanding how all this happened makes answering the question bewildering as well. When I confronted him in the parking lot, he actually said, “At least it was not like I left you for greener pastures.” Uh-huh.

I am helping a patient of mine put together her “goodbye letters.” Really, they are love letters to her closest family and friends done with knowing her death will come soon and wanting to leave them something tangible with her imprint of love all over them. This last week she dictated a letter to her future daughter-in-law. The future girl of her son’s dreams has yet to be found, and from what I gather he does not date too much these days–more your recluse type–so this letter is for the future hoped-for by his mother. Now I did hear that her son promised to get married by thirty-five, a good ten years off, at least that is her prayer for him. (Poor dear.)

As we worked on the future daughter-in-law letter, my patient would consult me to see if she covered all her bases. She wanted the opinion of a “future daughter-in-law,” whom she sees me to be given her palm reading from the week before! (Too funny; right?) I tell you what…this patient is such a joy to see! I really look forward to each visit because regardless of how sick she is, she possesses an amazing spirit and looks at life with joy and gratitude. I am learning a great deal from her about love, forgiveness, optimism, and most importantly, letting go of fear and trusting God.

In the letter to her future daughter-in-law, she wrote the following: “Be kind and gentle to each other. Love and marriage are like a rose. As they blossom, they get sweeter and open more with each passing day. When you argue with each other (over the next fifty years or so), remember inside that grouchy man is the same young guy you fell in love with. Please take excellent care of each other.”

Do you know much about roses? They are not difficult to cultivate, but they do require knowing a thing or two for them to flourish. I am not a rose expert by any means, but I did help someone plant a new garden and learned about roses in the process. Sista’s parents, Gram and Granddad, cultivate roses out at Lawless Landing. I wrote to Granddad to ask for some advice on the rose front, given there being just one straggly rose bush with one bloom every now and again in the garden before we began. What were we to do?

Granddad offered his sage rose wisdom. “Don’t be afraid to prune. Spend the time and money to make the right mix in the soil; roses can be picky about that. Water. Water. Water. If you tend to them, they should bloom abundantly for years to come.” In the end, the old rose was out, and two new ones purchased to be planted in deep pots with just the right soil and mulch top. A careful brew of moss, manure, soil and fertilizer to help these little plants blossom and grow.

I think many of us treat our relationships the same way we treat roses. We either buy them on the side of the street (you know who you are!) or at the store, but then throw them away when the blooms wilt and the water turns rancid. Maybe we feel sentimental sometimes, and turn over a bouquet and try to dry them out, but dried flowers are never as sweet at fresh. At other times, we do go ahead and actually “buy the bush” (terrible pun not intended, but noted) but become dismayed when the plant dies from our neglect. Into the mulch pile and onto another new plant thinking, “I just need to get one that is in my favourite colour, then it will work.” (Or something like that.)

The same person I helped with planting the garden remarked to me at the time, “I just want roses, but I do not want to have to mess with them.” Don’t we all! Relationships are hard. They require pruning back the dead parts of ourselves and allowing for that growth time in the one we are with after we help prune them. We must be honest, but we can never be cruel for cruelty always takes away more of the healthy plant than it can survive without. We have to nurture and tend to the soil. It takes the right balance of the shit of the past processed enough to bring added joy and life to the mix of regular ordinary life and rich healthy soil in order to have a full future. We must water our love. Love dying of thirst has no hope at all of blooming. And we cannot be afraid of being stuck, pricked, poked or cut by the thorns. Thorns are part of life, and I have found in my limited rose experience that often the sweetest most beautiful roses have the sharpest thorns. Put another way, if passion for life and love rules one’s heart, deep waters of sadness or informed understanding will often be their gentle companions as well.

I know part of the pain of my own past centers on feeling the burn of being tossed into the mulch heap. None of us like to feel tossed away because of our thorns, especially when we feel we have worked so hard to cultivate amazing blossoms with the fertilizer of our lives. Having been on the mulch heap these last six months, I spent my time pruning back so I would be ready for replanting a garden with someone else. My gut and heart believe the new blooms can be even sweeter than the last, but I still get scared sometimes. I do not want to be thrown on the mulch heap again! I guess this is why when my patient spoke of love and marriage being like a rose, I could not help but think to myself how appropriate a metaphor this is, only for me it is more like a rose garden. One that requires patience, nurturing, attention and forgiveness in order to enjoy the sweet opening blooms year after year.

I, for one, am willing to put in the work.

Photo credit: The Bean

These last few weeks the roller coaster I found myself whipping around on lacked any thrill or fun. My emotions all over the place–think Jackson Pollock–and the chocolate consumption has been at an all-time high. Hormones, regrets, dead people, poverty–take your pick–all had me feeling the crunch. I kept wondering to myself, “When will I get to the last of it?”

I can remember being in therapy at twenty-one and thinking, “all the pain of the abuse of my childhood will be worth it if my going through this helps it to happen less from now on in the world.” Then I realized by listening to other survivors’ stories, just how naive my thinking was. Total devastation at the time. I could find no line in the sand to draw…no bearing it so others would not have to…no end in sight. I found myself only one of many.

This realization touched off another more important understanding in me. I questioned my therapist, “I will never be over this, will I?” She told me, “No. And yes. Yes, right now you will find a way through towards life and wholeness. Yes, you can learn healthy ways of coping. Yes, you can get to a place where you are not terrified all of the time. You will also grow up and circumstances will change. One day you will no longer be afraid of someone touching you here (taking my hands and placing them in my crotch), but you will want them to touch you. You cannot face every piece of this at once, and life will bring the other pieces to you. As it does, you will have to look at them and deal with them, but you cannot prepare now for having a seven-year-old daughter and seeing yourself at that age. Just make a deal with yourself now that when those moments come, you will get the help you need. Don’t be afraid Jacqueline of needing to look at all of this again and again. Each time will be hard for its own reasons, but your emotional muscles to deal with what is coming up will be stronger too.”

I can remember after a good $100k of therapy (one three-week hospitalization helped propel the figure), my mother asked me when would I be”done.” Done? Damn! I was livid. I screamed back at her, “How the hell does a person who was molested almost every day for five years–and who had to try and commit suicide for it to stop–ever get DONE with dealing with that shit?!?” At the time, I sat in the mire and filth of my life. I owned it. I needed it. I wore my Girl Scout Survivor Badge with the neon lettering of MOLESTED emblazoned upon it. I held my head up high as I went to the Rape Support Group.

Over time, gentle imperceptible shifts occurred. I took off my badge. I stopped going to the group. I no longer needed to think about everything in my past in order to know life existed for me in my future. I did not find the last of it, but I found “the last of it for right now.” The shifts came again and again, and my therapist from the past was right. When something big reared its ugly head, if I got the help I needed I found my way. When John died. When I did my Advanced Bereavement Facilitator certification. When I decided to drop the walls of weight. When I found myself deeply loving The Bean and opening up all these magical rooms in my spirit I thought did not exist for me because of the molestation.

And then there is now; this terrifying place where I struggle to trust myself in the wake of The Bean’s shit. I get that he is not trustworthy, but I still cannot understand how I got him so wrong sometimes. This makes me question my ability to judge who is trustworthy in my life and to trust those I already love. I took a big hit to my own compass. I read the tea leaves wrong. I put emphasis where there was none out of my own desire to believe not only in love, but in love for me.

I have three personal holy days: my birthday, June 6th and June 28th. June 6th is holy because on that day my parents married in 1970, I was conceived–also in 1970–and my niece, The Older One, was born. I first connected with The Bean on June 6th last year, meeting him face-to-face the next day. Meeting him on my holy day gave our meeting greater import, I must admit. Fate. Destiny. Whatever. Not on that day, of course, but in the days, weeks and months to come. When I looked out five months later at my ordination and saw him there in the church–knowing in my heart what courage and love for me it took for him to be there–I felt like he was my “reward” for all the shit that ever happened in my life. He took on the role of being my “line in the sand.” My life before him somehow making sense because (at the time, of course) having him in my life connected so many dots, filled so many places of emptiness.

Now, I feel I must explain the emptiness. I need to protect my honor! My life has be characterized by a particular loneliness due to seeing the world in a particular way, being “scary smart,”and willing to question anything or anyone–including authority–right from the womb. No one “gets me” and usually people fall into one of two categories: 1) They love me as I am, but do not understand me; or 2) They feel the need to put me down for being who I am. With The Bean, I thought I found someone who not only cared about me but who also actually understood me and where I was coming from. I felt trusted for all of the ways I am such a complete “weirdo”–leaned into in those places instead of pulled away from.

Fast forward to this last Saturday. I stood in my living room crying my eyes out to Bubbie. As I cried, Bubbie gave me a big ol’ hug and said, “It is okay, you are just crying out the last of it now. It has been almost six months. It is the right time.”

I did not realize until Sunday night, while talking to Paparazzo, that the tears had his name on them, not The Bean’s.

See, Paparazzo does the Ft. Lauderdale Street Ride on Wednesdays. So does The Bean. When Paparazzo and I talked on Friday about all the ways the Ride fell apart with break-downs last week, his bike included, he mentioned how The Bean gave him a fucking bolt. Just a bolt mind you, and I had a world class melt down. I did posses enough presence of mind to get off the phone as quickly as possible on Friday. But the next day when I got a bit of shit for not being that into the sublime invite to maybe go to the movies, I lost it. Figuring out why proved hard. Why did Paparazzo mentioning The Bean make me flush with burning panic?

The tears with Bubbie were over losing my cool and falling apart (again! fuck!) with Paparazzo on the receiving end. I felt threatened. That horrible insecure place where my sick fantasy (or is it a nightmare?) saw The Bean and Paparazzo sitting around having one Mojito and one girly fruity drink with an umbrella (you get to decide who drinks what) and laughing about what a total nut-job I am. Maybe they would even talk about how I never seem to get over the whole being molested thing and the subsequent abandonment fears and how ugly I am and not that funny or cute or…or…or…?

I love Paparazzo. No friend has ever been more true to me–even if he is a total G.U.Y. and keeps his cards so close–or been more game to make me play even when I wanted to lie down and curl up in a ball. I just cannot bear the thought of losing him too.

The last of it had nothing to do with losing The Bean. He is long gone, which is good. The last of it–for now of course–had to do with being scared shitless that the losing won’t stop and finding my way back towards trusting my heart again. The same heart that knows without a doubt Paparazzo would never speak ill of me to The Bean.

There are all sorts of things I never think about any longer. Pain healed, forgiven, let go of, and forgotten. I would tell you about them, but I just do not remember. I do, however, know all about pain getting into those deep sacred places I rarely show anyone or even admit to possessing because they are so vulnerable to both love and loss. The Bean and his loss are in there, but so is all the love I have in me for Paparazzo.

Last week I gave my Hospice Team the Holmes Rahe Stress Scale as a quiz of sorts. Basically, if you score over 300 points you are in danger of being totally stressed out and having health problems. The scale gives a point value to major life events experienced over the last year. Now, you may need to assign a close value to something not exactly put in their terms. For instance, I gave myself a “60″ for my break-up with The Bean. I made this number up given you get 63 for the death of a close family member, and he is still alive to others, but pretty much dead to me (seemed only fitting). Feel free to go out and score yourself, but for fun (trust me–you are going to feel SO good about your life), let’s look at why I scored a whooping 862:

Breaking-up with The Bean: 60

Personal Injury or Illness: 159 (53 x Lyme Disease, Mono, & the Chicken Pox)

Change in the Health of a Family Member: 44 (Aunt Charlyne’s Cancer)

Sexual Difficulties: 39 (I am 36, was a virgin until 31, and keep dating men whose emotional issues impact their libido. In other words, I have not had nearly enough sex.)

Gain a New Family Member: 39 (God love Emma, but a new puppy is w.o.r.k.)

Change in Financial State: 76 (Went from poor to making it back to poor again with my recent move and new puppy.)

Change in Frequency of Arguments: 35 (I feel M.A.D. about the “business” of chaplaincy at work and get all feisty about it all the time.)

Change in Responsibilities at Work: 29 (I should get more given my new job changes our requirements all the time.) 58 (One time for the bull-shit requirement to spend 60% of my week in direct alive patient care, with another 20% minimum working on bereavement. I am not listening to anyone after awhile with over 30 hours required per week, plus four hours of Team Meeting, and driving around over an hour a day, and making appointments, and having to work from home but go to the office to chase paperwork in triplicate, and…well, that is why I gave myself the other 29 points. Constant failure.)

Outstanding Personal Achievement: 56 (Once for being approved for Ordination, and once for the Ordination itself.)

Change in Living Conditions: 50 (Lived with Parental Elements, lived with Biker Girl, living on my own–THANK YOU JESUS!)

Revision of Personal Habits: 24 (I have lost, gained, lost, gained, and now am losing the same fucking 10 pounds.)

Trouble with Boss: 23 (I just know I will be fired any day now for being out of compliance at work–see above–and dread seeing the Supervisors as a result. I just cannot physically keep up, let alone emotionally, so I decided to give myself these points too.)

Change in Working Hours of Conditions: 20 (Wow! What changes!)

Change in Residence: 40 (Moved twice in six months this last year.)

Change in Recreation: 19 (Got back on a bike after 20 years and loved it!)

Change in Church Activities: 19 (The move north has taken me further away from church.)

Minor Loan: 17 (Refinanced with the Bank of Mom.)

Change in Sleeping Habits: 16 (Back to waking up to go see dead people in the middle of the night.)

Change in Eating Habits: 45 (see above personal habits)

Minor Law Violation: 11 (I bumped into a car parked illegally behind mine, but the damage to my insurance has been worse than the $804 in damages to his car.)

Christmas: 12 (Although, I did not celebrate it this year. I just worked and cried my eyes out missing The Bean.)

So, in summary, it is amazing that I am not dead. Plus, they did not factor in being shot at or having to call 911 on your roommate’s ex while he beat some guy at the house. Maybe we should just round my score up to an even 1000? And to think my score would have been under 100 prior to August 2006. In other words, all these life changes happened in the last nine months! Yet here I am, still funny and everything! (At least I think so.)

Yesterday I attended the death of a patient whom I really cared deeply for. Now there is no code at work to put down for when you just feel sad some days because people you care about and care for always die. Shit! This is Hospice after-all. I see how I need time to mourn all these deaths so I can go on to the next ones. So, yesterday I mourned a bit for the patient who died in the morning and for two others I really loved who died last week. I know part of what makes me good at what I do centers on letting people in my heart. I would not have it any other way, but I also must let them back out a bit when they die.

Funny…I did not intend to write any of this aspect, but now seeing it in black and white I realize how much I needed to say I do not work unscathed.

What I started to say was that the family of the woman who died commented to me about what a peace and glow I seem to project. Now yesterday I KNOW “glowing” did not get checked off in my beauty regime. I woke up late, felt like shit, had paperwork from the day before, and found myself with wet hair, no make-up, and still in my pjs when I received the call to attend the death. I walked out of the house within 10 minutes. The dog taken out, clothed, in my right mind, with blow-dried bangs (only) and make-up, but I looked less than my best! And I still glowed? How can that be?

I really do believe the reason I walk upright–even though these last months required some major lie down and cry time–centers on my attitude towards the shit of my life. Yes, I currently may be a stressed out mess in some respects, but I choose to be a funny, sarcastic, horny, wicked, kind one at that. I know recently I have been bitching about not wanting to always have to be resilient, but maybe there is just no other way to be in this life. Otherwise, I might end up with the shit of my life–much of which I have no fucking control over–weighing me down completely. Stubbornness possess gifts too. I try to focus on those elements I feel powerful over, and my reactions always are within my control. Do I get all Snappy Bitch sometimes? Hell yeah! Can I almost always be talked off my limb? Yes. Mostly, I know Love never leaves me and will always be stronger than death. (See Song of Solomon 8:6-7)

I look back at all of this and think to myself: “Damn girl! I am so fucking proud of you!”

Everyone is just a little bit prejudice, and one of my BIGGEST prejudices is against men who wear tank-tops. I see a man in a tank top and I run the other way. Men should not wear tank-tops, but if you must wear one, please be gay. The Gays can carry it off–sometimes–but I have yet to see a straight tank top wearing man rock the sleeveless wonders. Here is why:

• Many of the guys who wear tanks, especially to the gym, do so to show off their muscles. I understand this. I like to rock my best features, which is why the boobs are always pushed up to where God intended and my hair shiny and soft. Tis’ human to highlight and accentuate, however, when a guy highlights his arms I immediately (remember, I told you this is a prejudicial issue for me) think, “Buddy…not too smart, are you?” Can you believe how pedantic I can be about appearances? I figure a guy showing off his arms like that has to do it to make up for being a complete idiot.
• I also find the guys with the tight workout tank-top cannot get enough of looking at themselves in the mirror. They go to the gym to show off their bodies and announce how hot (which I think means “fuckable”) they are. They want hot girls to see them and want to sleep with them. If my former roommate is a good litmus test, this plan usually works for them. Now you probably are thinking, given my own confession of not being a “hot girl” previously, that I am just jealous. Two amazing bodies see each other across the room and instantly want to fuck like rabbits never happens to me. The wallflower in Nike capri’s and her Duke Divinity tee-shirt does not get the “fuck me baby right after this rep” look ever! You are right about that! Jealousy though? Not on your life. Again, if my former roommate is any indication, these guys also have more drama wrapped up in them then you can find on a Telenovela. Do not even get me started on the insecurity issues either. They pump up for more than just health for damn sure!
• I find myself staring at the guy’s arm pits. The shirt stops right there! I never swoon over the muscles bulging, but instead find myself mesmerized by the little hairs sticking out. Now, when I guy is naked (really the best way to size a man up) I embrace the underarm hair. I will even embrace it when he is naked from the waist up–most of the time. However, standing next to a guy in a tank, I find myself totally grossed out by the underarm hair. I want to scream, “Cover that shit up man!” Sometimes, a guy will look all cute and athletic until you see the little Tribbles poking out their heads.

Dear Captian Kirk Up to His Pits in Tribbles.

• On the topic of not being mesmerized by a guy’s muscles…the WORST case scenario is when there are no muscles at all to size up! I speak from experience here. My arms flail in the wind. I know not to wear tank-tops in public unless medically necessary, by which I mean I find myself in the midst of a peri-menopausal moment and coolness wins over “Cool Factor.” Flabby arms on a guy, plus one tank top, equals REDNECK. Sweaty, stinky, beer can tossing, tractor pull going, NASCAR lovin Redneck. And for the record: A wife-beater is a tank top.
• Add some zits to the above and the ick factor quadruples.
• Lastly, and most importantly, when I see a good looking guy, well-groomed, athletic, etc. in a tank I a.l.w.a.y.s. sigh and think to myself, “God bless the Gays.” In fact, I discussed this whole Tank-Top Man Hating Thing with The Boys (a totally fab gay couple and good friends of mine) and Bubbie piped up saying, “But I have a tank-top that I work out in, what would you think of me?” With that The Joker hit him over the head and howled, “She would think you are GAY!” And she would be right.

In summary, boys if you have the muscles to highlight in a tank and are gay, feel free. I still find it a bit weird–Tribble Factor and all–but who am I to judge? (HA!) If you are not gay, keep those biceps under cover and let me use my imagination. I especially like the imagination part where I run my hands up your arms…wait! I do not write that kind of blog…