bloody marty mix
110/365: 1991-1992
Saturday, 13 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 24: 1991-1992
I had been back in Evanston, living in a new apartment with Don W. (an old friend of mine from early college days) for four months when I got an invitation to go to a party with a bunch of people I used to work with as a student. While I was there, I started chatting with a guy I recognized from those earlier days, but did not know well. His name was Rob, and he had a round, boyish face, with flushed cheeks, and a disarming smile. We stood just outside the door of the walkup apartment for hours, leaning against the railing of the stairwell as the party continued inside. Neither of us noticed. He drove me home, and we kissed in his car for another hour before I finally had to disengage and send him on his way so I could get some sleep.
Rob and I tried the dating thing for awhile, but it became apparent within a few weeks that we were just not suited for each other romantically. We made fast friends, though, and we hung out with each other often. We kicked around the idea of writing a book together (Rob being an idea man, and me with some writing skills), but every time we got together to plot it out, we would just end up horsing around and talking about whatever randomness was on our minds. With my best friend from college no longer around, it felt great to have someone to confide in again, and we became each other's sounding boards.
After the holidays, work started heating up, and I no longer had time to see much of anyone or anything outside of my office. The project I had been working on was winding down when we got word that the client wanted to rework the entire thing. Most of the team members had been assigned to other projects already, so it fell to me to do it by myself. What had been a five-person effort, was now a one-person slog. For three months through the winter and early spring, I worked 80-hour weeks, often going days without seeing sunlight. I set up a sleeping bag and pillow under a desk, and slept there a few times a week, only returning home briefly to shower and change. When it was over, it was as if I had gone to sleep in the winter and awoken in the spring 3 months older. I was ready to burst.
It was then that I met Don D. He was a graduate student in chemical engineering, and he was a strange and troubled soul. Something about him put me at ease in my own skin in a way I had never been before. Maybe it was his own telegraphed insecurities that put me at ease with my own. Maybe it was the extraordinarily gentle way in which he touched me, or the earnestness with which he listened when I spoke. Whatever it was, we became entwined with each other almost immediately. I felt safe and at peace when I sank back into his arms. I had never let anyone touch my stomach before, because I was terribly self-conscious about it, but when he touched me there, for the first time, I didn't flinch or pull away. When I told him of this tiny revelation, he smiled and leaned over me, placing a soft kiss on my tummy.
Don D. was not a well person. He had been periodically suicidal in the past, and was prone to expansive mood swings. He fancied himself a lone warrior, a soul struggling against the tide as no soul had ever struggled before. It was a grandiosity that only served to make the fall harder when he inevitably encountered all the little failures of everyday life. But I loved him with everything I had in my meager emotional arsenal, believing as so many women do, that I could fix him. I could not.
Shortly before my birthday, I got the call that he had made another attempt on his life, and had been admitted to the psych wing at the hospital. I rushed to see him, and when I came into the room, he looked sheepish... almost as if he'd been caught stealing a pack of gum or a soda. He was embarrassed and apologetic. I said I didn't care, and that I just wanted him well and safe, but he and I both knew I could not keep him well or safe. His doctor had suggested to him that his relationship with me might be something he could not handle appropriately right now, and neither of us could come up with a plausible reason to disagree. I cried and told him I would do whatever I needed to do to help him, and if that meant walking away, I would.
When it was over, he wrote agonized poetry about how I never really loved him, and posted it online. Years later, his name appeared in the back of the alumni magazine as having died. No cause of death was listed, but in my heart, I knew, and I dropped to my knees and sobbed.
Who am I?
I am no longer a fixer.
I have miles of patience for imperfections, and I will wait and be supportive while someone works on their issues. But it is clear to me now that the only person who can change someone's life is that person whose life needs changing. It is a lesson carved into my soul with a white hot blade.
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110/365: 1991-1992
Saturday, 13 September 2008.
40 Years in 40 Days [ view the entire set ]
An examination and remembrance of a life at 40.
For the 40 days leading up to my 40th birthday, I intend to use my 365 Days project to document and remember my life and lay bare what defines me. 40 years, 40 qualities, 40 days.
Year 24: 1991-1992
I had been back in Evanston, living in a new apartment with Don W. (an old friend of mine from early college days) for four months when I got an invitation to go to a party with a bunch of people I used to work with as a student. While I was there, I started chatting with a guy I recognized from those earlier days, but did not know well. His name was Rob, and he had a round, boyish face, with flushed cheeks, and a disarming smile. We stood just outside the door of the walkup apartment for hours, leaning against the railing of the stairwell as the party continued inside. Neither of us noticed. He drove me home, and we kissed in his car for another hour before I finally had to disengage and send him on his way so I could get some sleep.
Rob and I tried the dating thing for awhile, but it became apparent within a few weeks that we were just not suited for each other romantically. We made fast friends, though, and we hung out with each other often. We kicked around the idea of writing a book together (Rob being an idea man, and me with some writing skills), but every time we got together to plot it out, we would just end up horsing around and talking about whatever randomness was on our minds. With my best friend from college no longer around, it felt great to have someone to confide in again, and we became each other's sounding boards.
After the holidays, work started heating up, and I no longer had time to see much of anyone or anything outside of my office. The project I had been working on was winding down when we got word that the client wanted to rework the entire thing. Most of the team members had been assigned to other projects already, so it fell to me to do it by myself. What had been a five-person effort, was now a one-person slog. For three months through the winter and early spring, I worked 80-hour weeks, often going days without seeing sunlight. I set up a sleeping bag and pillow under a desk, and slept there a few times a week, only returning home briefly to shower and change. When it was over, it was as if I had gone to sleep in the winter and awoken in the spring 3 months older. I was ready to burst.
It was then that I met Don D. He was a graduate student in chemical engineering, and he was a strange and troubled soul. Something about him put me at ease in my own skin in a way I had never been before. Maybe it was his own telegraphed insecurities that put me at ease with my own. Maybe it was the extraordinarily gentle way in which he touched me, or the earnestness with which he listened when I spoke. Whatever it was, we became entwined with each other almost immediately. I felt safe and at peace when I sank back into his arms. I had never let anyone touch my stomach before, because I was terribly self-conscious about it, but when he touched me there, for the first time, I didn't flinch or pull away. When I told him of this tiny revelation, he smiled and leaned over me, placing a soft kiss on my tummy.
Don D. was not a well person. He had been periodically suicidal in the past, and was prone to expansive mood swings. He fancied himself a lone warrior, a soul struggling against the tide as no soul had ever struggled before. It was a grandiosity that only served to make the fall harder when he inevitably encountered all the little failures of everyday life. But I loved him with everything I had in my meager emotional arsenal, believing as so many women do, that I could fix him. I could not.
Shortly before my birthday, I got the call that he had made another attempt on his life, and had been admitted to the psych wing at the hospital. I rushed to see him, and when I came into the room, he looked sheepish... almost as if he'd been caught stealing a pack of gum or a soda. He was embarrassed and apologetic. I said I didn't care, and that I just wanted him well and safe, but he and I both knew I could not keep him well or safe. His doctor had suggested to him that his relationship with me might be something he could not handle appropriately right now, and neither of us could come up with a plausible reason to disagree. I cried and told him I would do whatever I needed to do to help him, and if that meant walking away, I would.
When it was over, he wrote agonized poetry about how I never really loved him, and posted it online. Years later, his name appeared in the back of the alumni magazine as having died. No cause of death was listed, but in my heart, I knew, and I dropped to my knees and sobbed.
Who am I?
I am no longer a fixer.
I have miles of patience for imperfections, and I will wait and be supportive while someone works on their issues. But it is clear to me now that the only person who can change someone's life is that person whose life needs changing. It is a lesson carved into my soul with a white hot blade.
[ view previous | view next ]