Those Were Different Days (Joce)

We're sitting around the table, everybody on their second or third margarita, worn out from a long hot day, but the mood is light and easy. Somebody asks Brandon about his sister, she's had a lot of trouble with men in her life, good juicy gossip: Her live-in boyfriend got somebody else pregnant and left her, then the next guy she dated was dealing heroin. Heroin! And went to jail. "She's just one of those girls," says Brandon, "that if you tell her she's pretty, tell her that you love her, that's all it takes. She holds on and won't let go." Everybody laughs. We all know girls like that. So insecure, so desperate for the approval of a man, oblivious or forgiving of the red flags. We pity them.

I laugh, too. I laugh at Brandon's sister and those poor, pathetic girls starved for the affection and validation of a worthless, piece of shit guy. I laugh but I don't say anything. Because, in my heart I know that I, too, am that girl. I order another margarita.

I made the error of writing about love in May as if I knew something, anything about it. As if being love thirsty for all these years and years has given me insight into what love is. As if keeping a blog about relationships and dating and feelings qualifies me as a love expert. What a fool!  Enter swift karmic retribution -- I got tangled in a couple of flash-in-the-pan relationships where the word love was bandied about, one was just a lie, a messy, twisted love lie, and the other was unwanted and non-reciprocal love. I realized I know nothing about love. Not one little thing.

I used to think, up until about a week ago, that my big relationship character flaw was having too much empathy for others. Did he have a bad childhood? Was he unloved by his mother? Was his heart broken in 15 different places by 15 different women? Is he naturally timid? Or mean? Or manipulative? I understand. No problem. I can help him overcome. I can heal his wounds no matter how deep or wide. My comforting and kindness and nurturing will make him whole again. He will change. He will love me, too, eventually, finally, and we will live happily ever after.

Wrong.

My Pen is Mightier (Voldemort, Ken)

I'm not unaware that in some circles, particularly, say, in the small circle made up of my crummiest ex's, this blog is somewhat controversial. A lot of people read it, some I know personally, the vast majority I've never met. Over the years the feedback from both camps has been overwhelmingly positive and encouraging; I can honestly say the only negative feedback I've received has been from two (three?) men and they are both featured prominently in these pages. 

Writing for the Big Book of Bad Dates is often exhausting, difficult and discouraging. And yet, keeping this blog has provided tremendous relief from the struggle. On occasion writing has allowed me to see what I couldn't see before; It's forced me to be honest, most painfully, with myself. When I go back and read through old entries I feel like I've made progress - emotionally, psychologically - and it's due in no small part to the work that I've done here. In the end I'm proud of myself and I'm proud of this blog. 

Three plus years ago I was still reeling from running from Ken. I was back in Idaho trying to get on my feet, trying to  find my path when I got a Google alert about a new blog. This blog was "About" me. What follows is the only three entries that were posted. 

The Dead Horse Rising (Avery, Ben, Clinton, Jackson, Malik)

From Joce’s  The Art of Dreams Diary, 1994/1995

Army
Lined up like a picture,
my 5-man army boys,
wearing different armor,
lined up, like tin toys.

Looking proud and self-assured,
he winks and spouts a lying word.
Avery is a loving fool,
but sweet and innocent and cruel.

And gentle Ben, his grace well-known,
he wears a smile, angel-sewn.
In the humblest of attire,
A warmth and presence we admire.

Broken-hearted and anxious-eyed,
Clinton’s wishes are denied.
Confusion clutters up his soul,
while life's great chances take their toll.

Jackson, Jackson, with wicked heart,
he builds you up, then takes you apart,
Cheshire in his every way,
he sneaks up, scares, and flies away.

Malik great and Malik tall,
lets you see behind his wall,
then rebuilds it, brick by brick,
reminding you he’s Satan’s trick.

Ghosts of Different Days (Joce)

About the only thing that’s perfect about me is my vision. I haven’t taken an eye test in years but it’s never tested lower than absolutely flawless. As a kid, I thought I was really missing out on an accessory opportunity by not getting to wear glasses or bright blue contacts (keep in mind I was also jealous of the girl who broke her leg because she got to wear a pink cast.  Everybody signed it!). I’ve since come to realize that the additional expense of a medically required accessory leaves a little to be desired (sunglasses are more than enough) and I’ve reallocated my jealousies to wishing I had perfect hair, or perfect skin or a perfect ass. Even more unfortunately, there isn’t a glasses equivalent for the ass - that accessory that remedies the less than perfect characteristic. Unless you count Spanx. Which I don’t. Spanx are way less cuter than a pair of specs.

Supposedly hindsight is 20/20. Mine isn’t. The further I get from the past, the harder it is for me to recall what happened, what was going on, how I felt, what I said, how I reacted. I’ve never been one of those people that could recount, word for word, a conversation. Or remember a date, an anniversary. I’ve had lifelong friends that I can’t remember for the life of me what their birthday is. What year did I graduate from college? Good question. What was I wearing? Probably, likely, something cute, but, unless there’s a picture from the moment in question, your guess is as good as mine.

I’ve been going to a counselor lately to work on some life strategies. Clearly, I need some new tools for my toolbox. And he’s been asking me a lot of questions about the past, past relationships, past lives in past places. And, I don’t have a lot of details to give. He asked me the other day about Bryce, “what attracted you to him at the beginning?” (I’d asked him to help me figure out what attracts me to bullies, manipulators, tough and mean guys, so I don’t do it again, HALP!) Honestly, I couldn’t remember anything, anything except the basic timeline. I had to go back and read some emails, my blog, my diary, to fill in the details, to clarify.

 After that, I realized that Bryce was well-spoken, interesting, driven, not to mention, actively pursuing me. Mostly, he talked a good game. And I’m such a good listener that I didn’t bother to notice that he didn’t follow the talking up with action. He told me exactly what I wanted to hear, using the best possible words and he presented an elaborate façade that distracted me from who he actually was. He hid the hoarding part, the ‘roid rage, the pet abuse, the shifty financial situation. Until it was too late and I was so over my head that I was afraid to back out. I’m the kind of person who tends to put my money where my mouth is. If I say I’m going to do something, I make a concerted effort to do it. In other words, I’m a man of my word.

And, I tend to take a man at his word. Which is why, perhaps, I ended up with Bryce. And Ken. And Malik. And Conover. And, of course, Rocco. Each of these men presented a self, at least in the beginning, that was far different from whom they actually ended up being. They all said the right thing, talked a good game, but had a much harder time walking the walk. Each of them sold their refrigerator to an Inuit (me), but then couldn’t figure out (or never had the intention of) delivering a unessential major appliance to a remote destination.

The Internet is Forever

My second go at Story, Story Night, less funny, more tragedy.
Listen to the whole thing or just me at 21:42.

For more funny, less tragedy, my first go at Story, Story here.

Excess (Malik)

At home in the world (Malik)

12/2/1995

He has a picture of her pinned to the bulletin board above his desk at work. A quick glance and his eyes meet hers, jet black, kohl rimmed, deep and warm. She is everything you aren’t: rich, sophisticated, glamorous and worldly. She has perfect skin and beautifully coiffed hair. The daughter, granddaughter of great beauties, talented famous women.  

He could never, would never, love you as much as he loves her.

Girls say yes to boys who say no (Malik)

22 July 1995

J - I wrote this after we got off the phone. I wish we could communicate better because there is so much more...I'm not in a good frame, of late, and I react by withdraw - Love, M

Dressing Up Like Girls (Malik)

Drinking in some brown London pub near Regents Park. Kind of wandered in out of the rain. Low rent sort of place, old drunks, young men missing teeth, Mistress Quickleys. Kind of like Pete's Tavern.
=
Now on to J. Sheekey's for some fish. High brow, must have a reservation sort of place. Of course, I don't, and I'm by myself so I get a seat at the bar. Fish and Chips for only £18.90...you do the math. Would actually prefer the Little Kitchen, right about now. Craving a Monte Cristo. I crave a lot of things from the past...never seem to find happiness.
=
Soho...What is it about Englishman and dressing up like girls?
=
Westminster and my favorite bar/pub, the Red Lion, across from Number 10. Nice place, pictures of Churchill, Disraeli, etc. Missing you, Joce, missing you...Cheers, Malik

Peace in your heart (Malik)

"You think what I've told you is an anecdote. But really it isn't. It's my whole life. It's the only story I have."
Charles Baxter

There are two sides to every relationship and two sides to every story about that relationship. This is my story; it is only one side, my side.

It is presumptuous to think we can understand, even if we do have both sides of the story, what goes on between two people in a relationship. Very often they can't understand it themselves.

Obviously, the stories here do not represent Malik as a whole person (nor do they represent any other man, or even myself, as a whole person). They are a tiny sliver, a snapshot of a moment in time, between two people.

In the end, the only thing I knew about Malik was who we were together, the interactions, power plays and manipulations that defined us as a couple. Neither of us were our best selves at that time, in that place, in fact, we were probably our worst selves. And, despite the fact that love existed somewhere in that whirlwind of turmoil, the chemical reaction, the combination of our hearts and souls left permanent scars on both of us. Sometimes, even if we love somebody very much, we do them irreparable damage.

Malik was one of the first people to truly break my heart and I have carried the anger and frustration that he left me with into the rest of my life. We were never able to come to a resolution, and despite his efforts to reach out to me over the years, I was never able to forgive him. When it came to Malik I could only be a 17 year old girl with tears in her eyes and her heart on the floor.

I am sorry for us, for him, for me, that we could never truly see each other as a whole person or know each other as we got older and matured. But, life is about lessons and we did learn from each other.

On July 4, 2011, Malik passed away. My heart goes out to those who loved him. I am so happy that he was so loved and by so many.

The Love that Was (Malik)

The Haj, where Muslim men beat themselves with chains as they walk around the pillar that Mohammed ascended to heaven from, was last month. I don't beat myself over our relationship often but I cite the lessons learned.

In retrospect, I view our relationship as typical of my experience: I couldn't make up my mind as to whether I wanted it or not and I often tuned-out (should I stay or should I go) rather than doing anything about it.

I wrote in one of my journals about something you said when I moved to Chestnut. I remember it vividly not only because I knew what you said was true, and how you said it, but the overwhelming sense of not knowing how to handle it. You were standing in the living room, yelling at me, crying at me, "Why can't you love me when all I give you is love? Why do you treat me so mean?!"

At the time, I didn't think much of it. But over the past few years, as I repeated the same mistakes with relationships, I remembered you standing there and hearing your haunting words. I can't go back and change the past but I've learned, not just from you, that Love is precious and should never be turned away.

As far as being a "fairie princess," I believe you are. I see you in your Van Gogh hat; telling me you were just a  "stupid-girl;" eating brie with me by the river. I think of you fondly, regardless of how it ended...

I hope you are happy and I believe you are.

Take care,

The Evil Dark Prince

Join my network on LinkedIn (Malik)

LinkedIn Malik has indicated you are a Friend. Send me your phone number...if you dare. - Malik If I dare, or if I care? -Joce Don't be so harsh. -Malik I'm not being harsh. We are not friends. We "dated" for less than a year, when I was 17, and you were 30 and that was SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO. It was a really, really dysfunctional and destructive relationship and it doesn't inspire a single ounce of sentimental feeling in me. I don't think it's fair that you force me to revisit a really awful time in my life over and over, especially when the communication seems motivated by your latest relationship or life fiasco. I know you're sorry about what happened but it's honestly just a tiny blip on my life. I was 17, and I made a bad choice, do I have to be haunted by it every six months, forever? If you hadn't noticed, I've moved on to other dysfunctional relationships with other jerks. I'm more focused on that right now.  -Joce I have terminal cancer, Joce. -Malik

We'll Always Never Have Paris (Malik)

Hi Malik,

Where are you now? You must, at least, send postcards from wherever you go. I have a collection. But please don’t send me anything that I will get arrested for (drugs, severed limbs, etc.) I’m really not in the mood. You must be terribly lonely there in the nether regions, to be thinking of me. Have you been back to Paris yet? I remember how you took that girl, the one before me. You only knew her for four months and she got a trip to Paris! We dated for a year. Anyway, if you go – apparently the Musee d’Orsay has a picture of me, I’m the spitting image of Madame Rimsky-Korsakov by Winterhalter. Different people at different times. Do you still look like the fat drugged up Elvis?

Honestly, I am very lonely, but that is my own fault. Loneliness is a funny thing. I mourn the loss of people who meant so much to me, even when I know I could pick up the phone and talk to them right this minute. I think it must be my cross to bear that I love unconditionally, forever, people that I shouldn’t. I am in a constant battle to forget them, to let them go. Having a dog helps with some of that.

I am ready for the life that I thought I would have: over the top, eccentric, fun and full of cash. Job interview on Monday. As my former boss, any tips? My interviewer is a woman and that never goes well for some reason. I have a new lipstick called Orb. It’s a very high brow, coked up, death mod shimmer gold.  I don’t think I’ll wear it.

I’ve seen it raining fire,

Joce

Moneypenny,

I’m in Copenhagen right now. I came by train and will be here for a few days.  Then I am off to London to negotiate my position with a new company.

Yet, even with all my grand adventures, I am still frightened and find myself wandering the narrow streets, in the dark, crying my eyes out wishing I was in Fair Oaks, California or better yet, running away to Kosovo to help the refugees, or somewhere in my past, like elementary school. Don’t know if I’ll ever be settled, I think my life is short…blah blah blah

JOCE, I was wrong. I treated you unfairly and poor at best. I think of you fondly, I wish we went to dinner more often, to the movies even. But, I was fucked in the head, I’m sorry you were part of the “collateral damage” of my fucked life at the time.  It breaks my heart that we never went to Paris.

You are vibrant color (Malik)

M I had a dream about you the other night. PG/R rated. PG-13, I guess.

J I can't believe you still have dreams about me. It's been 10 years!

M Well, I think of you a lot, actually. I sometimes see things and think...WOW that is something Joce would like, or that is so Joce...

I’m sentimental because the situation with my wife is fairly straight forward...she is boring... but you would probably say that that is also funny sounding coming from me. She is stable. She is predictable. She is easy to please. She reads. She drinks tea. She works in her garden. But, when we argue she lacks passion. That is what is missing...passion. She'd be great to live with when I'm 80. I love her, don't get me wrong, but I still love you. So what's the point...

J Perpetually dissatisfied.

M But you would say I never loved you.

J I don't think you really know what love is. I think you only really truly love yourself. Everything else is just too much work. And I don't have any sympathy for it.

M Well, I think love is something thought of in the past-tense. I mean, I love the memories but we make no more memories. It's grocery shopping and paying the housekeeper...Oh, Joce...I should have met you when I was older.

J No. I'm so much smarter now and I have much less patience. I just won't put up with the drama anymore.That's why I left my last boyfriend, he was a lot like you. He said all the right things but wouldn't follow through. It was all just brilliant sentiments with nothing to back them up.

M That's what I mean, older when I could have handled it. I'm drama less...I like passion, not passion between two people necessary but passion one feels for things important too them...emotion, feeling, color. You are vibrant color.

J I'm more pragmatic, less passion. Passion gets you in tight spaces with borderline personalities. I just want to pay my bills, work on my drawings, laugh with my friends, walk my dog. I don't want a power struggle with an egotistical narcissist. I've had my share of those boys.

M Okay. I hope that you enjoy life.

J Don’t sound so disappointed! You're always welcome to be sentimental about the 20 year old me. But, I'm in my 30s now. I can't face screaming crying fights, demanding somebody to love me. Ug.

M I'm not disappointed Joce. And I don't think of you as a 20 year old anymore, which is why I said I wish I'd met you when I was older. A 20 year old and 30 have little in common, 30 and 40 have more to talk about.

J I'm sure I'm just as boring as your wife. I'm afraid we all are. But, you can think of me however you like. It's not like you'll ever know me otherwise.

M Anyway, I love you, in your own way in your own time. Email me your new address, I'll send you a postcard.

J A postcard from the edge?

M I'm far from the edge...just looking for adventure.

Pork belly seasoned with sage (Malik)

Dear Joce,

I wanted to share a recent journal entry with you...

"One day you are going to wake up to find yourself old and lonely." Ten years on, Joce's words still haunt me. The power of words…they hurt more than punches to the gut and resonate more than a kick in the balls.

I have an English wife and a French girlfriend. One for love and one for fun, I guess. One knows of the other, the other has no idea…my little secret. Yet I am so lonely and at times finding myself thinking back to dark and thundering summer Friday evening barbeques at the Walnut St. house. Having no furniture and calling it bohemian…my little secret. It wasn't bohemian; I simply didn't want to collect things I would have to get rid of when I left.

I find myself always wanting to leave. I go to parties, say hello, make small talk, sneak out the back without saying goodbye. Out-of-sync, I fondly remember the past but never fully enjoying the present.

I turn 40 in six months. This morning, I woke up and found myself old and lonely.

Malik

My response

*Sigh* OH, Malik. You never got it then, and you haven't got it now. I wasn't a prophet, a twenty year old sage, but merely observant. 10 years ago you were already old and lonely. You were old and lonely way before you ever met me. Which is why you ended up on Walnut St. in a house empty of more than just furniture. Old and lonely is why you left the country, why you've been married three times, why you do drugs and sometimes, when you're even more desperate, look for God.

And unless you get a hobby (other than yourself), volunteer, do something truly NOT self-serving, do something genuinely kind and not feel the need to point it out to everybody, you will die old and lonely. And for your sake, I hope I'm not clairvoyant. I hope that someday you'll learn your lesson, and die old and fulfilled. I doubt it.

His response

You make me laugh...and smile...but you are still a "stupid girl."

I love your wit and your writing style. You are a sage, in your own way.

Thanks for the punch to the belly.

Malik