Snuggled in bed next to a pretty dozing boy, adding some stuff to neevita after a long, cracked out, but enjoyable day. As the benedryl starts creeping in, I wind down closer to the glorious 10 hours of sleep I’m about to get, with the bathroom fan balancing out the upstairs TV sounds, and a Pandora ambient station whisping through my ears.
I liked this weekend, and I am looking forward to my dreams, my future, and tomorrow.
I try to insert myself into situations that don’t interest me out of the fear of being rejected, and then blame the person I want to be closer to for how uncomfortable it is when it doesn’t work.
I have always been uncomfortable with the idea that love is only light, acceptance, joy, and all those other sugar/spice/unicornbarf type things girls are supposedly made of. I was reminded of this wide-spread, endlessly perpetuated annoyance recently when my forgiveness was asked for, and I realized that somewhere along the way I’d picked up the idea that people think forgiveness means “mulligan” or “do over” or “that never happened”.
I think, among other things, love is the snips and snails and puppydog tails too, just like I think pain, challenge and suffering are necessary and brilliant parts of the totality in the human experience of life, and that forgiveness is a chance, not a free pass. But finding the balance in love has historically been the hard part, for me.
As so eloquently and briefly said in the BBC’s 2007 series “Jekyll”, love is psychotic. People kill for it, die for it, give up their dreams for it, lose themselves in it, spend their entire lives looking for it — the negative connotations of those acts don’t divorce them from their origin. Love is a demon bitch. A hot one.
And the hottest loves I’ve had? All psychotic. All fucking batshit certifiable, and drove me fucking insane. There is a particular, snake-like, eerie hotness to those types of people, and I can smell one from miles away. I know they’re terrible partners, that they turn on people, that they lie and mercilessly emotionally manipulate the people around them, and I don’t get what I want out of those relationships.
All of my significant romantic relationships ping-pong between dark vampiric nutbag and squishy cuddly nice guy who thinks he’s nuts but isn’t. So what the fuck, then? Why do I keep trying the crazies on for size when I know better and could pick one out of a lineup blindfolded? What am I still getting out of it?
I’ve been perplexed, compelled, frustrated, high, experimental, giddy, and everything in between trying to figure out what to make of my attraction to toxic people, and most recently how the fuck I can enjoy it without screwing up my life. I’ve been getting closer and closer to having that, too. Lots of tools in my toolbelt for herding and luring hot psychos.
And then what I thought I was getting, which isn’t what I thought I was supposed to be getting, hit me, as I was watching the second to last episode of Jekyll. A moment of pure epiphany. There is one core element to that seductive, dangerous hotness that made it worth it to me, deep down. The perception of Protection.
He’s nuts, he’s violent, he’s passionate, and I’m his girl. I’m as safe as anyone has ever been. It’s the perfect fantasy to go along with the gaslighting, manipulation and the slow smoldering death of my fragile, scared little soul, which is the cost of being in a relationship with a fucking lunatic. And the fucking shred of hope (also a demon bitch, btw) that his affections for me would win out in the end kept me engaged.
While it was never ideal, when I was with a psycho, part of me thought at the very least I was safe from EVERYONE else. I was also, well: Wrong, and that’s fucking silly as hell, and I’m glad I didn’t end up beaten to death in a fucking ditch or something.
Clearly, at one time, finding an extreme way to ensure my protection was important to me. I did it by growing up on a computer and when it was time to interact with people I continued seeking my parental dynamics, all the while bitching and moaning about what a psychotic, dramatic embarrassment my mother was.
And she was. She was a fucking abusive, selfish, screaming sack of pure raging, yet functional and strangely adaptive, nuts. And apparently among the things she instilled in me, is a deep, powerful, primal urge to fuck people like her, particularly the ones who’ve harnessed it and put an elegant polish on themselves, like an old world vocabulary or a nice 6-pack.
In fact, one ex in particular strikes me as what the product of my mother may have resembled were she raised and living as a male in this society.
So I’ve been out there fucking my mother, basically. I guess this explains why I almost exclusively come to the imagery of owning a cock.
I, probably like you, have an inner voice. I sense it more than I hear it, and I know it’s my inner voice because I don’t ever “hear” it telling me anything, I just “know” what it’s saying. Usually, it keeps me full up on self deprecating chatter, razor sharp and often hilarious judgements, and that everlasting reminder that as hard as I work at everything I do I’ll never be enough.
I’d always figured that when I got around to hearing actual voices, they would be the Smeagol sorts of voices that encouraged me to press someone’s head into a belt sander, fuck a dead animal, or chop off my own foot because it itched.
As it turns out, it seems that I have taken to hearing the voices of people around me complimenting me.
It’s happened twice in the last week, and I pretended not to hear it. I’ll be in the kitchen and think I just overheard part of a personal conversation in the living room that I wasn’t supposed to be privy to.
I started wondering if these things were actually happening, just had a little bit of a sense about it you know? Like in dreams, my name is never used. And it’s a one-liner type thing, something that can be interpreted as being about how awesome I am but isn’t blatant, such as “I love doing this with her”. And at one time, in 2001 or so, I would dream so vividly about it being the day I was transitioning into sleep from that I would think conversations I’d dreamed that night were real the day after.
It took a little while (and a boatload of fucking balls, honestly) to ask someone who could tell me if these things were actually being said aloud. They weren’t, but asking did open up a lovely conversation about the possibility of thought transference and the concept that I might be picking up on them. I think that’s possible and I’ve had experiences that caused me to wonder if I have a keen sense in the past, but that would ultimately really surprise me.
What wouldn’t surprise me, is if I feel on some level that I need to externalize self-focused positive thoughts, being as uncomfortable with thinking well of myself as I am. Worse yet is my discomfort in assuming anyone else thinks well of me, and that’s the trick I seem to be playing on myself, which in my deviant little world makes perfect sense.
There’s also the age old (for me) threesome factor, as both of these situations involved two people conversing together in agreement of how much they appreciate me.
Maybe this is how self esteem shows up for me? Or maybe it’s happening because validation and acceptance from the important people in my life is so important to me and so hard to articulate or ask for, letalone truly accept. Or maybe all this self love over feeding myself good food and resting and focusing on my health shorted my brain out, like that one time in 1999 when I was high on E and I heard groups of people whispering praises to me as I wandered around the club.
I suspect this is something akin to the time period in 2008 when I would wake from a vivid dream, sit up, see both my dream and my actual surroundings, and lose the dream image only when I tried to touch it and shattered my depth perception. My brain is pretty.. well.. awesome, and keeps me entertained, and finds amazing ways to cope with stress and trauma, which I had in spades in 2008 and now.
In all honesty, I would be a lot more comfortable with being able to read minds than I am at the thought of projecting fake compliments onto myself. Telling another human being I thought I might be doing that was not easy. And if my life has taught me fucking anything about this internal examination shit, it’s that the least comfortable option is probably it, sadly.
I guess I’ll continue to ignore the lottery for now.
Just created a quick, lovely, delicate, subtle, and yet tasting almost like beef broth by saving the runoff from my kale, in which I:
Cast iron sauteed leek, fennel (removed after cooking), fresh thyme and fresh rosemary in Grapeseed oil, everyday seasoning and braggs. Added kale to sautee for 3 minutes or so, removed the herbs, then poured about 4oz strongly steeped lemon zinger tea. Simmered another minute or two. Separate.
Pairing it with fresh wild salmon drizzled in walnut oil and braggs, and a single slice of lemon.
My holiday sugar cheat was a trader joes dark chocolate peanut butter cup sliced in half and stuffed with dried cranberry, cherry, and rosemary roasted pecans. Topped with a home-made bay infused almond milk bitter chocolate sauce, black salt, and a dried blueberry. Final touch is a spring of fresh thyme.
I have another idea utilizing a lot of these ingredients, and banana.
Also, I make my own mayonnaise now.
Food is a form of self love.
*holds out hands like a big movie camera, one eye squinted shut*
Fast-forward 5 years, after going to culinary school
Picture the Herb Farm, with no sales pitch, seating about 25 people a night who eat whatever I cook that evening, with soft live violin, perhaps harp or cello on “guest musician” night (Mondays), and the occasional cameo appearance of my voice on special occasions, my friends birthdays, and holidays. 5 courses, $130 a plate or so, with high end allergen-free options. Solid, no?
Never occurred to me that I’d be a great restaurant creator. But I think I kinda would!
Finding myself in the odd position of discovering I’ve been judged for being openly polyamorous. It’s sad and uncomfortable to me to know that, but I’m also incredibly grateful for the amazing, diverse community of accepting, loving people in my life. You guys make it easy to forget how rare that actually is. Thank you. ♥
Honoring the right of a person to fuck up on occasion, the retroactive removal of expectations, and letting go of the need to be the restorer of justice by putting down the bag of evidence I’ve been carrying and moving on.
Among the everyday occurrences of this and growing up with a military Dad, at one point I spent a year and a half with a sociopathic partner who incorporated this kind of emotional manipulation to cover up his lies.
Though I’ve virtually eliminated this kind of treatment of myself in current times, the PTSD from that horrifying relationship experience, and other significant experiences of emotional nullification, can still significantly overwhelm my interactions.
Man or woman, read about what’s covertly happening to us, and don’t fucking tolerate this being done to you anymore. Use your voice to stand up for yourself, to educate and empower others around you, and take back your emotional body for the intuitive, amazing gift that it is.
A Message to Women From a Man: You Are Not “Crazy”
Posted: 09/12/11 04:34 PM ET
You’re so sensitive. You’re so emotional. You’re defensive. You’re overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You’re crazy! I was just joking, don’t you have a sense of humor? You’re so dramatic. Just get over it already!
Sound familiar?
If you’re a woman, it probably does.
Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said?
When someone says these things to you, it’s not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling — that’s inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, “Calm down, you’re overreacting,” after you just addressed someone else’s bad behavior, is emotional manipulation, pure and simple.
And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It’s patently false and unfair.
I think it’s time to separate inconsiderate behavior from emotional manipulation, and we need to use a word not found in our normal vocabulary.
I want to introduce a helpful term to identify these reactions: gaslighting.
Gaslighting is a term often used by mental health professionals (I am not one) to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they’re crazy.
The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman’s husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman’s character reacts to it, he tells her she’s just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim’s perception of him or herself.
Today, when the term is referenced, it’s usually because the perpetrator says things like, “You’re so stupid,” or “No one will ever want you,” to the victim. This is an intentional, pre-meditated form of gaslighting, much like the actions of Charles Boyer’s character in Gaslight, where he strategically plots to confuse Ingrid Bergman’s character into believing herself unhinged.
The form of gaslighting I’m addressing is not always pre-mediated or intentional, which makes it worse, because it means all of us, especially women, have dealt with it at one time or another.
Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction — whether it’s anger, frustration, sadness — in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren’t rational or normal.
My friend Anna (all names changed to protect privacy) is married to a man who feels it necessary to make random and unprompted comments about her weight. Whenever she gets upset or frustrated with his insensitive comments, he responds in the same, defeating way, “You’re so sensitive. I’m just joking.”
My friend Abbie works for a man who finds a way, almost daily, to unnecessarily shoot down her performance and her work product. Comments like, “Can’t you do something right?” or “Why did I hire you?” are regular occurrences for her. Her boss has no problem firing people (he does it regularly), so you wouldn’t know from these comments that Abbie has worked for him for six years. But every time she stands up for herself and says, “It doesn’t help me when you say these things,” she gets the same reaction: “Relax; you’re overreacting.”
Abbie thinks her boss is just being a jerk in these moments, but the truth is, he is making those comments to manipulate her into thinking her reactions are out of whack. And it’s exactly that kind manipulation that has left her feeling guilty about being sensitive, and as a result, she has not left her job.
But gaslighting can be as simple as someone smiling and saying something like, “You’re so sensitive,” to somebody else. Such a comment may seem innocuous enough, but in that moment, the speaker is making a judgment about how someone else should feel.
While dealing with gaslighting isn’t a universal truth for women, we all certainly know plenty of women who encounter it at work, home, or in personal relationships.
And the act of gaslighting does not simply affect women who are not quite sure of themselves. Even vocal, confident, assertive women are vulnerable to gaslighting.
Why?
Because women bare the brunt of our neurosis. It is much easier for us to place our emotional burdens on the shoulders of our wives, our female friends, our girlfriends, our female employees, our female colleagues, than for us to impose them on the shoulders of men.
It’s a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don’t refuse our burdens as easily. It’s the ultimate cowardice.
Whether gaslighting is conscious or not, it produces the same result: It renders some women emotionally mute.
These women aren’t able to clearly express to their spouses that what is said or done to them is hurtful. They can’t tell their boss that his behavior is disrespectful and prevents them from doing their best work. They can’t tell their parents that, when they are being critical, they are doing more harm than good.
When these women receive any sort of push back to their reactions, they often brush it off by saying, “Forget it, it’s okay.”
That “forget it” isn’t just about dismissing a thought, it is about self-dismissal. It’s heartbreaking.
No wonder some women are unconsciously passive aggressive when expressing anger, sadness, or frustration. For years, they have been subjected to so much gaslighting that they can no longer express themselves in a way that feels authentic to them.
They say, “I’m sorry,” before giving their opinion. In an email or text message, they place a smiley face next to a serious question or concern, thereby reducing the impact of having to express their true feelings.
You know how it looks: “You’re late :)”
These are the same women who stay in relationships they don’t belong in, who don’t follow their dreams, who withdraw from the kind of life they want to live.
Since I have embarked on this feminist self-exploration in my life and in the lives of the women I know, this concept of women as “crazy” has really emerged as a major issue in society at large and an equally major frustration for the women in my life, in general.
From the way women are portrayed on reality shows, to how we condition boys and girls to see women, we have come to accept the idea that women are unbalanced, irrational individuals, especially in times of anger and frustration.
Just the other day, on a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a flight attendant who had come to recognize me from my many trips asked me what I did for a living. When I told her that I write mainly about women, she immediately laughed and asked, “Oh, about how crazy we are?”
Her gut reaction to my work made me really depressed. While she made her response in jest, her question nonetheless makes visible a pattern of sexist commentary that travels through all facets of society on how men view women, which also greatly impacts how women may view themselves.
As far as I am concerned, the epidemic of gaslighting is part of the struggle against the obstacles of inequality that women constantly face. Acts of gaslighting steal their most powerful tool: their voice. This is something we do to women every day, in many different ways.
I don’t think this idea that women are “crazy,” is based in some sort of massive conspiracy. Rather, I believe it’s connected to the slow and steady drumbeat of women being undermined and dismissed, on a daily basis. And gaslighting is one of many reasons why we are dealing with this public construction of women as “crazy.”
I recognize that I’ve been guilty of gaslighting my women friends in the past (but never my male friends–surprise, surprise). It’s shameful, but I’m glad I realized that I did it on occasion and put a stop to it.
While I take total responsibility for my actions, I do believe that I, along with many men, am a byproduct of our conditioning. It’s about the general insight our conditioning gives us into admitting fault and exposing any emotion.
When we are discouraged in our youth and early adulthood from expressing emotion, it causes many of us to remain steadfast in our refusal to express regret when we see someone in pain from our actions.
When I was writing this piece, I was reminded of one of my favorite Gloria Steinem quotes, “The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.”
So for many of us, it’s first about unlearning how to flicker those gaslights and learning how to acknowledge and understand the feelings, opinions, and positions of the women in our lives.
But isn’t the issue of gaslighting ultimately about whether we are conditioned to believe that women’s opinions don’t hold as much weight as ours? That what women have to say, what they feel, isn’t quite as legitimate?
Yashar will be soon releasing his first short e-book, entitled, A Message To Women From A Man: You Are Not Crazy — How We Teach Men That Women Are Crazy and How We Convince Women To Ignore Their Instincts. If you are interested and want to be notified when the book is released, please click here to sign-up.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many times you’ve been somewhere with someone new trying to replace the past that’s attached to it, or how many times you wear something over and over again trying to rid it of a scent that still seems to live in it, or how many days, years, months or seasons go by – there will always seem to be that one memory much stronger than the rest that your heart will remember the most.
There’s this time in every significant relationship where things are simply dripping in awesome. Life is flowing through everything you do with one another, you stand stronger on your own, the layers you skillfully peel away together reveal excitement, reverence and possibility. The processes are as enjoyable as the outcomes and it’s impossible to not at least occasionally catch yourself wishing and hoping that you may have found a fountain of perpetual fairy tale bliss that may just never have to end.
And then someone fucks up. And shit gets real.
In the most recent case, that someone was me. I found this detail highly inconvenient. It’s usually not me, at least not the first significant trial, but regardless of when it happens, the first time I royally screw up signifies a very particular point in the everlasting, yet constantly progressing cycle that is my relationship with relationships. It signifies a very important and basic test, a subconscious impulse that demands verification: Is this thing real.
One side of a coin is not a real coin. Until you suffer challenge together, you don’t know the strength you may have in a bond. But until you’ve suffered the inevitable fallibility in the other person, until you know what that looks like, and how they handle themselves, and you, when it happens, you don’t know if that bond even truly exists. At least, I don’t. Or at least, some small hologram that periodically takes the wheel inside me doesn’t.
So, that happened. I fucked up and it broke us both open and we were awesome and authentic about it and continue to progress as individuals and as a couple because of it. I’m not proud of it but I’ve worked through the vast majority of my guilt regarding my actions and I continue to learn a little bit more every few days.
I demand integrity and truthfulness and breadth in my significant interpersonal experiences. But real, as much as I covet and search for and insist upon it, is god damn fucking scary. She wants you to fail that test. She wants to stay right, to have (job) security, to stay alive, to keep doing what she knows and does so well it’s almost sickening: Protecting the rest of me. And she’s incessant, she’s crafty and wise and skeptical, she’s righteous and wants to be right because her being right inevitably means less hurt.
And that’s who bursting the bubble makes real, inside, for me. That’s when the shadows step in. That’s when insecurity starts nipping away at my confidence, when I start periodically shutting down emotionally and not knowing why, when I become ambivalent and oscillate between intense attachment and wanting the fuck out. Cause once it’s real, I have something to lose. Something else to invest in, give myself to, protect and foster and fight for, and fucking lose. And that just fucks up everything. She’s on. She’s fucking AWAKE. And it permeates everything in my life. I periodically want to leave my job, stop teaching aerial, give up music, get rid of all my shit, and disappear. Travel light. Travel light, and survive.
I used to think it was all guilt. Once I stepped out of my integrity with someone, and treated them poorly in some way, the guilt ate my resolve away. I thought I felt muted and inconsistent because I deserved to for whatever it was I did, whatever thing I inflicted in my fucked up gauntlet I make the people close to me run. And I could imagine all kinds of things, even things that I hadn’t even done yet and may never do, that made me a bad person and a bad partner who was better off, and made others better off, alone.
As well as I’m able to see this stuff in a relatively short timeframe, I’m still blindsided the test. It wouldn’t be a subconscious thing if I wasn’t, but god damn it if I don’t feel like I should see it coming. I’ve figured out that I feel muted and inconsistent afterwards because I’m threatened somehow, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less natural when it happens. I’m just being me, and everything feels fine. Monosaturated, but fine.
I finally saw her today. She’s about 12, with long, stringy, dirty blond hair. She’s wet, and cold, and dirty, standing inside a stone cave, Indiana Jones style. She’s holding something, like a torch or a specter, stationed outside a huge, heavy door. She’s collected, logical, matter of fact and appears unphasable, but there’s a look in her face that tells you she’ll tear your jaw off with her teeth if you step sideways at her too quickly. She radiates old soul, intimidation, and is undeniably smarter than you.
She’s the part of me that mama bears. She’s the one who stands up for the people around her because no one stood up for her. She’s the child that was so impressively mature. She’s constantly tense, constantly on guard. She’s intense and serious. She doesn’t sleep. She’s defined by her duty and by what lies behind that door. She’s the one who understands that there’s always a motive for someone to attack and try to steal what she’s charged to protect. She’s wrung out and full of endurance at the same time. She’s emotionally muted because she has to concentrate, obsessed with finding a breaking point and getting rid of you. And she has no fucking idea what it is she’s guarding.
All the time I’ve known about this test, from the first “I’ll try to run eventually” warning I gave to this last “Aww, man, not again — What the fuck did I do that for?!”, I thought it was about the staying. It’s always been about the staying.
Can they? Will they? Now? What about now? Oop, apparently it was time to test again, agh, I’m such a jerk. What, you’re still here? Really? Why? Sheesh, you’re fucking stupid. Again! Again again! .. This is boring. You know what, just.. nevermind.
The test is never satisfied because it’s not about the staying. I want it to be that easy, and for a long time I’ve stayed in some version of this corrosive loop where the all-telling test us supposed to solve everything and prove I’m capable of becoming comfortable being close with someone, if I just run it one. More. Time.
But it’s not. It’s about all the other shit that comes after the staying. All that scary shit I actually want.
And it’s all behind that door.
Another ingenious, beautiful, incredibly effective, creative, awe inspiring, bulldog stubborn, self inflicted fucking masterpiece of a booby trap.
Though it’s often looked like it to me, feeling insecure doesn’t lead to the matter of somehow behaving unlike myself. It leads to the matter of utter confusion as to which part of me I want to wear.
It’s getting cold. Gusty. Leaves are just starting to wither and float crisply away. Even with only a whisper of what summer used to be in Seattle, I like this season. I like the destruction and death leading the way to renewal. I like the layers, the heavy coats, the warm scarves around my neck. I like the hot baths I take just to warm up.
I like the season, the food, my birthday, the sense of nesting and home. I even, dare I say, am beginning to like the holidays, and the opportunity they provide me to create my own rituals and traditions around them. Opportunities to bond with the people around me, and sometimes, the people around them.
I’m even sensing a readiness, an ever so slightly coiled spring, for the emotional crush I’ve felt every long, dark season. I can take this again — some new version of what happens every winter, another agonizing layer of skin I’ll shed and make into something that actually makes a difference in this world. My tools are sharper, my mind is finer tuned, and my safety net spans wider every day.
Summary video of my two week solo road trip, taken from my laptop webcam over the course of the 2500 mile drive. The music is Desert, Day 1, from the Fallout: New Vegas Soundtrack — which is excellent driving music, by the way.
This was, roughly, the route I took. There were a few stops I didn’t map that were within a few miles of other destinations or along the way.
I took a fair number of pictures in the first week, and not so many after that.
My deepest gratitude goes to my friends and family for all that they did — cars, equipment, meals, hotels, support, interest, text messages, emergency kits, parties, massages, cuddles, movies, phone calls, crash spaces, sex, drugs, rock n’ roll, music, lock picks, books, advice, appreciation, excitement, and much more — to make this trip the profoundly therapeutic epic healing catharsis it became. I don’t have pictures of everyone who contributed, (um.. there were women too. Really!) but here are a few. Thank you.