Fail Safe

I am not having a good time living at home. All my mother and step-father do is snap at each other. They both takes turns at it and are both guilty of treating each other that way. They just jump down each other's throats and neither try to understand the other's viewpoint. It's just so hostile and tense all the time. Someone is always wronged and angry.

Sunday night at dinner, Mom sits down to eat and my step-father yells at her that she took the wrong hamburger. The one on her plate is the one he made for my dog. Mom snaps back she didn't want a burnt burger and then begins to cry that the dog gets better treatment than her. What my step-father fails to tell her is that the burger he made for the dog had no spices and hers did. He should have explained the difference and then let her have whatever burger she wants. But he's mad and now she's mad. He snaps about something regarding the lettuce and tomato burger toppings. My instinct is to run. I want to grab my plate and take it upstairs to my bedroom. I don't want to be around this. But I know if I do leave, I'll make things worse.

The tension is so thick that I'm pounding my head into my fists. I'm beating myself. I can't sit here and not do something to make the situation better. I explain the difference of the burgers to my mom, but it's too late. No one cares. No one is listening. Mom cut her (new) burger into pieces and isn't even eating it. My step-father sees my mother cry and he leaves the table and goes outside. Mom begins to yell and my dog runs out of the kitchen, too skitish to beg for dinner. She hates him, she says. He's a bastard. She can't stand this house.

I try to explain that this house is supposed to be my safe haven and my refuge. This fighting isn't good for me. I told her I wanted to move out just to not be around this. My mother cries harder and says she doesn't want me to leave because she doesn't want to be alone with my step-father. Now I feel like I have 3 jobs: the one I get paid at, the one where I try to be non-partisan and cut the tension just to make the house liveable, and the one where I keep my mother company so she won't be lonely and have to face her marriage.

The house feels cold and impersonal and I'm uncomfortable here. I don't want to be here either. I wish Christopher would call and invite me over, but I know at this moment I'll just be running away from something instead of running towards him. I'm doing pretty well and I feel guilty for telling my mom this is supposed to be my rehab. Since I'm doing so well I should just suck it up and be there for her and save my money. But I think there is some fragility to my state. I don't want to push things and suffer an emotional set back. I don't feel entirely safe here. I don't think of this house as a place where I can mentally and emotionally flourish. I don't feel emotionally safe. I don't want to suffer and be uncomfortable and be stuck in the crossfire of angry words and tension.

I wonder if I could feel safe in my own apartment. I know I get lonely when I'm separated from people for so long and I know crying jags are a distinct possibility if I live on my own. At least I don't cry when I live at home. I'm too scared to. I just want to have a safe place in my life.

WTF

A guy friend asked me if I would like to see a movie this week. I checked the Facebook message he sent me and saw that he only asked me to see the movie, not our normal circle of friends. We have spent a lot of time together this summer doing things on our own, but this is usually because no one else showed up, not because we planned it that way. And here he is, planning it that way.

It was a movie on an inconvenient day for me at an inconvient time. It was a movie I didn't even want to see. But he had asked only me, so I made it happen.

I ducked out of my board meeting 15 minutes early and began weaving through traffic to the theatre. On my way, he sent a text message asking me if I wanted him to smuggle in a beer for me. I gave the thumbs up and raced to make the movie.

I climbed the steps in the darkened theatre following his direction. When I reached his prefered row, I walked in to the middle as far as I could and I put a one-seat buffer between me and the next couple.

And the guy put a one-seat buffer between us.

I stared at him incredulously as he emptied his cargo shorts pockets with loads of snacks and 3 cans of beer. He cracked open the first can and left the other two between his feet. My jaw dropped. I debated calling him out on it, something like thanking him for keeping his cooties to himself, but the roar of the previews and the sheer shock of it all left me silent.

I slumped in my seat. Who was I going to rate the previews with? I always rate the previews. With the buffer, it would be too much of a hassle to lean over and shout, "That one is going to suck!"

"OMG," my coworker said when I recounted the story to her.

"No, not OMG," I corrected. "WTF."

I was stuck in the theatre for the next 2 hours and 45 minutes while I watched Transformers, which thoroughly sucked as promised, with the sweet smell of Foster's beer plaguing my nostrils. Social awkwardness aside, the beer antic was just rude.

Leaning away from my one-seat buffer like it was contaminated with tuburculosis, I rested my cheek in my hand. It was Tuesday Night Knitting Club and I skipped it and the rest of my board meeting at work for this. This... bullshit. I understand that when guys go to the movies with each other, they use the buffer, but I am not a dude. He asked me to go with him. He wanted my company. He didn't ask anyone else. And he's the type of guy who has no problems going to movies or to see bands alone, so I know I wasn't playing a loneliness buffer, so what the hell is that seat doing between us? Meanwhile he's oblivious, snacking on his bags of snacks and drinking his beer. (And he was so dumb about it, he'd open each can during a quiet dialogue part, not when the theatre is shaking with deafening explosions.)

I sat there and wished I had a boyfriend for no other reason than to avoid wading through the crap that is man. I wondered why I was out at all. When they're not taking a dump in your car, they're doing other shitty things like asking you to see a movie and then not sitting with you like there is something wrong with you.

If we hadn't known each other for years, I probably wouldn't have been so polite about it. He's done a lot of nice things for me over that time, like taking me to see Cirque du Soliel earlier this year (Where we sat next to each other), taking our group of friends to his parents' home on the water (where we sat next to each other), meeting me for countless happy hours, sushi lunches and concerts (where we sat next to each other). So maybe he has a movie problem. Or recently developed a Sarah problem in the last 10 minutes.

Charmed

Therapy was a little awkward this week. After being diagnosed with a "broken heart" (I still love that), I thought we were going to delve into things more. Let's break it wide open and talk about my father and step-father and how I've never had a positive male role model in my life. I thought we were going to explore my emotional stunting. But instead, she stamped my file as "healthy" and tells me I'm approaching the end of my therapy and I don't need to come back for three weeks.

I believe there are underlying issues and I don't want to deal with them again. I don't want to go through this again. I want to fix myself now so I can be healthy and happy and well adjusted.

Maybe she felt that way because I stayed silent, waiting for her to steer the conversation back to my Major Issues. I didn't know letting her lead the conversation would mean that I'm healthy. I don't feel healthy. I told her the waters have been calm the last few weeks and the reason I feel as good as I do is not because I'm all healthy and well adjusted, it's because I haven't been tested. She says I don't give myself enough credit and that I have a lot more strength and self-worth than I realize.

She said me putting one foot in front of the other during a job loss, cancer scare, domestic violence, breakup, moving home with my parents, and then starting a brand new job shows that I already have what it takes. She says any single one of those situations is enough to debilitate anyone, much less all of them happening at the same time. She gives me a lot of credit for that. I guess I needed to hear that and have it validated because when I think of things in my head, I think if I were a healthy-minded individual, none of this would have ever transpired. And I can intellectually acknowledge the flaws in that thinking. Some of the scenarios I went through were out of my control. Healthy people can get laid off and have cancer.

It's just that when I imagine where I want to be, I think of a life like my brother's. He seems to dwell in this charmed existence where nothing ever goes wrong. My brother married right out of college to a woman who just graduated from medical school. He just quit his job he held for the last 10 years to move across the country with his wife. He quit his job after I got laid off and he found a new one before I found mine (and if I were being really honest, I would admit I got my job through his wife. I applied to over 100 jobs on my own and couldn't get anything.) That kind of crap just isn't fair. And I do get hung up on the fairness of it all. Everyone is supposed to have ups and downs, not my brother having all the ups and me having all the downs. I feel like Danny Devito in Twins. One got all the perfect genes and the other one just got the leftovers. I'm the 3-foot tall bald man. The things I've been through AREN'T FAIR.

And I find myself wanting to fix whatever's wrong with me so maybe one day I can be charmed too.

Ladies Only

I have not had a period for months. I contributed it to the stress I was under and a very stupid and impulsive decision to stop my birth control. (When I was moving out, I decided that I was never going to need anything sexually related ever again, so I dumped every birth-control pill, condom, lube, oil, you name it, into the trash.)

Today I've been feeling especially blah, staring at my computer screen at work for almost an hour without moving. I was thinking about an e-mail I received from a friend the other day and thought, Yes, I too need to shake things up in my life! and then promptly wrote that in my planner. Then I noticed my Little Red Sister join me.

I don't know about anyone else, but the first real period after a breakup is so freeing. Everything's working fine for the next guy (or the guy after that) and you know for sure your ex didn't sneak one in and have the last laugh.

So goodbye, Ex and all your phantom babies!

Date #2

Christopher called me Thursday night while I was at a gas station filling up my tank. I had a perfect night: dinner at Hooters followed by a screening of The Hangover with a group of friends. The day had been so hot that everyone was tired. I slumped against the hood of my car. It was 9:30 at night and still probably 94° outside.

"What are you up to?" I asked.

"Watching an episode of CSI," he said softly.

I can't explain this to anyone who isn't me and didn't live through my last relationship with Christopher, but he is different these days. The tone of his voice, his demeanor, his spirit- it all seems calmer and gentler than the boy I used to know. My therapist says it's called maturity.

She was thrilled to learn about Christopher. She said he sounds healthy for me and that he will be instrumental in my healing process. As long as spending time with him is a positive thing and I don't rush into anything to dull the pain of my last relationship, she has no problem with me dating him.

So when Christopher invited me around for the following night, I accepted. We basically talked all night with the TV playing in the background. He wanted to know what cities I would move to. I wanted to know more about his unemployment stint.

I also asked if he had ever been hurt. He said no. I promptly retorted that I don't trust a person who has never been hurt and Christopher changed his answer to clarify he's never sat around for a week crying his eyes out. I asked if he has ever been dumped. He gave the same response and I again chirped I don't trust a person who has never been dumped. Christopher again clarifies with some BS that they were "mutual decisions." I like that I stuck up for myself, even if it meant disagreeing and potentially rejecting him, and he was the one to cave. He could have responded, Yup, that's me. Total heartbreaker. But he didn't. It made me feel like we (together, including him) were working on something.

He brought out more bags of pretzles from the newstand downstairs and said if I wanted something different he'd go down and get it. He even offered to order us Chinese, but I was trying to be low maintenance.

And then I dumped my drink in my lap. I spilt it artfully enough so when I stood up, it looked like I peed both down the front and down the back of my jeans. I know when people spill a little on their pants, they say that, but I was soaked. The jeans fabric had already plastered itself against the back of my left leg. Christopher disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a pair of green plaid Calvin Klein men's pajama pants and told me to change. Conditioned to Scott's skinny frame, I gulped. "If these don't fit, I am going to kill myself," I said automatically, not even remembering that Christopher is larger than me. They fit fine, and Christopher said so.

(And when I tipped my drink into myself again a couple of hours later, he laughed and said too bad. He didn't have any more pants for me. Luckily it wasn't as bad that time.)

I stayed the night again. We made out. We were rounding second base, heading into third when he stopped. He sat up on his side of the bed with his back towards me, his white sheets draped around his waist, and said, "I want to take things slow." I didn't respond because a) Our past relationship revolved around sex and for him to not pursue it is peculiar; b) Take what slow? Sex? We've done it all before; c) Does this mean he actually wants a proper relationship with me? d) Or, did he just drink too much and it protecting himself? I don't care that he stopped, I just want to know why.

He came over to my side of the bed and tried to wrap his arms around me. Only Friday had been another smoldering day with the temperature hovering around 100°. The night didn't feel any cooler and Christopher doesn't have central air. "You're too hot," he moaned while he rolled on his back. "Your skin is always so warm." I barely heard him, my eyelids already fluttering with sleep. He announced he was going to buy a fan for the bedroom and I muttered in aggreement and fell asleep. I thoght he meant I'm going to buy a fan... next time I go to the store or I'm going to buy a fan... tomorrow or even I'm going to buy a fan... when I sober up. I had no idea he actually meant I'm going to buy a fan... this instant!

He got up, put some clothes on and walked to the 24-hour CVS and bought a fan. While he was there, he spied the matching pink beer coozy to the blue one of his I liked so much and he bought it for me. (Seriously, go to CVS and get one, it's awesome.)

After CVS, Christopher walked another couple of blocks to Chick-Fil-A, all while I was sleeping in his bed. We were talking earlier about their breakfasts and he bought each of us one and carried it back to the apartment. He put the food in the fridge, hooked up his new fan, took off his clothes and went back to sleep. I had no idea.

I wake up at 11:30 a.m. in a mild panic because I am supposed to meet M-Joy for lunch at noon on the other side of the city. I get dressed—my jeans by now had mostly dried—and crawl on top of the sheets with Christopher, who had also woken up. He fills me in on his 6 a.m. and I laugh. When he told me about my new pink and purple coozy, I simply thank him because I am shocked that someone who used to do so little is now doing so much. He keeps saying something about breakfast and I don't make a big deal out of it because I thought he bought bread and eggs at CVS that won't go bad if I don't eat it. I politely decline because lunch is now in 20 minutes. I say that I'm leaving because I'm meeting someone and he doesn't say anything so I kiss him on the cheek and hop out of bed.

He follows me out and helps me get my things together. He opens the fridge and insists I take my breakfast with me to eat later. He comes in for a kiss, opens the door for me, and I leave.

When I meet up with M-Joy, she instantly knew that I was just as tired as she was, and all of a sudden having lunch at a pub didn't sound as good as it did before going over to Christopher's. I fill her in on my night.

"You need to change your vocabulary," she offered. "Instead of saying, 'Christopher never used to-' say 'I can't believe this wonderful thing he did!'" she pretends the excitement of the latter expression.

Basically I need to be more positive and less focused on who I thought he was. Because Christopher is clearly surprising me at every instance, I don't know him as well as I thought I did. In the best possible way.

Confused

I saw Christopher again this weekend. I'll blog about it later, but I have one thing he said rolling around through my head: "I want to take things slow." I just don't get it. Christopher, previously emotionally unavailable, wants to take things slowly. TAKE WHAT SLOWLY? WHAT THE HELL IS HE TALKING ABOUT?

If I sat here and tried to figure it out, I would bloody my head by banging it against my desk. So I'm not going to think about it. I am just going to sit here looking confused, not thinking about it and working.

$$ The Story of Sarah

My therapy appointment went really well this week. With the physical and—slowly—the emotional separation from Scott, my therapist wanted to know how I got this way. I started therapy with her in a tizzy over domestic abuse and suicide attempts and rehab, and now that the immediate reasons of why I sought professional help had become that of a controlled fire, she wanted to learn the underlying causes.

With every age bracket, she asked what I most remembered about pre-school (not much, but I was told I was a reader), elementary school (bullied by the entire fifth-grade class led by one Michael H. that I still periodically cry over the meanness of it all), middle school (extremely shy, not a lot of friends), high school (oh dear god, where do I start? The realization that I lost the father lottery, the angry mother who told me I was heading for average-ness, the death of several friends within several months, or the Christian cult who told my close friends not to talk to me anymore?) And then she asked for the most traumatic singular event in my life (hello, boyfriend who pooped in my car and then choked me over it).

During the half-hour exercise, I cried when I regaled the story of the Southern Baptist youth leader who told children not to be friends with a little girl, and I hollered when I described the rage of the physical fight I had with my boyfriend. And she said it was okay to react that way. It felt good to tell my life story—the story of Sarah—to someone who listened and didn't make me feel shameful over it.

I watched as my therapist widened her eyes, her mouth forming a perfect O. When I was done yelling, I folded my hands in my lap and looked down at them. She closed the manila folder which now contained the Story of Sarah and looked at me in the eyes. "No wonder," she began softly. She leaned forward and made sure I was paying attention. She repeated a little louder, "No wonder you found yourself in this position with your boyfriend and you tried to stay and make it work as long as possible. At every critical emotional-forming point of your life, you've been met with opposition. You've been told it's better to be in a bad relationship than to be single, and you've been consistently told you're not good enough. You," she said, "have a broken heart."

I immediately understood she was not referring to Scott, but to my life in general. Right when we discovered the meat of my issues, my time was up. She's always encouraged me to come every 2 weeks instead of every week, but this time she looked at her planner and said, "Same time next week?" and then probably drew dollar signs next to my name. I smiled. It was official: I was fucked up. And the validation of knowing I was fucked up was priceless. It made me positively giddy.

When I got home, I walked in the kitchen and poured myself a congratulatory glass of wine. My mom hovered around, hoping I'd share some of what went on. I told her my therapist asked about my childhood and then declared that I have Major Issues. "So long story short, I probably should have been in therapy 20 years ago," I laughed as I tipped back the wine glass.

My mother crossed the kitchen and grabbed me. She didn't share my joy at the news. she held me tight in what felt like an apology for things that were mostly out of her control.