Interlude
"Owning a healthy sense of self-worth was not immodesty
but protection against vulnerability. "
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Interlude
Jan.--Feb. 1981... I am a loner, used to spending time alone ...
I dislike a lot of contact...
....I am a listener, although not always by choice...
....I think a lot... contemplate life (and) death. Is there such a
thing as thinking too much?
. . .I know myself through observations and experiences and my writing.
Writing is sometimes the only means through which I can express myself,
for I found that, being a listener, I usually help people more than
they do me. I perhaps begin, but more often than not, I fail to say
what I set out to say. I wonder if this makes good relationships...all
ear and no mouth. (But) I feel better giving than receiving.
...One must be receptive, or the relationship cannot last.
...The amount one discloses about (him) self is oftentimes parallel to
the amount of attention given (to him) by the partner. If one listens
with the intensity of a brick wall, it naturally follows that the other
will be less likely to express feelings in other situations...he feels
shut out.
...He is the chief voice in the relationship. (He) says he will listen
to me, but unless I talk in an unending flow until I'm finished, he
breaks in with a response and continues to elaborate upon it until I
have virtually forgotten my thoughts. I have found short, powerful
phrases the only means to convey my beliefs at times...or reading my
personal essays and poems to him. Sometimes I feel small . . . I am
unable to make myself heard.
Feb. 1981... Although a relationship is composed of a great deal of
sharing and companionship, the need for privacy must be respected.
Each individual needs to maintain a firmly established sense of
identity to fully give of that self. Grow side by side and learn from
each other...two vines cannot grow on one tree lest they strangle their
support and eventually, each other.
...I find it most exciting to discover someone and watch him grow in
his understanding of life. I could not live with myself if I felt I
was purposely attempting to mold another individual to fit my
perception of the "ideal mate." I once told (my boyfriend) that I
would rather break up with him than change him, for propensities which
I found disturbing would be virtually non-existent to someone else. He
has as much of a right to live and love in his own way as I have.
...The friendship which (he) and I share is invaluable and
irreplaceable. Perhaps it is because I place no supreme importance on
romanticism that our friendship is my deepest gratification.
In another composition, I wrote these words:
I look not for the ideal because idealistic individuals are often quite
disappointed when their "key" is ultimately bigger than the "lock."
Instead I give my best and accept life as it comes. My concept of
happiness consists of satisfying the mind to achieve emotional
stability. I try to look to each day as another chance to grow in
knowing myself and my world. My "ideal" would include a total
acceptance of life and a perfection of love.
During that period of time, I also expressed with morbid cynicism my
inability to dissuade a friend from his use of marijuana. The poem,
although somewhat disturbing, projects my hostility toward a habit
which claimed sufficient importance that it continued despite my open
concern.
1981
Is life (for you)
So dull and meaningless....
Is it so necessary to escape,
To drift from reality,
To pull away
From summer's soft and fragrant breeze,
And mold into a being
Which is not yourself
But rather,
Some distorted orb of existence...
If you so desire
To kill yourself,
Draw your plans...
Burn the grass...
Blow your charred breath
Into the baggy...
And pop it.
Be daring.
Your loss of life
Seems so indifferent.
Why not go out with a roar,
Like the coming of March,
Instead of this infernal,
Everlasting,
Torture.
The suspense is killing me,
And I'm ready for a good show.
I'll applaud...
I'm a good and experienced audience.
I'll be intent (as you)
On your motive.
Can't you get it over
So I can go home,
As usual,
And take off my clothes
And my make-up
And roll my hair...
So I can play Bozo
Tomorrow
Tomorrow
In the great show
Called Life
That never ends
Except for you, my friend.
It was evident in my writing that I harbored discontent. Perhaps this
was because I had recognized the elements and images of good
relationships. In my written kaleidoscope, I contrasted
generalizations with personal experiences; I was aware of what I wanted
in a relationship of romantic nature and knew that my current
relationship did not have the capacity to fulfill those
characteristics. I had been trying to forcibly extract romantic
inclinations from within myself and adhere them to primarily platonic
feelings. I was not blind; in the brilliant sunlight, I had seen
reality, but rather than facing the light or turning my back, I had
simply chosen to wear sun-glasses to cut down the glare. For a time it
had been the easiest solution; now, with a certain degree of fear,
I knew I could no longer deflect the truth.
For several months I continued to drift along, contemplating life's
moments and my reactions to them. I had been letting life "happen"
without becoming involved in the decisions that were at least partially
mine; self-confidence had withered, robbing me of my voice and my
ability to decide how my time would be spent.
Toward the end of spring, my personal analysis bloomed; although the
flowers, my conclusions, were not delicate things of beauty. I found
I had transformed into someone who I disliked, feeding on a tremendous
wall of resentment. Since I was not strong enough to simply
discontinue the romance, I began to create areas of conflict, tempting
him to argue or basting him with his faults. Knowing that he generally
avoided disagreements at all costs, I tactfully asked questions for the
purpose of testing his genuiness of character and individualism. I
tried to induce friction to see when and if he would take a stand, yet
he never would. I began to wonder if he possessed any opinions of his
own.
Needless to say, the time we spent together was not joyous for either
of us. I grew irritated at little eccentricities and habits, sometimes
with good reason, and on other occasions, without. Even simple
companionship, which I had once valued, became a victim of the blighted
romance; as he sought to do everything in his power to maintain the
romance, stressing that our problems would pass, I strained violently
against his intentions with the hope that our relationship could
deflate to the status of friendship. It was a battle that neither
wished to lose and blazed ever more intensely through the days because
nothing was lost or gained. I was unable to walk away and he refused
to shake my hand. There was no room for compromise.
May 30, 1981... West Lake. Doubtful...thought (he) and I might break
up. We just sat on the blanket in silence, and then I went over and
picked a wild rose and brought it back. I showed it to him. "It has
thorns," he said. "Some of the prettiest things have thorns," I
replied. "I know." He squeezed my hand.
When summer came I felt the relief of having no obligations. Time was
my own, logically, but I had to laugh at the thought. "Who are you
fooling?" a voice cackled from somewhere. I mused for a second and
then became annoyed. "You don't refuse him calls and dates, because
you are afraid of hurting him, yet, when you are together, you display
few loving qualities!"
By harboring such hostility, I was hurting both of us. I began to
realize more damage was done through seeing him than if I would collect
myself and entirely pull away from the relationship.
He did not want to let go, that was a given. I needed more time; that
too was a given. In one last attempt to stress my needs, I asked him
to grant me three days of complete solitude, during which time he would
not call or visit; after some argument, he agreed.
Time was a gift, and the first and second days were marvelous. I was
alone and it felt wonderful. The third day, however, brought duress
via the mail; unable to let go, he sent me a letter. I was decidedly
angry, considering the letter a breach of promise. After all I had not
asked for much. Three days. It had not seemed an unfair request.
Disappointed, I folded the letter and returned it to its envelope.
Some things in life seemed so impossible. It was ironic that, through
various ways of caring, people could hurt each other so badly.
The following events changed my outlook on life toward the positive,
which at the time meant an improved self-image. My parents had noted
my lack of confidence and perceived it was a marked impediment.
Without an agreeable opinion of oneself a person cannot hope to lead a
full life; fear of failure precedes and echoes every step, eventually
leading to emotional immobilization.
Out of exasperation for my warped self-image, Mom took matters into her
hands and enrolled me in a charm class, acting upon the theory that a
woman's confidence was directly related to her appearance. I objected,
but Mom insisted that I go. Thus, with reluctant steps and an uneasy
stomach, I drove to my first class.
Students were challenged to enhance unique features with which they
were born. Rather than criticizing oneself, the emphasis was on
improvement. This involved a thorough evaluation wherein one's traits
were honestly viewed, after which a commentary was meticulously written
for the instructor. Every student was given an individual make-up
consultation, and as a weekly assignment, we were to come to class
wearing make-up and proper attire. We learned the correct way to walk,
sit and gesture, and were instructed concerning hair care, manicures,
diets and exercise.
The most beneficial aspect of the class from my point of view was
learning. . .or perhaps simply remembering. . . that no one was
perfect. Moreover, vanity in carefully measured doses was not
frivolous; beauty dealt more with the ability to project one's inner
self than painting and displaying the surface characteristics. Though
it may sound shallow, the compliments which I received in class by my
instructor were the stimuli I needed to reinforce the image reflected
in my mirror. For the first time in months, I felt good about who I
was on the inside, even though I had to begin my "renovation" on the
outside.
Toward the middle of July I was able to escape in every sense of the
word when Norm and I took our second vacation together. I knew the
week would grant me time and distance required to objectively view my
troubled "romance." The trip meant a chance for both fun and
reflection.
We stayed, once again, in the basement level unit of last year's motel.
Upon entering, we quickly noted that no changes had been made. The
same relic radio still graced the dresser, and the same avocado crushed
velvet bedspread sagged drearily to meet the worn carpets covering the
floor. It was somehow a pleasant sight, albeit the fact that the place
desperately needed attention; I guess it was like a worn out pair of
tennis shoes, ugly yet be-loved for the sake of the mileage and
memories which they represented.
The following morning, as we strode toward the car, we truly felt at
home when we noticed the sadistic mailman of the previous year busily
engaged with Marion. We looked on with amazement. The one undesirable
factor of last year's vacation had reappeared!
Hoping to escape recognition, we quietly loaded the car while he jawed
away, absorbed in his story of the hour. We might have slipped from
the parking lot had it not been for Marion's eyes flicking repeatedly
from him to us. We both had one leg in the car when a huge bellow
resounded from his direction.
"Hey! Weren't you the folks with the Dart?"
We felt as if responding with a "yes" would be an admission of guilt
for some heinous crime. "We were the ones!" Norm replied, pulling
himself into the protection of the car and starting the engine. My
brother was artfully combining politeness with perpetual motion.
A brief exchange ensued as the car rolled slowly backward from its
parking space, then a shift into low gear signaled that the
conversation had ended.
"Catch ya later," the man yelled after us. He never did.
Five days dissolved, one into the next, until the week's peaceful
interlude came to an end. The time had allowed my emotions to rest and
my mind to clear. Questions which I feared to answer now appeared to
have lost their malignancy, and I had gathered the courage to enact the
unsavory business of breaking up. Nothing would dissuade me; my
decision had been made and its certainty felt like the cool breezes in
which it had been developed.
I came home feeling revitalized and cleansed. Nature's splendor,
Norm's companionship and time to enjoy for its own sake; these were the
aspects of life which, for me, made it uncomplicated and full.
With my decision firmly planted I was a changed individual, and it was
obvious to my boyfriend that the summer would not bring us closer
together. Confidence helped me to overcome his heartiest attempts to
reroute my intentions or confuse my thoughts and within days after
returning from Colorado, I did what we both knew was inevitable. As we
parted, I was drowned in sorrow. . . for myself and for him. . . and
although confidence helped to dispatch a prompt conclusion to a
floundering relationship, it did nothing to absorb the pain which
accompanied such an end.
Breaking up hurt. It had to hurt. I knew I had done the right thing;
like a canker, my resentment festered when in his company. I finally
cared enough to let go.
I remember that night so well. We had stopped at a playground to rest
on the swings after a bike ride. I was feeling quite detached and
spoke very little. When the summer sun drifted from view, I stood to
mount my bike, and he rose to receive the customary good-night kiss. I
offered my hand as he approached, leaving no doubt that the romance was
over, but he would not accept a platonic relationship. He was not
ready for that; I could understand, but I would still miss him.
"Well, I guess you'll never see my black pants," he stated, reminding
me that he and his mother had gone shopping earlier that day. Why did
he have to say that? "Never" was so permanent. I felt tears well up
in my eyes and cloud my vision, and pushing off into the gathering
darkness, I realized that I may never see him again. For years he had
demanded much of my time; now he was rejecting all of it. No, there
was no compromise.
I pedaled home, half-blinded by tears, then rushed upstairs to my room
to hurl my frustrations onto paper. Writing was the release that I
needed; I had to ask myself whether or not I had done the right thing.
Three pages later I was satisfied that I had, concluding my written
rampage with, "I think I'll make some bran muffins."
The rest of the summer was spent as I wished, and admittedly took a
degree of adjustment on my behalf. Such a wealth of time was alien
to me.
As always, freedom had its price. Mine was lost companionship, and I
did experience lonely moments, for he had been my principal friend as
well as my boy-friend. Generally, however, I remained content with my
decision. Not only had my ability to follow through with an important
decision multiplied my confidence, but I was no longer haunted by the
knowledge that I was hurting another individual or trying to ply him
into something he was not. Moreover, as a loner, free time was most
often a luxury; the rare occasions of actual loneliness were remedied
through the former, positive facets of my ultimate decision.
I excitedly enrolled in the charm school's other class, which taught
the skills necessary for one to become a model. Regardless of my
eventual aspirations, I assumed that the class would prove enjoyable
and fulfill the educational side of a glamorous dream. My intuition
was accurate and I loved every minute, from performing turns and poses
to working with a photographer for my own photo session.
When the class came to an end, the proprietor invited me to her office
and offered me a cup of coffee. Saying that I showed promising
qualities, she bid me sign a contract with her firm for local modeling
opportunities. I was stunned. My portfolio had turned out quite well
and I had fostered little anxiety in the class, yet such a display of
high regard was a powerful and pleasant shock. Her offer bridged my
loftiest hopes and without hesitation, I accepted the contract.
If humans could fly, I surely would have soared home that day. I felt
so good, so whole. There was nothing that could impede my sense of
freedom; no one would make my decisions or steal my time.
Owning a healthy sense of self-worth was not immodesty, but protection
against vulnerability. I knew I could bestow kindness and still be
shunned, or honestly state my opinion and draw hateful criticism. The
difference was confidence. In many ways, life seemed too good to be
true... too good, at least, for me. I could not stop suspicion from
seeping into my mind; even Norm and Mom professed to be rather leary
toward harboring too much optimism. Unadulterated happiness and good
luck appeared in fleeting glimpses for our family, and to feel
differently now was too risky. I therefore enjoyed my newly acquired
good fortune with humility and wary disbelief.
All good things come to an end, and summer's end paralleled the
beginning of my second year of college. I felt different that year,
quite ready to welcome new opportunities. Looking back, last year's
memories recalled a vision of myself trying to breathe through a
plastic bag while striving to function like a normal human being. Now,
constrained neither by the depression spawned of unfaced problems or
subdued emotions, the world appeared as it should; I had drawn out all
of the hob-goblins that my mind repressed, and scourged them.
Several weeks into the fall semester I received a letter from my
ex-boyfriend. Briefly informative and somewhat impersonal, I
considered it a peace offering and a suggestion that mild relations
could resume between us. I was pleased. We knew each other's likes
and dislikes, and had spent many recreational hours together; his
casual friendship would be a pleasant addition to my good luck.
Deciding that enough time had elapsed since the rending of our
emotional ties, I wrote back to him, honestly defining the hurt I had
experienced and how hopeful I had been that we could one day be
friends. After posting my letter, I heard from him again, almost
immediately; his exuberance toward restoring a relationship was
overwhelming, and it was plain that the direction he wished to take was
unlike that which I had mapped. A definite knot swelled in my stomach;
I did not want to relive that which had transpired between us when we
were last together, and I nervously asked myself, "what have I done?"
In typical style, I suffered for awhile, drenching myself with worry
until I sought my notebook to disentangle the hoard of thoughts that
had just constricted my rationality.
Aug. 5, 1981... Is it wrong to have a friendship wherein one of the
involved parties is highly romantically bound to the other, who is
not? . . . Is it wrong to relish each other's company, ruled by the
standards set by the individual who is not involved whole-heartedly?
All of a sudden I feel I have greatly wronged him by writing back...
Is it right to call someone to be your friend, and date him, but
constantly keep him at bay? I somehow feel that I am the bait and the
holder of the pole, while my "friend" is kept running in pursuit.
It always helped to see my problems in the black and white form of ink
strokes on paper. Perhaps I was unrealistic to believe that two people
having such different intentions could maintain a healthy relationship.
I would not fret about it, I decided with determination, nor would I
tolerate a reenactment of last year's folly. As long as I remembered
that days were made up of individual minutes, I had no reason to burden
myself with worry over that which had not yet come to pass. If I
controlled the minutes, the hours, days and months would surely take
care of themselves and cause no pain, for as I had written in a
journal, "I can't stand to hurt anyone any more."
Beginnings and endings, life changed continually under their influence.
Autumn 1981 seemed rich and alluring, a virtual invitation to walk in
the sun. In a diary entry dated over one year later, my memories of
that time were sweet.
Nov. 3, 1982... My life was beginning to come alive... From an
experience with cancer five years before, I was given a sharp taste of
the harsh brutality which is an innate, but sometimes overlooked,
characteristic of life. I viewed life as highly impermanent, and
believed that it was too short to spend one's precious time playing
games of popularity and prestige. What mattered was feeling...
experiencing... life to its fullest without marring in any way the rest
of society. Modeling I saw as a potentially exhilarating encounter,
which, like all facets of one's life, would inevitably come to an end.
Carrying this baggage of values upon my shoulders, I felt entirely
prepared for success or failure, and intended to propel myself toward
modeling at full throttle. I had no idea that the end would so soon be
upon me...
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