Naked... Peeling Onions

You know heartache? You know that clawing visceral anguish, that undiluted swell of raw pain that clogs your throat with concrete, makes you feel you could vomit an ocean, makes you want to peel off your entire outer layer of skin and run screaming as fast as you can to escape the next wave of suffering?

I know it best from my moody lovesick hormonal teen years and my broken depressed post-partum years... but after all this time, I was certain we'd parted ways.

Oy vey...

by clayirving

It's easier to retreat behind the wall, to let him believe the lie that I have it all together. Unfortunately, this time I had no choice but to stand naked before him with my ugliest, weakest self exposed. I have never been so acutely ashamed.

I'm a big girl. I put on a bold face as I uttered a truth I had entombed for years. I admitted that I was a categorical failure with my finances. At 39, I still don't plan, budget, or track my expenses and he was perfectly entitled to be angry over how I spend his money. I had my say. I was crying but I was proud. The conversation was evidence that I had evolved.

And he said... nothing. He didn't even look at me. Just nodded. So I stood up to leave. It was squashed. I had admitted the problem, promised to do better, vowed it wouldn't happen again.

Problem dealt with, right? Not so fast...

What followed was several days of completely distorted thinking. I was demented and I knew it. But I couldn't keep the emotions from bleeding out and contaminating every future forecast & memory.

He had seen the worst part of me... and had not responded with reassurance. He must revile me. And I was convinced what I had always feared was now on its way.

Now he knew I was a burden... I was not worthy... I was not enough... He would leave the first chance he could get... I was not safe.

I pulled a Marianne Williams title off my bookshelf & skimmed it desperately for something to remind me that I was worthy, to remind me what the loving response would be, something to invoke the Holy Spirit. I was in the clutches of a tenacious childlike fear. I needed his loving comfort and his forgiveness. Then I kicked myself for needing anything from him. Because if there's one thing my husband is NOT, it is tender. Indeed, that emotional hardness, that stern impenetrability is probably what drew me in the first place. I could crawl inside his emotional armor and be taken care of. The way daddy never did.

And then I asked myself: What if he was acting exactly the way he is supposed to so I can grow? 

In the next moments, the final traces of the emotional storm evaporated. Healing came on the wings of a question. I hope that 6 year old abandoned by her father who still lives inside me has been set free. But I'm wise enough to know this isn't the last time I'll find myself peeling back emotional layers to expose the naked fears hidden in my psyche.

Reality TV Hacks

The definition of hack (noun): one who produces banal and mediocre work in the hope of gaining commercial success...

I refuse to have a conversation about the Real Housewives series. I refuse to talk about them as if  they're real. As if I know them personally. As if I don't have a life.

I know when I watch that garbage on BRAVO that I'm watching garbage. When I finally kicked my "Real World" habit at 34, I really thought I was free.

Where in the world did they find such a group of shallow, self-absorbed bimbos? And why the hell can't I ignore it when even worse franchises (Basketball Wives) pop up starring an even more immature, narcissistic group of wannabe celebs?

If our 22nd century descendants want proof of when America went to hell in a handbasket, show 'em Basketball Wives.

My Next Vacation Destination Just May Be...

For some reason, I keep saying "Bangladesh" when I want to say "Bladensburg" (a city near my home). I'm just spooky/spiritual enough to believe this weird persistant freudian slip... means something.

I dreamed, read, watched travel shows about Asia for almost 2 years. All the while, I kept saying "I think I'm supposed to travel to Asia." Suddenly, (with zero effort on my part) an opportunity came and off to Asia I went.

Weird as this may seem, in the back of my mind, I'm wondering... should I be singing the song "Bangladesh, boy here I come..."

How Do Good Things Keep Happening?

I so needed to read this today. Just stumbled upon it. Enjoy!

How Do Good Things Keep Happening?

Fence post up the butt

11 years had distorted my memories of Nigeria. Children, depression, abandonment of my PhD, the near death of my marriage all happened in the space between visits. Nigeria 2010 was better than I remembered. So was I.

Chinua Achebe called Nigeria "dirty, callous & vulgar, a place of unrelenting selfishness." It's also a public urinal. Men piss everywhere. And I do mean everywhere! By day 3, I could only marvel "how is this place not swimming in piss?"

The city is a sensory assault. Dusty potholed streets, rubbish strewn neighborhoods, green black sludge in open gutters, auto exhaust fumes so thick you feel choked, motorways jammed up with vendors & vehicles, vehicles crammed up with people. Your standard issue 3rd World overcrowded urban experience I suppose.

Despite the frustrations, this time I enjoyed the novelty of Lagos. Its defiance. Its leanness & strength. Its fearless street hawkers. Its vibrantly dressed women. The ever present irony of the glo mobile phone carrier slogan "RULE YOUR WORLD". (Really? rule your world? in a city like Lagos where you rule NOTHING... God in Heaven, the balls it takes to declare such a thing in such a place!). Most of all I enjoyed that our house was an oasis of calm in the middle of all that chaos. In small doses, Lagos is tolerable.

I never expected this trip to inspire admiration because - let's face it - among Africans, Nigerians are known for taking arrogance to entirely new levels.

But I did admire them. Grudgingly. And I understood why my mentor Mudavanha said Nigerians were "smarter, faster, better looking" than other Africans. It really is survival of the fittest in Lagos. You have to be tough, you have to be aggressive, you have to be loud to make it here. And they are. All of the above.

My father-in-law wants to know if I can live there, even though you'll often hear the locals proclaim "In Nigeria, you will suffer." Even though (after watching hours of Yoruba language dramas depicting women as conniving, cheating, deceiving or evil) I'm convinced the Yoruba don't appreciate, trust or even like their women.

"On the fence" is my official position. After 16 years, he ain't at all satisfied with that.

How would I even begin to approach life in Lagos if it should come to that? I've known since I married this man that he would return one day. Permanently. As the eldest, first born son who found success in America, he is the undisputed heir apparent for the office of family patriarch.

So far, the only way I can see making peace with Lagos is to surrender to it. Don't bother asking "why is it this way?" or "why doesn't it do things this way?"Accept it unconditionally, warts, bad breath & all. And do the best you can to get around in it.

But by doing that, I'd run the risk of becoming every bit as aggressive & hard faced as the natives. Unacceptable.

I keep telling myself maybe when that day comes, when the kids are grown, maybe I'll be ready for an adventure. Paul Theroux wrote "all news out of Africa is bad. It made me want to go there."

This damned fencepost is stabbing me in the butt, but I'm just not there yet Mr. Theroux.

Nope, not yet.