I did my homework, Mary Ann and My Response? F*ck Disney

I fall victim to the romantic notions of all the Disney films I've ever watched. Fairy tales form the base of my romantic expectations. If one has the right intentions, all will end well.

And that "end well" means you confess truth and it is responded to in kind.

Well, dash that.

I agree with all the Disney programming that all will end well. It ends as it should. And any other expectation is attachment and that causes hurt and pain because the damn ego is involved.

But in the last 5 months I have been charged with an assignment by my therapist to ask 2 of the toughest questions I have ever asked for fear of the answer: No.

Why am I afraid of "no?"

Well, professional mountain-builder that I am, I grow attached to outcomes.

I am being purposefully facetious.

Last night I decided that after 66 months of stewing that I needed to lance a very deep-seeded boil that began forming on August 14, 2000 with a simple right turn down a hallway. I mustered up the courage after years of locking away minor tremors of emotions and not so minor tremors of emotions. My resolution to these emotions was to seek distractions, of course. Why would I DIRECTLY communicate? That only makes sense.

Man, when you idealize people you tend to make yourself really small. I created such a pedestal that I vowed to myself I needed to be perfect before approaching this icon and professing my affection and devotion.

I was far from perfect, actually. But I was honest. And I have vowed to live my life more honestly this year.

And I spoke with the previous object of my affections in order to muster the courage. And after the conversation I called him back and cried a bit and proclaimed that the world didn't end. Nope. It didn't.

I don't have regret.

What I do know is that I need to continue along this path of courage in my life. I have spent a lot of my life living in shadows, wanting to be "perfection" before I could be in a place to be open to, well, to put it bluntly, love.

After 16 years, you would think that I'd be more on the road to getting it right, making the right choices, being right for myself and then being right for my partner. I have seen the man I moved here for move on and make his next great commitment of his life. I have in the meantime puttered around and have acquired a millieu of funny stories. I have even made some lovely friends. I am excellent at making lovely friends.


Reading bell hooks is helping me uncover some onion layers, to be sure. And to be heartbroken twice within two months can only strengthen the muscle that regulates bloodflow in the body. And I want to thank my friends for being honest and gentle.
I think it's a testament to the men they are and how they value me as a person. I'll be so bold as to say they care for me.

My irrational mind thinks it needs to completely shave my head, lose 50 lbs, buy some Proactiv, get a makeover and crawl into an artificial shell of "hotness" to move on. My rational mind is taking in this cramp in my stomach and trying to become friends with it. I cried last night and I'll probably be in mental land, thinking and reminding myself that I need not think. I'll replay the soundbite from my conversation last night, "Time to move forward."

In my conversations with Mary Ann I have recounted dreams. My fantasies have been that of a young woman, I suppose. It's irrational to wish to be the spouse of someone you can't fantasize about sexually, I suppose.

Almost 4 years ago I set about to excise this crush through World Cup encounters and ended up with an almost three year distraction from the crush. I've voiced the crush, and now need to excise it, NOT with a distraction but with an internal focus.

I am working on so much...self-love, owning my destiny and identity, viewing myself as a creation.

My artificial timelines of finding my mate by 33 and getting married by 35 are dashed. But I have to say that I don't feel any less lonely for a man I look to be my husband. As I spoke with my friend Mike last night I began to softly cry, "If you see my husband, will you tell him that I miss him terribly?" Tears slowly came down my face. I was so glad not to face anyone, but to be connected through this phone. Thank you, Mr. Bell.

I've often written to this imaginary husband figure in my journals, especially after breaking up with the man I moved to California for in the first place. My desire for romance is so strong that I write him letters and tell him what I am doing and wish him well and want to catch up on all the time I have missed with him.

Does this seem immature?

I am crying as I write this. A small part of me is relieved, but I am in mourning.

I thought I was in love. And I kept it a secret for fear of it being rejected. Living a life in honesty means having no fear of rejection. It'll free up mental time and space for me to focus on reality if I don't spend so much time conjuring up perfect time and place and space and scripts to confess...

The light of the morning has been turned on. Time to head to the bus stop.