Musings

I don’t know where to start with this.  It’s hard to type when your eyes sting and are swollen.  My friend isn’t dead yet, the key word being yet.  

He’s decided that his life is worthless and nothing I can say or do will change that.  I can’t undo years of pain and hardship.  Nor can I combat a culture that does not believe in mental health.

I am relegated to the sidelines to watch someone I love very dearly suffer and decide that he no longer wishes to participate in life.  

I knew this day would come, but I always hoped in my heart I was wrong.  

It was always a sticking point between us, me being the optimist and feeling that we could overcome these deep issues, and him being the pessimist who reluctantly humored me for as long as he could.  But even he said: “I can’t marry you, because I can’t promise you that you won’t come home someday to find me having blown my brains out.  I don’t want you to see that.”

It was eight years we butted heads against optimism vs pessimism. Eight long years of fantastic highs and horrible lows, and none of it would I have changed for the world. We knew we would grow apart and life would take us on different paths, it was an inevitable thing.

But I never anticipated this. I always expected to keep this beautifully close friendship, something I cherish so deeply, even as our lives changed.

But this time things are different.  

It’s no longer talk, it’s real.  As real as it gets.

Perhaps if I was there I wouldn’t be writing this, but at the same time I can not prevent nor be the one responsible for his well being.

So here I write.  Thinking how much it hurts to watch another soul, a good man, suffer.  Feeling his life is worthless and serves no point.  

It has always served a point to me.  He was never worthless, even if all the other people around him made him feel that way.  

I was the one who stood by him when he decided to quit law school I supported his decision to stop the madness of following someone else’s idea. I supported him finding his own path, becoming his own self.

I don’t want him to do this, I don’t want him to give up.  I want him to fight.  But that’s me, and this isn’t my fight.  

I want him to run away, to escape the people who are making his life so difficult.  I want him to find his path whatever it may be. 

I believe there is a path for him, and that there is happiness if he chooses to look for it.  

But again, that is me.  My view of the world, my relentless soul, my searching for better….. He has never been able to see what I see, either by choice or by circumstance.

I expect that at some point soon, I will no longer hear from him.  The line going proverbially dead.  I wont know if he ran away, killed himself, or just stopped talking. 

I think that is the cruelest fate of all, to be left with an unfinished story.  One I can never close, one I can never revisit…. One that will hurt me deeply for the rest of my life.

He will choose his path, and leave me with the scars.  

Yes, that is selfish of me, and I do not apologize.  I do not want this story to end this way.  

He is my best friend and someone I love very deeply, even if we were not destined to be together. 

To him I say I am sorry, I am sorry I wasn’t enough to fix this, I am sorry I wasn’t enough in general, I am only what I am.  No more no less.

Whatever you choose, be brave.  You will always be in my heart.

You told me once, that as we light candles for the living or dead, it makes no difference, because in God’s eyes we are all alive.  

First proposed by the late criminologist James Q. Wilson in 1982, the Broken Windows Theory of criminal justice holds that seemingly minor instances of social and physical disorder in urban spaces can contribute to an atmosphere of lawlessness that encourages more serious crimes.

So in essence the Broken Window Theory is a visual signal that creates an environment of acceptable poor behavior thus resulting in a vicious cycle of bad behavior.  

I’ve always been a tad fascinated by things like this.  These mad little triggers that set off cycles of behaviors.  It’s endlessly nerdy but yet still fascinating.

I have a love of architecture and urban spaces.  

I actually was going to go to school to become an architect, but that idea was squashed when my Aunt decided to tell me all about the legalities and insurance costs I would have to carry to avoid constant lawsuits.  

Way to kill a dream.  

But that doesnt mean I still don’t love architecture and urban planning.  I look at spaces and see vistas.  

I look at buildings and think about the internal and external feelings they evoke.  

Am I getting nerdy enough yet?  

Well I can walk miles in winding European streets just looking at the colors, textures, and contrasts of buildings that have stood for centuries.  

I would take that over any modern city anyday.  Yes, I love urban planning, but I love looking at old ancient buildings, thinking about what planning happened here, how did this happen?

I love walking old stone roads that have seen centuries of use.  I contemplate how these things were built and all the lives that have passed over them.

I am a romantic at heart, I love the feel of environments like this.  

It’s one of the reasons I hate living in the suburban American landscape.  It holds no charm or mystery.  There is nothing to think about when looking at the next housing track down the street.  

There is no charm in the stripping of centuries old trees to make way for more McMansions.

I find myself wanting to get out.  

I don’t know where I want to go.  But I need to see cobblestone streets and be able to touch old masonry on buildings which have seen more than just a few decades pass.  

I miss Europe.  I miss the history and the age.  I miss the appreciation for things that aren’t shiny and new.  

Maybe I need a vacation, or maybe I need to move.  

I haven’t decided yet.  

I don’t need broken windows to tell me it’s time to go.  But I do have one cracked window in the bedroom…. Perhaps it is trying to tell me something.

When I was working a dead end receptionist job after leaving my life behind to come home, I met a character that could only exist in the movies.  Or so I thought, I never believed I would become the understudy to a mobster.

So back in the day, I was pretty street smart but I always was the kinda gal who accepted people for who they are now, not who they were, or who they will become. 

I see people at this very moment. 

Always have, always will. 

No judgment, no preconceived notions, no limits….. If you meet me, I will see you as you are in that moment of time.  

So meeting the Godfather was not a big deal to me. 

For me it was a grouchy old man who barked a lot of orders and if he liked you, well you were a good kid and he barked a little less.

He liked me, so I didn’t get too much flack, but he also knew I was completely fine with who he was, and I didnt judge him, nor did I fear him. 

He was an old cranky guy, and I could handle that.

The Godfather took me under his wing.  He offered me a good job, and taught me a lot about business and how to conduct myself. 

He taught me to toughen up and not take shit from anyone.  

He also taught me to step on someone’s throat if necessary, literally.  

So I got a world of education.  In exchange I got stories about amazing times.  I learned about his grandfather being in the Black Hand. 

About his family from Sicily, and about the wild parties they used to throw in the 50’s.

He told me stories about how he used to hire the Rat Pack as entertainment for the parties, and how he introduced a famous Hollywood actress to her husband…. The stories were amazing.

The Godfather was good to me.  He was a tough man, and he did not spare me when it came to teaching me a lesson. 

He was very harsh, believing you need to tear someone down before you can build them up.

I think part of that was from military service. 

He was a very fierce fighter in the Korean War, seeing a lot of hand to hand combat and he had the scars to prove it.  I even briefly saw his letter of service when I had to retrieve files for him.

I knew everything about him, or at least most of it.  There were of course things I knew he wouldn’t tell me, never the specifics, but he knew I was smart enough to put the pieces together.  

I think that is what he respected most about me. 

He knew I knew…. Nothing more needed to be said.

Over the years I worked for him, then he made sure I went back to school to get a better education.  He made sure I was taken care of and kept me focused on what was important.

He did a lot for me, even if his techniques were harsh and bordered on abusive at times.  I mean I wasn’t a soldier in the military, I was a girl trying to sort out life and start over.

I miss the Godfather.  But at the same time, my life is more peaceful since I last saw him.

He suffered a stroke.  His health declined and his mental capacity suffered as well.

For many years my Mom and I kept contact, trying to visit when we could.

But at some point his family moved him, and we never found out where.  His phone number changed, and we lost contact.

My mom died in the meantime.  

I never had the heart to try and find the Godfather, I think telling him what happened would break his heart.  

I would rather think of him cursing me out as a rotten fucking kid who stopped calling….. Then to tell him the truth.

But in my heart, I do miss him.

What’s in a nickname?  Well a lot of you really break it down.  When I was growing up my nicknames were insults.  I always looked older than I was.  When I was a little kid I was expected to act more adult, because I looked about 5 years older than I was. 

In the 3rd grade I was as tall as my teacher.  And I even remember getting yelled at by a school bus driver and sent back home because I was too stupid to know I was on the wrong bus.  That bus was for little kids, not high-schoolers. 

I was 8 and was supposed to be on that bus, the driver thought I was about 16.  

So getting the nickname Moose as a kid, especially a girl, was never a point of pride.  It meant I was big and clumsy.  I never felt like I fit in as it was, but when you dad calls you Moose, well that’s just another complex to add to the list.

So perhaps that’s why I always wanted a nickname. 

In the states you rarely call anyone by their first name, you typically have a friendly shortened version for friends, a pet name for your significant other, and something weird from your family. 

Let alone the cringe name, which is that delightful combination of your first and middle name hollered at loud volumes when you fucked up at home.  

When I was older and in a relationship I got my first pet name – Dunjia.  It was a translation for ‘tiny bunny’.  I still feel mixed about it.  It was a diminutive that implied weakness, not something you cherished.

I was surprised by it.  I never considered myself weak or something fragile.  

For the most part I have never really dated because I was always told I was too intimidating.  I was too forward, too open, too bold, too ambitious….  I played in a man’s world, so being a woman was difficult. 

I chose a profession dominated by men, I work with men, I negotiate against men, I hired and fired men, for all aspects professionally, I am their equal, and for that…. Well you’re not ‘dating material’.

So I didn’t date.  I didn’t really care.  I would rather be alone than with someone who didn’t value me. 

How perplexing to get a nickname indicated a fragile tiny creature- thats…. not me, ever.  

Normally I would say I don’t care and that be that, but recently a conversation struck me and it made me think back to all this.  

I am still close friends with my last ex.  He is a good man, and someone I respect tremendously.  We have different paths and we both agreed that our lives would be separate but that did not hinder our friendship, nor should it.  Two people can make that decision without animosity or resentment.  

In a conversation I was discussing my future plans.  Something I am actively working toward.  When he said something so striking it made me stop.  

Now his nickname for me was Mockingbird.  He said I was a creature just trying to bring beauty and goodness to the world.  He is a literary buff, so To Kill A Mockingbird was the reference.  

I loved that nickname.  I felt yes, that fits me.  

But when I talked about moving he said that it wasn’t a good idea.  Asking “who is going to watch out for you?” 

This was the shameful moment I realized, he’s actually right.  

I never want to be seen as weak, but the only time I actually ever relax, ever stop, is when I have someone with me.  It’s like the moment I have a partner, I can let down the hyper vigilant side of me, the one always looking for who is going to attack me next. 

I feel safe when I have a partner.  

Now that hits hard and deep.  (no pun intended)

I live in a world where I am always expecting and anticipating threats from every angle.  From workplace politics to walking around the city alone, I am always aware that I am a target.  

Perhaps it is from an abusive childhood, or from shitty past relationships, or maybe it’s just something I picked up over years of living alone.  

But I am always scanning.  Always trying to read everything around me.  Taking in every detail so nothing escapes me.

I am always scanning for threats.

He was right.  I don’t relax unless I have someone with me. 

I don’t even relax at home.  I have an alarm system even thought I live in a very safe area. I leave a podcast on when I sleep so I hear another voice.

It’s not about being lonely, it’s about being vulnerable.

What a horrible realization.  I realize I am weak in a way I never expected.  I now see something the rest of the world knows, but this is completely a shock to me. 

I don’t know if there is an answer to fix this problem.  I asked my friend if I was clingy or in some way imposing upon him when we were together.  I was afraid I was somehow broaching his independence and autonomy.  I hate women who do that, I always try to respect those boundaries and hold them sacred.

Luckily he answered no.  Saying I never did that.  But he was always mindful of me because I wasn’t mindful of myself.  I was always taking care of everyone else, and sometimes I needed to be reminded that I mattered too.

So as I move into a new chapter of my life, preparing to go into my next adventure, I see that there are parts of me I need to be more mindful of. 

We are all imperfect creatures.  I don’t seek perfection.  But if I can gain a tiny insight into myself then I can be better not only to myself but to whomever crosses my path in the future.

Maybe next time I will get an even better nickname.  

One can only hope.

One of my biggest disappointments when I lived in Europe was the lack of time I got to spend in Paris.  It was a disappointing whirl-wind of seeing virtually nothing.  At the worst time of the year, we drove though, on our way to Angers.  

Now Angers was spectacular.  What a magnificent city.  It was beautiful and friendly, it was everything I wanted Paris to be… but never got to experience. So I promised myself someday I will go back to Paris just to see it.

My hilariously short 48 hours in Paris was anything but pleasant.  It was the first time I was confronted with a very strong hatred of Americans.  I was actually shocked.  I had never experienced that before.  I never experienced people just being cruel because of my country of origin.  

Now people will say that’s silly.  Certainly I was just being overly temperamental.  But the sad part is I wasn’t.

I was young and I had no real understanding of geo-politics regarding French-American relations so perhaps there were reasons  for the hostile attitudes.  But the simple fact was when I spoke English I was very harshly treated.  It was an onslaught of insults, attitude, and even vendors refusing to deal with me.  

I was 16.  It felt like a personal attack.

If I spoke German with my family, then I was treated well and had no issues and the people were kind and patient. 

Clearly after experimenting a few times I learned it was definitely because I was an American. 

It was so blatant, that when we sat at a lovely restaurant in central Paris for dinner, my host dad explained something to me in English, as my German isn’t always perfect and I didn’t understand any french.  That was enough to raise the alarms of the wait staff.  

The treatment of me during our dinner was so blatantly mean, the guy at the next table chastised the owner and staff.  I have no idea who this man was, but he was clearly with his girlfriend.  He stopped the staff and barked loudly at them.  He then ordered a new dinner and several bottles of wine and both he and his girlfriend joined us for dinner, apologizing for the treatment.  He wanted me to know not all French people were like this.

I am grateful to that man, whoever he was.  She showed extraordinary kindness to me in a place where I felt constantly under attack.

Perhaps that has made me hesitant to go back to Paris alone.  I don’t want to be subject to that again.

But I really do want to see the city.  I don’t care about the Eiffel Tower, or the touristy non-sense.

I just want to sit by the river, watch the city go by. 

I am an odd type of tourist.  I have no interest in the sights or sounds every other tourist clamors to.  

For me the purest form of experience is to find a place to sit and just watch life as it goes by.  To watch the people, the colors, listen to the language and sounds.  I prefer to just be present in the moment and appreciate all the various aspects of my new environment.

My version of tourism has nothing to do with seeing anything, but experiencing everything.  

So I guess at some point I need to brave the bias and just go.  Find a set of steps to sit on, and just watch the world go by in Paris. 

Someday.

I have a cat, a lovely creature who came home with me from Europe.  She even has her own passport!  I love this creature for so many  reasons, but I am also grateful to her for being the thing that triggered my alarm bell that something was very wrong.

Back in the day, I was living in Eastern Europe.  I ended up getting married there.  It was the wrong thing to do, in the wrong place, and with the wrong man.  It was an abusive and cruel situation but I was blinded to most of it.  

I was trapped in my own mind and in a country I didn’t speak the language.  It was not a good situation for me.  I never should have allowed myself to get into this, but there I was, stuck and trying to figure out what to do.

I wont bash on my ex-husband.  I don’t like doing that to anyone.  You can make your own opinions, but I hold no grudge or anger.  Life is life, and this part is behind me.

BUt the cat, well she chose me.  

We were walking home at night and I noticed people throwing food at a trash can.  It was odd to see, especially in a country where people were poor, so throwing food was unheard of.  

Out of this trash can popped a tiny kitten.  So small and yet determined.  I stopped and looked.  This tiny cat ran in between the kids and people throwing food at it, and stopped in front of me.  

Looking at me with big eyes, this tiny creature dug her nails into my jeans and climbed up on me!  She literally was using me as a tree.  

It was adorable, and clearly she chose me.

I scooped her up, being so tiny she fit in my cupped hands, I put her inside my hoodie and zippered her up.  Holding her close she snuggled against me and just slept as I walked the rest of the way home with a cat in my jacket.  

This was the start of a lovely little affair.  This kitten soon became my best friend in a country and marriage that was hostile and cruel.  The little creature was something I could care for and loved me back in return.  

In Eastern Europe the attitude is animals are utilitarian and essentially soul-less.  So what we westerners would see as cruelty was normal in the east.  

My husband at the time was not finding my treatment of the cat to be acceptable.  

One particularly brutal night he was mad at the cat.  I remember him taking her and throwing her against the wall so hard she slumped down to the floor.  

I was horrified.  I laid on the floor with the cat, cuddling her, keeping her safe hoping she wasn’t dead.  She did recover but not without consequences.  

I knew then it was time to leave.  It wasn’t safe for me, or for her.  

I immediately started researching the procedure to bring her back to the US.  I got vaccines, papers, and started the six month countdown before I would get out of the country.

I started making plans. 

As with all things in my life, when times are tough, a door opens.  This time it was a job offer.  An excellent offer if I could come back to the US.  

My ex-husband did not like this idea.  His entire goal was to use me to get into the US.  Unbeknownst to me, he had his own ulterior motives and it was later I learned he planned to take all my money and assets and leave me legally responsible once he got into the United States.  

Letting me go back to the US alone would cause a disruption to his master plan.  But the money was exceptionally attractive.  

He wanted to make sure I would send funds back home.  Make sure he was getting the soils of my work.  I lied my ass off and agreed to all of it.  All I cared about was getting back home, whatever the cost.

Finally getting my freedom I packed up the cat and got the hell out.  

Returning home, the poor kitten thrived but still has medical issues to this day.  My beloved cat has gone through seizures, and many internal organ issues.  But I refuse to give up on her.  The vet has told me many times, there is nothing more we can do…. Yet love and good care has kept her alive and thriving for more years than I ever expected.

She is not only my best friend and companion, but I owe her so much more.  She was the creature that made me wake up and realize everything was going wrong.  She made me understand it was time to leave….now.

When I got home I struggled emotionally for a long time.  Trying to figure out what to do.  Eventually this led to a long international divorce.  My guilt over this felt endless.  I even continued to pay for my ex’s education since he had no ‘income’ from me.  

I realize how pathetic that was now.  

I don’t beat myself up over it, but I do resent the fact that my poor decision and weakness led to me being a divorcee.

There is no shame in being divorced, lots of people are. 

But it makes me feel like I take marriage and relationships flippantly.  That is anything but true.  

I hold my commitments and loyalty in the highest regard.  To have that besmirched is a point of shame to me. 

But regardless, the cat and I are very happy, living our best lives now.