A Momentary Departure

*WARNING: This will not be the usual relationship drama that you are accustomed to. It may, in fact, be a complete and spectacular train wreck. Read at your own risk.*

A couple of days ago, I made the mistake of posting an article on Facebook regarding religion and the hypocrisy often involved with that. Chaos then ensued. (My cousin calls it "good discussion" and really she's probably right, but I hate arguing so it felt like chaos to me.)

I know, I know. Please refrain from bludgeoning me with blunt objects. Anyone with half a brain knows you never, ever talk about religion or politics in a public setting if you don’t want to start a war, and it’s rare for me to bring it up because I consider my beliefs private. I don’t want to debate them, I don’t want you to tell me why you think I’m wrong or why your beliefs are more right. Each of us believes what we feel is right and I would almost guarantee that no one ever changed their mind from having one of those kinds of debates.

Anyway, the title of the article was “I’m Christian, Unless You’re Gay." (Read it if you choose, but don't come scream at me until you hear me out.) The author uses Christianity as his primary example, and he gets a little caught up in the passion of the ramble, but his main point is that every group has extremists, and every person has judged someone for being different than we think they should be. I can’t imagine a single person in the world who wouldn’t stand up and say that they believe we should be kind and loving toward our fellow human beings, and yet all of us have had a moment or two when we have not behaved in a loving or kind way because we didn’t approve of something someone else was doing. If you say you haven’t, I’ll call you a liar.

It happens. We’re human. Part of being human is being flawed. The problem is that there are people who use their beliefs to justify hate and harm, and while they are often the smallest part of any group they are also generally the loudest. There are some amazing people out there from every faith and walk of life who quietly and tirelessly work to be the best people they possibly can be. They touch lives every day with love, acceptance, and the calm expression of the things they value, and they never make the evening news because they aren’t holding signs that say “God hates fags” or blowing things up. My grandmother was one of those people.

For all the years that I knew her, my Gram had this kind of quiet peace to her. No matter what insanity was raging around her, she had this serenity that would just wash over me every moment I was with her, and no matter who I was with or what I was doing she always just welcomed and loved me. When I would talk with her about some drama I was having she would share with me her faith and means of coping with crisis in her life. She never pushed, made me feel that my way of doing things was wrong, or left me feeling that she was judging me. She'd just say "Well, whenever I've felt like that I always pray, and then I feel better. Sometimes I have to pray more than once, but I just keep doing it." If I recall correctly, she and my grandpa were married more than 50 years by the time she passed away, and I asked her once how she'd managed to stay married that long. Her answer was the same. She said "Well your grandpa doesn't like to talk too much, so when he wouldn't talk to me, I'd talk to God." She fought leukemia for much of the last part of her life, and most of us never knew until near the end. When the doctor finally told her it was time to make some arrangements, she spent more time comforting the people she would leave behind than she did worrying about herself, and when she passed away, she went with a joy and peace that I'd never seen before because she had faith that she was going home. Her passing left a gaping hole in my life and the lives of so many others that she touched. There are a lot of things I've lost faith in over the years but I always believed in her because she always believed in me, no matter what. And she prayed. A lot. Rest in peace Gram. I miss you every single day.

It is those people who can change what people think because they live it and share their inspiration with love and acceptance rather than hate and judgment. They provide an example of what a life lived in love really looks like. The people who scream and wave their signs proclaiming their disgust with the world only serve to close minds and hearts to any message they may be trying to send. So what I'm saying is this: If you want to change the world, do it with love. If you want the world to hear your message, share it with joy. And if you want to make a difference, make it one person at a time, through the example of your life, and not the paint on your sign.

*We now return you to your regularly scheduled relationship rant.*

© Sarah Ultis 2011

“The success of love is in the loving - it is not in the result of loving. Of course it is natural in love to want the best for the other person, but whether it turns out that way or not does not determine the value of what we have done.”
― Mother Teresa

Road Rage

Have you ever looked back over the course of a situation and found yourself running for the fire extinguisher to put out the flames where your hair has caught fire? It’s not one particular event that leads to the sudden need to spontaneously combust, but the building of one event upon another and another until the little trail of tiny flames becomes a giant bonfire of rage. My most recent breakup has been like that for me this past couple of weeks, though we separated months ago.

When a relationship ends it sometimes it takes awhile for the details to all trickle down. The “more wrong” person hides things so he or she doesn’t look like the “bad guy.” The “less wrong” person refuses to accept any responsibility for his or her own contributions to the relationship’s demise. Usually, when I finally get to that post-relationship “aha” moment, it’s a relief, regardless of the information gained. I’m a “Why?” kind of girl, and I need that answer in order to process things. When at last I understand the reason for what happened, I can look more objectively at whatever part I had in it, heal, move on, and rebuild. Not this time.

This time I’m more angry than I ever remember being. I’ve had people cheat on me. I’ve had them take advantage of me financially. I’ve had them do both at the same time, but this time I feel like everything I ever thought was good about myself, things I was proud of, values I spent a lifetime building, were taken, twisted, and used to manipulate and betray me, and now I don’t know who or what is left inside this battered shell. Even more enjoyable, the void left where those traits were continues to fill up with anger and hate till it spills out into the rest of my life. I’m angry. All the time, at everyone, for everything, especially myself.

I am enraged that I allowed her to manipulate my decisions. She told me things so I’d do what she wanted. She didn’t tell me things to prevent me doing things she didn’t want. Rather than being honest and allowing me to take a step back while she sorted out her feelings, she hid things so she could sort them out without the risk that I might choose to take care of myself and move on. I’ve talked about intuition, and there were warning signs all along the way, but I ignored them. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt because there was always some crisis going on in her life that took precedent: her health, her job, her “walls” caused by her own previous break up. I set aside my own fear and concerns to let her deal with hers. I was kind, understanding, patient, loving, generous, and self-sacrificing, and I find that I don’t want to do or be any of those things ever again because she took advantage of them, eventually wiping out the entire core of who I am. Adding insult to injury, she seems to be getting everything she ever wanted, thanks in part to my clearly misguided sense of kindness and fair play. All I want to do is scream at everyone to stay the hell away from me so they don’t get mowed down while I run around like Femmezilla with my hair on fire.

In the midst of this chaos as I chew daintily on the neighbors’ rooftops, casually swatting helicopters from the sky (Femmezilla SMASH!), along comes a woman who thinks I hung the moon and treats me like a princess. Instead of hiding trying to self-protect, she just lays it out there, the good, the bad, the ugly. She says “This is how I feel and where I’m at. I know you’re in a bad place but I’m here, I care, and I don’t want you to hurt anymore.” Holy hand grenade, Batman! What is this new devilry?! Femmezilla feel…..(cocking head to one side, car-antenna-toothpick prying shingles from a molar) not so bad. I feel not so bad. I might even venture to say that at times I feel almost (gasp, could it be?) good. Trust me, I still spend the majority of my time rampaging through Tokyo, but every once in awhile, this 50 foot tyrannosaurus is wearing a pink tutu and princess tiara, and feeling kind of silly stomping around. I'm still not sure that it's safe to stop being angry, but I'm open to the possibility that not everything I thought was good about me is a liability. Don't be hatin' on my tiara.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Welcome to Bedlam

Commonly referred to as “Bedlam”, Bethlem Royal Hospital was the first asylum in England for the mentally ill. While Bethlem in its new location is now at the forefront of humane psychiatric housing and treatment, investigation in previous centuries has revealed the monstrous torture inflicted upon residents in the name of medicine.

There are times that relationships have felt very much like being in Bedlam in the bad old days of water torture and electric shock therapy. I get little flashes of intuition, hints that things are not as they seem (also known as “she’s cheating”), but when I talk to my partner about them she assures me that my concerns are unfounded. (“Sweetheart, she’s straight, married, straight and married, just needs someone to talk to…” Insert excuses ad nauseum.) Up till now, I’ve loved and trusted this person, and I don’t really like what my flash of insight might mean, so I want to believe what she tells me is true, and yet my gut still tells me that something is wrong with this picture. This scenario repeats as needed until I begin to feel that I must be losing my mind with my attempts to reconcile the “truth” of my heart and the “truth” of her words but the “truths” can’t both be true so one “truth” is true but one “truth” is a lie and my brain can’t tell if I am being lied to or if I am lying to me until I can no longer tell the difference of the truth of the “truth” and the lie of the “truth” so it just rolls round and round and round beating me against the walls of my rubber room while I sing “They’re Coming to Take Me Away”. AUGH!

Then finally, one deep, dark, night in the pits of despair a tiny piece of evidence comes to light and she can no longer deny what I have known all along. She’ll try to explain away the proof of the lie in her “truth” and for awhile she may succeed in convincing me that even my own eyes and ears have lied to me, but little by little I will shake off the shackles, releasing the raging, tortured, madwoman inside me with a primal scream of hellfire and woman scorned.

There has to come a point when I listen more to my intuition than anything or anyone else, but there are so many factors that can influence that. How do I determine when unsettled feelings have legitimate purpose and when they’re simply fueled by fear and the ghosts of relationships past? I’ve tried upfront discussion, I’ve tried “trust, but verify”, I’ve tried “wait and watch”, I’ve tried “ignore it and hope it goes away”, but all these methods of dealing with it have all come down to the same simple truth. That truth is that no matter what I need to start listening to that little voice inside (the intuition kind, not the schizophrenic kind) and treat myself like a friend, rather than someone I don’t trust or even seem to like very much. When my friends tell me there’s something wrong I believe them. When they’re sad I comfort them. I have their back when they need someone to go to bat for them. The least I can do is give myself the same courtesy.

* And femme ladies, take it from me. If they’re hanging with your butch, they’re not that straight and not that married.
Bedlam. (2011). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved November 22, 2011 fromhttp://www.britannica.com/EBchecked/topic/58154/Bedlam.
© Sarah Ultis 2011

There's No Crying in Baseball

In the late 1990’s, a compelling movie called “Courage Under Fire” was released. This movie starred Meg Ryan as a med evac helicopter pilot and crew captain who is shot down and eventually killed in combat. An investigation ensues as to whether she should be awarded a medal of honor. There’s a great scene in this movie where she and her all-male crew are huddled in a bunker over night waiting for rescue. An antagonistic crew member notices that she has tears in her eyes and begins to make fun of her, saying “Are you crying? Hey look everybody! The captain’s crying.” She looks him in the eye and says “It’s just tension asshole. It don't mean shit.” I love this line because somewhere in the course of the development of American culture we decided that displays of emotion such as fear, sadness, loss, or anything involving tears were weak and therefore only worthy of women who are the “weaker” sex, and certainly not allowable from anyone in authority. I have discovered over the years that many women ascribe to this same philosophy, especially women of the “butch” persuasion.

Just so we’re clear, “butch” to me isn’t just a more masculine manner of dressing. Butch includes a certain attitude, and behaviors that we would normally attribute to stereotypical football-watching, beer-chugging, crotch-grabbing, straight men. Among these behaviors is the belief that displays of emotion other than happiness or anger are weak and therefore should be avoided at all costs. I say all this with a smile because I adore butch women in all their glory, however I find it ironic that the traits we tout as strengths can actually make us weaker and less connected in our relationships and those we perceive as weaknesses can actually provide us with great strength and support.

Now I’m not saying we should all dissolve into tears at every possible opportunity, but I think that mature expressions of honest emotions within the context of close personal relationships are not only healthy but vital for the growth of the relationship as well. It is risky to allow ourselves to be vulnerable and display those types of “forbidden” emotions. I am well aware of how painful it can be to have those feelings ridiculed or rejected outright by someone I care about. As a result I believe it takes more strength and courage to open ourselves up and take that risk than it does to bottle everything up and pretend to feel nothing. If we don’t express our fear, or desire, or need, we deny ourselves the possibility of a deeper, more fulfilling relationship, and we deny our partners the chance to demonstrate their own emotions. If we decide our partners are not capable of handling our feelings or supporting us without allowing them the chance to decide for themselves we have done them and ourselves a great injustice. So let’s rethink our ideas on emotional expression, stop hiding our fears and tears, and start recognizing them for the act of courage they truly are.

But there’s still “no crying in baseball.”*
*Tom Hanks – A League of Their Own

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Flag On the Play

It seems like nearly every team sport in the world uses some sort of flag to indicate a foul. Referees fling them in the air, wave them on sticks, hold up little cards that represent flags, usually accompanied by some sort of whistle blowing. All of these signals indicate that someone has done something they shouldn't and play will now cease until a penalty has been assessed. I wish that relationships worked that way. TWEET! Forgot the birthday! Five yard penalty! FWEET! Lack of romance! 24 hours in the penalty box! WHEET! Failure to express emotions! You're outta here! *dirt kicking and hat throwing ensues* Unfortunately there aren't any of those things, so we just keep cruising along, scoring willy nilly* when maybe we should have slowed down or backed up a little. I mean there are flags. Some are tiny, some are huge, flaming red, and waving in your face, but there's nothing there to enforce the penalty. You can stop and take a closer look at that play, but often it's more fun to keep the game going than really examine that flag, especially when you've just begun. Everything is all a new, exciting, rush of breathlessness. And we all do stuff that could mean a red flag to someone else. Past addiction issues, commitment issues, still stuck on the ex issues, entire bloody subscriptions worth of issues, but how do you tell which ones are the ones that should be show stoppers and which are just little speed bumps? When you're sitting having coffee on that first date do you stop mid-conversation and say "Whoa there! That thing you just told me about you is a deal breaker," and walk out? I'd hate to have someone make that kind of judgment about me during our first conversation without really getting to know me, and yet I know I've learned things about people in the first moments of discussion that made me pause, and eventually resulted in exactly what I was concerned about from the start. How do I figure out when to let it ride and when to take my ball and go home?

*The phrase "willy nilly" makes me giggle like a loon for no apparent reason other than words are funny. Willy nilly! Mwahahahaha!

© Sarah Ultis 2011

I'm Gonna Find Another You

It's really over, you made your stand
You got me crying, as was your plan
But when my loneliness is thru, I'm gonna find another you

You take your sweaters
You take your time
You might have your reasons but you will never have my rhymes
I'm gonna sing my way away from blue
I'm gonna find another you

When I was your lover
No one else would do
If I'm forced to find another, I hope she looks like you
Yeah and she's nicer too

So go on baby
Make your little get away
My pride will keep me company
And you just gave yours all away
Now I'm gonna dress myself for two
Once for me and once for someone new
I'm gonna do somethings you wouldn't let me do
Oh I'm gonna find another you

By John Mayer

What Dreams May Come

Tomorrow is my birthday and I will be 37 years old. T-H-I-R-T-Y  S-E-V-E-N (said in a cheesy slow-motion Jim Carey sort of voice.) Now I know some of you out there are saying “Ha! What are you complaining about?! I’m 45 (or 55, or….),” but this is a big birthday for me because from my perspective I’m cruising down that hill toward 40 at a rapid pace and I am nowhere near where I thought I’d be at this point in my life. I thought 30 was a tough birthday for the same reason. I was just recovering from an ugly divorce, trying to pay off thousands of dollars worth of debt as a result, working in a crummy, dead-end security job where people screamed at me every day, and my body was having severe symptoms of the chronic illness that I had just been diagnosed with. Today, I find myself recovering from an ugly break-up, working a crummy, dead-end phone job where people scream at me every day, still suffering from fibromyalgia, and while I may not be thousands of dollars in debt, my finances are certainly not where I would like them to be at this stage. The only major difference between then and now is that I’m currently in college on my way to a second degree. (Yay me!)

When I was growing up, I pictured my 30’s as the period in my life where I’d be a college graduate establishing a career, married with a house, and working to make it into a home. When I came out as a lesbian in my late 20’s, none of those goals changed, only the gender of the partner in the picture. As I’m getting older, I feel this sort of pressure, like the clock is ticking down and I’m running out of time to fulfill those dreams. It’s not a “biological clock” sort of ticking because I’ve never had the desire for children, but it’s a similar sort of pressure. The older I get the greater the pressure is, especially when my younger siblings have already accomplished so many of the things I’ve dreamed of doing.

Now I love my family. They are good people and they care about me so don’t judge them, but we have very different ideas about what I should be doing with my life. I’ve had to fight really hard for the freedom to make my own choices, so when I introduce a partner to my family it means I love her and believe she loves me enough to have a future together. When that relationship then goes sideways it’s phenomenally humiliating and all I hear in my head is my mother saying “I just don’t think you’re ever going to be happy in this lifestyle, Sarah.” Sigh. Break-ups like these become even more devastating because not only do I have to explain to my family why they need to update their address books again, but with the end of the relationship the potential for the fulfillment of the dreams I’ve built with this person also ends, and that is probably the most painful part.

I’m discovering that I don’t like having to start over from scratch every time a relationship fails. I get lost and have to reorient, trying to put together who I am and what I want from the leftover pieces. It’s sort of like when you tear a photo in half to remove the picture of someone you don’t want to see. You’re still there, but the photo never looks quite the same. I’ve decided that I need dreams that don’t require another half to the picture. I understand that I don’t need another person to be complete, but the things I’ve always wanted have always included a loving, long-term relationship with a supportive partner. I need hopes and dreams that I can fulfill alone, where there might be room to add another person if the right one ever comes along, but that won’t be destroyed if that part of my life happens to remain vacant. I’m tired of having everything I’ve built be wiped out by a change of heart. I have no idea what these new dreams are going to look like, but I’m going to point my ship in the direction of the horizon and see where it takes me.

“Sail Forth- Steer for the deep waters only. Reckless O soul, exploring. I with thee and thou with me. For we are bound where mariner has not yet dared go. And we will risk the ship, ourselves, and all.”

~ Walt Whitman~

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Ex-Communication

In the Middle Ages, the Catholic church instituted the practice of excommunication, whereby a person who was doing something that was deemed inappropriate by the church could be excommunicated by the pope. Excommunication essentially constituted being cut off from God because anyone who had been tossed out of the church could not receive absolution from a priest through confession and was therefore damned to Hell. I could go off on a whole tangent about the arrogance of humans presuming to deny someone access to God based upon their own judgment, but that would be getting away from the point. The point is that excommunication was intended to deny salvation and a relationship with God until the censured person repented, and in a lot of ways communicating with exes can be a very similar experience.

For instance, some of you may remember me talking about an ex in my “Forgiveness” entry. Her method of communication is either to have none whatsoever or to heap a pile of vindictive accusation upon my head and then immediately withdraw, preventing me from earning my “salvation” by addressing her unfounded attempts to play the victim. Another ex will happily talk about the weather, or the animals we had to separate in the break-up, or work, but if things get too emotionally intense she retreats into silence, denying me the ability to “absolve” myself of my feelings of loss and sadness or blessing me with the holy gift of a moment of vulnerability on her part. Some exes are C & E (or Christmas and Easter) exes. They show up on special occasions and go through the motions of friendship, perhaps rehashing old times, bringing up inside jokes, and making veiled references to previous sexual escapades, often making your "current" (if you have one) feel extremely uncomfortable, and then vanish back into the woodwork. There are “deathbed” exes who keep you as a back-up plan in case they can’t find someone better or until they’ve had all their fun and they need an emergency Hail Mary to settle down with. They usually call up when their "current" goes kablooie to tell you all about what a huge mistake it was to let you go and how they always knew you’d be the one they would spend their life with. I’ve even had some honest-to-Goddess deathbed exes who wanted to marry me while they thought they were dying but had a sudden change of heart when they began to recover. Hallelujah! It’s a miracle!

Whatever the type of ex, being “ex-communicated” can be extremely painful because at some point in time this was someone I cared about. We had hopes and dreams together. Sometimes we made major purchases together. Sometimes we went through losses of jobs or loved ones together. Sometimes we went through major health issues together. The key word here is “together,” and no matter whether the cease in communication was my choice or hers, or who broke up with whom, it is still hard to let go of this person who was at one point a very intimate part of my life. Time and space makes the loss feel less deep and intense, but the loss is still there. The deeper the love, the longer and more difficult the letting go seems to be. When do I stop feeling like there's a part of me missing?

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Gravity

Something always brings me back to you.
It never takes too long.
No matter what I say or do, I still feel you here 'till the moment I'm gone.


You hold me without touch.
You keep me without chains.
I never wanted anything so much than to drown in your love and not feel your rain.


CHORUS
Set me free, leave me be. I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.
You loved me 'cause I'm fragile.
When I thought that I was strong.
But you touch me for a little while and all my fragile strength is gone.


CHORUS
Set me free, leave me be. I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity.
Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be.
But you're on to me and all over me.


I live here on my knees as I
Try to make you see that you're
Everything I think I need here on the ground.
But you're neither friend nor foe though I
Can't seem to let you go.
The one thing that I still know is that you're keeping me down
You're keeping me down, yeah, yeah, yeah
You're onto me, onto me and all over


Something always brings me back to you
It never takes too long


Sara Bareilles

Forgiveness

I was in therapy about a month ago when I was at the height of my “angry, bitter, I hate my ex” phase and my therapist was telling me I need to forgive her, not for her but for me. At the time I was having a tough time grasping that concept but this weekend I had a run-in with a different ex who made things a little clearer for me.

I was talking to her about clearing up some things (dropping off possessions that wound up in the wrong place during the move, some financial stuff) and in the process she exploded in a venomous verbal assault that would wither a sailor’s ears and then slammed the conversational door unwilling to listen to anything I might have to say in response. As I sat there reeling from the unexpected tirade, feeling slightly angry and a great deal misunderstood, I started to think about how miserable her life must be holding on to all that bitterness, and how sad it was that I wasn’t even aware of the majority of her grudge. She had blamed and stewed and sat in that mess for months, allowing our long-over (we’re talking years now) relationship to continue to have power in her life, while I was blissfully on to other things.

It was then that I really understood what my therapist was trying to say. Forgiveness doesn’t really do anything for the person I’m giving it to. Most times they won’t even realize or care that I’ve given it because they haven’t spent months obsessing or even thinking about whatever it is that I’m forgiving them for. What forgiveness really does is release me from the chains that have held me prisoner to that anger and allow me to move forward with my life without constantly being yanked back into that deep, dark pit. There was a time in my life when I was like her. I’d find myself driving home from work having an angry conversation with someone in my head about something that had happened ten years or more ago where I had felt mistreated or misunderstood and hadn’t been able to express myself about. Even more depressing was the realization that the people I was having these imaginary conversations with probably hadn’t thought about me or the incident I was angry about in years. I was talking with my grandmother about it one day shortly before she passed away and she said “Sarah, doesn’t that stuff ever get heavy? Don’t you just want to put it down and stop carrying it around with you?” I said “Sure Gram. I just don’t know how.”

The “how” is to just do it. Take all that anger and hurt and realize that whoever that was probably wasn’t trying to hurt me, because most people really aren’t like that. We hurt people accidentally because we are confused about what we want, or because we don’t communicate well. The people who have hurt me were doing the best they could with the life skills they had, just as I do the best I can everyday with the wisdom and knowledge that I have. So I write them letters, I tell them what they did that hurt me and I say the things I felt I didn’t get to say, and then I burn the letter and as the smoke rises I let all the anger and bitterness drift away with it and I forgive the hurt and let it go. Sometimes it takes me more than one letter, especially for things that were so devastating they changed how I saw the world afterward, but eventually I stop thinking about those things. When I try to think back about what it was I was so angry about, sometimes I can’t even remember clearly anymore and that makes me feel a whole lot lighter.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Mother May I?

I don't know about most of you out there, but I was raised in a conservative Christian family often struggling to make ends meet, the oldest of five siblings, and I was taught to think of others before myself. This is a fantastic philosophy, assuming that everyone around you works the same way. The problem is, not everyone holds the same viewpoint, especially in relationships, so while I'm putting my needs aside to care for someone else thinking that they are going to do the same for me, the reality is most times this doesn't happen. Sometimes relationships are 50/50% and sometimes they’re 90/10%. Your partner has a crisis so you suck it up and work through it because eventually you may have a crisis too and you just know that when that happens, they're going to be there for you just like you were there for them. Riiiiiiight. In my experience, what actually winds up happening is that I carry my partner through crisis after crisis and when it comes time for her to carry me, she's nowhere to be found. This is partly my fault because I continue to allow this to happen in my life, but I'm not really sure how to correct it. I feel like I have discussions with my partner about what our expectations are and I feel like she always says "Yes. I'm like you and I'll be there for you." probably with the best of intentions on her part, but when it comes down to the nitty gritty that isn't really what she means. I feel like I also communicate when my needs aren't being met and talk with her about needing more "Me time", affection, for her to fix the toilet like she said she would a month ago, etc., whatever it is that I'm starting to feel resentful about. But when I feel like I'm having the same conversation over and over again, and the same needs still aren't being met I just get more bitter. Sometimes I feel like her crisis is big enough that asking for what I need at that moment isn't something that would be fair, so I bite my tongue and try to wait for a better time. Sometimes there is no better time because one problem seems to roll into the next and the next until the whole relationship is just one long crisis. That's usually a good sign that it's time to get out.

I am learning that I can't rescue people and if they've gotten themselves into a mess I can't always bail them out of it, but how do you balance caring for a partner and caring for yourself without going too far to one side or the other? I know I feel guilty if my partner is struggling and I say I'm sorry. I can't help you right now because I have needs of my own I need to take care of. I feel selfish. I also know that if the relationship stays out of balance and I continue to allow my needs to go unmet while still meeting those of my partner I become angry and bitter and it starts to show in how I communicate with her. It becomes so draining that often I don't have anything left to give her after awhile. So how do I give myself permission to be "selfish" and take care of myself without feeling guilty about it? Perhaps even more difficult, how do I give up control and trust that someone else will do what they say and take care of something when past experiences have shown this to often have disastrous results? In a relationship, I can't seem to figure out the balance between my needs, and her needs, and our needs as a couple. And I don’t know how to determine that when someone says they will be there they’ll really follow through when the shit hits the fan.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

When the Fat Lady Sings

So Friday night I went out to karaoke. Singing is something I love to do and I'm pretty good at it. I get all dressed up girlie femmie froofy and meet a friend at my favorite bar to sing and have a drink and socialize. While I'm there I spot a girl who I've seen there before. Watching her with her friends she seems fun and maybe someone I'd like to meet. My therapist says I'm supposed to be mingling after all. *insert rolling of eyes here* I know the bar owner so I ask if this girl is single. The owner says yes, and she's very nice. Would you like me to introduce you? Absolutely! So she goes and get's "the girl" and brings her over. Right away this girl is looking like she wants to run right back to her table and hide. The owner introduces us and after a moment of uncomfortable small talk, I ask if I can buy her a drink. She hesitates but agrees. As we're walking toward the bar, she makes a disgusted face behind my back, which my friend observed and was kind enough to share with me after the conclusion of the events to follow.

There's a bit of a wait at the bar, but rather than chat with me "the girl" stands about five feet away not looking at me and at one point leaves completely to talk to someone else with her back to me. I order her drink and hand it to her. She proceeds to practically sprint back to her table. The bar owner goes over and motions to her that she should come sit with me. "The girl" makes another disgusted face and shakes her head, then turns her back to me, where she remains for the rest of the evening, going so far as to go outside when it's my turn to sing. For me, whose self-esteem is already running at an all time low, this was an evening destroyer. How am I supposed to be putting myself out there when it feels like looking for a piece of hay in a stack of needles, all sharp and painful and bloody?

Now, I'm a big girl and I'm perfectly aware of that fact, but I've got great blue eyes, a nice smile, pretty wavy auburn hair, and an incredible "rack" that many larger girls are blessed with. I know how to use these to my advantage and I was dressed to kill that night. I'm also smart, funny, giving, and passionate, but these are things you would never know without talking to me. What I don't understand is in a community of women who are constantly railing against "the man" and the stereotypes that are placed on us by magazines, movies, and other media, how is it possible to be so shallow that even a polite conversation is out of the question? I find that many butch women are looking for young, petite little femme girls, and for a femme identified lesbian, being overweight is tantamount to having the plague. This doesn't seem to work in reverse because many butch women easily find dates no matter their size. I'm sure this is partly just my perception, but I'm not the only person to have witnessed this phenomenon in lesbian culture. Size seems to be no barrier for butch women, while for femmes, appearance seems to be a real issue.

I can understand that if there's no attraction, no "chemistry", then a relationship is unlikely to work. I've been down that road. I also understand that chemistry won't last based on appearance alone. As we get to know someone the most beautiful woman can appear to be a complete hag when the spirit inside of them is selfish. The most homely person can appear to be the most amazing knock out because their heart is so full of love and light getting to know them makes it impossible to view them any other way. So we need to open the book, unwrap the package, take a look at what's inside there before we decide to discount someone because they're not the prettiest flower in the garden.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Your Freudian Slip is Showing

Therapy. The word evokes images of bad horror movies where the ghosts of abused asylum inmates haunt the living with their screams. Thoughts of horrible 70's sofas with strange men in glasses asking "So how does that make you feel?" and scribbling in their little notebooks tumble through my head. Counseling has come a long way since the days of Sigmund Freud, but no matter how much we've learned about the inner workings of the human brain I'm still not sure that anyone completely understands what's going on in there. For instance, why does my heart feel like I'm having a heart attack when I experience the feeling of losing someone? The heart is just a muscular organ that pushes blood around my body. Theoretically it should have nothing to do with what's happening in my brain. Maybe it hurts because I think it's supposed to hurt. My brain can't process the emotional pain so it channels it where I think I should be feeling physical pain and I have the sensation that someone has their hand in my chest squeezing my little heart to a pulp. Do you think anyone has ever actually died of a broken heart?

 Being in this counseling thing, I find myself continually saying "My therapist says I should...." which usually leaves me deep in thought. Like this last week my therapist said I should put myself out there and have my friends set me up on dates. During the session I'm thinking "ok sure I'll try that..." then when I get home I'm having a panic attack about having to start over again and explain all the crap in my life, like fibromyalgia, hypothyroid, sleep apnea, plus a myriad of emotional issues that stem from childhood. I don't want to start over. I don't want to explain that crap. I sure as hell don't want to start over getting to know someone when 90% of the time people don't present themselves honestly anyway. When we're starting a new relationship, we always want to present ourselves in the best light, even if we're aware of our issues, which a lot of people aren't. No one wants to be talking with a potential partner and say "Yeah I'm pretty selfish in a relationship and I'm high maintenance because I'm insecure and will need you to constantly reassure me ok?" Or how about "Sure I'm out here dating, but really I'm still carrying a torch for my ex, so I'll be leaving you the second she renews her interest in me. You good with that?" Riiiiight. Next! So instead we talk about what we wish we were, or what we would like to want eventually but aren't quite ready for at the moment, which is very confusing when trying to determine if this person might be a potential partner.

 Through all this I have discovered one thing. I have baggage. Lots and lots of baggage. Some of it is old and beat up and held together with duct tape. ( "The handyman's secret weapon!"* ) Some of it is brand spanking new with all the bells and whistles and rolly wheely handle things. Some of it is in tiny little packages that fit inside other bags, that also fit inside other bags like those little Russian stacking dolls. Some of it is huge like the Grinch's sack he plans to dump on Mount Crumpit. There are bags with infinite amounts of mysterious objects in them, like Mary Poppin's carpet bag. All of it adds up to one giant pile of crap that I carry around in my head every day. I've got baggage about my parents. I've got baggage about past relationships. I've got baggage about my self worth. What I really need is someone with "baggage that goes with mine."*

© Sarah Ultis 2011

*From The Red Green Show. Hilarious! YouTube it today. This moment I say!


*From the musical "Rent"

She Loves Me/She Loves Me Not

Did you ever do that thing with the flower where you pick off the petals one at a time and say “she loves me” with one petal and “she loves me not” with the next until all the petals are gone and the one you’re left with is the answer to the question we all want answered? Does the one we want love us in return? I wish that flowers were better indicators of these things because as an adult I find that often not only does the one I want not love me back, she’s not even interested in flowers or growing things. It makes me want to take a flame thrower to the garden. My devastated heart grabs onto little signs of caring from her like a drowning sailor, yet to her those are just friendship. Isn’t that your favorite conversation? “I just want to be friends.” The “I enjoy your company, you’re a wonderful woman, I just can’t be committed right now” conversation. The “I’m sure you’ll find the right person someday when you least expect it. I’m not good enough for you anyway” conversation. Also a favorite. Oh yeah. Good times. Because right now I feel about as unwonderful as a person can feel. I feel ugly, small, and scared, and no matter how much this does or does not have to do with me the angry, bitter, well of hatred that has filled up my heart just keeps pouring out all over my life. Every time I think I’ve come to the bottom of the bucket I find there’s just more and deeper and it’s like poison turning everything around me to broken ruin. I can’t seem to stop being horrible and hateful and there’s nowhere to get away from her because we share the same house. All I want to do is scream at her to get away from me and beat her chest with my fists and at the same time hold onto her for dear life as if somehow in that embrace she might find the spark she’s lost and suddenly say “Oh there you are. I’m sorry I got lost. I remember us now.” It’s like Alcatraz, and there is no escape.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

Starting Over

As I sit here eating my oh-so-healthy breakfast of cheddar potato chips, vending machine pastry, and bottled Starbucks vanilla iced coffee, I realize that I’m desperately searching for a way to feel better this morning. How do things reach this point without any logical explanation? Four months ago we were stupid in love, planning a life and a home together after a year of commitment and a matching tattoo, and today I’m waking up alone again without a single shot being fired. No one cheated. There were no fights other than some deep discussions as the distance between us became more apparent, but today all she can say is “I don’t know why” and I’m left with my shredded heart in my hands wondering how the hell to pick up the pieces and move forward. Is it me, did I do something? “No, it’s not you. It’s me,” she says, (my favorite conversation.) Have you fallen out of love? “No, love is not the issue,” she says. So what is it? What can I do or say to change what’s happening now? How do I stop what feels like a roller coaster ride out of control as all of my life seems to slide through my hands like sand and I feel like I’m breathing through broken glass? On the inside I’m on my knees screaming and bleeding and trying to patch the holes in my defenses and all she says is “I don’t know.” Why don’t you know? Why not fight for what we have? Why let it just slip away like garbage instead of something rare and precious to be treasured? This thing that I’ve loved and nurtured and come to value as something I can count on in my life seems to mean nothing to her and I am lost. Suddenly, I am not worth fighting for. We are not worth fighting for. I don’t understand and I don’t know how to make it ok in my head and my heart without that.

“But there is no joy in Mudville - mighty Casey has struck out.” *

*From the poem "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Lawrence Thayer The Examiner June 3rd, 1888

© Sarah Ultis 2011

The Elephant in the Living Room ~ A Poem

The Elephant in the Living Room ~ A Poem About the Things We Don't Talk About

There's an elephant in the living room,

Everyone knows it's there.

We all tiptoe around it,

And try not to stare.

There's an elephant in the living room,

No one knows what to say.

Maybe if we ignore it,

It'll just go away.

It’s an elephant with secrets,

The kind that everybody knows,

It is why we close the drapes,

It’s the prisoner that we chose.

There’s an elephant in the living room,

We call him many names,

Intolerance, ambivalence,

Fear, bigotry, and shame.

Maybe it's your auntie's cancer,

Or your big gay Uncle Al,

Your cousin who got pregnant

Before she spoke some vows.

Maybe your sister runs around,

Or your father likes his booze.

Or maybe, just maybe,

That elephant is you.

What if, one wonderous day,

That elephant made some noise?

A trumpeting so loud that,

Maybe then we'd have no choice,

But to talk about our differences,

Our worries, doubts and fears.

Then that elephant who'd grown so large,

Might just disappear.

© Sarah Ultis and Bryon Robichaud 2011

Angel of Mercy

In the 1940s and 50s before the women's liberation movement, women were viewed as these perfect angels. Domestic Goddesses building beautiful homes while men earned the wage. (Well, until World War II when there weren't enough men available to keep the country running. When the men came back the women went back to the kitchen. Don't even get me started on that tangent.) It was women's job to ensure their virginity. It was their job to keep men on the straight and narrow. Men were expected to run amok and get into trouble and to try to pressure girls into having sex.

As I look at the dynamic in relationships between butches and femmes I see a lot of similarities. The sexual part is of course no longer an issue, (though I do find that women who are comfortable with their enjoyment of sex are still talked about as sluts even among their peers) but butches are still expected to run around, get into trouble, and be irresponsible. They're expected to be hard workers who are afraid of commitment and chase tail at every opportunity. Femmes are expected to keep them in line, ride out the storms of misbehavior, and keep the home fires burning for the time they return emotionally to the safety of home.

Why is this? Do femmes have stronger hearts than butches that make it possible for them to love through all the hurts? Are we built as a different kind of woman who can patiently wait for the one we love to get her head out of her ass? That's not to say there aren't butches out there who have been just as hurt by femmes, but I have to write from my own perspective and I find that in my experience women who participate in a classic butch/femme relationship often function in this sort of dynamic.

Now I consider myself a fairly liberated woman when it comes to male/female gender roles, and yet I find myself exceedingly antiquated when it comes to my thoughts on my role in a relationship with a woman. Why is that? I believe in equality. I believe I deserve to be treated with love, respect, and affection. I would certainly not accept such behavior from a man in my life, yet I find that over and over I allow that from the butch in my life, and I find that if I behaved in the same manner, they (the butches that is) would be appalled and find me somehow less feminine.

In the lesbian relationship I've become accustomed to I'm supposed to be the rescuing angel of mercy, and quite frankly I'm tired of this role because not only does it allow for bad behavior on behalf of my partner, but it creates an expectation of perfection for me which I cannot possibly live up to. I am not an angel. I screw up as much as anyone else does, probably more, when it comes to my relationship. And it isn't my job to have all the feelings and do all the emotional work and communicating, nor is it her job to hammer all the nails and earn all the money. This is supposed to be an equal partnership, which means equal physical and emotional work There are of course going to be times when the load is sometimes going to be 90/10 rather than 50/50 because life is hard and unpredictable and sometimes you just can't carry your share, but it shouldn't be that way all the time.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

She Said/She Said

Remember when you were a kid and would play that game "Telephone?" You'd sit in a circle with your friends and whisper something to the person next to you, they would whisper to the next in line, and on around the circle until by the time it gets back to you, it's something completely different. Sometimes I think that's how communication in relationships works.

She says: "I have nothing to wear. All my clothes are filthy!"
I hear: "Why haven't you done the laundry?"
She says: "This kitchen is a wreck!"
I hear: "Why haven't you done the dishes?"

I say: "I need a little space."
She hears: "I'm leaving you."
I say: "I see."
She hears: "Whatever you just said is wrong. WRONG I say! And you will now feel my wrath! RAWR!" (No really. That's exactly what she hears. She says this doesn't apply if she says "I see" because butch "I see's" are apparently different than femme "I see's, which supposedly involve some sort of hands-on-hips with glaring, and possibly some foot tapping as well.) I don't know what she's talking about. You do? I see.

But really, how is it that the words we say somehow become something else as they're floating through the air from mouth to ear? Granted, there's tone of voice and body language, and people don't always say what they mean, or mean what they say, but as two adult women in a loving relationship shouldn't we be able to communicate more clearly? Is it our baggage that causes the disconnect? I know that much of what I misinterpret relates to my own fears and insecurities, or even old ghosts of conversations of relationships past. And then sometimes trying to clarify causes even more angst and confusion because me asking questions comes across as a challenge to her, or a statement that whatever she's saying or doing isn't ok. And Goddess forbid I include an emotional reaction in there because then everything just goes to hell in a handbasket. (Why do we only go to hell in handbaskets? Can't I get something roomier? I have a lot of luggage.)

So how do we learn to listen, really listen to what the other is saying, not just with their words but with their heart? And how do we learn to speak openly and honestly so that we don't leave holes for other interpretations of our intentions? We worry so much about hurting other people that sometimes we hurt them more by not speaking our whole truth. Sometimes we don't speak because we are afraid that what we say will be judged or that we will not be loved because of it, and sometimes we don't hear what's really been said because we don't like it or don't want to deal with it. When we can't verbalize, behavior speaks louder than words, and more honestly. Often times when we talk about our feelings, we're talking about what we would like to feel or about the way we wish we were, but we talk about it as if it were already a reality. This creates even more confusion because what you've told me you want and what you really want are not the same thing, and now I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing in order to provide you support as your partner. Somehow in the midst of that I have to learn to speak my truth with love and care for both her and myself because I can't be a strong partner to her if I'm not able to be honest about my needs. I need to learn to listen to what she's really saying whether I like it or not, and sometimes that means listening with my eyes and not just my ears.

© Sarah Ultis 2011

It's Not You, It's Me...

It's not you, it's me. Is this not the most unhelpful phrase in the entire language of relationships? Along with "I'm fine" and "Does my ass look big in these jeans?" Because basically what she's just said is there's a kink in the works of the "us" machine and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. The utter powerlessness that phrase invokes is rather overwhelming. What do you mean there's nothing I can do? This is our "machine", our life. How can it be broken and me unable to make repairs? And what do I do with my parts of the machine, which are still humming away like clockwork, while your parts shoot sparks and smoke? It feels like trying to steer a rowboat with one oar. So what do I do? If I flail around randomly all that happens is that we go in circles and probably wind up soaked and perhaps upset the boat altogether in the process. If I do nothing, we sit going wherever the current takes us for an undefined amount of time. What if by the time she's ready to row again we've drifted somewhere neither of us intended or wanted to be? Can we find our way back to where we started, or have we gotten too far away? It's an incredibly frightening feeling not knowing where you're going or what will happen when you get there. If I jump ship before we arrive I have the comfort of being once again in control of my own direction, but she's gone on to somewhere else without me and I have no way of knowing if that destination could have turned into an amazing adventure. So which is worse? To live in fear and insecurity with the hope that the end result will be worth it, or to be assured of safety now, but always wonder what could have been. Coulda woulda shoulda. Another of the world's most useless phrases, along with "what if" and "if only." How do we live in the moment of now finding peace and acceptance just in this moment of time, for this one breath, and then how do we do it again and again until all of our life is one peaceful breath? When do we let go of the need to "control" every moment and just allow the moments to flow through us as they come? As I float down this river of confusion, how do I communicate to her my love and my fear without increasing her fear as well? If I'm really living in the luuuuv moment (insert cheesy drawn out Marvin Gaye "Let's Get it On" voice here) should there really be any fear? This, my friends, is the dilemma of The Butch/Femme project. The ups and downs and communication catastrophes of the butch/femme lesbian relationship.

© Sarah Ultis 2011