white noise

Sounds like a great name for a rock band, doesn’t it?

I deleted the last email, the one sitting in my inbox this morning. I didn’t even bother to read it. She’s always needed to have the last word; it’s her nature. I hope she feels better now, because I certainly do. I get it. I was a valuable tool. She needed to be better. Better. Smarter. Wiser. More popular. More loved. More evolved. More successful. Divine. Omniscient.

She wins.

“I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance.”

When I first moved to Lincoln, California in 1998, for a while, I played the part of Rescuer. Eventually, that lead to more and more moments of being both Victim and Persecutor. Mostly though, I was merely codependent or counterdependent, depending on the day or my mood. No matter how dysfunctional my friendship with her was and no matter how bad I knew it was for me, I couldn’t bring myself around to the understanding that I just needed to get out. I’d experienced the same paralysis with my ex husband and at least one ex boyfriend. Heck, it wasn’t much different with my father or step-mom, and eventually with my sister.

Yes, I’m also an enabler.

I didn’t understand most of these terms until I spent some time with a counselor not so interested in putting labels on me (which I often gladly, eagerly adopted) as he was in teaching me to recognize these patterns of behavior I’ve merrily embraced for so long. We invest a lot of ourselves in relationships, be they with friends, family members, or partners and there are times when that investment dictates an alarming need to avoid failure.

Failure is acceptable. I can say it, but I’m not truly comfortable with believing it, yet. Failing teaches us something about ourselves or our environment. I think it’s Thomas Edison whom Jon frequently points out as having used each of his “failures” as a lesson in what not to do next time. So, I’ve made adopting the same viewpoint a goal. Yes, I botch things up, often quite badly, but every time I make a step in the right direction, I look back to note what things I did accomplish and what things I still need to work on.

A dysfunctional friendship, however, is a whole different ball of sticky wax. I make the mistake of believing that some people will somehow always be part of my life. And in this recent experience, with a ten-year history, how could she not be? I had the same notion about my ex-husband; when the strains of responsibility are removed, when the commitment is gone, there is room for passing pleasantries, the how-do-you-dos, and have a nice days. I’m sure it stems from having to cope with my father’s good days as well as his bad, having to exchange one set of emotions for another, but today I realize it was a very bad assumption to make.

But made it, I did.

I play a PS2 game called Shadow of the Colossus and I love it. It’s not so much the game-play I value (squashing the Colossi). It’s the artwork, the depth of development in Wander’s horse, Agro, because the animal programmer took the time to really *know* how a horse and rider might interact. Yes, we get mounts in World of Warcraft, but the horses in WoW sound like they’re playing patty-cake instead of loping around. In my head, Agro is a masterpiece. He rears. He walks, lopes, runs. He jumps from high places (at least, with a little coaxing). He’ll do rollbacks and sliding stops. He’s interactive, whereas mounts in WoW are passive.

I’m sure gamers get a kick out of the SotC, but I think only a horseman can really appreciate the intrinsic value of Agro’s nature.

After a couple months of thinking she might really enjoy this aspect of SotC, too, I finally sent her a note. She responded kindly, blew off the game, and updated me on the whole of her gaming accomplishments in WoW. She even sent pictures. Hmm, well, I thought if she felt comfortable doing this, then perhaps it would be okay to share a bit of news, too. Had I known that it was committing me to a full blown relationship, I’d have tucked tail and run then. I didn’t though, and a few days later the LETTER came. The one suggesting we set aside old differences and reconstruct a friendship. Why? Well, she had even bigger news (than mine) to parade in front of me. The whale was about to swallow me. I thought, this one-upmanship shit really needs to go. Already in her words, I saw the conditions being set that would not allot for fair exchange, as if our needing a counselor was her idea all along. Already I saw someone ready to be forgiven, but not really interested in forgiveness; more so, I saw someone expecting to be excused to continue behaviors that helped us get here in the first place. I’ve already been down this road before, possibly a hundred times or more. It doesn’t work. Why do you insist I travel it again?

Hook, line, and sinker, though, I took the bait. I thought I was trying to give her the benefit of the doubt, but … I wasn’t really. I was playing the game. My defenses were already high, battle armor strapped on and locked into place. The anger and resentment returned and by the end of her second response, I had no doubt: there was no friendship to salvage. I’d never have any identity beyond Persecutor, Rescuer, or Victim. Chances are good, because my tolerance is so low, I’d be switching from Persecutor to Victim over and over again in the whole Karpman’s Drama Triangle McVoy spent a month drilling into my head.

Mind games. We all play them, but they can be difficult to identify. Even harder, is not getting sucked into playing them. What I really needed was to turn around and examine my own truths, which I did, and then try to extract myself from the situation before I was really, really out of control. I fell short of the first agreement, “Be impeccable with your word,” but I was a far, far stretch from spouting the truly malignant feelings I had.

Ever notice how damned hard it is to be nice to someone for whom you have no respect? Lack of respect breeds apathy. Apathy eradicates empathy. Empathy is my compass. I can’t say whether that’s good or bad, but at least it’s the beginning to a deeper understanding. Without empathy, I don’t function well in relationships, at all.

No respect and no empathy. Thinking about it, I can’t remember the last time I felt any respect for her, but even scarier to admit, I believe it was as long ago as the end of 2001. I’m sure, though, that it was on rapid descent even before then. I hope the next time I find myself in troubled waters, I’m able to recognize whether or not I’ve lost respect for the other party. Maybe it will be the catalyst to a healthier relationship, or the warning sign that tells me clearly that the relationship needs to end.

I wanted to be sad and torn up, but to be honest, I’m less so now than I have been for a long, long time. She’s great and valuable people. But, I want to be surrounded by the great and valuable people who don’t feel it necessary to make me less. My world has changed so drastically since I left California. It’s peaceful. There are very few fires to put out. On one hand, that’s because Jon has figured out ways to avoid fanning the flames, and in the other, I have learned not to let them burn out of control. My biggest frustration, in terms of my relationship with him, is how to stay calm when my fight-or-flight button is pushed. Beyond that, it’s simply a matter of learning how to communicate my needs more effectively and not expecting him to be a mind reader. When I can do that, I think he’ll then have even more freedom to grow and explore.

A friend (and my spiritual mentor) recently learned that his sister has been diagnosed with breast cancer. Having lost one family member and also being friends with a breast cancer survivor, I have experienced both triumph and loss. I can relate to the emotions tied to this diagnosis and I want to be a supportive friend, but at the moment, just thinking about it doesn’t seem proactive enough. There’s a voice in my head that says I can help, even if just a tiny bit, if I ask for more awareness, more prayers, and your positive thoughts.

Although October is National Breast Cancer Awareness month, I’d like to engender more awareness by pointing you to Susan G. Komen for the Cure. This organization was founded 25 years ago by a sister for a sister, and, today, pointing the way to this organization — although there are many worthwhile organizations fighting breast cancer — feels most appropriate to me. As well, please encourage the women in your life to do their monthly breast exams, annual check ups, and yearly mammograms (for those women aged 40 and over).

It seems that early detection is our biggest ally against this beast.

I’d like to kick his or her ass as a thank you for all the spam it generates. Rawr!

On Tuesday afternoon, I decided to walk down to Crossroads to take our movie back. Levi was quite thrilled to be my personal escort; he bounced and twirled in dizzying circles when he saw his leash and collar coming out of the closet. It was a nice walk, took us maybe 40 minutes to get there and a little extra time to make it back. It was warm, so I was thankful I decided to put my fleece jacket in my backpack and bring it only in case it started to rain. The clouds had pretty much dispersed by the time we got to the movie store, though, and it felt like spring had finally settled in Blacksburg.

While on that walk, I started wondering what sort of effort it might take to write 1,000 short stories (and/or 1,000 poems). To accept such a challenge, surely those stories would have to be written in the same spirit as NaNoWriMo, where quantity matters far more than quality. At one story a week, 52 stories a year, it would take 19¼ years to write those 1,000 stories.

Phew, that’s a long time!

Wikipedia gives this definition for a short story (brief): “In contemporary usage, the term short story most often refers to a work of fiction no longer than 20,000 words and no shorter than 1,000.”

In my own experience, any story shorter than 1,000 words is considered either a “short-short” or “flash” fiction and a story between 1,000 and 7,500 words is considered a short story. Anything beyond that number range and you start getting into the novelette/novella categories. Between 1,000 and 7,500 words, I can do. The word count most magazines seek for publication seems to average around 2,000 to 3,500 words. I think for the 1000 Club, a short story should be four to eight pages in length, a size most writers can manage in one day. I think the real challenge would be in coming up with 1,000 individual ideas. Ow.

Okay, it’s a little ambitious. I’ll throw in that stories one has previously written count towards reaching the 1,000 mark. Doesn’t that make it so much more appealing? Are you with me now?

Oh yeah, I’m so gonna be a member of the 1000 club. Heee!

In less loftier ambitions, it suddenly dawned on me the other day that my bestiary might fit beautifully into a wiki. I installed Wikimedia and started noodling around with it to see how much of a brainiac I need be in order to get such a project up and moving, and with a style of its own. Well, I learned one has to be smarter than the average geek, but if one can tweak one’s own website or blog, one can certainly stylize one’s own wiki.

Now I have a place to stuff ALL the information I’ve collected on bits of paper and note cards and put them in one place, accessible to me without having to drag a 50 lb. tome around as I go (or in this case, three-ring binders). As well, Jon will probably be very pleased to watch the shrinkage in all my little piles around the house.

Tadah! Man, I impress myself so much whenever I function above average. :P

Okay, does it matter if the backpack is still heavy because of the lap top? The more I pare down, the less I need a little red wagon to get me around town. Wait … I think I wanted the little red wagon.