Friday, September 14, 2012

So. Not. Nice.

I've had it with holding the secrets of evil men. I am tired of carrying their sins for them out of some perverted sense of integrity. I'm disgusted that the Nice Gals around me do the right thing over and over again - by our children, our parents and our employers - only to be asked to do more and still more, while the NSN's rely on the foundation we've built. It's an emotional entitlement program benefitting NSN's and paid for by Nice Gals. As a Nice Gal, I'm constitutionally incapable of stopping my contributions (I pay my fair share of taxes, too) but I've decided to cash in on some of the benefits.

The whole purpose of this blog is to raise awareness of NSN behavior, to be a resource for those Nice Gals who find themselves in a situation with a NSN and are totally without reference points. It's less a map and more a translation service. But yesterday words on a screen weren't enough.

Yesterday I fulfilled the maxim "The karma for fucking over a Nice Girl is the Bitch you end up with." And honestly, it felt good. I released some of the toxicity that had built up. I realized after the fact that I had never, ever raised my voice to Hee Haw. Had never told him what I thought of his treatment of me. Up until the end, when I packed the Uhaul for him (I know: pathetic, but he really is a lazy bastard) I was looking out for his interests. I was nice nice nice until the end, never asking for what I was due under the law, conceding all of our furniture, tvs, computers and even the damned silver. I felt guilty for leaving, so I let him have everything. I carried the guilt for declaring the time of death on a marriage that had been dead for years.  Not dead in the sense of "he doesn't understand me" but dead in the sense that he had been screwing classmates, coworkers and random women while traveling for work for years. And coming home to treat me like a slave.

In his book titled "This is How You Lose Her" (should be required reading for NSN's everywhere) author Junot Diaz makes the claim that "the half-life of love is forever." When I first read that quote in a book review I vomited and all my teeth fell out (metaphorically, of course) because whose system could survive such treacle? Then I read on and learned that what he was actually saying is that when you break a heart, as when you split an atom, the radiation that is released is...significant. And it doesn't go away. You can bury it and hide it from the world, but it's still radioactive. It will eventually die down but it never, ever goes away.

Strangely, I find this comforting. All along I thought I was supposed to heal, to get better, to have no (visible) scars from the events ... and I couldn't get there, no matter how hard I tried. I've done individual and group therapy, I've done yoga, I've journaled, I've taken vitamins, I've gotten drunk, I've meditated, I've cried, I've read nearly every book and every article on recovering from infidelity and emotional abuse, I've talked and talked about it, trying to release it, I've dated, I've even fallen in love again. But there it remains. Now I know why: the half-life of love is forever. Split an atom and you get a nuclear explosion; why should be expect less of a split heart? This reminds me of another story about the permanence of pain.

In one of the innumerable books I've read trying to reclaim my joy, I learned of an interview with the Dalai Lama. The interviewer first asked whether his Holiness had any regrets, to which the wise man responded, yes. Pressed for a particular, he shared an incident wherein he had counseled a man who wished to engage in a particularly vigorous form of yoga against doing so, owing to the man's age and physical infirmity. The man then committed suicide. The interviewer asked him "how did you get over it?" and his answer was a simple "I didn't. It's still here, with me." Well, crap. 

If the Dalai freaking Lama cannot "get over it" what hope have I? Maybe I'm not supposed to. Maybe I'm supposed to walk around the rest of my life with a hole ripped in my side and perpetual emotional hangover wondering "what the hell happened?" Well, releasing the crap has helped, at least for now. I hope and believe that aerating it will allow it to cool a bit. My mom told me about the analogy a minister used to address "when shit happens" (although I am fairly certain he didn't say "shit" because he is a holy man and not the pottymouth I am). He said there are ways to deal with it: bury it (ineffective) pour gas on it and light it (a bit messy) or compost it and when it's ready, let it fly.

I've done it all, now.

Now that I know I am never going to get over it, I can proceed. I don't care, but I still hurt. I can live with that.

Somehow Dawna Markova/Fully Alive seems fitting for today.
I will not die an unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom goes on as fruit
I see a future, and it smells like lavender.

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