I have made it no secret around here that I love me some Carrie Bradshaw. I own Seasons 1-4 of Sex and the City, oh and The Movie. (Not SatC 2, nobody owns SatC 2). I love Carrie and the girls.
I just finished Season 4, Episode 13, The Good Fight. (Which, you know, is probably way more detail than any of you needed, but I like to be thorough). The underlying theme of this particular episode is “When it comes to relationships, what are we fighting for?” Aiden is moving in with Carrie, and Carrie is learning to share her space, and her life, and adjust to Aiden, and it’s awkward and crowded and messy and he doesn’t understand her relationship with shoes and clothes, and she doesn’t understand why he doesn’t understand. And she just kept agreeing and being gracious and moving her stuff, and giving up more room, and accommodating, and resenting, and fuming and felt taken advantage of.
And all she had to do was speak up, Hey, Buddy, can you do me a favor? I’m new to this living together, I’m new to sharing my space, my life, can you give me some space and time? Please. Of course he did, and she discovered that once she voiced her need, got it met, it wasn’t really a need anymore.
I watched it on my laptop, ear buds in, tears silently streaming down my face. How long have I silently swallowed my unease, how long have I bit my tongue, how long have I given and given and given and resented and felt taken advantage of and used and cheated because I didn’t open my mouth and ask for what I needed or wanted? Far far too long.
Recently I’ve done some work for some people, who have asked for favors. Write a cover letter, takes some photos, make a graphic, nothing earth shattering but favors that I have the talent and the skill to complete better than they could. An hour here, a couple of hours there, really not a great big deal. Except that, yeah, it is, to me. See that cover letter, those photos, that graphic? That’s my time, my skill, my talent and maybe someday my career. I put a part of myself in everything I do. My words, my vision, my style, a piece of me. I created those things.
I didn’t get credit for any of it. The letter went on to get several responses that garnered some business opportunities, the photos are on the internet and hanging in homes for friends and family to see and admire, the graphic is on a webpage. My name? Appears on none of them. None. The very people telling me I should charge for my services, are the very people who expect me to give them away to them, for free. I’m not talking monetary reimbursement. I just want credit for my work. I want my name to appear on the photos I took, the things I write, the things I create. I want my talents and skills to be acknowledged.
Watching Carrie and Aiden tonight I realized I’m done giving it all away for free. The words, the photos, the work, the pieces of me. Even in my personal relationships, the favors, the sex, the attention, the pieces of me. I’m done giving that away for free too. I’m done feeling taken advantage of, I’m tired of not getting any credit for all that I do. I’m tired of giving it away and getting nothing in return.
I have needs, I have wants, and none of them will be met if I don’t voice them, if I don’t speak up and say I need this in return.
I found my divorce papers this past week. I was cleaning out closets and desks and stuff that had been, well, just stuffed, when we moved in a year ago. I looked at the dates on the papers.
July 2004.
We were legally married for exactly 5 years, 1 month, and a few days.
That’s not the point.
July 2004 means I have been doing this parenting gig by myself over 7 years now. Four of those years have been here, 2 hours away from my family, and theirs.
Seven years. That’s half of Meredith’s life, and more than half of Megan’s. The girls have known us in separate houses, as long as they knew us in the same house. They remember the former more clearly than the latter.
Seven years.
I wonder though, if I would have been a different parent if I hadn’t had to do it alone. If I’m honest, I would tell you our house is a strange but working mixture of sorority house (without the boys and mostly without the alcohol) and boot camp. A lot of the decisions in this house are made by joint committee. There are arguments, there is a lot of stealing of my sharing of the clothes. We keep a huge desk calendar hung on our fridge to keep track of everyone’s schedules. And we shower in shifts. At the end of the day, though, I am the disciplinarian. I am the one who makes the rules, enforces the rules, and doles out the punishment. Sometimes that’s hard for the girls to reconcile in their heads. Sure they *know* it, but when you’ve just been laughing and playing around with mom, for her to switch gears and actually BE MOM, wow, I forgot you were in charge here. I get to be good guy, but I also have to be the bad guy.
Being a single parent means you have to be there, for all of it. The good and the bad. You get to be there when things go right in their life, and when things go wrong. I get the luxury of being the only parent in the house, so I don’t have distractions. I get to focus my attention on them, whenever they need me. And sometimes when they don’t. The good news for me is I know what’s going on in their life. The bad news for them is I know what’s going on in their life. At least for now, I haven’t crossed that line that separates the cool concerned mom from the control freak stalker mom.
I have an edge their father doesn’t have. I have a vagina. I understand female hormones. I remember what junior and senior high were like. I can help navigate their journey. Also, I now know what bipolar was like, and I watch ever so closely for signs that maybe, they need to talk to a doctor. I don’t want them to suffer like I have. But I also don’t want to jump the gun. So I watch what they do, how they act. I listen to what they tell me, and sometimes to what they don’t. I talk to them about school, and friends, and boys, and teachers, and classes and homework, and practice and games. I pretend I don’t hear what they are telling their friends when they think I’m not listening. I let them live their life and experience all there is to experience, all while standing in the not so far off background.
Their dad has an edge I don’t have. He has a penis, and he can tell them exactly what those stupid boys are thinking and why they are acting like total idiots. He can tell them “Tell that numb nuts to back off or I will drive the 2 hours it takes to get there to have a talk with him. And if I have to drive 2 hours, it won’t be to have a coke and a smile.” He can tell them to be aware, to be careful, but not too careful. He can teach them how to be safe.
I wonder if we would parent the girls as well together as we seem to have managed separately? I wonder if we would have been able to play to each other’s strengths, and compensate for each other’s weaknesses or if it would have always been a power struggle between us leaving the girls lost, confused, and unguided. I give them city life, I give them excitement and opportunities and entertainment and fun and flash and pizzazz. He gives them small town country life, he teaches them loyalty, and family, and hard honest with your hands kind of work. He teaches them to give to others what you can when you can’t give anything but yourself. We both have taught them it is possible to provide a safe, warm, full of love home, as single parents. We both have taught them “You are enough on your own”.
My Our girls both have a strong sense of self, they have moral compasses that they trust and believe in and stand for. They know exactly who they are, probably better than I do today, and definitely better than I did at their age. Their looks, their brains, their sense of humor? their father and I have long ago agreed they got those from Target. But the rest? I’m not sure.
I want to hope it was from both of us. Separately. And together.
I found this on Pinterest. I know, it’s hard to read but it says, “Once upon a time a prince asked a beautiful princess Will you marry me? And the princess said NO and the prince lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and fucked with cute skinny girls and hunted and raced cars and went to naked bars and dated women half his age and drank beer and jack Daniel’s and captain Morgan and drank the milk from the box and never heard bitching and went to rock concerts and kept his apartment and his favorite jeans and never got cheated on while working and all his family and friends thought he was fucking cool as hell and had tons of money and left & left the toilet seat up The End.
Yay for women bashing.
But my question is, if all of the those things were important and he was absolutely convinced his life with her would mean giving up the rock concerts and the drinking and his friends and hunting and racing and money and his favorite jeans and his Cool… then why did he ask her to marry him in the first place?
So, my fairy tale (because me all know my track record in the love and romance department) would be something like this.
A prince and princess had been dating for a while, when they started talking about marriage. It seemed like a good fit. He liked motorcycles and fast cars and she thought if he wants to get himself killed I’ll get the life insurance money. Especially if he’s going to be driving either after drinking his beer or Jack Daniel’s. The Captain Morgan was all hers. And also margaritas. Because she never bitched about his motorcycles and fast cars or his drinking he was extra careful because he knew he’d never find another woman like her. There would be no need for him to go to naked bars or chase other women because they had a rocking sex life at home (from all the tequila in the margaritas). She had no problem with the rock concerts and would even join him, because as it turns out they liked the same kind of music and most of the same bands. He insisted he keep his apartment, and she said that was fine, she would keep hers too. It was then they decided they could find an apartment together because he didn’t see the need for her to keep her apartment once they were married. As for his favorite jeans, he could keep them, after all that was really such a minor thing to argue over. He agreed she could keep her mini skirts because they were HAWT, even though he didn’t like it when she wore them out to the bars with her friends. He trusted her. His friends thought she was cool because on Sundays she would let them all come over and watch the game, and provide the beer and really awesome snacks and while they were watching the game she would be in another room watching a movie she had been dying to see but knew he wouldn’t ever want to watch. If they were watching the race, she would join them because she loved racing as much as he did even if she did hate his favorite driver. His family thought she was awesome because they knew she would never try to change their son because she knew who he was before she agreed to marry him and there was no point in trying to change someone just because they were now married. After all if you’re going to marry someone it’s better to marry someone you know and have things in common with, instead of marrying a stranger. Her family loved and adored him because they knew that he would provide for her, and he loved her and he didn’t control her and he trusted her and she would never betray that trust. He still had lots and lots of money because she had her own job, but since they were combining their lives why not combine their finances too? It only made sense. And that toilet seat issue? She figured it was easier and less energy to just shut up and put the seat down and go on because there were bigger things to worry about. Like who his favorite driver was. Then end.
Shut up. Did you miss the part where this was a fairy tale??
But the anger I’m holding on to is hurting me. It’s getting in the way. It’s holding me back.
It is a physical heaviness in my chest, and my gut, when I think about the situation.
I don’t want to be this angry. I don’t want to be this pissed off. I don’t want to fee this weighed down over something I can’t control.
It’s over. It’s done. It can’t be undone. And yet, it continues to echo in my head, in my heart, in my life. I still get SO angry I cry.
And that? Is stupid.
And unhealthy.
It’s time to forgive them. Not for them, they won’t care. They will continue to be mad at me, but I need to forgive them so that I can let it go, so I can move on.
No, actually, I have been staking my claim. On my life.
I have spent an incredible amount of time in my life not rocking the boat. Keeping my opinions to myself, agreeing to keep the peace, and going along with the status quo even when it really just rocked my core.
It was that fateful day in the hospital a friendship was born. Via Facebook and text messages, I reconnected with a friend from high school. He threatened to kick my ass, because I was being stupid. I told him to get fucked. It was destined to be love.
The conversations continued outside the hospital, and progressed from text message to phone calls. Long phone calls. Three hour phone calls. We felt something. We made plans for me to come see him.
It was as good in person as it was over the phone. We laughed, we talked till all hours of the night. it was fun, and easy and perfect.
And then life interfered. He got busy with family, I started therapy, he got a job, I juggled the girls schedules. The phone calls stopped, the text messages dwindled. I tried to keep it going, but it was clear his life was too busy, too crowded for me.
I sent him a text “I’m tired of fighting to be a part of your life.”
He responded with “What’s your problem?”
I sent another text, “You have a life there that I can’t be a part of. I can’t come see you there, you won’t come here. You’re busy with family friends and your job. There’s just no room for me.”
That? Took a lot of courage, on my part. But what I wonder now is this: Was any of it real or were the feelings I felt at the beginning due to the mania? Did I imagine it, exaggerate it because I was manic. And now that I’m getting my head straightened out, and I’m not as manic or crazy, it’s not as appealing. I’m seeing it for what it was.
He phoned and called me Babe. That? Is a gold-plated Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card. I’m a sucker for a guy who calls me Babe. And yet? This time I couldn’t. This time I knew it was just him trying to reel me back in, but nothing would change. It’s not like his family would magically disappear, or his job would instantly get less demanding. I would still be an afterthought, something to squeeze in when he thought about it.
I deserve better than that.
Therapy taught me I have worth. Even with my disease, I have worth. That anyone worthy of me will love ME, want ME, and my illness won’t be an issue.
I have made it no secret around here that I love me some Carrie Bradshaw. I own Seasons 1-4 of Sex and the City, oh and The Movie. (Not SatC 2, nobody owns SatC 2). I love Carrie and the girls.
I am working on forgiving.
