He arrived late Saturday night, and I spotted him first, separated by a pane of glass, his back to me, short hair ruffled from hours on the plane. Within those first minutes, after I burst through the revolving door and caught him by surprise, we'd returned to a life together as if we'd never left off, conversations flowing together like tides, unimpeded by time or distance.
He left on a frost-tinged Thursday evening, and this time I actually thought I wouldn't cry. I watched him wave from the security line, and then I turned and walked back through the empty airport to my car. After a few of these long, silent passages, I've learned never to make eye contact with anyone until I'm out of the airport, because I will cry at the sight of a stranger with a suitcase. I made it out to the car, cursed my battery-drained Ipod, and started back to Seattle, for I am spending the weekend here while I decide what comes next.
Halfway across the Viaduct, as I passed the ferry terminal and caught a glimpse of the Yakima floating across blackwater, a song came on the radio, a song I've adopted as one of "ours". And I fucking sobbed, as hard as I ever have, for everything we've been through and for everything yet to come. It doesn't get any easier, and yet, I am so proud of us. We are at the halfway point, and we've made it through moments that I thought could be the beginning of the end. Our relationship is stronger now than I'd ever believed possible, and when I look at him these days, when we happen to be in the same room on the same continent, the conviction that we are right for each other sits like a lighthouse in the middle of uncharted waters. It is the only thing I believe right now, and the strength with which I believe it is almost inconceivable. I never knew I could feel this particular way about anyone, even though I would not have married him if I hadn't thought we were meant for each other...but it's one thing to think it, and another to go through enough that you know it, beyond doubt, beyond everything this world can throw at you.
Showing posts with label LDR. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LDR. Show all posts
Friday, November 02, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
When the stars go blue
I spent this evening cooking a sweet potato gratin and listening to a This American Life episode from September 21, 2001, the episode where Ira Glass offers David Rakoff and David Sedaris's takes on 9/11. It brought to mind a lot of things I've been contemplating lately.
You see, in about 15 months, life is going to take another turn. CB and I will be on the way to somewhere. Our location might be Chicago or even London. It won't be Seattle; not yet, because our return home comes about 24 months after that.
I've experienced several mood swings since I returned to the U.S. Once I figured out that my dysfunctional thyroid contributed heavily to my poor experiences in the UK, I started wishing I could have a do-over, another chance to see whether England and I were at loggerheads for no reason. There are things I missed about the States that I cherish now: my family, my friends, good food, and even the American people -- at least when we live up to our better stereotypes, moving through the world with good intentions and offering whatever we have to each other. But there are things I'm finding I never wanted to come home to: our ignorance, not only about world affairs, but also about our own government; our conservatism; our crappy health care. I've been turning it over in my head to understand whether the things I love outweigh the things I loathe, or whether my values are diverging so far from where our country's headed that I no longer belong here.
I still don't know, at least when it comes to the short term. In the long term, I can't see myself anywhere but Seattle. Thankfully, CB feels the same and understands my fierce devotion to friends and family enough to move back, even when we're both realizing that his potential could take him anywhere he wanted to go. The fact that he wants to go where I need to stay tells me more about our future as a couple than anything else could.
But for the short-term, I want to go where he chooses. I realize that's a rather un-feminist thing to say, but here's the situation. I don't have a clue what I want yet, at least not when it comes to my career. Correction: I have several conflicting clues. I want to be a writer and an environmental lawyer, a planner and a journalist, a librarian and maybe a professor. I can't be any of these now, and I don't really want to jump into any one before I have a better understanding of myself. In a way, then, the next two years are experimentation time. While CB conquers the statistical genetics world, I can work part-time and try it all out: freelance until my fingers go numb, think long and hard about law school, find out whether planners ever do anything besides sit in rooms approving permits or bickering over growth management guidelines.
It's important to note that I don't always feel this way. Deep down, I'm also very afraid of losing sight of myself and my goals. In some ways, this year feels like the first step down that path: I take a job out of sheer panic, make it work, and promise myself to do better next time. I can't promise then that this post is going to be the definitive exposee on how I feel about our future...but it's the definitive post today, and part of me thinks it could stick around even longer.
Back to the original thread. As I look ahead to careers and (maybe) children and mortgage payments, I find myself wondering: why not now? Why not live abroad two more years, why not pack up the cat, park the car in storage, sell the furniture and head back to jolly old England? What's two years in the grand scheme of things, anyway?
I don't know how I feel about this country sometimes. I think it's home, but that doesn't mean I won't capitalize on the opportunity to live in a place where politics are more nuanced, where health care matters (even if it's still flawed), and where people actually believe that the community matters more than the individual. I miss the latter the most. I almost cried the other day listening to people on Oregon Public Broadcasting complain that they shouldn't have to fund health care for anyone's children but their own. What the fuck is wrong with this place? For a few days after 9/11, I thought we might come together in more ways than one. Now, look at us. Our civil liberties are frayed, our social values are racing backwards, and liberals like me are a bigger threat than the terrorists in some Americans' minds.
I'm rambling badly, and I don't think I've written one tenth of what's on my mind, but if I'm not posting often it's because most of my thoughts take shape this way: in fragments and long threads I'm still pulling from buttonholes. Blame it on the age or on post-college disenchantment; attribute it to my LDR. Really, they're all complicit...and so am I.
You see, in about 15 months, life is going to take another turn. CB and I will be on the way to somewhere. Our location might be Chicago or even London. It won't be Seattle; not yet, because our return home comes about 24 months after that.
I've experienced several mood swings since I returned to the U.S. Once I figured out that my dysfunctional thyroid contributed heavily to my poor experiences in the UK, I started wishing I could have a do-over, another chance to see whether England and I were at loggerheads for no reason. There are things I missed about the States that I cherish now: my family, my friends, good food, and even the American people -- at least when we live up to our better stereotypes, moving through the world with good intentions and offering whatever we have to each other. But there are things I'm finding I never wanted to come home to: our ignorance, not only about world affairs, but also about our own government; our conservatism; our crappy health care. I've been turning it over in my head to understand whether the things I love outweigh the things I loathe, or whether my values are diverging so far from where our country's headed that I no longer belong here.
I still don't know, at least when it comes to the short term. In the long term, I can't see myself anywhere but Seattle. Thankfully, CB feels the same and understands my fierce devotion to friends and family enough to move back, even when we're both realizing that his potential could take him anywhere he wanted to go. The fact that he wants to go where I need to stay tells me more about our future as a couple than anything else could.
But for the short-term, I want to go where he chooses. I realize that's a rather un-feminist thing to say, but here's the situation. I don't have a clue what I want yet, at least not when it comes to my career. Correction: I have several conflicting clues. I want to be a writer and an environmental lawyer, a planner and a journalist, a librarian and maybe a professor. I can't be any of these now, and I don't really want to jump into any one before I have a better understanding of myself. In a way, then, the next two years are experimentation time. While CB conquers the statistical genetics world, I can work part-time and try it all out: freelance until my fingers go numb, think long and hard about law school, find out whether planners ever do anything besides sit in rooms approving permits or bickering over growth management guidelines.
It's important to note that I don't always feel this way. Deep down, I'm also very afraid of losing sight of myself and my goals. In some ways, this year feels like the first step down that path: I take a job out of sheer panic, make it work, and promise myself to do better next time. I can't promise then that this post is going to be the definitive exposee on how I feel about our future...but it's the definitive post today, and part of me thinks it could stick around even longer.
Back to the original thread. As I look ahead to careers and (maybe) children and mortgage payments, I find myself wondering: why not now? Why not live abroad two more years, why not pack up the cat, park the car in storage, sell the furniture and head back to jolly old England? What's two years in the grand scheme of things, anyway?
I don't know how I feel about this country sometimes. I think it's home, but that doesn't mean I won't capitalize on the opportunity to live in a place where politics are more nuanced, where health care matters (even if it's still flawed), and where people actually believe that the community matters more than the individual. I miss the latter the most. I almost cried the other day listening to people on Oregon Public Broadcasting complain that they shouldn't have to fund health care for anyone's children but their own. What the fuck is wrong with this place? For a few days after 9/11, I thought we might come together in more ways than one. Now, look at us. Our civil liberties are frayed, our social values are racing backwards, and liberals like me are a bigger threat than the terrorists in some Americans' minds.
I'm rambling badly, and I don't think I've written one tenth of what's on my mind, but if I'm not posting often it's because most of my thoughts take shape this way: in fragments and long threads I'm still pulling from buttonholes. Blame it on the age or on post-college disenchantment; attribute it to my LDR. Really, they're all complicit...and so am I.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Be good and don't you miss me
We stood in the far corner of the departures terminal at SeaTac, rooted fast into the tiles while a sea of people parted to either side. I might have seen their faces if I'd been looking. I crushed my cheek against his chest, the side where the ridge from a bad collarbone break nestles against my jaw like they were part of the same bone. I thought about holding on, screaming, begging, doing anything that might make people suspicious enough to kick us out together. Instead, we slowly peeled apart, my arms relinquishing their grip like sand slipping between toes at ebb tide. I watched him turn and join the flow, while I remained, waiting, a lonely piece of driftwood cast ashore.
The drive back to Portland felt twice as long, with that empty seat beside me.
Soon, there will be blogging and new adventures. A fully unpacked apartment. Stories about a job I don't love but need to keep. Dreams. Maybe even that novel, waiting quietly at the sidelines until I can clear my head. Tonight, though, it's just me and this city and three weeks of memories I'll turn over and over until they're worn smooth.
The drive back to Portland felt twice as long, with that empty seat beside me.
Soon, there will be blogging and new adventures. A fully unpacked apartment. Stories about a job I don't love but need to keep. Dreams. Maybe even that novel, waiting quietly at the sidelines until I can clear my head. Tonight, though, it's just me and this city and three weeks of memories I'll turn over and over until they're worn smooth.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
so tonight that I might see
We are in the car, the new car, the one with the clean interior and the shiny paint, the one we purchased last weekend after the Jetta decided to die at 60 mph on I-5. It's midnight in Portland, and we're waiting at an intersection while the light changes for phantom autos. The stereo is cranked to eleven, and we are rolling, rocking the whole damn car with our self-parodies as a bad hip-hop song makes the seats shake. At the corner, three slouching hipsters in carefully torn denim cast kohl-rimmed gazes in our direction. They look at us with pity, we two painfully adult, painfully un-hip people on the late side of twentysomething. And we look back and laugh, because we are so in love, and we only just remembered how beautiful the moonlit streets can be.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Homebird, sing
It is Friday afternoon, just past rush hour, and I am loitering by the bus stop with an elderly woman who's taken refuge beside me to avoid the herds of disaffected youth roving between transit centers. She is talking to me about her husband, who passed four years ago: how she cared for him every day until he died, how she's doing the same for a friend now. She is waiting for that friend's daughter to arrive from Bend so they can go back to her friend's apartment and pack a lifetime into cardboard boxes.
I am waiting for him, and I'm a tumbling mess of emotions. Excited to see him, anxious we won't feel the same, frustrated it's had to come to three weeks of sanctuary between six-month storms. Afraid that things changed, that somehow what we had slipped through our fingers before we tightened our grip. Over these months, I've felt my heart stiffen to ward off the pain. It's easier to pretend he isn't there at all than to acknowledge how far apart we are.
The bus arrives, and I break off the conversation I've only half-followed. Shadowy figures rise behind the tinted windows, all remarkably similar except for the fourth one. Suddenly, I'm sure I'll cry in the street.
And then, he is off the bus and in my arms, and I don't know if the elderly woman found her friend's sister, or whether the teenage hordes scoffed at our awkward embrace, encompassing backpack and purse and six months of separation. We pause and hold each other at arm's length, like we can't quite believe this is happening. And though soon there will be difficult conversations and (too brief) awkward resumptions of life together, for now, we just stand and stare, as the dam I've been building swells and bursts.
I find myself still doing that now, watching him when he sleeps or when he's at the computer. Like everything in life is new again.
I am waiting for him, and I'm a tumbling mess of emotions. Excited to see him, anxious we won't feel the same, frustrated it's had to come to three weeks of sanctuary between six-month storms. Afraid that things changed, that somehow what we had slipped through our fingers before we tightened our grip. Over these months, I've felt my heart stiffen to ward off the pain. It's easier to pretend he isn't there at all than to acknowledge how far apart we are.
The bus arrives, and I break off the conversation I've only half-followed. Shadowy figures rise behind the tinted windows, all remarkably similar except for the fourth one. Suddenly, I'm sure I'll cry in the street.
And then, he is off the bus and in my arms, and I don't know if the elderly woman found her friend's sister, or whether the teenage hordes scoffed at our awkward embrace, encompassing backpack and purse and six months of separation. We pause and hold each other at arm's length, like we can't quite believe this is happening. And though soon there will be difficult conversations and (too brief) awkward resumptions of life together, for now, we just stand and stare, as the dam I've been building swells and bursts.
I find myself still doing that now, watching him when he sleeps or when he's at the computer. Like everything in life is new again.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Meet me at the crossroads
There are, as you might expect, good and bad things about what I'm doing.
The good: my co-workers are nice, my apartment and neighborhood in the Southeast are pedestrian-friendly and beautiful.
The tough: my job isn't quite what was presented to me, my commute is long-ish and requires a car most days, the absence of any and all family and friends is getting to me.
See, here's what you need to understand about me. There's no reason you should know this, since it's something I've only really figured out this past year or so. Relationships are the central part of my life. When I'm around people I love, I thrive. Life may have been pretty dismal these last six months, but the presence of a few key friends and my parents did wonders for my mental state on most days. Which, of course, coincided with many of the days I didn't blog. I need to fix that. Anyway, now? The one thing I didn't factor into this move -- because how could I know? -- was how empty it would feel without anyone here. Sure, you're right: I can still talk to them on the phone...but while that works for some people, I need to see you, to touch you, to be able to pop over to a meeting spot on a moment's notice so we can vent about our days or laugh over a pint.
So right now? Right now, I'm a little scared. A co-worker confided in me today that this job -- environmental consulting around a major transportation project -- isn't like she thought it would be. You don't get to do the environmental work. You don't have time. Your hours are sucked away by menial tasks and public meetings, and because we are at a satellite office, there's really no one around to talk to about the problem, as our own supervisor is so swamped that I've seen her all of three times this week (for five minutes, maybe). I think I can spin this work in a positive direction after a year or two, pitching it on my resume as a skill-builder in a related field, but transportation is terribly boring work for most of us (and, as I'm learning, I fall under the "most" category there). The thought of being trapped in it makes me a little queasy. I have to work to find the positives here, and I'm sure there are many. It's just a tad disappointing, especially when I find out this morning that they are hiring new people for my position in Seattle. And everyone here seems so amazed I relocated for this. The timing, it's a bitch.
And the commute? By the time I get home, I'm beyond exhausted. I can cook, unpack a box or two, and then it's 9:00 and I have to get ready for bed. No real time to explore my cool neighborhood. No time to write. Definitely no time to meet new people, which really sucks. I know it won't always be like this, but I'm starting to wonder if I need to take advantage of my month-to-month lease and move closer into where my office is located. I'm so tired right now that I want to curl up in bed and cry, but that won't help. Still, it's tempting.
The absence of friends? It's confirmed things I was starting to realize, like how I never want to leave my town again. I went back yesterday for a training at the main office, and the very sight of it made my heart hurt. Spent an hour after the training with a friend at Seward Park, and everything clicked. I know this sounds stupid. It's three hours away, right? Even working as many weekends as I do, I should still be able to get home once in awhile. Why can't that be enough? But I know a few people who feel the same, and all I can say is that right now, it's the absence of people I love which comes the closest to making this all unbearable. I can't articulate it, but trust this much: it is everything to me.
So, herein I also realize something crucial about the major relationship in my life, even if it is sort of on hiatus most of the year because of the 8000 miles between us. I don't want us to live somewhere else after he finishes his degree. I'm tired of feeling like our life has to wait. After 10 moves in four years, I'm sick of being nomadic. I want us home. Starting a life together. Buying that first, scary house together. Spending our evenings lingering on friends' front lawns, talking and laughing. Doing all the things that we can do now: let the moving boxes gather dust, find a place we can call our own, have two incomes in one household again. Back to school? It will happen for me, but I've already decided to do it close to home, and I'm content to wait awhile. That dream job? You know, if I can fulfill the personal side of life, I think I'd even be okay with transportation. Well, maybe not quite, but I don't think so much would hinge on finding the "perfect" job. Right now, that's all I have. I don't want to feel that way for long. Am I doing this without him? Yes. Does that mean I want to? God, no. We could each spend our lives working to reach the tops of our fields, and that would be all we had. Instead, I want to reach somewhere good enough career-wise, and end up with so much more in the process.
I'm done being transient. I want to put down what remains of my roots and stay there until there are too many rings on my trunk to count. With all this looming, my other half comes home to visit tomorrow for two brief weeks. Seventeen days to balance the fun with the seriousness. Things I don't feel right posting yet. We have so much to discuss. And it terrifies me.
The good: my co-workers are nice, my apartment and neighborhood in the Southeast are pedestrian-friendly and beautiful.
The tough: my job isn't quite what was presented to me, my commute is long-ish and requires a car most days, the absence of any and all family and friends is getting to me.
See, here's what you need to understand about me. There's no reason you should know this, since it's something I've only really figured out this past year or so. Relationships are the central part of my life. When I'm around people I love, I thrive. Life may have been pretty dismal these last six months, but the presence of a few key friends and my parents did wonders for my mental state on most days. Which, of course, coincided with many of the days I didn't blog. I need to fix that. Anyway, now? The one thing I didn't factor into this move -- because how could I know? -- was how empty it would feel without anyone here. Sure, you're right: I can still talk to them on the phone...but while that works for some people, I need to see you, to touch you, to be able to pop over to a meeting spot on a moment's notice so we can vent about our days or laugh over a pint.
So right now? Right now, I'm a little scared. A co-worker confided in me today that this job -- environmental consulting around a major transportation project -- isn't like she thought it would be. You don't get to do the environmental work. You don't have time. Your hours are sucked away by menial tasks and public meetings, and because we are at a satellite office, there's really no one around to talk to about the problem, as our own supervisor is so swamped that I've seen her all of three times this week (for five minutes, maybe). I think I can spin this work in a positive direction after a year or two, pitching it on my resume as a skill-builder in a related field, but transportation is terribly boring work for most of us (and, as I'm learning, I fall under the "most" category there). The thought of being trapped in it makes me a little queasy. I have to work to find the positives here, and I'm sure there are many. It's just a tad disappointing, especially when I find out this morning that they are hiring new people for my position in Seattle. And everyone here seems so amazed I relocated for this. The timing, it's a bitch.
And the commute? By the time I get home, I'm beyond exhausted. I can cook, unpack a box or two, and then it's 9:00 and I have to get ready for bed. No real time to explore my cool neighborhood. No time to write. Definitely no time to meet new people, which really sucks. I know it won't always be like this, but I'm starting to wonder if I need to take advantage of my month-to-month lease and move closer into where my office is located. I'm so tired right now that I want to curl up in bed and cry, but that won't help. Still, it's tempting.
The absence of friends? It's confirmed things I was starting to realize, like how I never want to leave my town again. I went back yesterday for a training at the main office, and the very sight of it made my heart hurt. Spent an hour after the training with a friend at Seward Park, and everything clicked. I know this sounds stupid. It's three hours away, right? Even working as many weekends as I do, I should still be able to get home once in awhile. Why can't that be enough? But I know a few people who feel the same, and all I can say is that right now, it's the absence of people I love which comes the closest to making this all unbearable. I can't articulate it, but trust this much: it is everything to me.
So, herein I also realize something crucial about the major relationship in my life, even if it is sort of on hiatus most of the year because of the 8000 miles between us. I don't want us to live somewhere else after he finishes his degree. I'm tired of feeling like our life has to wait. After 10 moves in four years, I'm sick of being nomadic. I want us home. Starting a life together. Buying that first, scary house together. Spending our evenings lingering on friends' front lawns, talking and laughing. Doing all the things that we can do now: let the moving boxes gather dust, find a place we can call our own, have two incomes in one household again. Back to school? It will happen for me, but I've already decided to do it close to home, and I'm content to wait awhile. That dream job? You know, if I can fulfill the personal side of life, I think I'd even be okay with transportation. Well, maybe not quite, but I don't think so much would hinge on finding the "perfect" job. Right now, that's all I have. I don't want to feel that way for long. Am I doing this without him? Yes. Does that mean I want to? God, no. We could each spend our lives working to reach the tops of our fields, and that would be all we had. Instead, I want to reach somewhere good enough career-wise, and end up with so much more in the process.
I'm done being transient. I want to put down what remains of my roots and stay there until there are too many rings on my trunk to count. With all this looming, my other half comes home to visit tomorrow for two brief weeks. Seventeen days to balance the fun with the seriousness. Things I don't feel right posting yet. We have so much to discuss. And it terrifies me.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Those three words are said too much, they're not enough
The hardest part about an LDR isn't the eight hour difference, or the absence of face time. Well, it is both of those things, but only because they're components of a greater challenge: divergent expectations.
Because I know I'm not the only one out here going through this, I feel like it's important to remain honest about the good and the bad. So, the good: most days, I do remarkably well. Even though I don't have a lot going on, which means my time management skills have gone to seed, I'm still able to keep my mind preoccupied with other issues. Politics, job hunts, online reading -- anything to stave off the reality that I'm in an 8000-mile relationship. For a majority of the time, it works. The other good, which I want to emphasize before I continue, is that I've never wondered whether our relationship is worth this. It is.
Nevertheless, as you'd expect, there's also the bad: communication is everything now, and it hasn't been great lately. Between the ridiculous hours at which we make our calls (06hrs England = 20hrs Seattle), and the workaholic tendencies we both share, things have gotten a bit rough. I've said before that I knew our biggest challenge would always be the work-life balance; neither of us wants to put our relationship second, but both of us worry about asking the other person to compromise our personal goals to keep us first. I've been given a lot of grief by people for daring to leave my spouse behind in England (my internal response: shut up, shut up, because if you haven't been there, you have no clue what you're talking about)...but it was a mutual decision: because our commitment to upholding each other's goals and dreams represents a cornerstone of our relationship, I couldn't ask him to go, and he couldn't ask me to stay.
But things get busy. We miss calls, although it's getting better. The torrent of transatlantic letters is more like a trickle. We try desperately to make our infrequent conversations normal, but how can they be? Imagine you only get to talk to your favorite person on earth two or three times per week. Do you really thing you'd remember to be as trivial and inconsequential as most of your daily conversations are? Or would you save up all of the really important things (and therefore difficult or stressful) and unload them in one conversation, not knowing when you'll next have the chance?
I'm only really beginning to understand what a bitch this is. Best intentions only take you so far. One of the hardest things for me to accept is that love isn't enough, not if it's something you just believe will always be there. You have to work, every single day, to keep that love alive, because even though it looks healthy, make one too many mistakes and suddenly it's hovering in intensive care. Simply believing in love? Not gonna get you there. Sweat and determination make up the difference, because surviving a long-term LDR means making a lot of sacrifices. Tuesday and Thursday nights are home nights, except on the rare occasion when one of us really can't make it. Friends seeing a movie? Tough. Every week, I have to remind myself to make time to write a real letter, or send a card that says more than just "I love you!" And you know something? These letters, sometimes, aren't fun. They remind you that your relationship now hinges on the few ties that can stretch across eight time zones. Those letters, those phone calls, they take on monumental significance. Say something nasty or harsh in a call -- as I do, too often, worn down by the job hunt and the frustration of feeling like I came home for nothing -- and you might not get a chance to temper it before you have to go. Words and phrases you toss out like scrap paper in the normal pattern of a relationship suddenly develop sharp edges. Slice someone too hard, and the wound sits for days until you talk next. Then again, hold back too much to spare them, and you risk reducing communication to meaningless exchanges about (in our case) international politics.
Every single action I take (or don't) holds greater significance. It's exhausting. If it weren't for my incredibly supportive friends, I don't know if I'd be okay.
On a night like tonight, when it's late and my mattress is calling, I want to shut this laptop and crawl under the sheets without undressing. I won't. I've missed too many nights already with similar excuses. I need to send an email, a photo, something to say hello. Because otherwise, all we ever get to do -- at the end of phone calls and IM conversations, in the closing notes of letters and cards -- is say goodbye.
Because I know I'm not the only one out here going through this, I feel like it's important to remain honest about the good and the bad. So, the good: most days, I do remarkably well. Even though I don't have a lot going on, which means my time management skills have gone to seed, I'm still able to keep my mind preoccupied with other issues. Politics, job hunts, online reading -- anything to stave off the reality that I'm in an 8000-mile relationship. For a majority of the time, it works. The other good, which I want to emphasize before I continue, is that I've never wondered whether our relationship is worth this. It is.
Nevertheless, as you'd expect, there's also the bad: communication is everything now, and it hasn't been great lately. Between the ridiculous hours at which we make our calls (06hrs England = 20hrs Seattle), and the workaholic tendencies we both share, things have gotten a bit rough. I've said before that I knew our biggest challenge would always be the work-life balance; neither of us wants to put our relationship second, but both of us worry about asking the other person to compromise our personal goals to keep us first. I've been given a lot of grief by people for daring to leave my spouse behind in England (my internal response: shut up, shut up, because if you haven't been there, you have no clue what you're talking about)...but it was a mutual decision: because our commitment to upholding each other's goals and dreams represents a cornerstone of our relationship, I couldn't ask him to go, and he couldn't ask me to stay.
But things get busy. We miss calls, although it's getting better. The torrent of transatlantic letters is more like a trickle. We try desperately to make our infrequent conversations normal, but how can they be? Imagine you only get to talk to your favorite person on earth two or three times per week. Do you really thing you'd remember to be as trivial and inconsequential as most of your daily conversations are? Or would you save up all of the really important things (and therefore difficult or stressful) and unload them in one conversation, not knowing when you'll next have the chance?
I'm only really beginning to understand what a bitch this is. Best intentions only take you so far. One of the hardest things for me to accept is that love isn't enough, not if it's something you just believe will always be there. You have to work, every single day, to keep that love alive, because even though it looks healthy, make one too many mistakes and suddenly it's hovering in intensive care. Simply believing in love? Not gonna get you there. Sweat and determination make up the difference, because surviving a long-term LDR means making a lot of sacrifices. Tuesday and Thursday nights are home nights, except on the rare occasion when one of us really can't make it. Friends seeing a movie? Tough. Every week, I have to remind myself to make time to write a real letter, or send a card that says more than just "I love you!" And you know something? These letters, sometimes, aren't fun. They remind you that your relationship now hinges on the few ties that can stretch across eight time zones. Those letters, those phone calls, they take on monumental significance. Say something nasty or harsh in a call -- as I do, too often, worn down by the job hunt and the frustration of feeling like I came home for nothing -- and you might not get a chance to temper it before you have to go. Words and phrases you toss out like scrap paper in the normal pattern of a relationship suddenly develop sharp edges. Slice someone too hard, and the wound sits for days until you talk next. Then again, hold back too much to spare them, and you risk reducing communication to meaningless exchanges about (in our case) international politics.
Every single action I take (or don't) holds greater significance. It's exhausting. If it weren't for my incredibly supportive friends, I don't know if I'd be okay.
On a night like tonight, when it's late and my mattress is calling, I want to shut this laptop and crawl under the sheets without undressing. I won't. I've missed too many nights already with similar excuses. I need to send an email, a photo, something to say hello. Because otherwise, all we ever get to do -- at the end of phone calls and IM conversations, in the closing notes of letters and cards -- is say goodbye.
Monday, February 19, 2007
Constantly unfolding
Keeping busy is the name of the game these days, so I'm taking photography classes next month and starting a shoreline naturalist training program a little later. Not a lot else going on, but these did show up at work a few days ago:
He's a very smart boy. Not only are these flowers beautiful (and fragrant), but they're also sustainably harvested:
We aren't usually big on Valentine's Day, but this year I couldn't wait for a little bit of romance. Flowers and gifts do make a difference sometimes, especially when you know they put some thought into the why of the gift.
I've also discovered that we're a source of inspiration, which anyone who knows us should find unsettling. The maniacs wreaking havoc at Crate and Barrel? Inspiring? But I've had several friends tell me recently that whenever they're despairing over their LDRs, all they have to do is think of us. Presto! Instant mood elevator. Sure, this sucks, but at least we're not Eco and CB! These friends have spurred me to set a new goal: find a friend whose partner is even further away, ideally in a country where U.S. citizens can't enter legally.
Hmmm. Anybody know any couples separated by an ocean or two for at least three years?
He's a very smart boy. Not only are these flowers beautiful (and fragrant), but they're also sustainably harvested:
We aren't usually big on Valentine's Day, but this year I couldn't wait for a little bit of romance. Flowers and gifts do make a difference sometimes, especially when you know they put some thought into the why of the gift.
I've also discovered that we're a source of inspiration, which anyone who knows us should find unsettling. The maniacs wreaking havoc at Crate and Barrel? Inspiring? But I've had several friends tell me recently that whenever they're despairing over their LDRs, all they have to do is think of us. Presto! Instant mood elevator. Sure, this sucks, but at least we're not Eco and CB! These friends have spurred me to set a new goal: find a friend whose partner is even further away, ideally in a country where U.S. citizens can't enter legally.
Hmmm. Anybody know any couples separated by an ocean or two for at least three years?
Friday, February 09, 2007
Be calm, be brave, it'll be okay
Fuck. What was I thinking when I thought I could do this?
We haven't even been apart for two months, and there are fissures running the length and breadth of me. I can't touch him, hold him, kiss him, see him. The curse of multiple time zones means we're lucky to talk more than a few hours per week, and we usually can't help but catch each other right before bed or just before dawn.
It's quiet and rainy here tonight, and suddenly I don't know if I can fight hard enough to get through this. Two years? Twenty-four months of this? I feel like my whole world is coming to pieces. I'm just scared that without meaning to, we'll drift apart. We're busy people, busy by nature, most satisifed when we're flying between half a dozen tasks and events, brains chattering at dizzying speeds. When we live together, it's hard enough to "be" together for any amount of time. When we're apart? Like any couple in an LDR, we fill the hours to avoid thinking about the hurt and the loneliness -- but in cramming the waking life full, we don't let ourselves have time to miss each other. It's a double-edged sword: it doesn't hurt as much, and it's probably the only thing that lets us slog through every day without collapsing -- but it almost means we have to detach to survive. And what if we can't stop detaching? What happens when we get to see each other for a whopping two weeks this summer, and then go apart again? And again? And again? What if we grow apart without meaning to? Without realizing the space between us until it's too late?
There aren't any easy answers. It's happening to more and more people we know: if you aren't fortunate enough to share the same career interests (and, sometimes, even if you are), you may be bound for a time apart should you marry young. We knew it, and we knew it, and we knew it...but then it comes down to the wire and you realize that what we knew doesn't compare to what it feels like when it happens. But what are we supposed to do? Is one of us supposed to give it all up, which doesn't do anything but sow seeds of resentment that spring up overnight like dandelions? Is it even possible to find a middle ground where we can both do what we like without going apart for what we love?
Fuck. Sometimes I wish I could just be happy doing anything, and it kills me that I can't. And yet, I get frustrated when people suggest that this is the problem. No one ever asks why he can't give up his path. It's like it all comes down to me, the onus is on me, the problem is me. And the only one who doesn't see it that way -- even when I'm questioning whether they're right -- is him.
In the end, maybe that's why this has to work, even if it hurts in ways I didn't think were possible. Because the only one who understands me is eight thousand miles away. And I'd be a damned fool to let that keep us apart without a fight.
We haven't even been apart for two months, and there are fissures running the length and breadth of me. I can't touch him, hold him, kiss him, see him. The curse of multiple time zones means we're lucky to talk more than a few hours per week, and we usually can't help but catch each other right before bed or just before dawn.
It's quiet and rainy here tonight, and suddenly I don't know if I can fight hard enough to get through this. Two years? Twenty-four months of this? I feel like my whole world is coming to pieces. I'm just scared that without meaning to, we'll drift apart. We're busy people, busy by nature, most satisifed when we're flying between half a dozen tasks and events, brains chattering at dizzying speeds. When we live together, it's hard enough to "be" together for any amount of time. When we're apart? Like any couple in an LDR, we fill the hours to avoid thinking about the hurt and the loneliness -- but in cramming the waking life full, we don't let ourselves have time to miss each other. It's a double-edged sword: it doesn't hurt as much, and it's probably the only thing that lets us slog through every day without collapsing -- but it almost means we have to detach to survive. And what if we can't stop detaching? What happens when we get to see each other for a whopping two weeks this summer, and then go apart again? And again? And again? What if we grow apart without meaning to? Without realizing the space between us until it's too late?
There aren't any easy answers. It's happening to more and more people we know: if you aren't fortunate enough to share the same career interests (and, sometimes, even if you are), you may be bound for a time apart should you marry young. We knew it, and we knew it, and we knew it...but then it comes down to the wire and you realize that what we knew doesn't compare to what it feels like when it happens. But what are we supposed to do? Is one of us supposed to give it all up, which doesn't do anything but sow seeds of resentment that spring up overnight like dandelions? Is it even possible to find a middle ground where we can both do what we like without going apart for what we love?
Fuck. Sometimes I wish I could just be happy doing anything, and it kills me that I can't. And yet, I get frustrated when people suggest that this is the problem. No one ever asks why he can't give up his path. It's like it all comes down to me, the onus is on me, the problem is me. And the only one who doesn't see it that way -- even when I'm questioning whether they're right -- is him.
In the end, maybe that's why this has to work, even if it hurts in ways I didn't think were possible. Because the only one who understands me is eight thousand miles away. And I'd be a damned fool to let that keep us apart without a fight.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Warning: temporary depression ahead
Sometimes, I miss my husband more than I ever thought possible. Like now, when I work an 11-hour day, completely alone in the office, trying to organize and run an entire auction on a budget that might not even allow for real letterhead.
In the future, I'd better be able to look back on the last two years and say, "Oh yeah. Now I see the reason for all of that," because if I can't? If I can't, then I don't really know why I'm perpetrating self-inflicted torture now by moving back overseas and trying to establish a career in a field that's alternatingly invigorating and insomnia-inducing. For real. I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight because I'm so worried that we can't even afford the postage for the freaking bulk mail solicitations I need to send.
I miss him so fucking much.
In the future, I'd better be able to look back on the last two years and say, "Oh yeah. Now I see the reason for all of that," because if I can't? If I can't, then I don't really know why I'm perpetrating self-inflicted torture now by moving back overseas and trying to establish a career in a field that's alternatingly invigorating and insomnia-inducing. For real. I don't know if I'm going to sleep tonight because I'm so worried that we can't even afford the postage for the freaking bulk mail solicitations I need to send.
I miss him so fucking much.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
I'll be right beside you, dear
So, how did that last night go?
That was the view from our hotel window, with lighting assistance from Picasa (thanks to Joanium for turning me onto the program). When I opened the door, CB went straight to the view; for two hours, we sat in front of the window as gulls swept past, their wingtips nearly caressing the glass. You live here long enough and almost fail to notice how beautiful it is. I remember now.
Dinner was amazing. We found a quiet Italian bistro tucked into a corner of Pike Place. On a snowy weeknight, the half-empty restaurant became a perfect place for lingering glances and easy conversation.
The next morning, as we sat at the window of a cafe across from the Market, I realized I hadn't let it hit me yet. It was just what I hoped I'd be able to say.
That was the view from our hotel window, with lighting assistance from Picasa (thanks to Joanium for turning me onto the program). When I opened the door, CB went straight to the view; for two hours, we sat in front of the window as gulls swept past, their wingtips nearly caressing the glass. You live here long enough and almost fail to notice how beautiful it is. I remember now.
Dinner was amazing. We found a quiet Italian bistro tucked into a corner of Pike Place. On a snowy weeknight, the half-empty restaurant became a perfect place for lingering glances and easy conversation.
The next morning, as we sat at the window of a cafe across from the Market, I realized I hadn't let it hit me yet. It was just what I hoped I'd be able to say.
Saturday, January 13, 2007
Sinking in
Half the time, I convince myself that nothing's changed. When I'm driving across town to visit a mutual friend, and there's no one in the car to share my ire at the latest bulletin on NPR, I tell myself it's because you're at work, or staying home, or maybe biking out on the Burke. When I'm not sure where you are or what you're doing, I pretend it's because we want to surprise each other, talk about our days over dinner that night.
The other half, it's 2:30 in the morning and I wake up. Your pillow: it's cold. Your side of the bed: empty. Your warm chest rising and falling against my skin is a whisper in my dream.
I think, this can't be right. It's only been three days. I have approximately 60 more sets of three days to go. A few weeks later, they'll start again. And again. And again.
Sometimes, I wish I could start a blog just for us, one that let me tell you everything ; right now, I feel like I'm opening our windows to let the world see through the panes.
My writing is shit right now. My brain on automatic. The incredibly kind parking attendant at the airport took one look at my mascara-streaked face (what was I thinking, wearing that?) and waived me past the line, even though I'd validated my car much earlier, when I hadn't guessed I'd spend 20 minutes behind the steering wheel without starting the ignition.
I know it's going to pass. It is already: I reorganized our room today and visited a few friends. I'm crashed on their couch right now, trying to convince myself that this post won't be as embarrassing to read in the morning. Please forgive me if I dabble in melancholy the next few weeks. I promise to regale you with equally as many good stories, even if they take awhile to come.
The other half, it's 2:30 in the morning and I wake up. Your pillow: it's cold. Your side of the bed: empty. Your warm chest rising and falling against my skin is a whisper in my dream.
I think, this can't be right. It's only been three days. I have approximately 60 more sets of three days to go. A few weeks later, they'll start again. And again. And again.
Sometimes, I wish I could start a blog just for us, one that let me tell you everything ; right now, I feel like I'm opening our windows to let the world see through the panes.
My writing is shit right now. My brain on automatic. The incredibly kind parking attendant at the airport took one look at my mascara-streaked face (what was I thinking, wearing that?) and waived me past the line, even though I'd validated my car much earlier, when I hadn't guessed I'd spend 20 minutes behind the steering wheel without starting the ignition.
I know it's going to pass. It is already: I reorganized our room today and visited a few friends. I'm crashed on their couch right now, trying to convince myself that this post won't be as embarrassing to read in the morning. Please forgive me if I dabble in melancholy the next few weeks. I promise to regale you with equally as many good stories, even if they take awhile to come.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Storm front coming
Seattle is experiencing a cold snap right now, the kind that leaves pedestrians huddled on corners with hands pulling their collar flaps tight. Last night, just before the latest front's arrival, my dad came inside and said, "We may want to reconsider our plans. There's a sea of black rolling this way. I'd hate to have you caught out in it."
The tide is in this morning. It marks the arrival of an unexpected part of our lives, a physical separation we anticipated but still thought we could stave off for awhile longer. I'm still not sure exactly how I'll manage to put CB on "our" flight tomorrow, especially knowing that there will be an empty seat with my name on it next to his. But despite my discomfort (and, okay, denial), quiet confidence sits deep at the base of my chest. If we didn't do this, we might not make it. By doing it, by allowing ourselves to follow the paths we feel compelled to take, we're doing exactly what we think is right, precisely what we need to be together for the long haul. If it doesn't work, I'll go back to England. But it is going to work. We believe in our decision; we will be there for each other every single day, even if it's not in the traditional way; and we will change our plans if either of us senses even the slightest warning sign. We are going to be fine.
So the next time an acquaintance asks how we're doing, wearing an expression that tells me the person has already decided our outcome, I'm going to ram the heartache and tears down my throat. I'll turn to the person with a "Why should you ask?" smile and say, "Good. We're good."
We are good.
Talk to you in a few days.
The tide is in this morning. It marks the arrival of an unexpected part of our lives, a physical separation we anticipated but still thought we could stave off for awhile longer. I'm still not sure exactly how I'll manage to put CB on "our" flight tomorrow, especially knowing that there will be an empty seat with my name on it next to his. But despite my discomfort (and, okay, denial), quiet confidence sits deep at the base of my chest. If we didn't do this, we might not make it. By doing it, by allowing ourselves to follow the paths we feel compelled to take, we're doing exactly what we think is right, precisely what we need to be together for the long haul. If it doesn't work, I'll go back to England. But it is going to work. We believe in our decision; we will be there for each other every single day, even if it's not in the traditional way; and we will change our plans if either of us senses even the slightest warning sign. We are going to be fine.
So the next time an acquaintance asks how we're doing, wearing an expression that tells me the person has already decided our outcome, I'm going to ram the heartache and tears down my throat. I'll turn to the person with a "Why should you ask?" smile and say, "Good. We're good."
We are good.
Talk to you in a few days.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Getting ready
Four suitcases down, one to go.
Hey, you try moving most of your worldly possessions overseas and back when you weren't expecting to do so for two more years. Just wait until I get to move our apartment fixings back if I actually find a place of my own this year, which of course depends upon a) being able to pay the rent and b) being able to find a pad in Seattle's ridiculously tight apartment market. Thanks a lot, all you migrating wealth-seeking tech people, turning my old buildings into condos and driving us into hovels on Aurora. Could you go home now?
It hasn't registered that I'm down to my last week in England. This time next Wednesday, we'll be on our way back to the States. There are so many things I'll miss -- Oxford on a crisp, clear winter day; friends in Cambridge; decent beer (yes, even warm beer can be decent). The number one thing, of course, is the part of me who's staying here. Monday night was fun, but it was the first of many events where we're going to be answering the same questions over and over again. Yes, we're living apart now. No, it's not because we particularly want to. Yes, we'll be fine. And you know? We will be. We knew going into this that we were marrying young, and that neither of us was the kind of person who would be able to drop their dreams when the going got rough. If I'd stayed with the Ph.D., I'd be abroad from now until next fall anyway -- and then I'd also have an extra year in the UK, while CB would be going wherever his postdoc takes him.
Is it going to be easy? I can't lie -- sometimes, I wish that one or both of us didn't feel such strong pulls towards the things we want to do. But most times, I'm just grateful that CB is the kind of feminist man who doesn't even ask whether I could resist those impulses. He's the one who's been telling me to follow them, all along. And the good thing is that, if it really came down to this, we would both walk away from it all to be with each other. I just have to have faith in that knowledge, to find the quiet sense of trust underneath the external turmoil. I'll be blogging a lot in the future about the joys of a long distance marriage, in the hopes that all of the other professional couples I know will find a little solace -- there's a lot more company here than you think.
Back to Seattle I go, hopefully a little wiser from living here. I feel like I have a more nuanced understanding of my country now, or at least of how others view us and what I can do to offer a more balanced perspective. I wish I could stay, despite the smoke-filled pubs and manic bus drivers. There's a song that always runs through my head when I'm going through a big transition, and it's playing again tonight.
High winds blowin' in the sky will carry you away
You know you have to leave here
You wish that you could stay
There's four directions on this map but you're only going one way...
You could walk a hundred thousand miles
and never find a home
You always knew someday you'd have to strike out on your own
You look up at the clouds and you can see which way the wind is blowing
Due South, that's the way I'm going
Due South
Saddle up my traveling shoes
I'm bound to walk away these blues
Due South
Okay, so I've never once actually gone south, per se, but so what. I think it conveys the wistfulness and the fortitude pretty well.
Hey, you try moving most of your worldly possessions overseas and back when you weren't expecting to do so for two more years. Just wait until I get to move our apartment fixings back if I actually find a place of my own this year, which of course depends upon a) being able to pay the rent and b) being able to find a pad in Seattle's ridiculously tight apartment market. Thanks a lot, all you migrating wealth-seeking tech people, turning my old buildings into condos and driving us into hovels on Aurora. Could you go home now?
It hasn't registered that I'm down to my last week in England. This time next Wednesday, we'll be on our way back to the States. There are so many things I'll miss -- Oxford on a crisp, clear winter day; friends in Cambridge; decent beer (yes, even warm beer can be decent). The number one thing, of course, is the part of me who's staying here. Monday night was fun, but it was the first of many events where we're going to be answering the same questions over and over again. Yes, we're living apart now. No, it's not because we particularly want to. Yes, we'll be fine. And you know? We will be. We knew going into this that we were marrying young, and that neither of us was the kind of person who would be able to drop their dreams when the going got rough. If I'd stayed with the Ph.D., I'd be abroad from now until next fall anyway -- and then I'd also have an extra year in the UK, while CB would be going wherever his postdoc takes him.
Is it going to be easy? I can't lie -- sometimes, I wish that one or both of us didn't feel such strong pulls towards the things we want to do. But most times, I'm just grateful that CB is the kind of feminist man who doesn't even ask whether I could resist those impulses. He's the one who's been telling me to follow them, all along. And the good thing is that, if it really came down to this, we would both walk away from it all to be with each other. I just have to have faith in that knowledge, to find the quiet sense of trust underneath the external turmoil. I'll be blogging a lot in the future about the joys of a long distance marriage, in the hopes that all of the other professional couples I know will find a little solace -- there's a lot more company here than you think.
Back to Seattle I go, hopefully a little wiser from living here. I feel like I have a more nuanced understanding of my country now, or at least of how others view us and what I can do to offer a more balanced perspective. I wish I could stay, despite the smoke-filled pubs and manic bus drivers. There's a song that always runs through my head when I'm going through a big transition, and it's playing again tonight.
High winds blowin' in the sky will carry you away
You know you have to leave here
You wish that you could stay
There's four directions on this map but you're only going one way...
You could walk a hundred thousand miles
and never find a home
You always knew someday you'd have to strike out on your own
You look up at the clouds and you can see which way the wind is blowing
Due South, that's the way I'm going
Due South
Saddle up my traveling shoes
I'm bound to walk away these blues
Due South
Okay, so I've never once actually gone south, per se, but so what. I think it conveys the wistfulness and the fortitude pretty well.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Feels like home to me
We're celebrating Thanksgiving tomorrow, since we had a longstanding, unavoidable conflict this evening (and who really wants to eat their biscuits at 10pm with bike grease on their fingers after a maintenance class?). I'm actually attempting to cook almost everything from scratch: the cranberry sauce, the biscuits, the rosemary and olive oil-drizzled potato medley, and the veg. We gave up and purchased a nut loaf, although now we're both wishing we'd just tried making it, too. Then again, our oven is very willing but also the size of a breadloaf. Hence, we're already demanding more of it than we should.
This is the first Thanksgiving that CB and I get to celebrate together, snug under the roof of our little apartment, sharing food and enjoying the peace. I can't imagine a better way to spend the day. We will not think about how it is also the last Thanksgiving we'll share for a couple of years. Or at least, I will attribute my misty eyes to onions.
Someday, some year, we'll all be under the same roof for Thanksgiving. Until then, to my family on the west side and my family on the east, and to all of our friends in your myriad places, have a peaceful day.
This is the first Thanksgiving that CB and I get to celebrate together, snug under the roof of our little apartment, sharing food and enjoying the peace. I can't imagine a better way to spend the day. We will not think about how it is also the last Thanksgiving we'll share for a couple of years. Or at least, I will attribute my misty eyes to onions.
Someday, some year, we'll all be under the same roof for Thanksgiving. Until then, to my family on the west side and my family on the east, and to all of our friends in your myriad places, have a peaceful day.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Spreading wings when I don't want to fly
Today, I sent in the second resume I've submitted this week.
To Seattle.
So, here we go. As I've said before, I don't feel terribly great about any of the choices we have, but one more day of sitting in the house feeling less like myself and more like an animated piece of furniture...and I might go a little bonkers. Don't get me wrong - I do go out, but I have to invent things to do, which sounded great until I remembered that everything in Oxford is expensive, and everything which is not is usually outside (and it is bloody cold right now).
I don't feel like waxing eloquently tonight, so I'm just going to grumble and leave it at that. Thanks for understanding.
(Incidentally, I would really like to land that second job. I am rather excited about it. Crap. Can someone help me figure out a way to convince CB's department that he could complete his Ph.D. in another country?)
To Seattle.
So, here we go. As I've said before, I don't feel terribly great about any of the choices we have, but one more day of sitting in the house feeling less like myself and more like an animated piece of furniture...and I might go a little bonkers. Don't get me wrong - I do go out, but I have to invent things to do, which sounded great until I remembered that everything in Oxford is expensive, and everything which is not is usually outside (and it is bloody cold right now).
I don't feel like waxing eloquently tonight, so I'm just going to grumble and leave it at that. Thanks for understanding.
(Incidentally, I would really like to land that second job. I am rather excited about it. Crap. Can someone help me figure out a way to convince CB's department that he could complete his Ph.D. in another country?)
Monday, November 06, 2006
Tell it, sister
Bitch Ph.D. posted some thoughts on feminism, two-career relationships and making choices which resonate so deeply with my own life right now that I can't really summarize them, or the thought-provoking responses which ensued from her readers.
She gets to the core of the monsters in the closet which it seems like all couples face, unless they're both willing to partition the life roles into neat halves (e.g., "you be the breadwinner, and I'll be the homemaker"). Not that I have anything against partitioning -- it works well for some people, and it worked fantastically for my own family -- but it cannot and will never work for me. This has become painfully clear in recent months. I should be perfectly content right now: I have time to write, to think, and I'm liberated from financial worries.
Except that "liberation"? It feels a lot more like dependency. Like Dr. B says, economic dependence doth not a happy feminista make. Particularly when it's one in a cluster of little things which make you feel like it's just about impossible to balance your life and your career if you happen to be a woman -- and, worse, end up making you feel guilty if you want to try the balancing act anyway.
Here is my very serious disclaimer: none of this is intended to reflect on CB, who has been more supportive and understanding of the situation than I ever imagined anyone could be.
That said, graduate school is one hell of a reality check. It should be easier in this world for two book-loving geeks in different fields to find programs and funding in schools which aren't several hundred miles apart. So, off we went on our separate paths because neither of us ever considered giving up school for the other (having had friends with parents who did that, I'm a bit headshy of the notion). It was absolutely the right thing to do, even if my program wound up being something of a disaster. But, like Dr. B, it's all the things we didn't know to plan for which are revealing just how difficult it is to stick to your own principles in real life.
So now, here we are, unexpectedly: one of us is having a deservedly fantastic experience here, is surrounded and stimulated by a vibrant intellectual environment, and is clearly on his way to the career of his dreams. The other, well, the other enjoys having the time to write, but she spends hours scouring the job ads to no avail, is not liking the housewife-type-role she naturally falls into, as she does indeed have more time to be doing the cooking and such, and avoids going into town because she has *always* made her own money and cannot adjust to the idea that it is somehow okay for her to let him be the breadwinner. (This is different from being ungrateful, trust me -- I'm more than grateful. That doesn't mean I'm not uncomfortable, too.) Try as I might, I'm going stir crazy.
And yet, even though I'm admittedly unhappy, and even though I'm fortunate enough to have a partner who sees this (perhaps even clearer than I do) and who has supported the growing sensation that it is time for me to go home...I don't want to leave him. That part is fine -- I'd be more than a little alarmed if I didn't feel that way! -- but unless I find my work, it is time to go, and here is why I'm so hot under the collar: I am absolutely guilt-wracked, plagued ridiculous Donna Reed ideologies to which I've never subscribed but which suddenly haunt me whenever I seriously contemplate leaving. I don't know where these thoughts came from, but they're inside me hammering on my skull, telling me that a good wife doesn't selfishly abandon her husband for a career, of all things (and this spectre is always wearing an apron and smoking a Virginia Slim). A good wife is content to be with someone she loves because being together is all that matters. A good wife doesn't feel overwhelmed and frustrated in a situation she can't control -- she relinquishes the control, the money and the career, and she finds a job wherever she can get one AND SHE IS HAPPY.
I want to strangle this voice with her own apron strings, but the problem is that part of me wonders if she's right, even though I know better. That unconfident bit of me feeds off the responses we've been getting from well-meaning friends, classmates, family and perfect strangers since we announced that we were getting married and moving to separate cities. "But you're his wife!" I still remember one acquaintance saying with confusion, when I explained that I was thinking about moving home. Another person, who I'm pretty sure had the best intentions, gasped and cried, "Oh, that's just terrible! How awful for you both!" when we came to them with the good news that we'd been accepted into our respective programs. I swear she physically recoiled when I told her that we didn't see anything so bad about it. And now, it's starting all over again. I feel like a selfish bitch because I want to move back to the States, find a place of my own and work in the field where I'm pretty sure I belong, rather than spend two years kicking around a country where I'm not happy, where I've never been happy, and where I didn't really want to be in the first place. I know I could work at a coffee shop or as a receptionist, but *I don't want to.* And why should I feel bad about that? Hell, CB could do that, too: drop out of school and follow me to do what I want. He could work as a lab tech or a programmer and probably feel like I do now. But not one person has ever suggested that option, and people think I'm crazy when I try to draw the analogy.
Don't think I feel good about this. In addition to missing the husband, I'm worried about being a financial drain because we'll have two residences instead of one. I'm terrified that something will happen to CB, and I won't be there to help him. The little things are the worst: who's going to hold his hand when he has a bad day? What about when he has to sleep alone in our double bed? I've explained to him before that I feel like I'm being asked to tear away an essential part of myself, no matter which decision I make. And the only thing that tells me I should leave is that I know this part, this incredible man in the UK, will come back to me. When he does, he'll bring my long-absent heart with him, and maybe then I'll finally stop hurting.
These choices, these awful choices. I'm afraid they'll never end, that one of us is always going to be making huge sacrifices for the other instead of both of us finding ways to compromise which still leave us happy. Worse, I'm afraid they'll only end when one of us gives up and opts for something that one person doesn't really want in order to make life easier (historically speaking, that will most likely be me even if both CB and I fight against it with everything we have). Lord, if he gave up his dreams for me, I don't think I'd ever forgive myself. And I am deeply, deeply bitter at a world which provides no support system for couples who share a deep-seated conviction that they will move through this world as equals. Like Dr. B said in her responses to comments:
"...The stuff that both men and women have to deal with--moving a long way, asking your partner to make sacrifices, being broke--*do* affect women more than men. Women are more likely to be told they're "lucky" that their partner supports them, to have partners who make more money, their clothes and grooming cost more, they're more likely to have internalized the expectation to spend more time with the kids and want a cleaner house, etc. etc. etc."
A reader noted some of her situation-specific issues, but they're things I think about, too:
"1. He supports me, but if he is unhappy in an industry job, am I supporting him?
2. In the sciences, men just don't take time off to raise children. There is almost no map to how this would effect his chances for tenure. It is a little itsy bit better for women
3. I chose this completely 'useless' humanities degree, he chose his very 'useful' science degree."
I'll tell you one thing: if we ever have kids, we will both be working parents unless I know in my heart that I want to stay home. (Oh God, see what I just did? I didn't even consider that he might want to stay home instead.)
There's no brilliant conclusion to this, no witty rejoinder or astute observation. I've just noticed lately that an increasing number of women and men I know are going through similar situations as we find the partners who make us willing to struggle through all of this. I don't mean to sound too pessimistic -- plenty of couples get through this and find ways to make it work. I truly believe we are one of those pairs, because I don't think either of us would have gotten into this if we weren't. Nevertheless, Dr. B's post was sobering, and it clearly unleashed a torrent I've been damming up for some time. The last 1.5 years mark the first time I've truly realized how many things in life are unforeseeable and uncontrollable, and it threw me for a loop I wasn't expecting. Growing up can be a real bitch.
She gets to the core of the monsters in the closet which it seems like all couples face, unless they're both willing to partition the life roles into neat halves (e.g., "you be the breadwinner, and I'll be the homemaker"). Not that I have anything against partitioning -- it works well for some people, and it worked fantastically for my own family -- but it cannot and will never work for me. This has become painfully clear in recent months. I should be perfectly content right now: I have time to write, to think, and I'm liberated from financial worries.
Except that "liberation"? It feels a lot more like dependency. Like Dr. B says, economic dependence doth not a happy feminista make. Particularly when it's one in a cluster of little things which make you feel like it's just about impossible to balance your life and your career if you happen to be a woman -- and, worse, end up making you feel guilty if you want to try the balancing act anyway.
Here is my very serious disclaimer: none of this is intended to reflect on CB, who has been more supportive and understanding of the situation than I ever imagined anyone could be.
That said, graduate school is one hell of a reality check. It should be easier in this world for two book-loving geeks in different fields to find programs and funding in schools which aren't several hundred miles apart. So, off we went on our separate paths because neither of us ever considered giving up school for the other (having had friends with parents who did that, I'm a bit headshy of the notion). It was absolutely the right thing to do, even if my program wound up being something of a disaster. But, like Dr. B, it's all the things we didn't know to plan for which are revealing just how difficult it is to stick to your own principles in real life.
So now, here we are, unexpectedly: one of us is having a deservedly fantastic experience here, is surrounded and stimulated by a vibrant intellectual environment, and is clearly on his way to the career of his dreams. The other, well, the other enjoys having the time to write, but she spends hours scouring the job ads to no avail, is not liking the housewife-type-role she naturally falls into, as she does indeed have more time to be doing the cooking and such, and avoids going into town because she has *always* made her own money and cannot adjust to the idea that it is somehow okay for her to let him be the breadwinner. (This is different from being ungrateful, trust me -- I'm more than grateful. That doesn't mean I'm not uncomfortable, too.) Try as I might, I'm going stir crazy.
And yet, even though I'm admittedly unhappy, and even though I'm fortunate enough to have a partner who sees this (perhaps even clearer than I do) and who has supported the growing sensation that it is time for me to go home...I don't want to leave him. That part is fine -- I'd be more than a little alarmed if I didn't feel that way! -- but unless I find my work, it is time to go, and here is why I'm so hot under the collar: I am absolutely guilt-wracked, plagued ridiculous Donna Reed ideologies to which I've never subscribed but which suddenly haunt me whenever I seriously contemplate leaving. I don't know where these thoughts came from, but they're inside me hammering on my skull, telling me that a good wife doesn't selfishly abandon her husband for a career, of all things (and this spectre is always wearing an apron and smoking a Virginia Slim). A good wife is content to be with someone she loves because being together is all that matters. A good wife doesn't feel overwhelmed and frustrated in a situation she can't control -- she relinquishes the control, the money and the career, and she finds a job wherever she can get one AND SHE IS HAPPY.
I want to strangle this voice with her own apron strings, but the problem is that part of me wonders if she's right, even though I know better. That unconfident bit of me feeds off the responses we've been getting from well-meaning friends, classmates, family and perfect strangers since we announced that we were getting married and moving to separate cities. "But you're his wife!" I still remember one acquaintance saying with confusion, when I explained that I was thinking about moving home. Another person, who I'm pretty sure had the best intentions, gasped and cried, "Oh, that's just terrible! How awful for you both!" when we came to them with the good news that we'd been accepted into our respective programs. I swear she physically recoiled when I told her that we didn't see anything so bad about it. And now, it's starting all over again. I feel like a selfish bitch because I want to move back to the States, find a place of my own and work in the field where I'm pretty sure I belong, rather than spend two years kicking around a country where I'm not happy, where I've never been happy, and where I didn't really want to be in the first place. I know I could work at a coffee shop or as a receptionist, but *I don't want to.* And why should I feel bad about that? Hell, CB could do that, too: drop out of school and follow me to do what I want. He could work as a lab tech or a programmer and probably feel like I do now. But not one person has ever suggested that option, and people think I'm crazy when I try to draw the analogy.
Don't think I feel good about this. In addition to missing the husband, I'm worried about being a financial drain because we'll have two residences instead of one. I'm terrified that something will happen to CB, and I won't be there to help him. The little things are the worst: who's going to hold his hand when he has a bad day? What about when he has to sleep alone in our double bed? I've explained to him before that I feel like I'm being asked to tear away an essential part of myself, no matter which decision I make. And the only thing that tells me I should leave is that I know this part, this incredible man in the UK, will come back to me. When he does, he'll bring my long-absent heart with him, and maybe then I'll finally stop hurting.
These choices, these awful choices. I'm afraid they'll never end, that one of us is always going to be making huge sacrifices for the other instead of both of us finding ways to compromise which still leave us happy. Worse, I'm afraid they'll only end when one of us gives up and opts for something that one person doesn't really want in order to make life easier (historically speaking, that will most likely be me even if both CB and I fight against it with everything we have). Lord, if he gave up his dreams for me, I don't think I'd ever forgive myself. And I am deeply, deeply bitter at a world which provides no support system for couples who share a deep-seated conviction that they will move through this world as equals. Like Dr. B said in her responses to comments:
"...The stuff that both men and women have to deal with--moving a long way, asking your partner to make sacrifices, being broke--*do* affect women more than men. Women are more likely to be told they're "lucky" that their partner supports them, to have partners who make more money, their clothes and grooming cost more, they're more likely to have internalized the expectation to spend more time with the kids and want a cleaner house, etc. etc. etc."
A reader noted some of her situation-specific issues, but they're things I think about, too:
"1. He supports me, but if he is unhappy in an industry job, am I supporting him?
2. In the sciences, men just don't take time off to raise children. There is almost no map to how this would effect his chances for tenure. It is a little itsy bit better for women
3. I chose this completely 'useless' humanities degree, he chose his very 'useful' science degree."
I'll tell you one thing: if we ever have kids, we will both be working parents unless I know in my heart that I want to stay home. (Oh God, see what I just did? I didn't even consider that he might want to stay home instead.)
There's no brilliant conclusion to this, no witty rejoinder or astute observation. I've just noticed lately that an increasing number of women and men I know are going through similar situations as we find the partners who make us willing to struggle through all of this. I don't mean to sound too pessimistic -- plenty of couples get through this and find ways to make it work. I truly believe we are one of those pairs, because I don't think either of us would have gotten into this if we weren't. Nevertheless, Dr. B's post was sobering, and it clearly unleashed a torrent I've been damming up for some time. The last 1.5 years mark the first time I've truly realized how many things in life are unforeseeable and uncontrollable, and it threw me for a loop I wasn't expecting. Growing up can be a real bitch.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Light up, light up...
Any normal person would be focused on her thesis right now, what with it being due in 11 days and all.
No one ever said I was normal.
I'm facing some very difficult decisions right now about what comes next, and they are hard to deal with when I'm essentially on my own in a still-strange place. I have friends here, but I haven't developed the level of intimacy with most of them that you need in order to have those "deep" talks. Of the two with whom I can, one has left already and one is leaving soon. This leaves me with one outlet here (because of time zone and long distance issues), and I'm sure you can all relate to how wearing it can be if you're on the receiving end of someone's never-ending stream of stress and worry. I never, EVER realized how much I would miss and need my friends, or how I would come to realize that I would do anything to be back with them again someday. Even if we aren't all in the same city or state, being close enough to be a real phone call away, or even a half day's drive, is enough.
Part of me feels guilty writing about these things because they necessarily involve people who are integral to my life, but I think it's imperative to record not only the "good" moments, but also the "bad," those dark, lonely periods where you aren't sure how you got here, let alone how to get somewhere else. I've been in a pretty dark place for some time now, but I've been hesitant to relate it because of the public nature of this forum. Even though I try to protect the identities of people I know, I'm almost afraid that I'm crossing some sort of line by talking about situations that involve them when those situations aren't just light-hearted and funny. I almost wish that I hadn't told everyone this page exists -- I spent a long time wondering if I should tell anyone at all, but it's too late to reverse that.
I should say from the start that NONE of this has anything to do with my amazing, supportive, incredible husband, whose very presence is probably the reason that I'm still sane here, who has done everything another person possibly could do, who I love and cherish and thank God every day for finding.
The problems are all mine, but they are big and they are getting difficult to confront. I'm in a better spot than I was a month ago, but still, these anxieties creep up on me from out of nowhere and leave me curled up on the bed, hugging my knees and wondering why I can't get a grip. Resolving the thyroid meds helped (oh lord, I never even wrote about that), but I'm still feeling out of whack.
The truth is that I think I have to go home soon to find the job I want, to find the life I need to pursue in order to feel like there's still a "Me" here, because I've lost sight of who that is under the endless papers, the academic hell, the being away from home in a place that hasn't been healthy for me. The problem with that is the tremendous, unending guilt I feel about leaving. I'm not just me anymore. I'm a wife, you know? A wife who is supposed to stand by for better or worse, etc, and who now finds herself incapable of sticking it out for a couple more years because she can't handle a fucking dead-end job.
.The problem is that here, I feel like I become someone I don't want to be. I am depressed, snippy, frustrated, anxious and mercurial. Even though I'm the only one who thinks so, I feel like these problems are slowly, incrementally chipping away at the one relationship I'd do anything to protect. It terrifies me, not because I think the relationship would ever end, but because I think it could become something neither of us wants, something with more tension and less communication, something where the balance has shifted and where one person is always having to pick the other up.
So what do you do when you feel like you actually have to go somewhere else to protect what you don't want to leave?
And how do you ever explain to the person it involves that even though your soul is irrevocably intertwined with theirs, that you still have to do what's right for you now in order to build the best future for both of you in the long run? How can you explain that you're afraid you're losing pieces of yourself that you need to find again? How do you explain any of this and still make them believe (because it is true it is true it is so unquestionably true) that NONE of this is their fault, that there's nothing about you and them which you would ever change, and that you're just afraid of making you both miserable if you don't do something to alter your outlook? God, even the one thing I've realized this year, which is that I really was right when I thought I couldn't leave Seattle for good, is potentially problematic. How do I say that I'm sorry? I'm so, so sorry I can't be different: I spend most of my waking life trying to, but I just can't figure out the answers. How do I reassure him that nothing in the world can ever, EVER change the way I feel about him, but that the way I feel about me and my/our future lives needs to improve so we can both be happier?
Even when I write it, I don't know how to say it.
I finish in two months, and I'm hoping beyond hope that somehow I miraculously find an amazing path in the UK that can keep me here for awhile. Who knows? Maybe everything will get better as soon as we're under the same roof again. In fact, I know that in some ways it will. But I'm afraid that my own personal dissatisfaction with my life will continue to create fissures unless I find a way to remedy it. I'm afraid I can't last much beyond December without that.
I'm afraid of hurting the person I'd die for; I'm further terrified that I'll do that no matter what choice we make.
No one ever said I was normal.
I'm facing some very difficult decisions right now about what comes next, and they are hard to deal with when I'm essentially on my own in a still-strange place. I have friends here, but I haven't developed the level of intimacy with most of them that you need in order to have those "deep" talks. Of the two with whom I can, one has left already and one is leaving soon. This leaves me with one outlet here (because of time zone and long distance issues), and I'm sure you can all relate to how wearing it can be if you're on the receiving end of someone's never-ending stream of stress and worry. I never, EVER realized how much I would miss and need my friends, or how I would come to realize that I would do anything to be back with them again someday. Even if we aren't all in the same city or state, being close enough to be a real phone call away, or even a half day's drive, is enough.
Part of me feels guilty writing about these things because they necessarily involve people who are integral to my life, but I think it's imperative to record not only the "good" moments, but also the "bad," those dark, lonely periods where you aren't sure how you got here, let alone how to get somewhere else. I've been in a pretty dark place for some time now, but I've been hesitant to relate it because of the public nature of this forum. Even though I try to protect the identities of people I know, I'm almost afraid that I'm crossing some sort of line by talking about situations that involve them when those situations aren't just light-hearted and funny. I almost wish that I hadn't told everyone this page exists -- I spent a long time wondering if I should tell anyone at all, but it's too late to reverse that.
I should say from the start that NONE of this has anything to do with my amazing, supportive, incredible husband, whose very presence is probably the reason that I'm still sane here, who has done everything another person possibly could do, who I love and cherish and thank God every day for finding.
The problems are all mine, but they are big and they are getting difficult to confront. I'm in a better spot than I was a month ago, but still, these anxieties creep up on me from out of nowhere and leave me curled up on the bed, hugging my knees and wondering why I can't get a grip. Resolving the thyroid meds helped (oh lord, I never even wrote about that), but I'm still feeling out of whack.
The truth is that I think I have to go home soon to find the job I want, to find the life I need to pursue in order to feel like there's still a "Me" here, because I've lost sight of who that is under the endless papers, the academic hell, the being away from home in a place that hasn't been healthy for me. The problem with that is the tremendous, unending guilt I feel about leaving. I'm not just me anymore. I'm a wife, you know? A wife who is supposed to stand by for better or worse, etc, and who now finds herself incapable of sticking it out for a couple more years because she can't handle a fucking dead-end job.
.The problem is that here, I feel like I become someone I don't want to be. I am depressed, snippy, frustrated, anxious and mercurial. Even though I'm the only one who thinks so, I feel like these problems are slowly, incrementally chipping away at the one relationship I'd do anything to protect. It terrifies me, not because I think the relationship would ever end, but because I think it could become something neither of us wants, something with more tension and less communication, something where the balance has shifted and where one person is always having to pick the other up.
So what do you do when you feel like you actually have to go somewhere else to protect what you don't want to leave?
And how do you ever explain to the person it involves that even though your soul is irrevocably intertwined with theirs, that you still have to do what's right for you now in order to build the best future for both of you in the long run? How can you explain that you're afraid you're losing pieces of yourself that you need to find again? How do you explain any of this and still make them believe (because it is true it is true it is so unquestionably true) that NONE of this is their fault, that there's nothing about you and them which you would ever change, and that you're just afraid of making you both miserable if you don't do something to alter your outlook? God, even the one thing I've realized this year, which is that I really was right when I thought I couldn't leave Seattle for good, is potentially problematic. How do I say that I'm sorry? I'm so, so sorry I can't be different: I spend most of my waking life trying to, but I just can't figure out the answers. How do I reassure him that nothing in the world can ever, EVER change the way I feel about him, but that the way I feel about me and my/our future lives needs to improve so we can both be happier?
Even when I write it, I don't know how to say it.
I finish in two months, and I'm hoping beyond hope that somehow I miraculously find an amazing path in the UK that can keep me here for awhile. Who knows? Maybe everything will get better as soon as we're under the same roof again. In fact, I know that in some ways it will. But I'm afraid that my own personal dissatisfaction with my life will continue to create fissures unless I find a way to remedy it. I'm afraid I can't last much beyond December without that.
I'm afraid of hurting the person I'd die for; I'm further terrified that I'll do that no matter what choice we make.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Only the Lonely
The booklist grew exponentially today (if you count journal articles, we're at well over 100, and I might as well just consign my soul to the vendors of highlighting pens and post-it flags). What this means is that I ought to be studying as if the very justification of my existence depended on the amount of puffed-up, hypertheoretical jargon I could digest in an evening. Instead, here's what I've done:
1. Read comics online
2. Fixed dinner
3. Snarfled pasta while reading the NYT online
4. Attended portion of Geography Department pub crawl (terrible attendance, possibly due to the fact that its students have managed to pick one of the most demanding degrees known to man at this rather demanding institution -- why is that always my lot in life??)
5. Roved between Geog pub crawl and regular weekly pub night for recipients of my funding source
6. Called CB
7. Fixed tea and warmed up embarrassingly addicting cup o' rice pudding
8. Contemplated reading list (duration: about 37 seconds)
9. Wrote this blog
All in all, I think I've become highly skilled at graduate student procrastination.
Since I've already demolished this once-promising evening, I might as well spend even more time blogging. In my month here, I've encountered numerous people toiling through the excrutiating torture of serious, long-distance relationships. Two things have helped me cope: Vodaphone's "talk for a ridiculously long time after 7 if you sign an 800 year contract" plan, and depressing music.
I realize this sounds counterintuitive, but nothing's better for the long-distance blues than indulging in truly soul-shriveling music. Hence, my song compilation, "Songs of Despair and Depression." However, since some of the lyrics in that mix could cause suicidal thoughts in small furry animals, I'm going to post my second list: "Missing (Insert Name of Love Object Here)":
1. David Gray, "Flame Turns Blue"
If I lost you, I don't know what I'd do
Burn forever where the flame turns blue
2. Flogging Molly, "If I Ever Leave This World Alive"
If I ever leave this world alive,
I'll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight
Wherever I am, you'll always be
More than just a memory
3. Snow Patrol, "Run"
Light up, light up
As if you had a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear
4. Blink 182, "Miss You" (technically a break-up song, but it still works for me)
Will you come home and stop this pain tonight?
5. Sarah McLaughlin, "Push"
You're all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in
6. Death Cab for Cutie, "I'll Follow You Into the Dark"
Disclaimer: this is the best song ever written. Yes, I worship the band anyway and always have, but I'm serious. Nothing can touch this, no one can rival its beautiful, poignant images. It's the only song that actually makes me cry every time I hear it, and the only one that epitomizes everything I've never been able to verbalize about the depth of my love. I get goosebumps just reading the lyrics. Breathtakingly gorgeous.
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
I'll add to it as I find those perfect LDR songs, but so far this encompasses all the ones I need when I'm inside on a solitary, rainy night.
1. Read comics online
2. Fixed dinner
3. Snarfled pasta while reading the NYT online
4. Attended portion of Geography Department pub crawl (terrible attendance, possibly due to the fact that its students have managed to pick one of the most demanding degrees known to man at this rather demanding institution -- why is that always my lot in life??)
5. Roved between Geog pub crawl and regular weekly pub night for recipients of my funding source
6. Called CB
7. Fixed tea and warmed up embarrassingly addicting cup o' rice pudding
8. Contemplated reading list (duration: about 37 seconds)
9. Wrote this blog
All in all, I think I've become highly skilled at graduate student procrastination.
Since I've already demolished this once-promising evening, I might as well spend even more time blogging. In my month here, I've encountered numerous people toiling through the excrutiating torture of serious, long-distance relationships. Two things have helped me cope: Vodaphone's "talk for a ridiculously long time after 7 if you sign an 800 year contract" plan, and depressing music.
I realize this sounds counterintuitive, but nothing's better for the long-distance blues than indulging in truly soul-shriveling music. Hence, my song compilation, "Songs of Despair and Depression." However, since some of the lyrics in that mix could cause suicidal thoughts in small furry animals, I'm going to post my second list: "Missing (Insert Name of Love Object Here)":
1. David Gray, "Flame Turns Blue"
If I lost you, I don't know what I'd do
Burn forever where the flame turns blue
2. Flogging Molly, "If I Ever Leave This World Alive"
If I ever leave this world alive,
I'll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight
Wherever I am, you'll always be
More than just a memory
3. Snow Patrol, "Run"
Light up, light up
As if you had a choice
Even if you cannot hear my voice,
I'll be right beside you, dear
4. Blink 182, "Miss You" (technically a break-up song, but it still works for me)
Will you come home and stop this pain tonight?
5. Sarah McLaughlin, "Push"
You're all the things that I desire, you save me, you complete me
You're the one true thing I know I can believe in
6. Death Cab for Cutie, "I'll Follow You Into the Dark"
Disclaimer: this is the best song ever written. Yes, I worship the band anyway and always have, but I'm serious. Nothing can touch this, no one can rival its beautiful, poignant images. It's the only song that actually makes me cry every time I hear it, and the only one that epitomizes everything I've never been able to verbalize about the depth of my love. I get goosebumps just reading the lyrics. Breathtakingly gorgeous.
If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied
Illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs
If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks
Then I'll follow you into the dark
I'll add to it as I find those perfect LDR songs, but so far this encompasses all the ones I need when I'm inside on a solitary, rainy night.
Sunday, September 25, 2005
Miss you
CB's gone.
There's a hole in my heart six inches wide.
I walked home with a "Missing CB" mix on my Ipod. When Snow Patrol's "Light Up" came on, scenes from his departure played in my head; I saw myself walking down the street and slowly, particle by particle, dissolving into the wind, scattering back down the road towards the highway where the bus rolled towards Oxford. At the end, all I had to do was flick my fingers to send the last pieces racing over Cambridge's soaring spires.
The song ended. I was still on the street, still alone. I know we'll get through this and that our fates could have been far worse...but god, it hurts. I've never felt this sense of loss before. It makes me realize how grateful I am for everything I have -- friends, family, memories -- that can help me get through this. It might take a little while.
There's a hole in my heart six inches wide.
I walked home with a "Missing CB" mix on my Ipod. When Snow Patrol's "Light Up" came on, scenes from his departure played in my head; I saw myself walking down the street and slowly, particle by particle, dissolving into the wind, scattering back down the road towards the highway where the bus rolled towards Oxford. At the end, all I had to do was flick my fingers to send the last pieces racing over Cambridge's soaring spires.
The song ended. I was still on the street, still alone. I know we'll get through this and that our fates could have been far worse...but god, it hurts. I've never felt this sense of loss before. It makes me realize how grateful I am for everything I have -- friends, family, memories -- that can help me get through this. It might take a little while.
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