GUEST POST: how to say the hard stuff OR not even in the face of armageddon

This is Chris

My dear and very wise friend Chris, who has been reading my blog since its beginning (it is the very source of our friendship) and helping me work through the muck of life, love, and spiritual growth, wrote this beautiful guest post for us today. It was inspired by my post A Heart's Gamble, and I am so happy to share his insights here.

Enjoy...

-----------------------

I once spent two and half years working up the clarity / confidence in my choice to tell a woman that as much as I loved her, deeply, profoundly loved her, I was not truly happy in the relationship with her because she and I wanted different things out of life, or at least to live in ways that did not bring me closer to her.  It was *excruciatingly* difficult to commit my future to that path, of ultimately living without her in my life.  The (many!) times I thought about it and what it would mean... and what could I possibly be thinking that I would give up all the extraordinary times we had together in hopes that I would somehow find something "better"?  What kind of fool did I think I was?!...  I waffled.  I tried all kinds of things to make it work, to contort myself for us to fit better -- and I know she did a lot of that too on her end, for sure.

I had numerous conversations with friends and family along the way to sanity check myself.  My best friend gave me lots of wisdom and a broader perspective.  My brother gave me a lot of practicality, but empathy all the same.  Nevertheless, in terms of the positive benefits my suffering could bring to the world, my mom was the most interesting one to talk to about what I went through.  My dad had divorced her only after 20+ years of marriage counseling and trying and trying... and trying.  They just weren't right for each other.  She gave me, in her own way, a woman's perspective of being on the receiving end of a serious breakup, and I gave her, much to my tangential happiness, a perspective on what a man's side of instigating such a breakup could be like.  That it was hard.

The reality is, I have been unskillful with women.  I have done and said the worst possible things at the worst possible moments.  Usually things I thought were innocuous and sometimes took me years to realize what a horrible thing I done to that poor woman's psyche.  I certainly hope they have recovered well, and at least learned something useful from my horrendous mistakes.  I myself have learned a great deal from my "failing big" and am very, very enjoyably much more skillful now, but even now I still have no strong knowledge of how to handle situations where really deep feelings are involved.  Hell, even when incredibly superficial feelings are involved on both sides: how do you, compassionately, tell a chick you know just came over because she was horny, "btw, I don't want you to sleep here tonight, can I get you a cab?"  Sometimes there's just no easy way to say some things.

So, how, in what was unquestionably the most serious relationship of my life to date, how could I possibly know the right thing to say, to express my real feelings, to be heard and understood that I had my own needs, but that they did not correspond with what she wanted (to remain with me)?  It hurts me deeply to hurt women.  I *love* women, I love taking care of them, treating them well and making them feel safe and comforted.  But as I am a monogamist, I can not do this for all women for all time...  The women I take some time with to explore and see how we fit, learn about her -- and learn about me! -- well...  Statistically, there are going to be more breakups than lifelong relationships that result.  But I remain nevertheless anxious that even after the hurt, somehow, *somehow*, I can find a way to impart to each one the knowledge and certainty that I cared so deeply for her, want her to be profoundly happy and wish with all my heart that a better guy for her than me shows up just around the corner.  And all the while I feel as though she is going to hate my guts no matter what I say, no matter how hard I try -- especially if I am actually _honest_ with her about my feelings, god forbid!

I do not begrudge the women of the world their bar hopping in the aftermath, telling their friends -- or random strangers, or the very next guy they hook up with for a night to forget... -- any stories they can think of that paint their ex-men in the worst possible lights so they can all commiserate on how men are scum, or at least that particular one.  But by the gods I wish it was not so.  Holy fuck I wish there was a way to demonstrate/share/empath the struggle and pain and frustration that goes into the desire to find an, honestly, _better_ happiness -- but still acknowledging that it was indeed a happiness before with that woman.  To know that a woman I cared so deeply for, and gave so much of myself to, that she would remember me fondly and know that I do still, until the end of all days, care for her, in a different way, yes, but deeply care all the same.

When my mom, over time, came to acknowledge that I was clearly greatly concerned about the happiness and well being of the woman I was contemplating leaving behind, she developed at least a hint of appreciation for what my dad went through.  That was so hopeful for me, that at least one woman saw that the guys who do/say these things to them are not cold heartless sociopaths who were lying about their feelings the whole time they were having these intimate moments prior to the uncomfortable conclusion, but rather human beings going through a struggle of their own, to find their own way in this confusing world and trying their damnedest to do the best they could with the skills they had at the time.

And it's not just the super intense moments.  The whole dating game is ripe with opportunity to hurt each other as we gradually shed layers with each other.  (And sometimes not so gradually -- thankfully!  I have cried my own eyes out over such times and am so, so, so immensely grateful to have had those experiences.)  We are all unskillful at times and we are all trying to find happiness in our own particularly selfish (but not in a bad way!) /individual ways.  I want to live in a world where we all recognize this of each other, and can respect our "opponents" in the battle of the sexes, especially from skirmish to skirmish as wounds are inflicted.  Forgiveness, compassion, understanding.

I would rather spend my life looking for a relationship that is truly satisfying for me, even if I never find such a creature, than settle for "almost but not quite" and then spend the rest of my life wondering what it would have been like to experience the satisfaction I knew I truly desired.  I will never stay with someone who wants something that is not what I want to offer, or offering less/other than what I know it would take to truly satisfy me.  Along the way, I will break hearts, including my own, and I hope that, at least for me, all the women I encounter are able to see and value my own attempts to do the right thing, even when it conflicts with their desires and thereby causes them pain.  

Eternally pursue that which brings you joy (and learn better every day what that really is!), perpetually operate from the assumption that hope is worthwhile even when it seems pointless or impossible, and, please, constantly look for the best in everyone on your path to real satisfaction.

May you, ultimately, find peace.

****

*Note from the author regarding the title: I have always planned for my own blog, agonizingbliss.com to title articles twice, once somewhat obviously, and the second a seemingly nonsensical reference at first that ultimately relates to what the article turns into.  This particular second title is somewhat unfortunately a bit obscure, it requires quick googling for those who are not already very familiar with the source material, but it is _extremely_ profound when taken in context and is very apt for the material.  A suggestion to google it after reading might be worthwhile. You should read the graphic novel it comes from, although it is a substantial commitment to do so -- it would take a day start to finish, basically.  A very very profoundly moving day.

A Heart's Gamble

Image from here.

Eyes smile at each other and touches linger. Flirtation plants its seed and desire waters it. Between would you like another drink and you're beautiful, we kiss. Boom boom double-boom, goes my heart, and in an instant smaller than a sigh, hope is born. 

Legs interlace, noses touch, hips kiss. Grr grr grrar, goes my body, and in between this is nice and yeah there, my armor falls to the floor. 

I am nervous, he touches my cheek and torsos piece into each other, a puzzle completed.

Vulnerable and hopeful, I rest on his chest and wait for his lips to find my forehead, his heart to find mine. 

But it doesn't. 

His body goes cold. I don't want to hurt you, I'm not ready for more than this, I don't want you to have expectations, his lips say instead. 

Boom. 

In a breath of space smaller than the sigh in which it was birthed, hope is killed. Desire vanishes, hearts hide.

I turn away and quickly touch my heart. Shh, little heart, it's okay. We'll be okay. We were too quick to trust. We know how this goes. Let's pack up and go now. 

I get up from the bed, and I feel a part of me stay there. That's the gamble; a part of us is always lost. Good bye, my sweet romantic girl. 

I pick up my armor from the floor and put it back on. It is heavier now.  I feel my edges sharpen, I am older. It will be harder to take off next time...

Letter to My Tummy

Dear Tummy,

I don't think we've formally met, though I've talked to you a lot over the years. I know I've never been very nice to you. In fact, I don't think I've ever said one nice thing about you or to you. You are that part of me that I am never, ever satisfied with. And, unlike cellulite, which lives in my ass where I can't see it, you are under constant scrutiny. I see you when I shower, I see you when I sit down, I see you when I look in the mirror, I see you in most pictures, and I see you reflected in other people's eyes.

I have often said to you things like, "Please go away," "I hate you," "Ugh," "Just get off me," and, in my worst moments, "Fuck off!"

I am not proud of how I've treated you, Tummy. I've called you flabs, jell-o, dinner baby, watermelon, rolling empire of flesh, and many other mean names. I've looked at you and burst into tears.

I've considered, many many times, cutting you open, sucking out all the fat you store, and stitching you back up again. The ol' nip and tuck. If I weren't afraid it might kill me, I would've done it by now- maybe even more than once.

I've crunched you up at the gym up to 5,000 times in a row, in an attempt to make you go away. I've held my breath for so many years, I half-burst into tears every time I inhale fully now. I've denied you food. I've willed you to give up the food you kept. I've put you behind slimming tights, fastening you away like a prisoner, hoping others wouldn't know you existed.

I did design a hearts meditation for myself a couple of years ago, but you were always the hardest part to get to. I just can't say it with complete conviction: "I love you, Tummy." I want to, but I can't.

That doesn't mean I'm not sorry though. And that doesn't mean I'm giving up on my relationship with you. I want to love you, I want to accept you, I want to stop trying to change you. I know that I need you. I know that my perception of you is often dangerously misconstrued. I know that my desire to change you is based on false images fed to me by bullshit sexist media and that I should know better than to think I'll be happier if I have a flat non-stomach.

I know all of this. But I still haven't figured it out. The best I seem able to do, as of yet, is not think about you at all. I can't force the positive thoughts, but I seem able to not have thoughts, to just not think about my tummy. Forget I even have one. It's how I deal with a lot of things I'm insecure about, actually. Don't think about it, because then it isn't real. I know it's not super healthy, but it's where I'm at for now.

I'm working on it, though.

One day, I will look at you with love. I know it. And it won't be because I've lost the 10 pounds I always think I need to lose, or because I've done 800 sit-ups every day, or because I've just had food poisoning three weeks in a row. It'll be because I can let go of wanting you to be different. I'll see you as perfect, and I'll trust that we are on the same side.

Until that day, Tummy, I hope you'll bear with me. I hope you'll forgive my meanness. I hope you'll stick around. I hope you'll believe in me, and have compassion.

I look forward to better times,

xoxoxo

Me.

A Change of Heart

Amidst days of boredom and rain, I had a strange realization. I can no longer love someone who doesn't love me. It used to be possible- I had my heart broken enough times by people whom I loved dearly but who did not return the sentiment to know that it was possible.

And then, one day, it wasn't possible anymore. Even though I thought it might be worth the risk, my heart wouldn't budge. No, it stubbornly persisted, I will not love just anyone anymore. I want to be loved in return.

Maybe it's experience. Maturity. Growth.

Or maybe my heart has hardened and developed caution. It is no longer an innocent child, or a willing adolescent. I'm an adult, after all, and so my heart responds accordingly.

I do not know whether to be happy or sad. I just know that I have changed, and so has my ability to love.

Surviving Heartbreak- My Two Cents

A lot of people are a big fan of the concept of "time" when they're giving advice or dishing out words of wisdom.

"Time will heal everything."

"Healing takes time."

"In time, everything will be okay."

"Just give it time."

"Take some time for yourself."

To list some popular ones.

And I don't know about you, but I find it maddening. I know people mean well when they say these things, I know there's truth to it, I know there's not much else that can be said, but I still just want to snap back, "Oh yeah? Well can you googlemap TIME for me and give me the directions so I can get there TODAY, because what sucks more than what I'm going through is the thought of having to sit with it for a period of TIME that is impossible to calculate."

This is all floating in my head right now because I've recently received two emails from readers of my blog who are going through break-ups, and they've read up on past posts of mine regarding love and the end of love, but they're both like, "Your posts have been so helpful, but I'm still in pain. Can you tell me how to get through this? Can you blog more about this?"

What they really want is a formula that will make their pain go away as fast as possible. They want to be okay again, and they want it now. They're searching for it everywhere.

(If I were to shout out now, May all who know such agony say "Aye aye!", the whole world would have one thing in common.)

Reading about how other people have survived their heartbreaks does help. It's one of the things, along with chocolate over-consumption and spontaneously painting your bathroom mint-green, that can bring us back to life. When I was nursing a heartbreak a few years ago, Elizabeth Gilbert's "Eat Pray Love" was incredibly helpful. I needed to read a story that reminded me that heartbreak is universal and, perhaps more importantly, so is surviving it. The pain of losing someone is lonely, and it can save us to know that while our pain is our own, we are not alone in feeling it.

I read her book, I ate tons of carbohydrates, I went to yoga, I prayed, I started creating beautiful things, I performed rituals, I cried my guts out- in essence, I actively addressed my pain on a daily basis- and one day, indeed, I was okay again.

Yeah, we're paralyzed for a while. We forget how to laugh. We go through the motions of everyday life robotically. Caring about anything feels like an awful lot of work. We are sad and we want comfort- immediate, cost-what-it-may, good ol' comfort.

But there isn't a formula. There's no magic mantra, no super-powerful yoga pose, no sacred ritual, no fast-pass to the land of Being Okay Again. And it's not just TIME that heals us. WE have to show up for ourselves too.

If we suffer a car accident that cripples us and we're told that a certain amount of physical therapy for a certain amount of time will heal us, most of us will probably show up for physical therapy every day. It'll be painful and frustrating, but we'll do it, because we need our bodies. The "car accidents" that happen to our hearts are harder to work on, because we don't see the results physically manifesting- we don't even see the wounds- and there's not much value placed on taking time off our day to do "heart therapy". We have to be the wounded player and the cheering physician. We have to come up with our own healing routine, and then we have to be the ones to make sure we do it. It's a lot of work, and it's pretty damn lonely.

Here's what I realized one day mid-heart-recovery, when I was feeling particularly defeated by my own pain and in need of a pep-talk: No one was going to knock me out, cut open my chest, and surgically remove my heartache. Trust me, said a voice in my head, if that could be done, there'd be some rich-ass heart-healing doctors around. Even the people who help you- your therapist, your yoga teacher, your meditation buddy, your gay bff, and the girl whose blog you randomly follow *wink wink*- even those people's efforts are not enough on their own. So get out of bed, put some clothes on, and find out what you need to do today to heal your heart.

I did heal. I didn't shove anything under the rug and build on top of it. I was right there with my wound, present for every stitch, giving it what it needed every day- be that a good cry, a walk by the river, a conversation with my plants, a cooking experiment, or a new tattoo- until my darling heart was healed.

It took some icky sticky TIME, yes. But, more importantly, it took commitment and perseverance. I made myself a priority and I showed up for my recovery.

My healed heart, full of space to love again, was the pay-off.

*

Hearts

I have a meditation practice where I send hearts to the parts of my body that I spend a lot of time wishing were different. I sit in stillness, welcoming wisdom and enlightenment, and literally visualize little cartoon-like one-dimensional crayon-red hearts floating around my waist, hips, ass, thighs, and stomach. I picture little tiny ones nuzzling each other inside my cellulite holes and long ones sliding down my stretch-marks as if they were in a water park. I picture a line of them holding hands around my love-handles (oh-so-appropriately-named) and one big warm one right where I wish I had a six-pack. They are always happy, these hearts, all smiles and sending loving "you're perfect" vibes.

If you haven't detected it, I'll tell you- there's a hint of embarrassment in my tone.

See.

I'd rather be telling you all a story that exposes how confident I am and how I love my body and worship the divinity that resides within me and all that.

But that's just not the case.

I grew up in Brazil, I didn't have the kind of mother who told me I was the most beautiful creature in the world, I was bombarded with magazines and pop culture telling me that there was always something about myself I could improve, and I was not given a model's genetic coding. Embedded in my socialized brain is the concept that there is an "ideal body" and that I should strive for it.

I am ashamed that I occupy something as deep as meditation with something as frivolous as body-image issues. But what can I do. If I don't do this, I don't stand a chance against the voice in my head that tells me I'm not good enough.

Here's how it goes: I wake up in the morning, pee, brush my teeth, and then sit in front of my closet with my coffee and try to figure out which outfit will make me feel good that day. The voice starts in, That's a pretty dress but you had pasta last night and you'll look pregnant. Don't even look at those shorts, are you crazy? You can't wear shorts. You'll look like jell-o with feet. If you wear those jeans you have to wear a shirt that's loose around the waist, unless you want someone with a flat tire to mistake your waist for a spare.

The voice is evil. If someone else told me that they had a voice like that in their head, I'd tell them it should be murdered in a public square and that they should pay it no mind. I would kill anyone who talked to someone I care about the way this voice talks to me. And if I were an objective listener hearing how this voice talks to me, I would tell me it's full of shit. At the same time that I'm overpowered by this negative, self-hating voice, I am aware of its absurdity. I am aware that it is not the truth and that it is in my head, and therefore within my control.

But it's always there. And it always sounds so very real. And I can't get rid of it, not completely.

So I balance out its damage and diminish its power with my hearts meditation. I sit with my cute little hearts and I let them love me and tell me I am beautiful and perfect just as I am. I find comfort in knowing that yeah, even though I can create a voice that is so exquisitely cruel to me, I can also create an image that is boundlessly loving towards me.

It doesn't always work. Sometimes I sit around with my hearts and even they look skeptical, as if challenging my ability to love any part of myself that I've attached a negative feeling to. Or I'll just get stuck in how completely ridiculous I feel; being 25 and too intelligent to be so immobilized with a 15-year-old's insecurities, picturing a 5-year-old's drawings of hearts on my body so that I can get through the day without counting every calorie I ingest. Shouldn't I be over this shit by now, I think, when am I going to grow up? (As if "adulthood" is supposed to be free of self-esteem issues and "intelligence" should outwit the desire to be anything other than what we are.)

That's part of the quest for inner peace and balance, I suppose. Self-love is a tall order. I come up with ways to counter negative or limiting habits and, for the most part, they work and I enjoy doing them, but sometimes I just get tired of all the effort it takes to feel good about myself. I used to think, whenever I got sick of working so hard, that I was losing it, until someone offered that I tell myself instead that I am finding it. Even when I can't stand any of it and want to give up and eat a tub of ice-cream and hate myself afterwards because, frankly, it's just easier than picturing cartoon hearts on my ass, I am still on the road, paving my way towards a healthy self-image. The tumbles backwards are still part of moving forward, even though they feel like the exact opposite. Sometimes I have to ungrow to grow. I have to get a little stuck so I can recognize when movement occurs.

I can't force growth, I can only allow it. I can't force my little hearts into being, but they're there for me, when I make space for them.

How lovely.

image from http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Drawn_love_hearts.svg