I Already Found All My Answers

Yesterday I got an email from a concerned Christian who told me, “I will pray for you, Penny. God loves you and He sent His only Son to die for you. I hope you will immerse yourself in His Word so you can find what you’re looking for. God Bless…”

I love the Harry Potter series, and she’d forwarded to me the day before, a message of someone’s interpretation on the “wickedness” of it--to which I requested her to not send me anymore such filth.

To yesterday’s message, I simply replied back, “I’ve already found ALL of my answers.”

I realized something in the last several days that I hadn’t been aware of before. Because I am so sensitive to the emotions all around me—an attribute of all humans that I have just a bit more of than most, called empathy—I have had a tendency all this time to emotionally protect everyone around me from pain of any kind.

And often, I’ve done it by unconsciously sacrificing my authentic self—I’ll literally take the hits emotionally for someone else’s choices. And often, I’ve been protecting them from my own expression of anger towards them simply because they’ve chosen to judge me or someone else. And that’s not honoring myself, nor does it allow the choice-maker to fully immerse in their created experience.

For instance, a phone solicitor calls me on my private line or a government employee solicits me for information and I think to myself, “Well they’re desperate. They need the money to live on. I’ll make it easy for them and not make waves.” And then they yammer and waste my time and suck my energy. And I’ve allowed it all because I felt sorry them.

Never mind that I consciously chose not to take on jobs such as theirs back when I was feeling desperately insecure in the financial area. I couldn’t personally stomach forcing someone to buy something or using intimidation tactics to coerce another just in order for me to get a paycheck. Yet, here I thought I had to take it easy on those who evidently didn’t contemplate those things.

Same with those pushy self-proclaimed Christians (not all Christians—just the ones who have tried to force their beliefs on me). I’ve been again taking the hits of my own anger for them because I recognized the misery and suffering that that individual was in, and I didn’t want to pile more pain on them.

People are driven to find comfort in God when they are feeling at their worst about themselves—I did that myself. But, if they are going to continue poking me, well, I’m done allowing it. They can reap what they’re choosing to sow with my blessing—even if it means they’re probably going to get poked back.

By admonishing me to “immerse myself in God’s Word,” my concerned Christian was telling me to study the Bible. But had she really cared to connect with me, she would have known that I read her precious scriptures years ago—pretty much the whole book.

And I followed what was stated in there for me—the gist of which simply said, “Don’t study the literal word. The Word—the Expression of God--lies within you, is you—study that, study you, Penny.”

As far as I’m concerned the Real Word of God is alive in each of us and in every single thing in the Universe.

The Song of Solomon, for me, very eloquently tells the story of every human that ever was and is. Like the bridegroom, each of our human halves goes searching for our other half, the bride/God/Our True Love thinking she’s “out there” separate from us. And after wandering all over the place, outside of us, for awhile, we realize in the end that the bride/God has been with us the entire time—an actual essential part of ourselves, within us, from the very beginning all through to the end. We just couldn’t seem to perceive her—like we forgot she was there until one day we flipped some switch in ourselves that revealed her to us in all her glory.

I love reading good, inspiring, up-lifting books—and the Bible is filled with many inspiring stories. But to analyze any book, for me, is to diminish my enjoyment of it. I sometimes read a favorite novel several times, and discover layers of insight that I missed previously—and I’ll celebrate those when I realize them.

I loved reading the books assigned us for English classes—but I hated being required to answer questions someone made up surrounding the story. I call it being led intellectually (a literal word study) instead of just exposing someone to a story and letting that individual decide if they find anything of value in it. I love when people share with me the parts they liked about a story—and I like to share those myself. But I find no joy in using it as a standard of judgment or measurement to use on myself or on another.

I have no answers for anyone else—and I’m not going to pretend I do, and force my ideas upon another. I know WE ARE ALL CONNECTED, and I’ll do no harm to anyone, myself included, because I know that to intentionally hurt another is to intentionally hurt myself.

I will also no longer take the painful hits for another’s choice to strike out at me or try to control me…if I’m angry with you for judging me, so be it…FEEL THAT! Ha!

My Idea of A Dark Night of the Soul

When I was confronted with questioning a belief system that I’d so firmly accepted as my truth for a good portion of my life it caused a highly traumatic commotion in me for a period of time--emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually. I’ve deemed to call such an event A Dark Night of the Soul.

It felt as though the whole foundation beneath me had been terrifyingly removed and that any step in a new direction could be a wrong one. I was paralyzed for a time until I just reminded myself to breathe—just breathe. Deep breaths down into my belly, down into my toes. And I literally held myself, cried as I often needed to, yelled if I needed to—all in my safe and sacred space while I searched my own soul.

And somehow in that, I managed to move enough old stuff out in order to crack open a new door to explore. In looking back, something deep inside me intrinsically believed that life on earth—my life, all life—was a tremendously unconditionally loving gift from God/Source of All That Is. And I’m certain it was that belief that pulled me through my darkest nights.

Through the years I’ve had well-meaning Christians trying to warn me off reading certain materials, believing certain things or doing certain things a particular way. They were afraid that I was destined to an eternal hell unless I followed their rules.

How many of those particular people, I wonder, have asked themselves the question of WHY my supposed “hell destination” bothers them?

Could it be, on some level, that that particular person is disagreeing with the condemning, judgmental god they’ve believed in and worshipped all those years?

Could it be that it would be hell for that “faithful Christian” to watch me roasting, toasting and burning eternally? I guess I’d like to think that was so.

Talk about a Dark Night of the Soul…

“So—What do you do?”

“So—what do you do?” That’s probably been the single most difficult and challenging question for me to answer. When someone asks my husband about me he segues over to how great a cook I am—but I’m really not that great, and I’m not being modest.

I study belief systems—pretty much starting, and ending, with my own. And, as one can imagine, that area of passion has taken me on many different tangents.

How did I get into this?

I guess I woke up too many mornings feeling like that victim I detested so much, thinking to myself, “Damn! I woke up again—here goes one more day to get through.”

And then I’d literally feel myself physically and emotionally bracing to plow through whatever painful something or other that I felt certain was headed my way. Even moments of pure pleasure and happiness were overshadowed by the next thing bound to trip me up and take me somewhere painful I didn’t want to go.

Truthfully, I have lived a blessed life—I was born a member of a wonderful family and I had parents who were the savory salt of the earth. Yes, I lost some people and friends very dear to me fairly early on in life as well as in more recent years, the passing of my mom and dad. But, frankly, my stories are no more tragic or beautiful than another human’s—just uniquely my own.

I know, and appreciate, my story like no other person can—and I’ve discovered that that is a responsibility I take both seriously and humorously. God blessed me with this gift of being alive in a human body that gets to experience TOUCH in all its many forms. So I decided that I wasn’t enjoying life enough and I began to work on adjusting my own attitude about it.

I have Dad to thank for making me so aware of the power of a belief system. I observed him in those final weeks choosing physical discomfort over relief, simply because he believed that petroleum-based lotions were poisonous to him. The oxygen tubes in his nose were drying out his nasal passages and a lotion was recommended to address it, but he was unwilling to even try it. For him, I could see clearly, that that petroleum-based lotion was going to be toxic if we tried to force it on him—he was so adamant about not going there.

There were many instances that summer with Dad and others that mirrored this power of belief for me—most of the beliefs were based in fear. And the thing that made me so aware of it was because many of the beliefs were the same as my own, or had been at some point in my life. This got me looking more closely at my own stuff and questioning whether it was true, or if I’d somehow made it true simply by accepting that it was so.

It got me looking at the concepts of research and facts—and I began to question whether an actual scientific blind study could be completely unbiased—or if the researcher wasn’t somehow unconsciously skewing the study to match his belief systems.

Some part deep down inside of me keeps feeling like this reality I’m living is actually a very grand illusion/playground—and that God gave me the ability to be the front and center creator of my own life, with His/Her unconditional blessing. I’ve just been UNCONSCIOUSLY creating this whole time, based on the acceptance as truth, by me, of suggestions about the way life is by others around me.

The Plus Side of Being Able to “Bawl My Eyes Out”

A couple days ago my brother, Steve--who is one of the most precious beings on earth that I get to be related to biologically--shared with me a bit of what he was reading that morning. A man was told that he was thinking too much and needed to just cry instead. He was told that he didn’t have to figure out if they were tears of joy or sorrow or anger or anything—just to let himself cry for the release of it all.

Then my brother and I got into a discussion about what it means to cry. And that there is a big difference between having tears in one’s eyes versus letting them overflow all over the place.

Now, as anyone who’s read any of my previous posts can attest to, I am the poster child for being able to get the whole crying jag done properly.

I’ve done it so well throughout my life that I’ve felt more embarrassed and ashamed of it than proud. I literally bawled through my entire graduation speech and at least one other public speaking stint in my recollection. All my mom and sister and I ever had to do was to see the other one crying and, well, we were ankle-deep in tears and snot, and laughing at ourselves in the process.

Steve shared with me how it was to be a man—and how foreign and absolutely terrifying it was to even contemplate letting the tears loose from the eyes. I could feel the vulnerability and frustration in his words, of what it was like to grow up with the idea that “boys and men don’t cry” or “feel emotions.” That was one gift left to the realm of the female, at least, for the most part.

Not that “not crying” hasn’t crossed over into the female side of things either because I tried it, too, at one point in my journey. I talked myself out of crying through the Titanic—the numbness didn’t feel too good, and the movie haunted me for years afterward until I watched it a second time and allowed myself to dribble and sob all over the place with the allowance of feeling.

Steve said that even when he was someplace all alone, it still felt to him as if all the eyes of the universe were witnessing him at his utmost weakest—that he still didn’t feel safe enough to just let it loose. He can actually turn the tears off at will—like a water faucet—and my chest tightens with that stopping of the natural flow of things.

Our conversation got me to thinking back over the moments I’ve had with the men and boys in my life—I’ve seen tears in the eyes, but I don’t ever think I’ve heard one of them actually cry and sob while I was present. I get all choked up and suffocated-feeling just imagining myself in their shoes.

No wonder guys get all emotional and worked up over what I often think of as “silly” professional ball games. It’s an emotional release for them—a form of crying in a way accepted among most men.

I’ve gradually come to realize these past several years what a gift it has been to be able to be sensitive to feelings—even to find myself salt-watering everyone and everything around me at the seemingly most inopportune times. It truly is a release and a movement of stagnated energies within me. Life soon afterwards feels clearer and much easier, in that I breathe more freely.

I’m not a pretty thing when I’m in the midst of it, sometimes bellering at myself in the mirror. My eyes and nose are red and swollen, the Kleenex box (toilet paper roll, if I’m out) soon gets depleted, and the grimaces on my face would translate beautifully onto the screen for a horror flick—but I get ‘er done. I usually opt to cry things out in that safe, sacred space of my bathroom or my bedroom or out in the pasture if it’s handy.

And if the universe is tuned in to watch, well, they must see some value in it for themselves or they wouldn’t bother watching. Maybe it’s simply for pure entertainment purposes—but, hey, I can live with that. I think that just may be what I’m here for…

Anger--that tricky-feeling emotion...

When I started this blog I made a deal with myself: I wasn’t going to let my ego try to paint myself pretty. Whatever I posted had to be as authentic in my thoughts and feelings as I could possibly be in that moment.

So, my last few posts seemed to me to be a bit more vehement on the angry side than I truly feel comfortable with expressing, yet when I re-read them they seem quite mild and actually resolved by the time I’m through writing. They are nowhere near as scary as some of the things going through my mind and heart prior to writing it down.

I actually found myself appreciative (shortly after the writing and posting) of the people in the Census Bureau playing my “bad guys” roles so I could finally come out of hiding and express to the world who I am and what I’m really all about—just being myself.

One of the most troubling emotions for me to feel has been ANGER--I don't like how I am, how I look, the feeling like a victim that invariably seems to accompany it, or the pain of it. And I spent so much of my life trying to "handle it." I eventually discovered that the key to moving it out of my being for good was to simply allow myself to FEEL it.

But the hardest ones to allow myself to feel it with were those I loved the deepest--and often they had already left the planet.

Case in point: When my dad left my mom at the hospital, she told him out loud that she loved him. He didn't say it back in that moment and he beat on himself for it afterward because he didn't get another chance--it was the first thing he told me when I walked in the door into his arms that afternoon.

My mom very much played the gentle, yet strong, supporting woman behind the man--I so wanted to be just like her. She saw the things within my dad that he struggled with--she and I talked a lot--and one of Dad's greatest challenges was to see himself as worthy. He couldn't give enough of himself, sacrifice enough of himself, to ever be good enough. And because of that, he often took the "angel that he married" for granted, and a few times he was verbally cruel to her when I was present.

You know, those arguments that take place between married people when people just lash out like cornered wild animals fighting for survival. I, being married myself, of course, have done that exact same thing. Words just explode out of you and there is no taking them back so you just add a bit more shame to the old back-pack.

That was the hardest thing for me to feel--an adored, beloved one hurting another adored, beloved one. That one always got placed on the back burner—just didn’t know what to do with it.

I didn't observe my mom--maybe I just didn't see it out a sense of shock--telling Dad in those moments how painful the things he said were to her. She just seemed to take it, and then move on.

Then, when she died, I felt and watched my Dad try to go forward without her. He really tried, even tried dating another woman--but she wasn't able to fill that void left by his beloved Leona. I tried to pick him up, support him, be strong for him--but I knew even then that I was never going to be able to fill that void either. I had a father who was in so much pain and heart-suffering--and it was impossible for me to fix, and I knew it. So I watched it, took on a good portion of his pain, guilt, suffering through empathy, and made it my own.

I made it my own so much to the point that one night I had such pain in the joints of my arms and hands that it finally made me admit to myself, with GREAT DISMAY, that I was ANGRY with MY BELOVED ANGELIC MOM. I was angry with her for leaving me in the impossible position of trying to pick up the pieces of Humpty-Dumpty--because she didn't stand up to him in all those moments to simply say, "Dean--you're hurting me. Stop it!" Yes, I was feeling really victimy and icky and horrendous.

And so, that night I let myself feel the anger towards my mom, think the thoughts that fueled that anger towards her--and bawled my eyes out until the pain in my arms disappeared.

And afterwards I noticed an ease of breathing in me, a release, and that knowingness that the feeling of anger was okay--it, too, was simply a part of the human experience, and not something to be judged as always being a "wrong" feeling.

Sometimes, I discovered, it is appropriate. And just because I felt it in a moment, it didn't mean I had to feel it the rest of my life. I did it, not planning to hang onto it, but to release myself from it. I felt it in order to move it out--and move it out of me, I did. I no longer felt angry with her—but instead realized that because of her in her perfection of being in that moment, I learned something about myself.

I also walked out of that experience knowing that honoring my parents and loved ones didn't mean making all of their choices my own. Honoring them, to me, means thanking them for all their choices and then taking what I learned from their lives of choice and deciding which I wanted to try out for my own life.

I took my parents' journey together and chose to communicate my feelings, thoughts and my intentions with Kelly out loud, clearly. I chose to let him know when something he said or did brought about pain for me--knowing all along (and telling him and myself out loud) that he was just the closest human mirror to how I was internally hurting myself.

I knew I was solely responsible for all the joyful and the painful moments of my life--but also that in accepting that responsibility, I had to do it with full self-compassion. Self-blame and self-condemnation weren't going to change a thing--I'd already given those many years of practice, and they never worked for me.

For those of you who have chosen to read my posts—thanks for allowing me the chance to express that awful anger emotion out loud. It’s more of a gift than you can possibly know…

Much love,
Pen

I am that I am!!!

I am that I am, Penny, of sovereign domain!

What does that statement of My Soul--my entire Body of Consciousness--mean? It simply means that I am accepting full responsibility for my entire life, and beingness, and that no other has any dominion over me. I am a child of our Creator/Source of All That Is/God, Whom has bestowed me with Divine Free Will. I accept that Gift with Honor.

Many of us humans have been playing the game, most of us without consciously knowing it, of giving our sovereignty away on a platter to others who touch our lives—family, friends, neighbors, community, religious and educational institutions, government corporations, businesses. The list goes on and on.

We've all been deeply ingrained with Self Doubt. And our human minds have developed a type of pattern from this cycle of giving our GIFT of FREE CHOICE away, where we’re seduced into feelingly believing that we have to tangle with the web of illusion that’s been in place, for age upon age upon age. Frankly, I’m done being sucked on by some make-believe hairy-scary spider that really can’t touch me at all.

I’m tired of, and done with, playing the game of “who I am not trying to figure out who I am.” No more!

I know who I am—I know what’s in my heart and my intentions—and I know that I come from GOODNESS ITSELF, thus how can I be anything but GOODNESS?

The last twelve months, I had the opportunity to interact with the Census Bureau of the Corporate U.S. government—through one of its slave employees acting like a government agent. One of the ladies showed up ringing my doorbell on a bitterly cold winter day over a year ago. Being the kind person that I am, I invited her in and I answered her survey of very intrusive questions—many of which were about my husband, which I had no business answering. They asked me his salary, how many hours of overtime he worked the previous week, how much money we spent on groceries the previous week, how much we spent eating out that week, how many people lived in our house—I think by now you get the gist.

I didn’t mean to, but I was pulling figures out of the air and she was punching my answers into her long questionnaire. We finished up with this little episode, only for her to tell me as she’s leaving that she will be contacting me over the phone for the next three or four months to interview me some more about the previous weeks.

Okay—I allowed the bullshit to continue through the invasive proceedings into my husband’s and my own life for the following four months. I knew it was all crap and I was amazed at the stupidity of this survey, but I chose not to make waves and I kept telling myself that these women were just trying to keep food on their tables doing this dumb-ass job.

After the four months was up, I was told that they were going to contact me again beginning this past December, and then do four more months of surveys into my husband’s and my life.

December came around and I’d received a letter from the U.S. Census Bureau telling me of the survey starting again and that my participation was “voluntary.” I did not know this before or I would have turned the first person away who appeared on my doorstep. I chose to cooperate rather than make a stink—out of compassion.

So, when Field Representative, Aemilia, called me again to start the surveys over I told her that I realized this was a voluntary act that I chose to no longer be part of it.

And she told me, “You have to call your congressman in order to be taken off the list. Otherwise they’ll keep sending your name to us and we’ll have to keep contacting you.” In the meantime, she interviewed me to fill out her survey for that month—and I kindly allowed her to do so. All of this was after I had told her that the survey absolutely meant nothing to me and that I saw no issue-solving value in it whatsoever. BUT SHE DIDN’T LISTEN!

As we concluded that phone conversation, I told her—and I meant it from my heart—that I would have enjoyed meeting her under other circumstances, that maybe we could simply have a cup of coffee together as friends. I didn’t let my bitch loose on her at any time in any of our interactions.

But evidently, I should have. She contacted me again—and this time, Kelly answered the phone and told her I wasn’t interested in participating anymore. Then she asked him if he would—and he told her he was not interested either.

Evidently the “no” over the phone wasn’t enough. Doesn’t “no” mean anything? After the turndown over the phone on Saturday, I got an overnighted letter via FedEx from Cathy L. Lacy, Regional Director of the Regional Office of the U.S. Census Bureau in Denver, CO, informing me that their field representative will be “calling on me again in the near future.”

No “congressman” ever contacted me to ASK me to “volunteer” for this survey, so why should I have to figure out who he is and then track him down in order to have him take me off a list? A list volunteering me for taking part in something I was never consulted about, by him in the first place. I am a sovereign being—the Corporate U.S. Census Bureau should not even be messing with me using peon employees—they should be sending GOOD WILL AMBASSADORS, if anyone at all, to visit me.

In all their stupid long lists of mindless questions, not one asked the important things about me, and they should never have been asking me questions about my husband’s life--a sovereign being I had no place in speaking for, even if I was "married" to him.

These are the important, world-difference-making things people should know about me. I’m a benevolent sister, neighbor, friend and I’m sometimes that compassionate stranger you might meet while walking, or while out and about on errands. I’m not going to tell you what you should believe, nor am I going to grill you about what you do or don’t do.

I’ll honor your free choice to play out your life however you wish and I won’t pretend to have your answers. I’ll tell you to trust in yourself every time and I’ll remind you to remember the gift that you are--to be kind to, and appreciative and unconditionally loving of, yourself first, so then you can be that way with your neighbor, too.

As to the rest of you who would force yourselves and your ideas upon me—the first time or two, I’ll give you the chance to go on your own way quietly, but if you come back and try to negotiate with me, consider yourself served notice. The bitch will be set loose and you’re not going to gain one thing except an education in honoring sovereignty. And so I am!

In Loving Memory and Honor...Arlen

“Penny—you did it! I’m so proud of you!” He said this as he was walking up the steps towards me, smiling. And then he leaned over the rail and kissed me.

Few dreams have ever felt so good. And prior to this one, twenty years in the making, in all my other dreams/nightmares he was always angry with me for not waiting for him, for going forward in my life with Kelly.

It wasn’t really Arlen who was angry with me though—the dreams were a mirror of the struggle I was having within myself—and Arlen wasn’t allowed by me to come in, in any other way, until I resolved my feelings of guilt and shame and worthlessness surrounding him.

That dream of him being proud of me was the first chink out of a gigantoid iceberg. It was the marking of a point in my life where I had made the conscious choice to no longer beat up on myself. I had looked in the mirror one day, looked into my own eyes leaking over with tears, and realized how cruel and harsh I had been with myself—more so than I would be to anyone outside of me. I sincerely apologized, right then and there, to myself. And I began to actually practice loving myself unconditionally and with compassion. The girl who stared back at me in the mirror had tried and tried and tried SO HARD to do, and be, all the “right things”—only to be harped at and to go unappreciated by me. I was finally done with not being good enough.

Arlen was my first love. We were neighbors—grew up on farms and ranches—and he and my brother, Tim, were best friends from childhood. Tim and his wife, Cheri, pretty much orchestrated the two of us getting together, and from the moment of our first date we were a foursome who did everything together.

When I slip back into our year together, I remember it as being so fun and full of laughter. Arlen and I both loved animals and nature and looking at the stars--true romantics at heart. He picked me a bouquet of wild yellow sweet peas when he, Tim and I went to check out the damage after a tornado had passed through a deserted neighboring farmstead. When I quit school and returned home, he stopped the pick-up in the middle of the road on the way into our family farm where Tim and Cheri lived, to kiss me, saying, “I’ve been wanting to do that ever since you got home.”

He and Tim whole-heartedly threw themselves into acting like fools just to entertain their women. One of my favorite memories of those two is watching them run, in their cut-offs, down to the beach of Haley Dam, girlishly squealing as they held their towels in front of them and then daintily dipping their toes in the water.

The four of us were parked in the pick-up on the Big Hill, and I remember Tim making some wise crack to which Arlen replied as he kissed me, “Shut up, Lewton, I’m trying to seduce your sister.”

He hunted all over his parents’ home to find a child-size helmet that would fit me when he took me with him on a motorcycle ride in the pastures to check cows. As we stopped to open a gate, he told me, with the most charming grin, that I looked like a little kid in that helmet.

The memories go on and on, warming my heart with every one. I used to be terrified of forgetting anything from our time together, and I actually did forget for an awful-feeling frantic moment. But then my heart started filling in the gaps: and the memories, I’ve discovered, have gotten sweeter with age and experience.

That year was filled with a lot of firsts for me. My grandmother had passed away when college started, and Arlen, my first boyfriend, and I had just started dating that summer. I was in my second year at NDSU for landscape design when I hit school burnout. I was sick with something like walking pneumonia most of what was to be my last fall quarter, and the school thing was just something I was doing because everyone else my age seemed to be doing it. In looking back, it wasn’t my desire—I was feeling really empty and lost there. I was in a void.

The idea of an education in a life-long career of doing one thing was feeling really limiting and suffocating for me. I couldn’t put it into words then because of feeling so much shame at “being a quitter” in the first place, plus I was mentally exhausted from trying to perform to the level of excellence I was expecting of myself. Even then, I was wrestling with the “not good enough” theme.

At nineteen years of age, I was an expert at rote regurgitation of all kinds of subject matter—my teachers and instructors loved it—but I was losing my sense of unique identity, my own “I am-ness.” My sense of imagination and creativity had just torpedoed down a black hole. I was a conglomeration of everyone else’s ideas and belief systems, molding myself this way and that, immersing myself to the point I no longer even felt real. And so choice-making,for me, became overloaded with overwhelming and paralyzing fears of making the wrong choice.

So, I quit, returned home and went to work at one of the local drugstores part-time. I was a painter-for-hire with my mom and sister on our days off. And pretty much every weekend was spent with Arlen and Tim and Cheri, and my newborn niece, Crystal.

Arlen never once treated me like, or intimated that, I was only a fling for him. I was treated with honor and affection all the while we dated. So, now when I look back at one of our last times together, I’m astonished at how much an I’m not good enough self-perception managed to twist and distort what was really a very unconditional love-based act.

He had pulled over on the township road, after leaving Tim and Cheri’s, to talk. As he held me, he asked, “Do you think we should break up so you can go back and finish school?”

Believing he was sick and tired of dating pathetic me, I found myself bawling my eyes out at the thought of parting from him—and that only made it worse in my eyes, because I detested women using tears to manipulate men. And there I was seemingly doing that very thing—even though that wasn’t my intention.

It took me nearly twenty-five years to look at that moment from some other perspective than “I’m a loser nobody would want to be with.” Twenty-five years to even consider the possibility that that was maybe guy-speak for, “I’m feeling serious about us, but I don’t want to get in your way of happiness. And I’m asking you how you feel about us.” He sure kissed me afterward like he meant business. Grin.

But no—I couldn’t even let myself fully enjoy that at the time, because, in my mind, I believed he was resorting to kissing me in order to calm down a hysterical wreck and to smooth over an awkward moment of trying to break up with me nicely.

I was SO NOT PROUD of MYSELF back then, and for all those years afterward…and that made for a very long and difficult journey.

This is the start of my story with Arlen…there is so much more to come…but this is enough for now…

For more on the story of Arlen, click the titles here to read the posts:
Can Death Be Transcended?
Good-bye Conspiracy Theories