After a grueling 9 months of having changed 3 different countries, I am back home. Not home, as in Colorado, since I've already been here a little over a month. But back home as in, in my own house..basement n' all. That's right. I am finally home. Now I can undertake all the projects I wanted to complete, I can even adopt a dog, convert one of the rooms into a studio. The possibilities are infinite..or so it seems at the time of this writing. I have a monkey, fickle brain, and all of this optimism about the bright, shiny future that lays dormant ahead of me could vanish as fast as a box of chocolates.
But I don't think I will ever be ungrateful for what I have been graced with, in terms of this home. When I think of the many months I spent in Belgium in captivity under the watchful eyes of a borderline personality disordered lover, almost in the manner a caged bunny, I can't help but feel grateful that I am free, and at home. I will never forget the way he looked so amused and empowered with his new pet (me), locked up in a home, in a country that was anything but cozy for her, as day after day he grew sicker and sicker. In the end, I started to doubt my own sanity. Had I really moved across the ocean to be with a boy I'd met online? Had I really bought into all of this 23 year old's promises of eternal, undying love? Had I really sold all my furniture, rented my home, and left behind my cat who had been the only consistent thing in my life? Had I? Had I? Yes, I had. Perhaps it was I who was so insane.
Then I think of the transition to Turkey. The values, the customs, the worldviews, the faces all different. A vast world apart from my own. I couldn't stand it. I wanted nothing to do with this alien world.
I am happy to be home.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Conform, conform or die..
It seems to be another dreary day of fatigue and lukewarm boredom. I have been productive to the extent that I have read more than 70 pages of a new book entitled "Loose Girl." The genre is not one that I would take into easily, but I thought I wouldn't mind reading a book that in some ways echoed my life of 'love promiscuity'. In this book, I attempt to find answers to my lifelong 'love addiction.' Believe me, it is no lesser of an addiction than drug addiction. I know deep down inside
the many lovers that drifted in and out of my life, were all attempts to find a home, a security base where I am loved and accepted under all conditions. Forty plus lovers (most of whom were not even physical/sexual, but merely platonic) later, I remain as homeless as ever. No, don't take pity on me. I am a hopeless, incurable, sentimental romantic, not in the sense of flowers and teddy bears, but more in the sense that a soul mate is out there, that there are indeed possibilities.
Speaking of love, I stumbled into my ex-husband's site which proudly declared him to be the new father of a boy. My jaw dropped instantaneously. I felt immobilized by the sheer weight of the news. Then the words 'What on earth?' whizzed through my mind like a Hawaiian hurricane. Is this self-proclaimed, venom spewing misanthrope who had in his days vowed to be childfree really, truly, deeply a father of a newborn boy (who I might add looks more like a wrinkled washcloth than a human)? So was the vasectomy he had undergone in our 3rd year of the relationship just a ploy to marry me? A die-hard environmentalist and lover of my freedom, I had put forth vasectomy as one of the prerequisites for marriage. It seems so. Oh yes, it seems so.
I couldn't help but wonder if he had just succumbed to conformity; you know the ubiquitous social pressure to be part of the herd, especially given the country he comes from. I will not name the country, but suffice to say that it is part of the Islamic Middle East.
I don't know, perhaps I don't want to know. But my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts, and memories, as I interpret and re-interpret my past, not just with him, but all the lovers that have come and gone, come and gone, like the leaves of a tree. Were they also pretending to be someone else? How does one ever know?
the many lovers that drifted in and out of my life, were all attempts to find a home, a security base where I am loved and accepted under all conditions. Forty plus lovers (most of whom were not even physical/sexual, but merely platonic) later, I remain as homeless as ever. No, don't take pity on me. I am a hopeless, incurable, sentimental romantic, not in the sense of flowers and teddy bears, but more in the sense that a soul mate is out there, that there are indeed possibilities.
Speaking of love, I stumbled into my ex-husband's site which proudly declared him to be the new father of a boy. My jaw dropped instantaneously. I felt immobilized by the sheer weight of the news. Then the words 'What on earth?' whizzed through my mind like a Hawaiian hurricane. Is this self-proclaimed, venom spewing misanthrope who had in his days vowed to be childfree really, truly, deeply a father of a newborn boy (who I might add looks more like a wrinkled washcloth than a human)? So was the vasectomy he had undergone in our 3rd year of the relationship just a ploy to marry me? A die-hard environmentalist and lover of my freedom, I had put forth vasectomy as one of the prerequisites for marriage. It seems so. Oh yes, it seems so.
I couldn't help but wonder if he had just succumbed to conformity; you know the ubiquitous social pressure to be part of the herd, especially given the country he comes from. I will not name the country, but suffice to say that it is part of the Islamic Middle East.
I don't know, perhaps I don't want to know. But my mind has been a whirlwind of thoughts, and memories, as I interpret and re-interpret my past, not just with him, but all the lovers that have come and gone, come and gone, like the leaves of a tree. Were they also pretending to be someone else? How does one ever know?
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