Disclosure: I'm angry.
This blog is not the only piece of written material I have out there on the Internet. I am the proud owner of a few other blog-type columns on the net and a bunch of said columns are publications with which my real identity is tied. Accordingly, I have various social media outlets with which these publications are connected. Blah blah blah. Here's the meat of the story:
Today I published an article for a column and I blasted the article out via email. I maintain a group listing for this particular column and any time someone joins or leaves said group I am notified. Shortly after my new piece was blasted out a crawl comes up on my screen which reads "Daniel xxxxxxxx has unsubscribed from xxxxx list". I can honestly say this not only surprised me but it genuinely hurt my feelings. I'm not sure what it is that is going to have to happen for me to wake up and welcome the reality check that this dude simply wants absolutely nothing to do with me but it better come soon because I'm really tired of feeling like our relationship was worthless.
I get it - we're apart. I do not call him, I've deleted him from my facebook and any other social media outlets. I do not email, do not IM, do not text. For all intents and purposes, I am completely invisible (Hi, Emily Previn). Is it so wrong for me to expect a certain level of support on my personal endeavors, though? This particular column for which this article was blasted out is an actual paid gig. The money earned is damn near nothing - but for each click I receive, I get a tiny piece of change - and you know what? It adds up. It's not even about that, though.
Here's the thing:
Daniel and I dated for a year and a half or so. We had a relationship that started out stronger and with more passion than almost any other union I've had in my life. I really felt like we simply understood each other. I was able to talk to him and to tell him my secrets, my fears, my desires and my insecurities. In turn, I sat and listened to his - and held him when he found himself in tears over things that may not seem tear-worthy to someone else. I didn't judge him for crying, didn't try to change who he was or toughen him up in any way. We both had our issues and it felt sort of great to have someone with whom I could be open and honest, with whom I could be weak. I always felt like we were such a strong couple because of all of this mental support we provided one and other - and right now, after having watched him completely delete yet another part of who I am from his life, I am kind of wondering what the fuck happened to all that support.
It's not about being a boyfriend or a girlfriend. It's about being a human being. My writing endeavors are not what pays the bills. I work a 9-5 just like every other Tom, Dick and Harry. My writing is done so because I genuinely enjoy it. The fact that I have some outlets which allow me to earn a penny here or there is great and I'm very lucky to have found that opportunity. Every penny counts, na'mean Brooklyn? That said, it is just astounding to me that after all of the mental support we've provided one and other that I'd see Daniel's name vanish from my mailing list.
It just seems so childish - so fucking immature. Our personal relationship has absolutely nothing to do with the topics I cover in this particular article. If it was my sitting there and discussing my heartstrings I could completely understand his not wanting to be witness to that - but, fuck - you can't offer me the simple support of just being another human being out there that is down to support a passion that lives inside of a woman with whom you shared your life, your secrets and your fears?
It just hurts, readers. It hurts to know that this man I loved - and obviously still love on a lot of levels, undoubtedly wants absolutely nothing to do with anything I'm involved in. I try to understand it and I try to make sense of it all but I come up short with each attempt. I am lucky to have folks who will talk me through it and crack various jokes. I am lucky to have people in my life with whom I can spend time and not focus on the sadness that finds its way into my mind when shit like this happens.
I am lucky.
Showing posts with label break-up. Show all posts
Showing posts with label break-up. Show all posts
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Poppa was a rolling stone...
A few weeks ago I invited my father to attend a live acoustic show that would have been something I went to with Daniel had he not gone all loopy on me and end our relationship. The fact that my friends are somewhat restricted with respect to their artsy taste left me with little option in terms of who to invite, not that I don’t enjoy the company of my dad; I do. We made our way down to Murray Hill and settled into an authentic English pub for some fish and chips prior to the show and it was here that my father began to talk about his disdain for hipsters. I couldn’t help but laugh because I knew, undoubtedly, that my father didn’t even know what a hipster was. To prove this fact, I asked him ‘Dad, what’s a hipster?’ – to which he replied “I don’t know but I hear they are all wannabe Brooklyn” – Man, does it get any better than hanging with your dad over a pint of Blue Moon and discussing the Brooklyn wanna-be pretense of a hipster? I don’t think so, my friends.
We sat 3rd row orchestra and enjoyed the show a magnificent amount. Both of us are a bit on the spiritual side when it comes to connecting with art and it was interesting to see how the various changes in musical energy elicited similar emotional responses in each of us. On at least two occasions, the music brought us to tears which then brought us to laughter at how empathic we seem to be at times. We purchased our merchandise (A CD each; support good music!) and made our way out of the city by way of the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before making a stop down in the lower-east-side for an egg-cream at Ray’s.
If there is anything Brooklyn should be synonymous with it is egg-creams. I distinctly remember being a little kid down in Gravesend and walking to the corner luncheonette with my mother to get cigarettes or milk or lotto tickets, or whatever it was she needed, and my getting an egg-cream. They were something around $.50 back then – and they were prepared and served up just perfectly. Ray’s in the LES serves up a comparable mixture and whenever I am in the city and with a car I make it a point to stop there and grab a large-one before heading back into Brooklyn. Tonight was no different. My father has some decent egg-cream skills and when I told him about this place he immediately laughed at the idea of some spot in the now-trendy Lower East Side being able to produce something authentic New York. Soon after his first sip, however, he changed that tune and he and I enjoyed our large chocolate egg-creams as we continued our drive back into the county of Kings.
We took the scenic route to the FDR drive, taking a left off of Avenue A working our way down into the beast that is Alphabet City. My memories of this area as a child are far from coherent, but they are certainly there. I recall coming into the city with my parents as a kid – waiting for them to cop. Most of my memories involve being in the back of a car of some sort – waiting while one of them ran into a housing project. I suppose I should be happy my recognition isn’t clearer but the fact remains that I knew what we were doing there. Almost without fail, any time my father and I are in this area he points out to me the corner (Avenue C and 7th) where he was stabbed thus resulting in a decent chunk of his liver having to be removed. He wears a scar from the surgery they needed to perform on him that runs the length of his breast plate down to past his belly button. Today would be no different and as we drove past Avenue C he mumbled something or other about the stabbing. The clearer memories for him this drive-through were of the various dope-spots in the area. There was one building in particular that he pointed out in which there used to be a New Jack City style set-up. “You see those different colored bricks on the far end of the courtyard there – they’re a different color because they were nonexistent at one point. That spot used to be a hole in the wall, literally, where you’d place your money and out would come your heroin”. I suppose to some this type of conversation would be interesting? The ever-changing face of NYC was sitting next to me and, in a way, I had my own personal tour guide pre-gentrification LES. I wish I could see it that way – but I suppose I still have a lot of shit to work through.
Seeing as I have been trying to write this post for weeks now and any time I sit down to get started something (like the TV, my email, my cellphone) distracts me from actually tackling the feelings that go along with the story in the posting, I realize that I definitely do have some tension to work through with respect to my childhood. Tension is probably, no it’s definitely an understatement.
The truth of the matter is this: I am the child of drug addicts. My mother and father are both recidivists in the world of addiction and although at time of print for this posting they’re on a sober-run, I have absolutely no idea how long that will or won’t last and that is terrifying. Daniel would often ask me how I can even still have a relationship with my parents after all they’ve put me through – and my only answer is “they’re my parents” – And, they are my parents. I love them regardless of their battle with drugs and will continue to love them accordingly. Love is one thing, but tolerance is another and this last year I pretty much exiled my father from my life for a period of time.
It was moving time for me and Daniel - he was coming from Queens and I from Brooklyn so it only made sense to schedule our moves for the same day and meet up at the new apartment. Daniel’s folks had given him some extra money to assist in any moving expenses (shocker) and my plan was to hire some day-laboring illegals and use my father’s pick-up truck to transport the little amount of stuff I was actually taking to the new pad. Days before go-time, my mother who loves to watch a drama fire spark, called me and expressed her concern with my father’s mixing of Xanax and Oxycontin. As I listened to her talk about it – and express her concerns in a manner to indicate that her problems were of the utmost importance and with little regard to the fact that I was in the middle of planning a stressful move, scared of giving up all of my shit, and just generally under a lot of pressure, I became so aggravated that I flew off the handle and started screaming and yelling like a maniac. Two days later I had a discussion with my father in which I told him that unless he sought help for his behavior I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and that this wasn’t something up for negotiation. Xanax and anything are a completely insane combination and I already lost one person I loved dearly to a Xanax cocktail, I wasn’t about to stand idly by and watch another go.
I’m not sure if it had as much to do with my cutting him off or the credit should go to the folks at his job who began to notice a difference in his behavior, but my father checked himself into a rehab facility a few months after my cutting him off and he’s been clean for the last 7 or 8 months now. I’m happy he’s on the right path – but I cannot deny, at all, the fact that that can change in an instant. As such, my relationship with him is one that has me asking a lot of questions.
Is it normal, I ask myself, for a father to show his kid (albeit 32 year old kid) the spot where he used to slip money through bricks to get a bundle of dope? Is it completely acceptable or is if just my own shame with the past? There is no mistaking the fact that my father is a heroin addict. He admits to it and anyone that knows me is basically in the know – him showing me the dope spot isn’t exactly an admission of guilt – it’s really more so just a matter of fact much like pointing out a good Chinese restaurant to a neighbor. I suppose that is a bad comparison. The real question I am asking here, though, is what is it going to take for me to be more at ease with the past? Will it be forgiveness? There are tons of self-help books that I review looking for the answers and they all seem to point toward forgiveness and acceptance. Acceptance is something I think I’ll have an easier time doing over forgiving. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I even know what it specifically is I am so angry about that would solicit forgiveness.
There’s a lot of work to be done.
We sat 3rd row orchestra and enjoyed the show a magnificent amount. Both of us are a bit on the spiritual side when it comes to connecting with art and it was interesting to see how the various changes in musical energy elicited similar emotional responses in each of us. On at least two occasions, the music brought us to tears which then brought us to laughter at how empathic we seem to be at times. We purchased our merchandise (A CD each; support good music!) and made our way out of the city by way of the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before making a stop down in the lower-east-side for an egg-cream at Ray’s.
If there is anything Brooklyn should be synonymous with it is egg-creams. I distinctly remember being a little kid down in Gravesend and walking to the corner luncheonette with my mother to get cigarettes or milk or lotto tickets, or whatever it was she needed, and my getting an egg-cream. They were something around $.50 back then – and they were prepared and served up just perfectly. Ray’s in the LES serves up a comparable mixture and whenever I am in the city and with a car I make it a point to stop there and grab a large-one before heading back into Brooklyn. Tonight was no different. My father has some decent egg-cream skills and when I told him about this place he immediately laughed at the idea of some spot in the now-trendy Lower East Side being able to produce something authentic New York. Soon after his first sip, however, he changed that tune and he and I enjoyed our large chocolate egg-creams as we continued our drive back into the county of Kings.
We took the scenic route to the FDR drive, taking a left off of Avenue A working our way down into the beast that is Alphabet City. My memories of this area as a child are far from coherent, but they are certainly there. I recall coming into the city with my parents as a kid – waiting for them to cop. Most of my memories involve being in the back of a car of some sort – waiting while one of them ran into a housing project. I suppose I should be happy my recognition isn’t clearer but the fact remains that I knew what we were doing there. Almost without fail, any time my father and I are in this area he points out to me the corner (Avenue C and 7th) where he was stabbed thus resulting in a decent chunk of his liver having to be removed. He wears a scar from the surgery they needed to perform on him that runs the length of his breast plate down to past his belly button. Today would be no different and as we drove past Avenue C he mumbled something or other about the stabbing. The clearer memories for him this drive-through were of the various dope-spots in the area. There was one building in particular that he pointed out in which there used to be a New Jack City style set-up. “You see those different colored bricks on the far end of the courtyard there – they’re a different color because they were nonexistent at one point. That spot used to be a hole in the wall, literally, where you’d place your money and out would come your heroin”. I suppose to some this type of conversation would be interesting? The ever-changing face of NYC was sitting next to me and, in a way, I had my own personal tour guide pre-gentrification LES. I wish I could see it that way – but I suppose I still have a lot of shit to work through.
Seeing as I have been trying to write this post for weeks now and any time I sit down to get started something (like the TV, my email, my cellphone) distracts me from actually tackling the feelings that go along with the story in the posting, I realize that I definitely do have some tension to work through with respect to my childhood. Tension is probably, no it’s definitely an understatement.
The truth of the matter is this: I am the child of drug addicts. My mother and father are both recidivists in the world of addiction and although at time of print for this posting they’re on a sober-run, I have absolutely no idea how long that will or won’t last and that is terrifying. Daniel would often ask me how I can even still have a relationship with my parents after all they’ve put me through – and my only answer is “they’re my parents” – And, they are my parents. I love them regardless of their battle with drugs and will continue to love them accordingly. Love is one thing, but tolerance is another and this last year I pretty much exiled my father from my life for a period of time.
It was moving time for me and Daniel - he was coming from Queens and I from Brooklyn so it only made sense to schedule our moves for the same day and meet up at the new apartment. Daniel’s folks had given him some extra money to assist in any moving expenses (shocker) and my plan was to hire some day-laboring illegals and use my father’s pick-up truck to transport the little amount of stuff I was actually taking to the new pad. Days before go-time, my mother who loves to watch a drama fire spark, called me and expressed her concern with my father’s mixing of Xanax and Oxycontin. As I listened to her talk about it – and express her concerns in a manner to indicate that her problems were of the utmost importance and with little regard to the fact that I was in the middle of planning a stressful move, scared of giving up all of my shit, and just generally under a lot of pressure, I became so aggravated that I flew off the handle and started screaming and yelling like a maniac. Two days later I had a discussion with my father in which I told him that unless he sought help for his behavior I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and that this wasn’t something up for negotiation. Xanax and anything are a completely insane combination and I already lost one person I loved dearly to a Xanax cocktail, I wasn’t about to stand idly by and watch another go.
I’m not sure if it had as much to do with my cutting him off or the credit should go to the folks at his job who began to notice a difference in his behavior, but my father checked himself into a rehab facility a few months after my cutting him off and he’s been clean for the last 7 or 8 months now. I’m happy he’s on the right path – but I cannot deny, at all, the fact that that can change in an instant. As such, my relationship with him is one that has me asking a lot of questions.
Is it normal, I ask myself, for a father to show his kid (albeit 32 year old kid) the spot where he used to slip money through bricks to get a bundle of dope? Is it completely acceptable or is if just my own shame with the past? There is no mistaking the fact that my father is a heroin addict. He admits to it and anyone that knows me is basically in the know – him showing me the dope spot isn’t exactly an admission of guilt – it’s really more so just a matter of fact much like pointing out a good Chinese restaurant to a neighbor. I suppose that is a bad comparison. The real question I am asking here, though, is what is it going to take for me to be more at ease with the past? Will it be forgiveness? There are tons of self-help books that I review looking for the answers and they all seem to point toward forgiveness and acceptance. Acceptance is something I think I’ll have an easier time doing over forgiving. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I even know what it specifically is I am so angry about that would solicit forgiveness.
There’s a lot of work to be done.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Destructive behavior at its best
Daniel and I would often kid around about how our relationship was on the wild side due to our both being sex addicts. We'd laugh about it and even throw around the term in a manner meant to mock one and other. The very beginning of our relationship was met with a super concentrated physical union. We were easily having sex three times a day at minimum and, for us, this seemed completely normal. Our nights out were always ended with intense kink. For the first month and a half or so we kept the sex to ourselves but eventually we stepped outside of the normal male/female relationship parameters and introduced exaggerated variations of our kink.
In a previous post of this blog, I mention that I was introduced to the group scene via a dude I met on Craigslist. Scouring the Internet was not that uncomfortable for me. I have, indeed, engaged in anonymous sex. This behavior, looking back, was super dangerous but while you're doing these things you don't stop and look around at the warning signs because for the most part, these actions are dictated by something much greater than the sheer desire to cum.
In the Six Feet Under snippet linked to this post, Brenda goes to see a therapist at the push of her friend Melissa who happens to be a sex worker. I chose to include this clip for a few reasons. At one point, Brenda mentions that she thinks she truly enjoys the euphoric feeling she gets from these random sexual encounters with strangers while she is in a monogamous relationship. Save Daniel, I have cheated on pretty much every boyfriend I've had. There was a point in my life that I was allowing my sexuality to dictate the bulk of my decisions. The idea of being in a relationship that was not centered on sex seemed nearly impossible. I was condoning my behavior by stating, simply, that my activities were a result of my desires. It's a rather simple equation; you want something, you get it. Deep down inside, I think I would often wonder whether or not my behavior was out of the norm and time and time again I would condone it by rationalizing the fact that I was simply acting on my raw needs. And, to a degree, this was true. I did have these desires and curiosities and my acting on them made me feel as if I was a step ahead of everyone that was allowing their repression to filter their desires. I was on top of the world in my mind.
Sometime over the last five years or so, I began to question these decisions. I wouldn't say that I was particularly ashamed of myself for having experimented but I am confident in exclaiming that the events took on an unsatisfying air after a while. They just became a bit substandard at their core and I tried, for a long time, to figure out what had changed and why my interest in these self-gratifying events began to dissipate. I still don't really have a firm answer on that.
When Daniel and I went to a group event, I found myself taking a moral inventory of the attendees. I was creating scenarios in my mind of all of their lives and the paths that brought these folks to the same room in which I was sitting. How fucking condescending of me. Of course, none of this was said aloud, but I certainly do remember having choice thoughts about two women in particular. One was the very youngish girl that had come along with a much older man. Her skin was as alabaster as a fucking porcelain doll and her hair as healthy as could be. I would guesstimate her at around 20, tops. I wondered what type of fucked up shit had happened in her childhood to bring her to this event on the arm of a 40+ bi-sexual male with whom she didn't seem to have very much in common. The other area I focused the remainder of my attention on was this socially awkward mid to late 30’s female. It was very evident via the weird small talk we had that she was a very self-doubting woman. She was on the heavier side, probably around a size 14-16, and while I didn’t find her particularly sexy or attractive, she was not an eye sore either. I studied her awkwardly work the room while she was fully clothed and later sat back to watch while she turned into this sex-beast who suddenly exhibited the confidence of Aphrodite. It was a transformation like none I'd ever seen before and all that continued to run through my mind was the sadness I felt for this woman who could only feel strong and beautiful when she was a sexual object. Now, far be it from me to cement any of these observations as real. My opinions are nothing but opinion - and a part of me plays with guilt for even having these types of thoughts but our minds are interesting creatures and they will go where they may. After the get together and my little thought session I turned the tables onto myself and played with the ideas of why I had found myself in this scene at one time. I still participate in these thoughts and I endlessly come up with the same answer: I use sex as a coping mechanism.
When the therapist in the clip above introduces the basic fundamentals of sex addiction she says some choice words. "It involves the sublimation of emotions that are too painful to address". My onset into the world of extreme casual sex came less than a year after the death of a man I was dating for five years intermittently and was sure would eventually be my husband. My entrance into the world of sexual activity at all, came at the ripe early age of 13 and I was unquestionably looking to escape the reality that was my home life. My parents are recovering drug addicts. The word recovering in the previous sentence might as well have a toggle switch because their lengths of clean time vary even to this day.
I have no hesitation declaring that the bulk of my sexual experience was gained via the attempt to not sit down in my own skin and deal with my life. This makes the most sense to me now because as I go through the motions of this break up with Daniel, I have never struggled more with feelings and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that it is because instead of having a dick in my hand, I am actually allowing myself to go through this. I don't know if I would go so far as to say that I need to attend sex anonymous meetings - but I am positive in exclaiming that avoiding unhealthy sexual encounters is becoming a real struggle for me. I am starting to set myself up to jump back into this behavior pattern and I need to keep a watchful eye on it because this is NOT what I want to revert to. If for no other reason than to have a one-up on Daniel, I cannot go out like that. But, seriously, this has absolutely nothing to do with Daniel. This is about my healing process and I'm proud of myself for actually feeling the pain.
Three days after breaking up with me, I spotted Daniel on a strictly-sex site looking to hook up. He'd been staying at a friend’s place over in Washington Heights and I noticed that his 'location' on the site had been changed to reflect his current whereabouts. I was hurt, obviously, but more so I was actually a bit stunned that he would so quickly revert to this behavior. We'd discussed our sexual exploits and repeatedly he'd mentioned that he did not want to go back to being "that guy". Here I was in our apartment, drowning in a bed of tears, looking at the online profile of "that guy". It was heart breaking on a number of levels. Even now, nearly two months have gone by and I can't help but check his online status on that site every now and again. He's still active, still seeking hookups. I went and looked further today - and found that he now has a match.com account, too. I was joking with a friend of mine after having read Daniel's Match.com profile and said "He's going to make me go out and suck a dick, and I don't want to do that!". The real joke is that I don't know how untrue that statement is.
I have not had sex with anyone since Daniel which may honestly be the longest period I've been without intercourse in over 10 years. It's a conflicting feeling because a part of me is missing the intimacy that comes along with intercourse. I want to have someone’s hands running down my post-coital flesh. The issue with this is that anyone that I would fuck right now doesn't do the snuggle thing. It'd be strictly sex and I am just not 'there'. Reading Daniel's Match.com ad had me nearly in tears. It's my own fault for looking, obviously - but the Internet will test your limits if nothing else. I am just 'not ready' for the next steps and I suppose that means I'll need to hold off on getting my rocks off accordingly. This is difficult.
Rebounds can be a good thing. Rebounds deflect and I need deflection. I want to nerve up the energy and resources to build my own damn Match.com account - or at least to go out to a bar, or actually attend one of those meetup.com meetups. Why the fuck did I even join if I'm never going to attend an event? Pointless! I suppose my process is one that will work at its own pace. And, I need to make certain that I don't lose sight of the fact that I am not the one with active sex accounts looking to hook up. Typing that sentence prompted me to check his online status - what do you know? Online! I have to stop that, seriously.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Invisible Woman
About two months before my and Daniel's actual break-up, we decided to sit down and make a winter project out of watching Alan Ball's wildly awesome HBO series, Six Feet Under. I have seen the series from start to finish two or three times. Daniel, however, stopped watching right around the last season because he thought it got too campy and novella-ish. I think it is without question the smartest and most interesting series ever to grace the tube.
I was flicking through the channels one night and saw a mini Six Feet Under marathon. I was so excited I could've jumped up and down right there. I eased into the marathon and before I knew it I was once again completely engrossed in the lives of the Fisher family. There is always an over-abundance of tears that comes along with watching Six Feet Under. The identification process I go through in nearly every episode often makes me feel as if the show is speaking directly to me. This was true not only the first two times I watched the series but especially so during this winter project.
The random episodes on cable picked up somewhere around where Lisa goes missing. If you're a fan of the show, I don't need to remind you of the particulars as it seems they have a way of sticking to your ribcage the way day old oatmeal sticks to a dry dish. If you're not a fan of the series or you're just generally unfamiliar with it, I cannot stress enough what you are missing. This production will have you on the edge of your seat - not through suspense, but through sheer pain. We, as human beings, cannot look away in the face of tragic events. Think of the rubbernecking phenomenon - The Fisher family of California experiences accident after accident after accident but they do so in the same manner as us. The characters depicted on this show are all someone we know in reality. I, after watching it numerous times, am still undecided as to who I relate with the most. There are so many attributes of each of their scripted characters that I find in myself on any given day. There are sluts, liars, manic depressives, over-bearing under-trusting matriarchs, soul-searchers, and art lovers. There are episodes that delve deep into drug use, sex as a coping mechanism, prostitution, love, loss, pain, fear, abandonment, abuse, etc. I could go on and on. The interesting thing is that with that huge laundry list I just threw out at you comes only five-Fishers. There are very important peripheral characters as well, but the cast is not as vast as you would expect it to be for a show that covers every fucked up thing about humanity I can think of. I cannot say enough good stuff about Six Feet Under.
I had an idea a while back that was prompted one evening when Daniel and I were camped out in front of the T.V. somewhere around the second season of SFU. It was actually probably more of an epiphany than an idea but either way it has haunted me since and I need to put it out into the universe. There were some things happening on the screen and the dialogue was, in the Six Feet fashion, strong and riddled with guilt and pain. The conversation was directly related to loss and how we, as human beings, deal with it on varying degrees. I peered over at Daniel while the characters delivered their lines and looked for a hint of recognition or at least an indication of cognizance as it related to the subject matter at hand. There was nothing from him - He might as well have been looking at a blank screen. It was at this very moment that I realized our winter project was actually a primer.
The ultimate demise of my relationship was being narrated by the Fishers.
I acknowledged this to myself and somewhere in that split second the reason for my flowing tears switched from identifying with a television show to recognizing just what was happening in my living room. I didn't mention anything to Daniel at that point but I did throw out this idea to him later on and once after our actual break-up. I told him that I was going to document our relationship and my life as it relates to episodes of Six Feet Under, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I'd like to start with The Invisible Woman; Emily Previn.
Tonight while I was washing my single dish, single pot, and single glass after I had a dinner of Turkey Franks and Vegetarian Beans (I had a craving!), I couldn't help but realize that I am quickly falling back into 'alone' Kitty. My days are repetitive and structured. Monday through Friday, I am up at 6:15am to the scent of the timed coffee which finished brewing only a moment earlier. I use the bathroom, greet the cat with some good-morning nuzzles and prepare his breakfast, and turn on the television to NY1. I have my coffee while I apply my make-up for the day. During make-up time, I obsess over what I will wear to work. I pack my lunch at about 7:15 and no later than 7:25 I am out the door and onto the Manhattan bound train. I'm at my desk from 8:30AM to 4:30PM. Most of this time is spent fucking around on the Internet, writing entries for this blog and various other publications for whom I am a contributing editor, and generally slacking off. By 6pm at the latest, I am back home. I change, greet the kitten, and prepare my dinner. Today was no different than everything I just described except instead of watching television or playing on the Internet after I had dinner, I studied and did practice tests for my exam this coming Friday. As I washed my dish(es) this evening, I couldn't get the thought of Emily Previn out of my head. She was dead a full week before anyone noticed she was gone and it was only via a horrific scent that her management company notified the authorities.
Ruth Fisher has some what of a mental breakdown in this episode because she is faced with the idea of being Emily and dying alone. She considers the fact that she, too, may be invisible. And, tonight - I sort of felt the same way.
When I came in from work this evening, on the steps leading up to my new apartment was a big yellow envelope with Daniel's handwriting on it. He sent whatever mail hadn't made its way to my new apartment via the USPS Forwarding order I completed weeks ago. I opened the envelope and thought that maybe there would be a small note from him wishing me well or something. With the exception of a letter from my old college, the envelope was filled with complete junk mail. There was a Val-Pak in the envelope and I wasn't sure whether to be surprised that he included that or to smile because he may have sent it knowing that whenever I got Val-Pak when he and I lived together, I got a little excited. What?! I like to save a buck!
Am I so invisible, like Emily, that Daniel couldn't even bother to include a note as a means of good fortune? In all seriousness, I don't believe I am like Emily. I have friends and if they didn't notice I was missing then the Internet would. The frequency with which I use Social Media
is a little ridiculous. But, I do feel like my life is sort of similar to hers in that I have my dinner alone most nights. It's lonely, and it's sad. I don't enjoy being single Kitty as much as I do Kitty who gets to take care of her man.
The Invisible Woman episode also finds Brenda joining her Shiatsu client Melissa as she turns a trick for a dude who is into exhibitionism. Exhibitionism: there's a topic for a later date!
I was flicking through the channels one night and saw a mini Six Feet Under marathon. I was so excited I could've jumped up and down right there. I eased into the marathon and before I knew it I was once again completely engrossed in the lives of the Fisher family. There is always an over-abundance of tears that comes along with watching Six Feet Under. The identification process I go through in nearly every episode often makes me feel as if the show is speaking directly to me. This was true not only the first two times I watched the series but especially so during this winter project.
The random episodes on cable picked up somewhere around where Lisa goes missing. If you're a fan of the show, I don't need to remind you of the particulars as it seems they have a way of sticking to your ribcage the way day old oatmeal sticks to a dry dish. If you're not a fan of the series or you're just generally unfamiliar with it, I cannot stress enough what you are missing. This production will have you on the edge of your seat - not through suspense, but through sheer pain. We, as human beings, cannot look away in the face of tragic events. Think of the rubbernecking phenomenon - The Fisher family of California experiences accident after accident after accident but they do so in the same manner as us. The characters depicted on this show are all someone we know in reality. I, after watching it numerous times, am still undecided as to who I relate with the most. There are so many attributes of each of their scripted characters that I find in myself on any given day. There are sluts, liars, manic depressives, over-bearing under-trusting matriarchs, soul-searchers, and art lovers. There are episodes that delve deep into drug use, sex as a coping mechanism, prostitution, love, loss, pain, fear, abandonment, abuse, etc. I could go on and on. The interesting thing is that with that huge laundry list I just threw out at you comes only five-Fishers. There are very important peripheral characters as well, but the cast is not as vast as you would expect it to be for a show that covers every fucked up thing about humanity I can think of. I cannot say enough good stuff about Six Feet Under.
I had an idea a while back that was prompted one evening when Daniel and I were camped out in front of the T.V. somewhere around the second season of SFU. It was actually probably more of an epiphany than an idea but either way it has haunted me since and I need to put it out into the universe. There were some things happening on the screen and the dialogue was, in the Six Feet fashion, strong and riddled with guilt and pain. The conversation was directly related to loss and how we, as human beings, deal with it on varying degrees. I peered over at Daniel while the characters delivered their lines and looked for a hint of recognition or at least an indication of cognizance as it related to the subject matter at hand. There was nothing from him - He might as well have been looking at a blank screen. It was at this very moment that I realized our winter project was actually a primer.
The ultimate demise of my relationship was being narrated by the Fishers.
I acknowledged this to myself and somewhere in that split second the reason for my flowing tears switched from identifying with a television show to recognizing just what was happening in my living room. I didn't mention anything to Daniel at that point but I did throw out this idea to him later on and once after our actual break-up. I told him that I was going to document our relationship and my life as it relates to episodes of Six Feet Under, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I'd like to start with The Invisible Woman; Emily Previn.
Tonight while I was washing my single dish, single pot, and single glass after I had a dinner of Turkey Franks and Vegetarian Beans (I had a craving!), I couldn't help but realize that I am quickly falling back into 'alone' Kitty. My days are repetitive and structured. Monday through Friday, I am up at 6:15am to the scent of the timed coffee which finished brewing only a moment earlier. I use the bathroom, greet the cat with some good-morning nuzzles and prepare his breakfast, and turn on the television to NY1. I have my coffee while I apply my make-up for the day. During make-up time, I obsess over what I will wear to work. I pack my lunch at about 7:15 and no later than 7:25 I am out the door and onto the Manhattan bound train. I'm at my desk from 8:30AM to 4:30PM. Most of this time is spent fucking around on the Internet, writing entries for this blog and various other publications for whom I am a contributing editor, and generally slacking off. By 6pm at the latest, I am back home. I change, greet the kitten, and prepare my dinner. Today was no different than everything I just described except instead of watching television or playing on the Internet after I had dinner, I studied and did practice tests for my exam this coming Friday. As I washed my dish(es) this evening, I couldn't get the thought of Emily Previn out of my head. She was dead a full week before anyone noticed she was gone and it was only via a horrific scent that her management company notified the authorities.
Ruth Fisher has some what of a mental breakdown in this episode because she is faced with the idea of being Emily and dying alone. She considers the fact that she, too, may be invisible. And, tonight - I sort of felt the same way.
When I came in from work this evening, on the steps leading up to my new apartment was a big yellow envelope with Daniel's handwriting on it. He sent whatever mail hadn't made its way to my new apartment via the USPS Forwarding order I completed weeks ago. I opened the envelope and thought that maybe there would be a small note from him wishing me well or something. With the exception of a letter from my old college, the envelope was filled with complete junk mail. There was a Val-Pak in the envelope and I wasn't sure whether to be surprised that he included that or to smile because he may have sent it knowing that whenever I got Val-Pak when he and I lived together, I got a little excited. What?! I like to save a buck!
Am I so invisible, like Emily, that Daniel couldn't even bother to include a note as a means of good fortune? In all seriousness, I don't believe I am like Emily. I have friends and if they didn't notice I was missing then the Internet would. The frequency with which I use Social Media
is a little ridiculous. But, I do feel like my life is sort of similar to hers in that I have my dinner alone most nights. It's lonely, and it's sad. I don't enjoy being single Kitty as much as I do Kitty who gets to take care of her man.
The Invisible Woman episode also finds Brenda joining her Shiatsu client Melissa as she turns a trick for a dude who is into exhibitionism. Exhibitionism: there's a topic for a later date!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Trannies
When I think back on the various things that should have raised red-flags in the course of my relationship with Daniel a few instances come to mind.
There was the time when he told me that he didn't believe in a person having a soul. I obsessed over that comment for a good week and a half. How can you not believe in a persons soul? What, if not their soul, do you believe in? I have always been a pragmatic type of girl but when it comes to matters of the heart, soul, and conscience, I lose all sensibility. There is a certain something inside of us as human beings that keeps us ticking. There is a driving force, a sort of metronome of life if you will. It's there, all the time, and it is with that internal life force that you go about your daily existence in this world. This, my friends, is your soul. It drives you. It makes you who you are. We are not paper-doll-cutouts. We are living and breathing and it is our soul that carries us along! I am passionate about this - and when Daniel said that he didn't believe he really even had a soul, I felt a little sick inside. I bombarded him with philosophical questions and scenarios for the next 10 days or so until finally I was able to either convince him that believing in a soul is important - OR - he just said he could see my point of view to get me to shut the fuck up.
Then there was the time his Aunt, over dinner at the Time Warner Center, asked whether or not I cooked for him and he abruptly answered "No!" - Daniel is not the type of man who wants a woman at home slaving behind a hot stove in order to have a meal ready upon his arrival. Actually, I think that type of thing turns him off. God forbid a woman wants to take care of her man!! Amazing what having unavailable parents will do to a man. Anyway, I get that he doesn't necessarily look at that as a very admirable quality in a woman but society definitely does and I was mortified. The truth is that just that very week I had tried my hand at a bunch of different recipes. All were altered to befit the limited diet he has as a result various food allergies. It may sound stupid but I put a lot of love and care into doing the domestic type stuff and for it to be denied by him really hurt. I, somewhat immediately, jumped in and said "what do you mean, no?!" - We turned the situation into a joke but it was belittling.
Last, but certainly not least in the bullet-list of red-flag raising moments was the night we spent with the two Trannies in a dungeon basement in Brooklyn.
You can't make this shit up.
They were both of some sort of third-world Latin lineage. One was much more attractive than the other. She came in at around 5'10 inches tall with a decent body, small natural breasts as a result of her hormone therapy, and still packed a decent package. Somehow in the pretty small sized dungeon that sits underneath a widely popular venue in the Park Slope area, I had lost Daniel for all of a minute and a half. When I finally stumbled into a cubby-hole and found him, it was in their company.
Initially I was confused. I couldn't figure out how in the blink of an eye I had actually lost him. (funny, looks like I am asking myself that same question yet again in a completely different fashion) - The way that this place is set-up makes it nearly impossible to lose people. There are these small wooden booth like areas that are positioned in a mish-mashed labyrinth. One booth basically backs the next and each of these semi-private spaces has glory and peek holes with an approximate 3" diameter sitting on the bottom and top of the "walls". Some have small doors - and others just a framed out space where a door would otherwise serve a purpose. You know, that is if the whole purpose of being at this place wasn't to have others watch/join you.
There are a few larger spaces, namely in the back and front of the basement space. The front private space is marked with clear signage indicating it's Female and Transexual friendly only. Inside of this private space there is a sex swing and a few other fun items to make your stay more enjoyable. I found it to be a bit too butch heavy for my liking and didn't spend a lot of time in there. The large space in the back is where the real fun happens. There is a queen-ish sized bed that seems to always get a fair amount of play. It's anchored in the far left hand corner of the square room. In the immediate foreground to the bed is a fun cross that I, unfortunately, never got to experience. There are multiple flat screens playing various genre of porn strewn through out the space. In the far right hand corner of the same room sits a hanging sex swing that was ALWAYS occupied by some way too heavy dude that seemed to want to put the weight limitations of an anchored sex swing to the test. There are some suspended benches for sitting and viewing purposes, a private caged area that has an enclosed cross and spanking bench, and a dog cage for your every day, often overlooked, Fido fantasies. I have to give it up to the folks that run this event called SPAM; they really got it all covered from a "need" perspective. Strewn about the venue are condom dispensers, containers full of individually packaged servings of lube, handy wipes, and paper towels for easy clean-up. They even have small chocolatey goodness in the form of ho-hos! How apropos.
There are three reasons I like this event:
1) It's in Park Slope and doesn't require my taking the train into Manhattan just to take the train back into Brooklyn (read: Williamsburg or Bushwick). There are not enough progressive events, never mind progressive sex events, in Brooklyn. Also, I don't generally consider Williamsburg Brooklyn. Hipsters went and fucked it all up for me.
2) The environment provided by the folks that run this party is clean, safe, and sex positive. There is something to be said for an event that encourages a somewhat 70 year old tranny-ish girdle wearing grandpa to get his shit off. A lot of people would have been turned off by seeing that. I'm not a lot of people and if anything I thought it was heart warming.
3) There is a mandatory pants check at the door. This sounds like exactly what it is. After you come through the entrance and confirm with the host that you are aware this party is queer, you take a walk down a steep flight of steps and stop at the coat-check. This is where you remove your pants and whatever other articles of clothing you want to check and you exchange them for a ticket. What a wonderful way to promote people getting naked; make it mandatory.
After I found my whereabouts and looked into Daniel's occupied cubby hole, I stopped for a second and took it all in. I stood for bit and watched him. Daniel was looking at me with a crooked smile. I was certainly interested in what was going on and there was a fair amount of lust running through my veins but deep down I think I was genuinely taken aback and I'm sure my face showed that. Daniel cocked his head back to indicate I should join them. So, I did. "Is this your girlfriend"? the pretty one asked. We both responded and smiled at her. It was a good night.
A little while later, our friend took a seat next to us as we were taking in the action of another scene. She and I began to chat about toys and the likes. We discussed her topping. She told me it didn't happen very often but that when it did her equipment handled it. We would come to see her at a few future parties but the fun of that evening was a single occurrence.
Since our breakup, Spam has held one party. I don't see myself ever going back there but who knows what the future holds. I am sure, however, that Daniel and Miss Pretty will have their fun once again.
There was the time when he told me that he didn't believe in a person having a soul. I obsessed over that comment for a good week and a half. How can you not believe in a persons soul? What, if not their soul, do you believe in? I have always been a pragmatic type of girl but when it comes to matters of the heart, soul, and conscience, I lose all sensibility. There is a certain something inside of us as human beings that keeps us ticking. There is a driving force, a sort of metronome of life if you will. It's there, all the time, and it is with that internal life force that you go about your daily existence in this world. This, my friends, is your soul. It drives you. It makes you who you are. We are not paper-doll-cutouts. We are living and breathing and it is our soul that carries us along! I am passionate about this - and when Daniel said that he didn't believe he really even had a soul, I felt a little sick inside. I bombarded him with philosophical questions and scenarios for the next 10 days or so until finally I was able to either convince him that believing in a soul is important - OR - he just said he could see my point of view to get me to shut the fuck up.
Then there was the time his Aunt, over dinner at the Time Warner Center, asked whether or not I cooked for him and he abruptly answered "No!" - Daniel is not the type of man who wants a woman at home slaving behind a hot stove in order to have a meal ready upon his arrival. Actually, I think that type of thing turns him off. God forbid a woman wants to take care of her man!! Amazing what having unavailable parents will do to a man. Anyway, I get that he doesn't necessarily look at that as a very admirable quality in a woman but society definitely does and I was mortified. The truth is that just that very week I had tried my hand at a bunch of different recipes. All were altered to befit the limited diet he has as a result various food allergies. It may sound stupid but I put a lot of love and care into doing the domestic type stuff and for it to be denied by him really hurt. I, somewhat immediately, jumped in and said "what do you mean, no?!" - We turned the situation into a joke but it was belittling.
Last, but certainly not least in the bullet-list of red-flag raising moments was the night we spent with the two Trannies in a dungeon basement in Brooklyn.
You can't make this shit up.
They were both of some sort of third-world Latin lineage. One was much more attractive than the other. She came in at around 5'10 inches tall with a decent body, small natural breasts as a result of her hormone therapy, and still packed a decent package. Somehow in the pretty small sized dungeon that sits underneath a widely popular venue in the Park Slope area, I had lost Daniel for all of a minute and a half. When I finally stumbled into a cubby-hole and found him, it was in their company.
Initially I was confused. I couldn't figure out how in the blink of an eye I had actually lost him. (funny, looks like I am asking myself that same question yet again in a completely different fashion) - The way that this place is set-up makes it nearly impossible to lose people. There are these small wooden booth like areas that are positioned in a mish-mashed labyrinth. One booth basically backs the next and each of these semi-private spaces has glory and peek holes with an approximate 3" diameter sitting on the bottom and top of the "walls". Some have small doors - and others just a framed out space where a door would otherwise serve a purpose. You know, that is if the whole purpose of being at this place wasn't to have others watch/join you.
There are a few larger spaces, namely in the back and front of the basement space. The front private space is marked with clear signage indicating it's Female and Transexual friendly only. Inside of this private space there is a sex swing and a few other fun items to make your stay more enjoyable. I found it to be a bit too butch heavy for my liking and didn't spend a lot of time in there. The large space in the back is where the real fun happens. There is a queen-ish sized bed that seems to always get a fair amount of play. It's anchored in the far left hand corner of the square room. In the immediate foreground to the bed is a fun cross that I, unfortunately, never got to experience. There are multiple flat screens playing various genre of porn strewn through out the space. In the far right hand corner of the same room sits a hanging sex swing that was ALWAYS occupied by some way too heavy dude that seemed to want to put the weight limitations of an anchored sex swing to the test. There are some suspended benches for sitting and viewing purposes, a private caged area that has an enclosed cross and spanking bench, and a dog cage for your every day, often overlooked, Fido fantasies. I have to give it up to the folks that run this event called SPAM; they really got it all covered from a "need" perspective. Strewn about the venue are condom dispensers, containers full of individually packaged servings of lube, handy wipes, and paper towels for easy clean-up. They even have small chocolatey goodness in the form of ho-hos! How apropos.
There are three reasons I like this event:
1) It's in Park Slope and doesn't require my taking the train into Manhattan just to take the train back into Brooklyn (read: Williamsburg or Bushwick). There are not enough progressive events, never mind progressive sex events, in Brooklyn. Also, I don't generally consider Williamsburg Brooklyn. Hipsters went and fucked it all up for me.
2) The environment provided by the folks that run this party is clean, safe, and sex positive. There is something to be said for an event that encourages a somewhat 70 year old tranny-ish girdle wearing grandpa to get his shit off. A lot of people would have been turned off by seeing that. I'm not a lot of people and if anything I thought it was heart warming.
3) There is a mandatory pants check at the door. This sounds like exactly what it is. After you come through the entrance and confirm with the host that you are aware this party is queer, you take a walk down a steep flight of steps and stop at the coat-check. This is where you remove your pants and whatever other articles of clothing you want to check and you exchange them for a ticket. What a wonderful way to promote people getting naked; make it mandatory.
After I found my whereabouts and looked into Daniel's occupied cubby hole, I stopped for a second and took it all in. I stood for bit and watched him. Daniel was looking at me with a crooked smile. I was certainly interested in what was going on and there was a fair amount of lust running through my veins but deep down I think I was genuinely taken aback and I'm sure my face showed that. Daniel cocked his head back to indicate I should join them. So, I did. "Is this your girlfriend"? the pretty one asked. We both responded and smiled at her. It was a good night.
A little while later, our friend took a seat next to us as we were taking in the action of another scene. She and I began to chat about toys and the likes. We discussed her topping. She told me it didn't happen very often but that when it did her equipment handled it. We would come to see her at a few future parties but the fun of that evening was a single occurrence.
Since our breakup, Spam has held one party. I don't see myself ever going back there but who knows what the future holds. I am sure, however, that Daniel and Miss Pretty will have their fun once again.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Who - What - Where - When - Why - as it stands today
Dating Daniel was sort of a sweet escape from the usual men I've been with. He is originally from Florida, attended college in Minnesota and has done his share of traveling. He regularly commented on how NYC seemed like a great place to be for now but he couldn't see it being home. That made me hopeful, as having called Brooklyn home for the last 32 years has really weighed me down and I have no doubt that this won't be home forever. I have been contemplating leaving Brooklyn for years now.
They say you can't get where you're going unless you know where you've been, right? Well, with that in mind, let's talk about the who/what/where/whens/whys of Kitty Graves' life as it stands today:
The who: Kitty Graves, female, 32 years old. A mix of Italian (Siciliana), German and a bunch of other fun stuff. Born with a severe addiction to Methadone into a family of one 7 year old sibling and two parents both of which are also Brooklyn born and raised. Household was of the typical Brooklyn Italian persuasion and located right outside of Coney Island. Employed full time in Administrative Management in NYC. Sexual orientation: Straight (with a history of extreme experimentation) No children. Single. Under-sexed, Under-paid, Under-loved, Over-emotional. Lives with one cat and often thinks about getting another but doesn't want to be a Crazy Cat Lady before the age of 50. Education: HS Graduate with approximately 30 some-odd college credits. Currently in application phase for program at a Brooklyn based hospital program for Radiological Therapy. Physical description: Brunette, ultra-feminine with a propensity to rock Timberlands and Hoodies on the perfect spring night. Moderately tattooed. Size 10 all American chubby chick - full bust, full ass, full of spit & vinegar!
The where: I am one week into a new one bedroom apartment in the South West corner of Brooklyn, NYC. My neighborhood is one of the few remaining Brooklyn neighborhoods to have a heavily populated Italian immigrant population. Seeing as I am an Italian American myself, this works for me.
The why: Well - this answer will come in multiples -
(a) 6 months into living with Daniel he pulled the plug on our relationship forcing me to find a new place in a hurry. Part (a) of the why section brought me to the where section.
(b) I have been a resident of the South-Westish area of Brooklyn my entire life and it's familiar. It's interesting that as much as I seek a change, I continue to stay in an area that has not seen much in terms of the ever popular gentrification of Brooklyn. The truth is this: I am paying $850.00 for a one bedroom apartment in a very safe area (Wikipedia reports there was only 1 murder last year!). Now, don't get me wrong, I'd LOVE to live in a gorgeous area like Carroll Gardens, which by the way also has a decent Italian population left, but in comparison to what I am getting for my money down yonder, I'd be renting a closet converted into a bedroom. I, unlike most people who are moving into Brooklyn, cannot see paying more than 50% of my income on rent alone. That's just insane.
(c) I've been at this jumpy South-West Brooklyn thing for approximately 13 years. During High School I was lucky enough to jump into a program called Co-Operative Education. I worked one week and went to school the next. The program gave me the opportunity to get ties into fortune 500 companies in Manhattan and by the age of 19 I was supporting myself with a full-time job on Wall Street. This wasn't any Gordon Gecko gig - but it paid the bills and gave me the opportunity to get the fuck out of dodge (aka, home) when the environment became way too unhealthy. Since then it's been one big game of survival.
I envy those who have had education and a safe home life handed to them. I envy them more than you can possibly imagine. Only now, at nearly 32 years old, am I beginning to come up for air. Only now am I beginning the process of stepping out of survival and into success. This shit is scarier than anything I have ever had to do - and as this blog builds more of a foundation on my past you may find that hard to believe.. Because, frankly, I've been through some shit.
The when: There is no time like the present
The what: Damned if I know? The what? What is it, exactly, that I am hoping to accomplish by documenting what may be estimated to be the next two years of my life? Phew... You know, I'm not sure I can really answer that definitively. I have one ultimate mission in mind and that is to say goodbye to the borough of Brooklyn. I suppose it's safe to say that this blog will be a structure of sort? It may serve as a ladder I need to climb up and out. It may wind up serving as just a means to get out the pain I hold inside. The pain of a life that has been far less than fortunate, the pain of a break-up that has not only broken my heart but proceeded to masticate it, swallow it, regurgitate it and spit it in my face. Yeah, I can be dramatic at times. Get used to it. Ultimately, it may just be something to do to kill the time while I figure out the next steps in this 32 year stroll through life.
The one thing I can tell you for sure, however, is that the story will be a wild one so strap in and get ready to ride. I am happy you're joining me and quite frankly, I need you, so please, stick around.
They say you can't get where you're going unless you know where you've been, right? Well, with that in mind, let's talk about the who/what/where/whens/whys of Kitty Graves' life as it stands today:
The who: Kitty Graves, female, 32 years old. A mix of Italian (Siciliana), German and a bunch of other fun stuff. Born with a severe addiction to Methadone into a family of one 7 year old sibling and two parents both of which are also Brooklyn born and raised. Household was of the typical Brooklyn Italian persuasion and located right outside of Coney Island. Employed full time in Administrative Management in NYC. Sexual orientation: Straight (with a history of extreme experimentation) No children. Single. Under-sexed, Under-paid, Under-loved, Over-emotional. Lives with one cat and often thinks about getting another but doesn't want to be a Crazy Cat Lady before the age of 50. Education: HS Graduate with approximately 30 some-odd college credits. Currently in application phase for program at a Brooklyn based hospital program for Radiological Therapy. Physical description: Brunette, ultra-feminine with a propensity to rock Timberlands and Hoodies on the perfect spring night. Moderately tattooed. Size 10 all American chubby chick - full bust, full ass, full of spit & vinegar!
The where: I am one week into a new one bedroom apartment in the South West corner of Brooklyn, NYC. My neighborhood is one of the few remaining Brooklyn neighborhoods to have a heavily populated Italian immigrant population. Seeing as I am an Italian American myself, this works for me.
The why: Well - this answer will come in multiples -
(a) 6 months into living with Daniel he pulled the plug on our relationship forcing me to find a new place in a hurry. Part (a) of the why section brought me to the where section.
(b) I have been a resident of the South-Westish area of Brooklyn my entire life and it's familiar. It's interesting that as much as I seek a change, I continue to stay in an area that has not seen much in terms of the ever popular gentrification of Brooklyn. The truth is this: I am paying $850.00 for a one bedroom apartment in a very safe area (Wikipedia reports there was only 1 murder last year!). Now, don't get me wrong, I'd LOVE to live in a gorgeous area like Carroll Gardens, which by the way also has a decent Italian population left, but in comparison to what I am getting for my money down yonder, I'd be renting a closet converted into a bedroom. I, unlike most people who are moving into Brooklyn, cannot see paying more than 50% of my income on rent alone. That's just insane.
(c) I've been at this jumpy South-West Brooklyn thing for approximately 13 years. During High School I was lucky enough to jump into a program called Co-Operative Education. I worked one week and went to school the next. The program gave me the opportunity to get ties into fortune 500 companies in Manhattan and by the age of 19 I was supporting myself with a full-time job on Wall Street. This wasn't any Gordon Gecko gig - but it paid the bills and gave me the opportunity to get the fuck out of dodge (aka, home) when the environment became way too unhealthy. Since then it's been one big game of survival.
I envy those who have had education and a safe home life handed to them. I envy them more than you can possibly imagine. Only now, at nearly 32 years old, am I beginning to come up for air. Only now am I beginning the process of stepping out of survival and into success. This shit is scarier than anything I have ever had to do - and as this blog builds more of a foundation on my past you may find that hard to believe.. Because, frankly, I've been through some shit.
The when: There is no time like the present
The what: Damned if I know? The what? What is it, exactly, that I am hoping to accomplish by documenting what may be estimated to be the next two years of my life? Phew... You know, I'm not sure I can really answer that definitively. I have one ultimate mission in mind and that is to say goodbye to the borough of Brooklyn. I suppose it's safe to say that this blog will be a structure of sort? It may serve as a ladder I need to climb up and out. It may wind up serving as just a means to get out the pain I hold inside. The pain of a life that has been far less than fortunate, the pain of a break-up that has not only broken my heart but proceeded to masticate it, swallow it, regurgitate it and spit it in my face. Yeah, I can be dramatic at times. Get used to it. Ultimately, it may just be something to do to kill the time while I figure out the next steps in this 32 year stroll through life.
The one thing I can tell you for sure, however, is that the story will be a wild one so strap in and get ready to ride. I am happy you're joining me and quite frankly, I need you, so please, stick around.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
I can't say he didn't warn me...
I met Daniel at the very start of 2009. We began chatting after he responded to a personal ad I had placed on Craigslist. I know what you're thinking.. Craigslist? I suppose you're sort of right - but the fact of the matter is that I threw the ad up just to see what would happen. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd meet someone with whom a first date would last 5 days and after nine-months of dating we'd move in together. But, I did.
We have very different backgrounds and while that didn't seem to be an issue at first, it certainly began to present itself throughout the duration of our courting. His family is uber-successful where mine is, well let's just say that my father is meeting with a lawyer this week to discuss his options for a 2nd filing of Chapter 11. You'll learn plenty more about my family life as this blog picks up and I build a basis for you to understand why it is I am filing for divorce from Brooklyn, New York.
As this blogs title indicates, there is a bit of a double entendre thing happening here and I hope I can introduce the various ideas with which I am beginning this story in an eloquent and easy to follow manner. I am beginning my story in real time. Today is April 18, 2010 and while the rest of the world knows me as Kitty Graves, for the purposes of the remainder of this post I shall be termed Brooklyn.
Breaking up with Brooklyn: A play in one act - one short, vicious, and surgical act, was performed live in front of an audience of one; me, on March 17 of this year. Daniel and I had been having our various problems for a while and as this posts title indicates, I can't say he didn't warn me... I can't say he didn't warn me that if we continued to have these "relationship talks" for much longer he'd be on his way. I can't say he didn't warn me that he had a ridiculously easy time with letting people go. I can't say he didn't warn me that he could be a cold-hearted son of a bitch. What I can say, however, is that for some strange reason I truly believed he'd never do or be those things to me. Reality is a bitch, though - isn't she?
These aforementioned relationship talks began around a month prior to the actual break-up. My being this firestorm of emotion makes it nearly impossible for me to sit quiet with my thoughts. With that in mind, when I noticed Daniel had been acting a bit disinterested in - well, everything except for Playstation 3, porn, and our cat, Stratus, I began to feel pretty insecure and anxious. I asked for reassurance that we were OK - and I asked for it commonly. I've always been hypersensitive, or as I like to refer to it, very intuitive when it came to picking up on someone distancing themselves. Abandonment issues aside, I really do have some sort of knack for knowing when things are amiss. I brought it up - to a fault - and insisted we discuss the feelings I was having. Daniel went from a man that talked about marrying me and thinking about having children to someone that would jump for joy for a night alone in our apartment. If I was on your end of the intertubes reading this, I'd think to myself "well, maybe he just didn't love her anymore" - but I don't think that's what it was about. Love was never our issue - I believe it to be a lot deeper than that.
Earlier I mentioned our first date lasting 5 days. I wasn't kidding. Daniel and I linked up for a drink with the intention of following up drinks with a hip-hop party in Brooklyn, NY. There's this DJ troupe called The Rub and their parties are pretty awesome. I mentioned the idea and once he and I had met and been comfortable enough with each other to commit to a full night of hanging out, we walked the few blocks over to the club where The Rub was doing their thing. January in NYC is serious - and as we waited on the snaking line to get into the spot, I reached out for the warmth of another human in the form of a hug. Minutes later we had our first kiss. The night was amazing. We listened to and danced to old school hip-hop, drank plenty of alcohol, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. The reason I bring any of this up at this point is because before we even left the club we had begun to discuss our various 'issues' and we shared these thoughts with each other in an attempt to not fall into the same traps we both had in the past. Looking back on it, it’s almost like we were working to keep the relationship alive before it was ever technically born. Either way, my honest admissions included telling Daniel that I have a tendency to find reasons to run away from people who seem to be good for me. I admitted to not believing I was "good enough" for a higher caliber of human being. I admitted that I had tons of insecurities and wasn't sure I had anything in common with folks who have had a normal life. He admitted that he would look for various reasons to dislike someone quickly and then run the other way, never giving them a fair chance. He also admitted having an aptitude for dropping someone in the blink of an eye and never looking back.
I can't say he didn't warn me.....
We have very different backgrounds and while that didn't seem to be an issue at first, it certainly began to present itself throughout the duration of our courting. His family is uber-successful where mine is, well let's just say that my father is meeting with a lawyer this week to discuss his options for a 2nd filing of Chapter 11. You'll learn plenty more about my family life as this blog picks up and I build a basis for you to understand why it is I am filing for divorce from Brooklyn, New York.
As this blogs title indicates, there is a bit of a double entendre thing happening here and I hope I can introduce the various ideas with which I am beginning this story in an eloquent and easy to follow manner. I am beginning my story in real time. Today is April 18, 2010 and while the rest of the world knows me as Kitty Graves, for the purposes of the remainder of this post I shall be termed Brooklyn.
Breaking up with Brooklyn: A play in one act - one short, vicious, and surgical act, was performed live in front of an audience of one; me, on March 17 of this year. Daniel and I had been having our various problems for a while and as this posts title indicates, I can't say he didn't warn me... I can't say he didn't warn me that if we continued to have these "relationship talks" for much longer he'd be on his way. I can't say he didn't warn me that he had a ridiculously easy time with letting people go. I can't say he didn't warn me that he could be a cold-hearted son of a bitch. What I can say, however, is that for some strange reason I truly believed he'd never do or be those things to me. Reality is a bitch, though - isn't she?
These aforementioned relationship talks began around a month prior to the actual break-up. My being this firestorm of emotion makes it nearly impossible for me to sit quiet with my thoughts. With that in mind, when I noticed Daniel had been acting a bit disinterested in - well, everything except for Playstation 3, porn, and our cat, Stratus, I began to feel pretty insecure and anxious. I asked for reassurance that we were OK - and I asked for it commonly. I've always been hypersensitive, or as I like to refer to it, very intuitive when it came to picking up on someone distancing themselves. Abandonment issues aside, I really do have some sort of knack for knowing when things are amiss. I brought it up - to a fault - and insisted we discuss the feelings I was having. Daniel went from a man that talked about marrying me and thinking about having children to someone that would jump for joy for a night alone in our apartment. If I was on your end of the intertubes reading this, I'd think to myself "well, maybe he just didn't love her anymore" - but I don't think that's what it was about. Love was never our issue - I believe it to be a lot deeper than that.
Earlier I mentioned our first date lasting 5 days. I wasn't kidding. Daniel and I linked up for a drink with the intention of following up drinks with a hip-hop party in Brooklyn, NY. There's this DJ troupe called The Rub and their parties are pretty awesome. I mentioned the idea and once he and I had met and been comfortable enough with each other to commit to a full night of hanging out, we walked the few blocks over to the club where The Rub was doing their thing. January in NYC is serious - and as we waited on the snaking line to get into the spot, I reached out for the warmth of another human in the form of a hug. Minutes later we had our first kiss. The night was amazing. We listened to and danced to old school hip-hop, drank plenty of alcohol, and generally enjoyed each other’s company. The reason I bring any of this up at this point is because before we even left the club we had begun to discuss our various 'issues' and we shared these thoughts with each other in an attempt to not fall into the same traps we both had in the past. Looking back on it, it’s almost like we were working to keep the relationship alive before it was ever technically born. Either way, my honest admissions included telling Daniel that I have a tendency to find reasons to run away from people who seem to be good for me. I admitted to not believing I was "good enough" for a higher caliber of human being. I admitted that I had tons of insecurities and wasn't sure I had anything in common with folks who have had a normal life. He admitted that he would look for various reasons to dislike someone quickly and then run the other way, never giving them a fair chance. He also admitted having an aptitude for dropping someone in the blink of an eye and never looking back.
I can't say he didn't warn me.....
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