The pain washed over me in waves. Every time I thought it was receding, it renewed itself in a fresh torrent of sobbing. Hugo eventually gave up trying to lick away my grief and settled himself next to me. I wrapped myself around him, laid my head on his flank, and let my grief drag me into sleep.
* * *
Blog Post: Not so Elementary After All
Life Inside the Echo Chamber
The home I grew up in was not a loving one. It was cold and isolated and, for a young girl who needs to be part of a whole, that was extremely painful. I grew up feeling like an outsider in my own family. Always on the fringes of something that I was too young to understand it was better that I not be included in. All I knew was that I was somehow different from my family members and that translated into an ostracism I didn't understand. I internalized and took that into myself as evidence of my flawed nature.
A studious child, I took refuge in books. It is not a gross exaggeration to say that I read approximately five books a week growing up. I read every genre and books of all lengths. I read to escape into other worlds and I read to understand how people were supposed to work. I struggled to understand what was expected of me as a human being so that I might mimic this behavior and be accepted. I also read in hopes of finding some salvation from the emotional pain I experienced.
What I didn't understand until last night was how unbelievably wrong some of my conclusions were.
As part of my reading addiction, I devoured detective fiction. I first discovered Sherlock Holmes through the films of Basil Rathbone. I was hooked from the first one I remember watching, The Hound of the Baskervilles. I immediately began reading the books and short stories. I would go on to collect and read every Holmes story written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I loved Holmes's objectivity, his detachment, and logic. I loved how there was an explanation for everything in his world. No fact was left without a distinct and plausible reason.
His absolute certitude was a comfort for a child who lacked the fundamental understanding of why the people she loved didn't love her back. There were no unanswered questions at the end of a Holmes story.
My love for this form of mystery only grew. I devoured just as many of Agatha Christie's Miss Marple novels and any other form of mystery, so long as they were in the same mode. My television watching was the same.
Even the science fiction I embraced had a Holmesian figure—Star Trek's Mr. Spock. Again, I was drawn to his logic. To his cold detachment and ability to control his emotions. He saw emotion as a weakness and so did I.
With these literary figures as my role models, the only conclusion my child's mind could draw was to do away with emotion. It served no purpose and only weakened you and gave power over you to others.
I didn't understand until last night how the choices I'd made in reading had influenced my emotional health and vice versa. I chose novels and books that satisfied a need for order in my troubled life. The characters had mastered an area of living that represented pain and disorder in my own life. I wanted nothing to do with the emotions that battered me and left me feeling so devastated.
Looking back, I can even see the pattern and transition. It was after an aborted suicide attempt at the age of thirteen that I became obsessed with Holmes, Marple, and Spock. I was seeking a way to control the pain when what I should have been doing was finding a way to deal with my emotions.
You see, I've come to realize that I am an intensely emotional person. Not deeply emotional. Intensely. The distinction is that I admit that I don't have consistently deep emotions. I can in fact be quite shallow. But, when I do experience something emotional, it's intense. Therefore, the slights and humiliations I experienced growing up took on epic proportions. I had no way to deal with it or to understand it. The people who were supposed to be teaching me these things were the ones perpetrating the acts.
As an adult, I can see that I made the wrong decision. I chose to suppress my emotions all together and that placed me on a self-destructive path. I see now that I cannot repress and deny my emotions. I must seek to understand them and find perspective.
It's not easy. I tend to cry the instant I start talking about anything emotional. Every emotion I experience has the same effect on me now and I'm left feeling like a wrung out rag when it's done. It's a strange thing to be afraid of your own emotions, but, I admit, I am.
I'll always love Holmes, Marple, and Spock. They got me through a tough time in my life, but I think it’s time to let them go.
9. Retail Therapy
FOR THREE DAYS I HOLED up in my apartment, leaving only to take care of Hugo's needs. When I did venture out, I avoided G and Rosa. I didn't want to see, or be seen by, anyone. Embracing the grief also meant I was a living, breathing open wound. The only time I didn't hurt was when I was asleep. So I slept. I ate when my body protested, and then I slept some more.
I fought with myself over giving in and doing what I normally did. It would have been so easy to put myself together and go find a human target. Someone who desire my body enough that I could forget about Henry for the moment. Forget about his eyes and his laughter and his fake acceptance that felt so good. Someone whom I could lose myself in their desire for me. Lose myself in their pursuit.
I fantasized about being like the locust. I would go from man to man, sucking down their desire for me, even if it were only for one night. I would make them dance to my tune, make them jump through hoops just to get me into bed. I didn't even have to screw them, I could just tease and taunt, leaving them lusting and move onto the next reaping.
In the end, it didn't seem worth it. It hadn’t been real, but while it had lasted, Henry's seeming acceptance had felt so damn good. It had been more fulfilling, more satisfying, than any of my previous conquests.
Somewhere on day three, when I could smell the funk of my unwashed body and my stomach was beginning to reassert itself, the thought passed through my mind that it would be better to find that acceptance for real than waste my time on hollow experiences with more strange men.
I slept then. A restful sleep, untroubled by dreams of betrayal, loss, and longing that had been plaguing me.
I awoke to a soft knock on my door. The sun had grown sultry, peeking through blinds that had gone unopened during my interment. Hugo stirred, but did not rise from his position next to me on the bed. He'd been a silent sentry through it all, snuggling next to me, unmoving except when he performed his self-appointed duty of cleaning the tears from my face. Whoever knocked was a friend or Hugo would be at the door snuffling and barking a warning to all who would enter his domain.
I rose, stretched, and shuffled to the peephole. I could make out curly locks in a neat, cascading ponytail. It was Rosa. Pressing my forehead against the door, I debated opening it. I wasn't sure if I was ready to interact with anyone, and I was embarrassed by how unkempt I undoubtedly was.
"I know you're there, hija. I can see your shadow in the peephole."
With a sigh, I wiped my face with my hands, rubbing away crust from both my mouth and eyes. I could feel my hair sticking up in multitudinous directions. It would have to do.
Opening the door, I said, "Hi, Rosa."
She said nothing, just raised an eyebrow and looked me over from head to toe. I squirmed under the intensity of her perusal. "Who is he?"
I scowled, that wasn't what I had expected to hear. "Huh?" was my rather lame reply.
"The man you are lamenting. Only a man does this," she waved a hand to encompass my dishevelment, "to a woman."
I shrugged and stepped aside, waving her in. "He was a dream not a reality. One I had to wake up from."
She crouched and gave Hugo the requisite scratches and coos before she began to straighten up my apartment with almost militaristic efficiency. I sat at my dinette saying, "Rosa, you don't have to do that."
"I know, chica, but you have been in this funk long enough. We've let you stew since it was obvious you wanted to be left alone, but it's time for you to
get up. And, it's hard to find clarity surrounded by mess. Besides, I need your help."
That peaked my interest where little else would. I didn't want to think about me, so thinking about Rosa's problem would be a good way to get myself in order. Standing, I went to join her at the sink, drying the dishes she handed me.
"What's up?" I prompted when she said no more.
"I have a date and I need a dress. I want you to help me shop."
I scoffed at that. Rosa dressed herself beautifully. I could only hope that I had as much class when I reached her age. I said as much.
"Yes, but that's for every day. I haven't been on a date in thirty years, not since my late husband, God rest his soul. I have no idea what to wear and my closet reflects that. I haven't had to do much more than clean my house and volunteer. I have lots of those clothes. No dinner and theater clothes, chica."
She handed me the last plate. I dried it and stacked it on my shelf. Turning to face her it was my turn to give her the eye and, when her skin pinked, I knew I had her.
"Sounds to me like you're inventing a task to get me out of the house," even if it was true, it made my heart swell. No one in my life before had cared that much about me to do something so sweet.
She blushed a bit harder, but said, "Well, yes and no. G and I have been worried about you. But G said my wardrobe looked 'sexy church lady' not 'hot mamacita' and I needed to go shopping!"
She laughed at that and her joy was infectious. I couldn't help myself and soon I was laughing with her. It was laughter that built on itself pushing away the dark shadows leaving me wrung out, but not down.
On impulse, I hugged Rosa whispering, "Thank you!"
She hugged me tight saying, "You're a good girl, Charlotte, under all that defensiveness."
I pulled back a bit shocked, which must have showed.
"What? Am I blind? I see you fight with yourself. Now, go shower, you smell."
I laughed again and went to do as I was bid.
* * *
We ended up at Secondhand Rose in Georgetown. As I'd been showering and getting myself ready to face the outside world, Rosa had been perusing my exposed wardrobe. The quantity of high-end labels given where I was living piqued her curiosity. When I told her my secret, she demanded I take her to my favorite consignment shop.
There is a secret to successful thrifting, one I learned over much trial and error. It's nothing complicated, but it is a bit counter-intuitive: find the richest neighborhood nearest to where you live, and then locate the closest thrift or consignment shop. You see, the wealthy are also the ones least likely to go out of their way. Hence, they will donate (or consign) where it is most convenient. The second rule of thrifting: be thorough. Look through every item on a rack. Never, never rush; that is how you missed treasures.
Secondhand Rose epitomized that philosophy. I'd been able to purchase a Burberry trench coat, multiple Tahari pantsuits, and my Coach tote bag on the cheap. I'd always guarded that particular secret. Female fashions were a weapon in and of themselves. The well-dressed woman was much better received than a woman who shopped department stores. But somehow, it seemed right to share my fashion secrets with Rosa.
We perused rack after rack of cocktail dresses before she found several she was willing to try on. I sat in an antique arm chair situated catty-corner to the dressing rooms as I waited for Rosa to model her selections in the large, tri-fold mirror that dominated the space between the two fitting rooms. She'd auditioned and passed on the first three already.
While Rosa changed again, a young woman came out wearing a gorgeous, wine-colored skirt suit. She was small, maybe five feet tall, but she was well rounded. The skirt hugged her ample curves, accentuating her tucked-in waist, and had a feminine ruffle at the hem. Her voluptuous bosom was set off by the cream silk blouse she'd paired the suit with and the tailored jacket finished the ensemble perfectly.
As I watched, she twisted and turned, contorting herself as women do while we secretly try to decide if what we are wearing makes our ass look any bigger than it actually is. She did a few relevés trying to imagine, I'm sure, how heels would change the silhouette of her legs.
When she'd first glimpsed herself in the mirror she'd grinned with pleasure, but once her body-image ballet had begun, I'd watched that smile fade and a look of disapproval replace it.
I surprised myself by saying, "You look beautiful in that. That shade sets off your eyes and all that lovely hair." It did. She had luxurious auburn hair that fell to her mid-back and her eyes were a gorgeous shade of amber.
She jumped a little and turned. I don't think she had realized I was there.
"Do you work here?" Translation: I was just trying to sell her the outfit.
"Nope," I shrugged, "just waiting on my friend."
She contemplated herself again before saying "I look fat," her voice was flat, but I saw the hard glint in her eye, like she was daring me to say something.
I inclined my head to acknowledge her meaning if not her words, saying "You're a curvy lady, it's true, but that suit fits you perfectly. It's feminine and flirty, and, before you let your head get in the way, it was clear you liked what you saw."
Her shoulders slumped, but she nodded before she turned to face herself in the mirror again. "I have always avoided form-fitting clothes." She looked over her shoulder at me, "I've always been big." She perused herself again, did another lift on the toes. "I really do like it though."
"Get it, then."
"I don't know." She bit her lip.
Rosa came out at that moment. She was wearing the last dress she'd selected. It was a black silk sheath dress that was lightly tailored and flowed over her own soft curves. The camisole style bodice was draped in sheer lace. She looked radiant as the woman moved to give Rosa prominence in the mirror.
"What do you think?" she said, as she turned this way and that.
I said, "I think you need some sheer black stockings with a seam up the back and a good pair of sexy shoes and you've got a winner."
"I agree," she was grinning as she went back into the fitting room to change into her own clothes.
The other woman had retreated while Rosa and I talked. Rosa reappeared and we went to check out. We were on our way to the door, bags in hand, when the woman reappeared. She had the suit over her arm and a look of determination on her face. As she passed us, she met my eyes and said, "I'm getting it."
I grinned, saying, "Good for you."
As we walked down Wisconsin Avenue in search of a lingerie store, Rosa nudged me with her shoulder and said, "You see, Charlotte. You're a good girl. I heard what you said to that woman."
I shook my head saying, "Rosa, you and G, you make it easy. If you'd known me before I moved over here, you would have hated me."
She scoffed, saying, "Who could hate you? You are head over heels in love with the 80-pound lap dog of pit bull. You take care of me and G. What's there to hate?"
I was silent for a long time. I wanted to leave her words where they were. This was the image I wanted her to have of me. But, the truth was, it wasn't the full picture.
I refused to look at her as I said, "Rosa, something happened to me this year that made me …" I paused, that wasn't right. "You see, what happened …" No, still not right. "The only reason I live in that building is because I got dumped by my last boyfriend. It was ugly."
She started to speak, but I stopped her.
"No, Rosa. Let me finish. You see, he was right. I was a horrible girlfriend. I used him. I didn't even like him that much, but he paid for my lifestyle. I've always been that way, a user. But then, I couldn't afford to live where we were, so I had to move."
As we walked, I told her everything. I didn't hold anything back. Unlike with Henry, I knew exactly what I was saying and what it all meant. Rosa might decide not to deal with me anymore. But, I'd survived losing Henry. Despite feeling quite battered, I'd survived. I would survive the loss of Rosa too, if it came down to that.
&
nbsp; "So, you see. By the time I met you and G, I was already thrown out of my comfort zone. This is a new me. Someone I don't know yet. What if the old me comes back? I don't think you'd want anything to do with me then."
Rosa stopped and waved her hand over my head, staring at the space above me intently.
I ducked and looked up. "What?"
"I'm looking for the strings. Are you a puppet? What if she comes back?" She scoffed as she faced me square on, raising her palm to cup my cheek. "Last time I checked, hija, you control your actions. If you didn't like that version of you, then don't stop being this one. The choice is yours." She tweaked my nose and began walking again, leaving me to stare after her.
She called back over her shoulder, "Coming, Charlotte? I've got more shopping to do."
I hurried after her, floating just a little as I did.
* * *
Blog Post: Honesty vs. Truth
Life Inside the Echo Chamber
Today, I learned a valuable lesson, dear readers. While out shopping with a friend, I found myself confessing many of my secrets to her. The same things I had told another individual, but in a different context.
Afterward, later that night while I was reflecting on my outing, it dawned on me that there is a significant difference between honesty and truth. We tend to use them interchangeably so that these two words are regularly conflated to the point where people think they mean the same thing. This is not accurate. Something can be true while not being honest.
As my brain spun around this particular bit of semantics, it occurred to me that truth is factual. Anytime you convey the facts of a situation you are providing truth. However, you can provide facts with complete accuracy and still deliberately mislead someone into drawing the wrong conclusion.
This is where honesty comes into play. Honesty is the context that surrounds truth. The whys and wherefores that explain the facts.
Let me attempt to illustrate. This is a regularly occurring situation for me:
Them: You don't share much about yourself, do you?