“Pretty” Smart…
“ROSIE THE RIVETER” (DEPICTED HERE) WAS THE INSPIRATION FOR THIS WIDELY RECOGNIZED POSTER.
“SHE” BECAME A CULTURAL ICON FOR THE MANY, MANY WOMEN WHO REPRESENTED AN ESSENTIAL, BEHIND THE SCENES, WORK FORCE IN THE U.S. DURING WORLD WAR II.
Detours are a fact of life; it’s just how things go from time to time. And this here, this post, is one of them. Why? Well, I’ve been working, no struggling (almost agonizingly so) to finish the follow-up to my last entry, “Chaos & Coparenting,” and I’m about ready to pull out my hair, after having already bitten most of my fingernails to the quick. So, between clumps of missing hair and one gnarly-looking, self-imposed manicure, I figured it was time for a brief break. I’ll revisit my original post when I’m not so “blocked” mentally. That got me thinking though, and I began wondering about all the varied, often crazy, dialogues that go on in our individual minds? Internal conversations can take on a life of their own and cover any number of subjects; how about we go there? Do you experience glitches like the one I just described, and if so, to what do you attribute the challenge. Is it completely self-generated and an independent issue, or a learned behavior? Are we automatically programmed to repeat the patterns we’ve learned in life, or do we have a choice to go our own way? If you chose the door that opens to the familial history and learned pattern answer, do you believe it’s possible to break those generational curses, evolving beyond the familial dysfunction we were raised to believe is acceptable, even “normal”… whatever that may be?
IF YOU HAVEN’T CAUGHT ON JUST YET, EVEN AFTER ALL MY “EQUALIZER” MOVIE REFERENCES, I’LL CONFIRM THE TRUTH… YES, I HAVE AN EVER SO SLIGHT “THING” FOR DENZEL WASHINGTON AND THIS PARTICULAR QUOTE SEEMED SO INCREDIBLY APROPOS RIGHT ABOUT NOW.
“DearEasyDiaries” and I celebrated our four-year Anniversary this past month, and while I couldn’t be more grateful for the 98,000+ readers we’ve garnered, it’s been a bit more difficult recently to be as prolific as I was in the beginning of the process. So rather than lose both my hair and fingernails trying to finish a particular piece, I decided to take charge of the situation, lean into my “block,” and simply pivot. No harm, no foul, right? That’s how I choose to “roll” these days, but that wasn’t always the case. I wasn’t raised to take charge, make independent decisions, or do much of anything at all other than to be attractive and behave. In fact, I wasn’t raised with any significant expectations at all. “Be nice, be pretty, behave and don’t make waves.” That was it. Those were the edicts which guided my path for far too long. Initially I was pretty good at behaving and being nice, and I worked diligently to keep myself presentable and attractive, but I was never going to be a beautiful, leggy, capped-tooth model who would make the cover of a “Colin Cowie” Wedding Book. Nor was I about to “buck” every norm my family believed was worthy, no matter how tedious or seemingly unimportant they may have seemed way back when. I also could never have imagined getting myself expelled from school or partying with reckless abandon like some rockstar groupie, so I focused on being “nice” for the first 29 years of life… that was BEFORE I blew up the box.
Following the rules for all those years didn’t result in disaster but didn’t do much to advance any substantive autonomy either. Instead, I was woefully unprepared for the reality which can accompany a circumstance of never having anyone guide, mentor, or inspire you to do MORE than meet the shallow but consistent familial expectation of being attractive and following the rules. There was no one who said, “YOU CAN DO OR BE WHATEVER IT IS YOU ASPIRE TO ACHIEVE.” That was never a consideration during the formative years of my life. And while “Easy” (whom this blog was named for) was my rock, my protector, my source of comfort… a security blanket of sorts if that’s what you want to call it, she never crossed whatever “invisible boundary” of guidance she may have wanted to share, but for whatever reason, I was not permitted to hear.
SENTIMENTAL REMEMBRANCES - ONE OF MY FIRST PHOTOS IN EASY’S ARMS AFTER RECOVERING FROM TUBERCULOSIS AS AN INFANT, AND A NOTE WHICH FOLLOWED OUR FAMILY’S LAST VISIT WITH MY “GUARDIAN ANGEL,” EASY.
Some years later, it was only in a time of deep personal despair and familial darkness did my Maternal Grandmother speak up and offer her very effective words of advice. She invited me to visit one evening for dinner which was not unusual at all, but it did come as a surprise when after the meal and during our ritual of me playing a revolving door of her favorite records, she suggested that I follow in her footsteps and secure a “fallback” plan for myself. That was the only time I remember someone telling me to do anything more than “be nice.” Ma was doggedly insistent that going to Katherine Gibbs School in Boston was one sure way I could continue following my predetermined path of being the “good girl” while simultaneously seeking an education which would provide opportunities to secure a decent job at any given time moving forward. Ma’s counsel was invaluable and my journey to Boston, thus becoming a “Katie Gibbs Girl” was both an immediate saving grace as well as a life-long gift.
I’m not saying that being a secretary was a glamourous career path, but at least it promised a modicum of independence for a young woman who wasn’t looking solely to score a “M.R.S.” degree. Still until that time, that is precisely what I had been encouraged to do; “be nice, look good, and get married.” Not a terribly high bar of achievement, right? While that not so subliminal message had directed my journey until then, after my year in Boston, my mind and eyes were opened in a whole new way.
Never before that year spent in Boston had I ever believed that I was bold or brave enough to go clear across the country on my own to a place where I’d never been, didn’t know a soul, and was without any type of safety net. Apparently, it was good medicine though; a kick in the arss so to speak, which I obviously needed. It was then that I learned how imperative it is to step out of your comfort zone. I used to possess a relatively shy, understated personality. In Boston, I was forced to take risks. My tuition was paid by Ma, the loving Grandmother who proposed my educational pivot, but any other monies I might have needed, I had to earn. Thank heavens for babysitting and the nice family who lived in one of the lovely Brownstones around the corner from The Bull & Finch Pub, just a couple blocks from Zero Marlborough Street. Watching their toddler Sarah Beth from 3:00 to 6:30 p.m. every Monday through Friday provided me with just enough funds to join friends for a weekend dinner or movie, the occasional splurge at Lord & Taylor, drinks at The Bull & Finch, and any other extra-curricular activity in which I might have been included. Unlike my experiences at St. Mary’s College or University of San Diego, where it seemed like everyone was grown from very similar petri dishes, my Katie Gibbs acquaintances were far more diverse. I met and became friends with people from all over the country and beyond. Vermont, North Carolina, Connecticut, Monte Carlo, Spain, the Florida Keys, and even Hazard, Kentucky, which (btw) introduced me to my first taste of legit Moonshine, complete with the staple “Ball Mason Jar” courtesy of the Gorman family “still.” Having never lived in or visited a place where snow was a frequent consideration, I learned to carry my good shoes while walking in “bog boots” or sneakers, so that salt wouldn’t destroy and discolor my heels, which were part of the requisite Katharine Gibbs dress code. I learned all about judging Diamond quality when a friend invited me to accompany him to Tiffany’s one Saturday afternoon to pick out an engagement ring for his girlfriend, “Miss Moonshine.” We must have spent well over an hour being taught the importance of the 4 C’s of diamond quality… color, cut, clarity, and carat. While Dave never ended up popping the question, he did introduce me to his very handsome friend, Jeff, an entrepreneur who founded a company called something like, um, First-In-Service, maybe? We only dated a short while, but quite unexpectedly I did see him again a year or so later when one of my KG pals sent me a note attached to a copy of “Playgirl” magazine featuring my one-time boyfriend as the centerfold model. I suppose he parlayed one type of service into another… huh? Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever guessed that I might someday date a “Playgirl” centerfold. Life is chock full of surprises. Along with a wide range of socialization skills which the year provided, I left Boston having also learned the skills I was initially sent to absorb and graduated with a Certificate of Advanced Completion, whatever that means. The certificate reported my Gregg Shorthand speed to be 120 words per minute, Typing proficiency at 100 words per minute, and a B+ mark in my Business Practices class. I chalked the year up to one of great experiences, bid Boston farewell, and returned home, eager to start “real life” once more.
Egads… real life, home; where do I start? As anxious as I had been to get home, I returned to find a life that was virtually unrecognizable. No more Stepdad, no more ranch in Santa Barbara, no more horses, or any of the other 4-legged family members or trappings of the life I left behind. What was recognizable was my seemingly invisible presence within the family I had said goodbye to 11 months earlier when I left for school, and there’s just no way a person fails to feel that disconcerting distinction. Curiously and sadly enough, it was that same disconnect which felt most familiar. However, with the personal gains cultivated during my year away, I decided to make the most of my newly discovered confidence and view my return as a clean slate replete with fresh opportunities. A novel approach to life had presented itself and was right there just within my reach, so I pushed back against the boundaries I had always felt engulfing me and expanded my horizon. Another pivot.
The next few years were an interesting balance between trying to keep peace within my family of origin while continuing to evolve into the person I longed to become… independent, confident, and ultimately competent in the career of my choosing. Ma was spot on with her Katharine Gibbs recommendation, and I found any number of jobs quite handily, in fact with far more ease than other acquaintances who possessed the “hallowed” four-year degree, but like me were also without a clearly defined track, gifted by some internal drive or nepotism. The deficit I felt after only completing 3 years of college before braving the Boston detour, was in the short term outweighed by the confidence that the plethora of well-paying assistant jobs I was offered provided. What wasn’t quite as clear was the direction I wanted to pursue. Maybe that’s a by-product of never having been challenged to think about a career path other than marriage. I found myself torn between several fields of interest but felt the biggest draw to entertainment or real estate and wound-up doing stints in each. My somewhat unconventional career path stalled briefly once I realized that the entertainment biz wasn’t really for me. I met all kinds of interesting people as I worked for two “giants” in the industry at both Aaron Spelling Productions and William Morris Agency, but I couldn’t see a long-term future within either company, so I moved on and tried a couple completely unrelated gigs. First, I took a position as Assistant Recruiter for a well-known Los Angeles law firm, Jones Day. That didn’t last long. The roster of partners in the firm as well as the recruits who rotated in and out were every bit as arrogant, if not far more so, than the film and tv moguls to whom I had answered, and I didn’t get the why? There wasn’t one person in that enormous firm of legal eagles who inspired me, plus the work was about as stimulating as watching paint dry. If I were to ever pursue and feel fulfilled in that field, I should have stayed in college then gone to law school, and that was not just economically unrealistic, but I also didn’t like the idea of going backwards. Next up… real estate. I secured a position as the executive assistant to three Coldwell Banker Commercial real estate agents who were responsible for all the leasing of office space in two ginormous skyscraper buildings in Century City. True, my salary was more generous than anticipated, I was provided stock options and had my own designated parking space plus there was a security officer who escorted us to and from our vehicles, but aside from the fact that two of the three gentlemen I worked for were genuinely gracious and considerate people, the work itself was again super boring. Filling out and assembling commercial lease agreements all day was not exactly scintillating; I wanted and needed a bigger challenge.
One intriguing dimension to those years of trying to find my place in the world was for the first time, taking note of and witnessing the reality that an undeniable patriarchy existed. I had always seen “that machine” at work in my family, but there I was dealing with the same circumstance in a professional setting, and once again I didn’t get the why? At least the entertainment industry had some women in positions of leadership. Take for example, Toni Howard (at William Morris); she was the titan of casting at the time, and while I didn’t know her personally, her reputation within the agency spoke volumes and was beyond inspiring. Nonetheless I still couldn’t envision myself following her path, but she was a source of motivation I never forgot. I didn’t see that same phenomenon occurring very often in either the legal or commercial real estate world. For someone who never previously desired or even considered having a professional career, I suddenly found myself unwilling to remain in a subservient position indefinitely. What was that about? My whole life had been spent preparing for and being groomed to be subservient. Why the sudden rebellion against or disinterest in my pre-ordained life path? Good question, right?
FOR MAYBE THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, I GOT THE DISTINCT FEELING THAT I COULD AND SHOULD BE DOING SOMETHING MORE THAN SIMPLY FOLLOWING THE ROAD WHICH HAD BEEN SET OUT FOR ME.
That was one of my first epiphanies. You know, those “aha/come to Jesus moments?” I was having one, and I couldn’t shake the nagging sensation of wanting to contemplate a different kind of life’s journey. That was a little, no, a lot, scary. I remember calling my Dad, a real estate attorney himself, and telling him about the thoughts I was having; his response was a memorable one. “Missy, you’ve got to stop being so scattered. Please see if you can’t keep one job for at least two years, then we can talk, but you can’t continue flitting from place to place. Who cares if your current position isn’t the most fascinating thing in the world; you’re not really qualified to do much more.” Boom!
Wow, talk about feeling deflated and almost worthless; there it was. I hadn’t spoken to my Mom about the questions I had, because I didn’t want to be contribute to her list of burdens. She was consumed with money troubles as well as the job she had at Pierre Deux in Beverly Hills, my youngest sister’s tuition at Marlborough School, which car my wild-child younger sister might smash next, and where my Mom might want to live when child #4 was off to college? After talking to my Dad though, I wondered if I might have preferred my Mom’s input instead. Good grief… do you see what just happened there? Yep, I fed right into the patriarchal institution I was unexpectedly rallying against. Why? Maybe I assumed my Dad, who had always been my champion in the past, would have given me some positive feedback, encouraging me to find and pursue a passion. Nope. That was potentially the greatest example I’ve ever experienced regarding the meaning of “to assume;” it makes an ass out of u and me. True that. I’d love to say my lesson was learned for good, like permanently, but I’m an honest person and, as confessed before, quite often a slow study.
Despite the next few resulting months when I was temporarily put back in “my place” like a doll on the shelf, I rallied again. I looked around, took stock of the people in my immediate world, and tried to find an example I could look to for clarity. What I saw was my older Sister, Viv.
MUDDY WATERS CONSUMED MY UPBRINGING, AND VIV AND I HAD MORE THAN OUR SHARE OF DISAGREEMENTS, POWER STRUGGLES, AND OTHER ISSUES OVER THE YEARS, BUT AT THAT MOMENT, AS IN MANY OTHERS, VIV (SIX & A HALF YEARS MY SENIOR) WAS THE PERSON I LOOKED TO AS AN EXAMPLE OF STRENGTH AND TENACITY.
After some financial setbacks in her marriage and with two young sons, Viv found a way to help support and supplement her sweet young family’s income. Like me, she didn’t finish her undergraduate degree, but she was wicked sharp and spent a great deal of time with my Mom’s parents, listening like a hawk to my maternal Grandfather, Pa, who was a hugely successful force in the business and financial world. She parlayed all the wisdom she learned from Pa, together with the opportunity her new boss/mentor, a real estate maven from Pasadena offered, and got her real estate license. A few years later, her one-time boss had become a dear friend and when Phila Dale decided to retire, she encouraged Viv to strike out on her own. Strike she did… never looking back. Her ambition and inspiration became my muse.
Fast forward a few more years, I had a real estate license and career of my own. I was evolving in a way I never imagined but loving every minute. Everything was going great, and I genuinely loved my life. There’s something incredibly powerful about the vibes a happy person emits, and that beam of positivity can be pretty-damn intoxicating. For a while that was me. I had plenty of business, even more admirers and my pick of dates, whether I sought them or not. My life was full, and I felt a wee-bit invincible. Oh no… not so fast, Missy. Five steps forward, nine steps back.
A year and a half later at age 29, I blew up the box in a big way and once again life looked different, but this time the change was not necessarily a pleasant one. The confidence my early real estate success had fueled was being challenged, chipped away at, and slowly eroding with a recurring game of cat and mouse. What initially began as a “sweep you off your feet” kind of love-bombing campaign became something very dark and different. Looking back, I realize I let my guard down and didn’t trust the questionable vibes my gut instincts were picking up. BIG mistake.
BEFORE AL, I HADN’T A CLUE WHAT THE DESCRIPTIVE MESSAGE ABOVE MEANT. I WOULD EVENTUALLY FIND OUT IN A VERY CRUEL & PERSONAL WAY JUST HOW ACCURATE THE PORTRAYAL REFLECTED IN THAT PASSAGE PARALLELED MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY THEN HUSBAND.
What started out as an uber-convincing display of charm and adoration (from a man old enough to be my father) suddenly took a disheartening turn. I was blindsided and fell prey to a master sales and conman. When I should have given pause, taken a step back to objectively consider the slowly emerging but erratic behavior I was witnessing. I didn’t; my bad for sure. There was something mysteriously alluring about the volatile albeit disarmingly charming personality I had become involved with; but again, why? Were past daddy issues clouding my judgement and pandering to the little girl within me who was desperate to gain the attention of and once again trust the patriarchy I had been raised to honor? The answer is an unfortunate, but unequivocal yes. The conundrum of vacillating between wide-eyed but naïve, somewhat fearful dreamer, versus the me who showed up as a determined, strong, and steadfast optimist was a reality often dizzying to experience.
The next many years continued to prove what a dichotomy of strength versus weakness lived inside me. Somehow, the vulnerability I possessed, which Al exploited at will, was juxtaposed by my fierce determination to raise my children in a manner which kept them secure and safe, along with an inexplicable commitment to preserving my marriage, while also working to keep Al’s professional image free from criticism. It was a fairly exhausting effort, and yes… once again, I find myself questioning my actions. Potentially, I protected Al because I didn’t really understand the depth of his personality disorder? I certainly didn’t comprehend the ease with which he lied or his innate ability to disconnect and detach himself from any emotion. Maybe that lack of knowing, or understanding the man who so deftly hid behind and juggled such a wide assortment of masks is what triggered my protective instincts? The gift of hindsight is pretty powerful, if or when we choose to look. Heaven knows my family of origin’s background was rooted in protecting an image and “the unit” in entirety, at the expense of any individual who may have threatened the regime. Do you suppose that was the impetus for my often-blind loyalty to Al? I don’t know. Only in retrospect am I able to ponder or explore these ideas because it’s like I’m standing outside of myself, looking at the bigger picture, one that I was incapable of seeing while mired in the mess. Be assured, I’m not excusing myself from my participation in the mess that was my marriage any more than I’m denying what an insane ride of self-discovery I’ve been experiencing since its demise. This prolonged introspection and my keen interest in “digging up bones” (one of my favorite Randy Travis songs) reminds me of a quote I read years ago… “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.”
If nothing else, my failed marriage provided me a greater lens through which to view the world and helped shed some much-needed light on the kind of woman I wanted, and still hope to become. But shhh; I don’t always like to let on that I’m very much a work in progress, even at this late date. Here’s what I absolutely do know… I’m not the shy, naïve, pushover I once was. That’s for sure. As a graphic once illustrated in an IG account I used to follow (@straighten_your_crowns) proclaimed, “I won’t be remembered as a woman who kept her mouth shut. I’m okay with that.”
Oh how I wish I’d have channeled that mantra sooner.
STEVE (THE SHRINK) INTRODUCED ME TO THE TERM “MALIGNANT NARCISSISTIC SOCIOPATH” EARLY ON IN OUR COUNSELING WHICH FOLLOWED THE DIVORCE’S FINALIZATION BUT SOON AFTER STEVE’S INITIAL MEETING WITH AL, MYSELF, AND OUR KIDS. THE TERM CAME UP IN A DISCUSSION WHEN STEVE EXPLAINED TO ME WHY HE REFUSED TO COUNSEL US AS A FAMILY AND WOULD NOT SEE AL AGAIN, PERIOD.
STEVE MAY HAVE INTRODUCED ME TO THE CONCEPT, BUT THE AUTHOR OF “POWER,” SHAHIDA ARABI SEALED THE DEAL FOREVER.
Second only to Sorrel Trope, who immediately recognized the “manipulative, deviant and "outlaw behavior” which Al exhibited, Steve innately understood the challenge that living with, much less divorcing, such a volatile and unpredictable person presented. He was insistent that the abuse meted out by toxic personalities, such as a malignant narcissistic sociopath, can have long-term effects on the narcissist’s victims, and that the many nuances of how a narcissist perpetuates the cycle of control long after the relationship itself is over can be almost impossible to shake. I swore then and there, that that was not going to be me. So, in my attempt to break from such an insidious pattern, the subject became a recurring theme during my years of “shrinkage” spent trying to navigate the tedious and costly process of extricating myself from Al’s clutches. Who knows if I’d had access to all the information which is available now, way back towards our beginning, if I’d have stayed with Al as long as I did, or if I would have recovered more quickly after the inevitable split? Not that that matters any longer to me, but for anyone enduring a similar hardship, you need to check out Shahida Arabi’s book “Power” ASAP.
What does matter to me at this stage is recognizing the tools and help that is out there for people enduring this type of toxicity that can be so demoralizing and trying to spread the word that there’s a reason to be hopeful. It is possible to move on. That I’m not so swayed by the perceived patriarchy any longer is progress. No more hero worship for mere mortals. I’m evolving past that, but God knows it took long enough.
There were more than a few occasions during the first six months or so of my courtship with Al which ought to have waved a serious red flag or two, signaling the potential for trouble, but for whatever reason I looked away, choosing only to see the fairytale picture being painted for my consumption rather than closely examining the inconsistencies, which had by then become the one constant in our relationship. It would have been helpful at the time if had I known about Maya Angelou’s pearl of wisdom, when she said, “when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” Instead, I opted to follow the “perception is reality” school of thought. If you look up the backstory of that “perception” quote, you will probably find the following explanation: “Perception is merely a lens or mindset from which we view people, events, and things. In other words, we believe what we perceive to be accurate, and we create our own realities based on those perceptions. And although our perceptions feel very real, that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily factual.” And oh boy, ain’t that the truth.
By the time the confluence of those two messages really sunk in (all too recently) I’d been married, divorced, raised two children, lived large, endured deeply abysmal lows, rebounded with my dignity mostly intact, co-founded a successful business, and quite incredulously have reconstructed my life and reinvented myself more times than I ever fathomed possible. It remains hauntingly true, however, that in order to remain strong, you better learn to like being alone, because the more you respect yourself, living authentically with standards, and enforce self-care boundaries to guide your way, the smaller your circle is bound to become. People who take advantage of one’s generous old ways to give, give, give til it hurts, aren’t likely to stick around once they realize you are no longer willing to always be the gardener to their flower. The give and take required to sustain any relationship should resemble a two-way street, and I for one am exhausted from having too long walked only one way. Yes, there are lots of clichés in this grouping of words right here, but lots of truth too.
Several years and then subsequently a few months ago, a distant relative approached me about providing some insight from my past experiences to help him with an elder abuse lawsuit. It was probably the third or fourth time in as many years that he appeared out of the blue to seek information. On the first occasion of his inquiry and outreach, I was happy to help and responded to his pleas for confirmation with as much detail as I could supply.
In our last conversation, Tom referenced a text he had sent to me about the possibility of admitting prior behavior as evidence in a lawsuit and cited a big “google” discovery that he was prohibited from disclosing a fact of the suit because “evidence of prior behavior is only allowed in sex abuse and domestic violence claims.” I admit to having grown weary of his “fishing expeditions,” which usually involved me digging for hours through old files to forward the information he needed. Not once in any of our limited communication over the past four years (or the 30+ years which preceded his new interest in a familial reunion) had he ever offered any reciprocal assistance or even a perfunctory “how are you?” Everything was always focused on his needs and whatever immediate quest might have prompted the recent outreach. With that observation in mind and not really caring about catering to his whims any longer, I realized (thanks to continued rereading sections of “Power” from time to time) that in this relative’s view I was nothing more than a tool to be used when necessary… “supply,” so to speak. Having no more patience for the ridiculous “dance” we had been engaged in, I simply commented, “elder abuse is a form of domestic violence, is it not?” There was a pause on the other end of the phone, and for a moment I finally grasped that this 67-year old male, a relative of mine was at a total loss for words while he contemplated what I had just said. After all, I was nothing more than a lowly woman, and in his world as in so many others, that’s essentially code for chattel. The condescension and obvious surprise in his tone when he finally responded were almost as entertaining as the words he spoke; “you’re… pretty smart?” Note the question mark with which the statement concluded. He was completely blown away by the notion that I had a functioning thought process. As for me, I was completely over being his or anyone else’s “supply.”
“Things a Man Ought to Know” by Lainey Wilson
I can hook a trailer on a two-inch hitch
I can shoot a shotgun, I can catch a fish
I can change a tire on the side of a road
Yeah, I know a few things a man oughta know
How to know when it's love
How to stay when it's tough
How to know you're messin' up a good thing
And how to fix it 'fore it's too late
And yeah, I know a boy
Who gave up and got it wrong
If you really love a woman, you don't let her go
Yeah, I know a few things a man oughta know
If I can't have it, I can do without
I can hang a picture same as I can take it down
And how to keep it hidden when a heart gets broke
Yeah, I know a few things a man oughta know.
That song and the lyrics to it are so spot on; give it a listen, if you haven’t already. While there are a couple items on Lainey’s list I’m still perfecting, for the most part, it’s safe to say I know “some things a man ought to know,” and I’m over, so over, worshipping any patriarchal figure. While I may be an unusual dichotomy of personalities, I no longer derive my worth from being valuable to a man. My self-esteem is built on mile upon mile of travelling alone, either literally or figuratively, and proving to myself I’m tough as nails when needed but soft enough to recognize and soothe an injured person or animal at the same time. I’d like to think I did it… I broke my family’s generational curse, even if it came with a sizeable price tag. The good Lord knows, decades ago when I returned from my year in Boston, it never occurred to me I might survive, even thrive, after enduring a nine-year long divorce battle, or figure out ways to fund the fight which that “malignant sociopathic narcissist” ex of mine waged (thanks, Steve for the linguistics tutorial). Who knew that I’d summon the courage on several occasions to make solo, cross-country road trips out of necessity, or that I’d one day refer to myself as a feminist, albeit a conservative one? I sure didn’t. But, I do know NOW that “we repeat what we don’t repair,” and that is maybe the most valuable lesson of all. Oh and also, don’t forget… I’m “pretty smart.”