I suspect

that familiarity dissipates diplomacy in a marriage and that is what sets it on a path to destruction. Wounds to ego become too deep and too many for vulnerability and connection.

I also suspect that renewed tact may help to rescue it, all else being equal.

One can also move past an intractable marriage diplomatically. Hats off to those who do.

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It shouldn’t hurt to be alone

But it does.

I’ve been away from here for months – that probably makes me an arsehole. Sorry.

New job, blah blah, big personal life changes, blah de blah, but no excuses. The name of this blog is apt, no? 😉

I’m sitting here alone wondering how I got ‘here’ and where everything is leading, and what it all means, and why the f*ck I seem so fundamentally ill equipped to be in my own company.

How cliché, right?  – unadulterated navel gazing as the year ticker is about to click up.

happy new yearI’ve been lectured on the difference between loneliness and being alone, but I haven’t been able to separate the two very well. If you’ve cracked that, or even if you’re stymied like me, I’d appreciate hearing about it.

I’m decidedly not sorry at all for being alone. An AirAsia plane went down two days ago. Who the f*ck am I to feel sorry for myself?! So I’m not.

I’m just lonely. And confused by why I can’t seem to enjoy my own company.

Maybe it has something to do with a difficult childhood and genetics that have paved the way for a perfect storm of biochemical imbalance. But why should the act of being alone feel like taking an elevator down thirty two floors to the depression basement? Perhaps being alone could be a buoying and freeing experience? Like jumping off the roof of a building as in The Matrix and realising you’re okay? Maybe. I’ve felt moments of that, and gratitude for glorious independence from the weight of compromise and people pleasing.

Maybe the reason I suck at being alone has something to do with how much I suck at being with others.

I’m either a crazy workaholic with manic social calendar or sit sadly by myself in quiet and isolation, paralysed by some kind of fear I can’t quite put my finger on.

If I were Goldilocks I’d run back and forth between the icy cold and piping hot bowls ‘ouch ouching’ all the way instead of settling for the safer middling option.

goldilocks 3 bowlsWhy a person of extremes? Born into it perhaps. Molded by a life of extreme events. I crave the adrenaline and excitement and the counterpoint of solitude because I can’t sprint all of the time. But the solitude is often an uneasy break from life and is rarely for pleasure. The ‘safe’ option seems worse though – living in moderation seems to provoke greater anxiety and disquiet than all the terror of being alone.

Spiritual leaders, mental health experts, self-help gurus chant about the importance of ‘balance’ but I don’t know how to be alone only a little. I’m either with you or I’m not. I’m either in the company of others or I’m not. Dividing time equally has been an elusive accomplishment.

Maybe trading a life partner for independence (and possibly a chance at a ‘better’ relationship) is just running on a hamster wheel and whatever I do the chances for moments of joy will be the same depending on my capacity for gratitude.

hamster wheel

Maybe it’s supposed to hurt a lot to be alone. And it’s supposed to hurt a lot to be with others. Maybe that’s a fact of living to accept as the down payment on a chance at those fleeting moments of tender connection and sweet independence.

The real problem could be my low tolerance for the trade offs. An emotional greed for more ups than downs has created a false sense of entitlement.

So here’s a different kind of new year’s cheers –

Here’s to 2015, a year that will be lonely, and difficult, and painful, and fast paced, and exciting, and interconnected, and here’s to acceptance of its peaks and valleys as they are, rather than as I would wish them to be.

peaks and valleys

You know you’re old when staying up all night makes you feel old

fun at every ageBrilliant all nighter with friends, wine, and laughs. Today I’m bloody knackered. I managed to make it through the radio show, with the added challenge of tackling a new studio system. And now, despite looming deadlines, I feel dead to the world. How did I do this for several consecutive nights in my twenties?! While I rest my haggard old bones and nurse my ego, I remind myself of all the wisdom gained from those years of idiocy and experimentation. Sure, partying two nights in a row is now beyond me, but I know how to party well when I do make it out. 😉

The stealthy writer

The man sitting across from me on the train this morning was obviously a writer. He pulled out his notebook and scribbled in fits and starts, breaking only to stare intently at the people squeezed in around us. After an hour of watching him watching others, and surreptitiously admiring his collection of observations and sketchy drawings, I asked him, “what are you writing this morning?”
traintracks

You know what he said? Eyes wide in terror or arrogance, I couldn’t tell, he said, “Oh, I’m just a PA [personal assistant] and… uh… forgot my laptop and so I’m writing lists.” Bollocks!

 
What inspired him to lie? The jig was up but he clung to his stealth.

He wasn’t the shy sort, so perhaps he wanted to avoid liability because his scathing observations will appear in a blog post or book. Maybe he was cooking something to rival the women who eat on tubes fiasco? Ha!

His behavior begs the question, would you admit to being a writer? Is it something you positively identify with or try to bury beneath your other assets?

Whatever his reasons, he was no writing ninja. And I’m a bastard for reading his work. 😉

The art of the email

I met someone the other week who writes f*cking brilliant emails. Consistently. I’m awed by such people. The delicate balance between coercive and charming often eludes me, and I come across as either too pushy or too passive (my attempt at softening). How do you approach the art of the email? As I try to finesse my style, I’m absorbing a diversity of approaches.

My typical email experience includes emotionally charged bashing at the keyboard for a bramble of a first draft, followed by a vigorous slashing of emotionally charged terms, and a generous splashing of positivity (without seeming insanely optimistic). Then there’s the beastly issue of the emoticon. To 🙂 or 😉 is the question. And f*ck me if I ever know the answer. In some contexts they seem damn near necessary to point out playful tone or to emphasize that I am indeed smiling despite forceful prose. But then there’s the voice telling me that they’re bloody cringeworthy and better left to adolescent sexting on kik.

emailDon’t even get me started on subject lines. I’ve probably lost days of my life writing and rewriting subject lines to compel the reader to open my message without coming across as alarmist, curt, or excessively wordy — apparently more than 50 characters and you’ve written yourself off!

Searching the interwebs for advice on crafting effective emails is variably useful. “Thanks, I do own a dictionary and have one at hand, and yes, I’ve spelled the person’s name correctly.” I’ve mastered the basics and am looking for the deeper secrets to ensure my readers feel valued whilst I come across as breezy (if you knew it had taken me 10 minutes to write and obsess over these three sentences, I would lose my cool factor).

Until I’ve mastered the art of the email…

when something’s really important, I just pick up the damn phone.