I never understood it before, what happens when you lose your sex drive and your partner doesn't.
This is new to me, the feeling that sex is just not worth the effort. I don't understand it at all. And it's not just sex with my current partner, it's any kind of sex with anyone. It just seems like such a waste of energy and time.
Am I depressed? Probably. Do these feelings feel valid anyway? Definitely.
I am finally really understanding how being connected to someone, sharing a bed with them, sharing details of your day, and thinking about the future, has an intimacy all of its own that can be as fulfilling as sex.
Recently, I haven't been feeling excited about the future. I've been feeling pretty disconnected from everything a lot of the time.
Last year I ended a relationship when I felt this way. This year I'm not going to. I remember that these feelings passed and I felt better after a couple of months. So I'm seeing if I can ride it out. Maybe in a month I'll feel different. Maybe I'll feel the same. How does love survive this? What if this is my new "normal?" Those are scary thoughts, and I don't have any answers.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Everyone's a Gymnast.
Relationships the second time around are harder. People don't talk about that. They talk about how it's easier because you've learned so much from the first time around.
What they don't talk about is that being respectful of your old relationship, and fully present in your new one, means that you don't get to just keep going the way you were. The private jokes and secret language you develop with a person...when they're not *your* person anymore it seems to me that it's not right, somehow, to share those jokes and that language. Some of it, sure, but you don't get to share it all. And then there's the fact that in sharing those things with your new partner, you're not developing new private jokes with them, not creating a secret language that belongs just to you and your new partner. And that's unfair, too.
So you have to work harder to keep the balance. And nobody tells you about that.
And then there's the guilt. The guilt over what happened, the guilt that the person I have become could have handled my marriage better, the guilt that who I was didn't really give the best of who I could be. And new guilt, too, that every minute I spend with my head in the past is a minute that I'm not really in the present.
It's about balance, all of it. Some days it's an easy enough beam to walk, others I slice my feet open on the finely honed edge of my own shame.
But it's the only path from here to there.
What they don't talk about is that being respectful of your old relationship, and fully present in your new one, means that you don't get to just keep going the way you were. The private jokes and secret language you develop with a person...when they're not *your* person anymore it seems to me that it's not right, somehow, to share those jokes and that language. Some of it, sure, but you don't get to share it all. And then there's the fact that in sharing those things with your new partner, you're not developing new private jokes with them, not creating a secret language that belongs just to you and your new partner. And that's unfair, too.
So you have to work harder to keep the balance. And nobody tells you about that.
And then there's the guilt. The guilt over what happened, the guilt that the person I have become could have handled my marriage better, the guilt that who I was didn't really give the best of who I could be. And new guilt, too, that every minute I spend with my head in the past is a minute that I'm not really in the present.
It's about balance, all of it. Some days it's an easy enough beam to walk, others I slice my feet open on the finely honed edge of my own shame.
But it's the only path from here to there.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
...but be prepared to bleed.
Okay, it's late, I know, but it's sometimes hard for me to go to sleep while I still have thoughts in my head. Here's tonight's:
You know what one of the best, most womderful things about being a human is? Well, for me it's music. Whether it's noodling around trying to make tuneful noises, atonally "singing" along to it in the car, or soaking myself in the memories that the music stirs up, the beauty of handfuls of notes and carefully chosen words resonates with me in a way that is more than just superficial enjoyment.
As humans, one of the things that music makes better, more intense, deeper, is love. We attach memories to the songs and before you know it, you and your best beloved have dozens of songs that you can call your own. Jen and I put almost 90 of them onto CDs for our wedding. In the seven years that followed, we added another 150. Some songs that didn't make it onto the CDs carry more emotional weight than some that made the cut. Some from before and after that decade have their own stories, some never will.
Here are five that, from the first time I heard them, found their way into a playlist -- not in my brain, probably not even in my heart, but somewhere deeper, much more permanent than either of those places. Each of them is capable, at any time, of making me feel sadness, hope, regret, shame, loss, nostalgia, that I am loved, that I am loving, like the best or worst versions of me that I could ever be. And as I listen to these clips to put them into this blog, I find that I'm expressing these things in the most universal way our species has to express all of these things at once: tears. I knew I would, but I guess I need to.
It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said.
Part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.
If you're lost you can look, and you will find me.
Goodnight, people. It's waaaay past my bedtime. But I feel better to have these thoughts out of my head.
You know what one of the best, most womderful things about being a human is? Well, for me it's music. Whether it's noodling around trying to make tuneful noises, atonally "singing" along to it in the car, or soaking myself in the memories that the music stirs up, the beauty of handfuls of notes and carefully chosen words resonates with me in a way that is more than just superficial enjoyment.
As humans, one of the things that music makes better, more intense, deeper, is love. We attach memories to the songs and before you know it, you and your best beloved have dozens of songs that you can call your own. Jen and I put almost 90 of them onto CDs for our wedding. In the seven years that followed, we added another 150. Some songs that didn't make it onto the CDs carry more emotional weight than some that made the cut. Some from before and after that decade have their own stories, some never will.
Here are five that, from the first time I heard them, found their way into a playlist -- not in my brain, probably not even in my heart, but somewhere deeper, much more permanent than either of those places. Each of them is capable, at any time, of making me feel sadness, hope, regret, shame, loss, nostalgia, that I am loved, that I am loving, like the best or worst versions of me that I could ever be. And as I listen to these clips to put them into this blog, I find that I'm expressing these things in the most universal way our species has to express all of these things at once: tears. I knew I would, but I guess I need to.
It's amazing how you can speak right to my heart.
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah.
I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said.
Part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.
If you're lost you can look, and you will find me.
Goodnight, people. It's waaaay past my bedtime. But I feel better to have these thoughts out of my head.
Monday, January 3, 2011
EpictetusFAIL!
TED: Dougal, you know you can praise God with sleep?
DOUGAL: Can you, Ted?
TED: Yes. It's a way of thanking him for a tiring day.
DOUGAL: God, there's lots of ways you can praise God, isn't there, Ted? Like that time you told me to praise him by, you know, just leaving the room.
TED: That was a good one, yes.
-- Father Ted, Channel 4
I know my blog is called staticandstillness (which I may explain one day) but right now I'd like to take a little time to muse on the nature of sacred and silliness.
Early last year I was hanging out with a crowd of people who were all about our collective connnectedness to the earth and the universe, and how we could channel the infinite energy around us if we simply allowed ourselves to learn how. I have no gripes with that as a way to live your life if you accept some personal responsibility to actually take action instead of passively waiting for the universe to deliver. This group liked to observe a certain degree of ceremony, and that's mostly where I got bored and tired of them. On one occasion I was told that from the ceremony until the fire we should keep "sacred space." Apparently that meant "no laughing." And, for me, laughter is one of the most sacred things we have.
I wonder sometimes, how I will be remembered after I die, and I'm often sad to think that I'll be remembered as quite a serious person. Not that it's bad to be serious, but I wish that I could drop my guard more, enough to be totally, uninhibitedly silly -- because that's what I usually feel inside.
There are, or have been, a few people in my life who allow themselves to exist in the moments of laughter, not to get to the next laugh or outsmart the last one, but to exist right there where the laughter is and, invariably, more laughter comes.
I find myself tearing up almost every time I write this blog. Sometimes for things I've lost, other times for things I have never had -- and sometimes for things I never had but can imagine vividly in my head what it must be like, or things I've had, though the details are now only a frustrating itch in my memory.
Tonight it's memories of a crazy night of bowling, of playing Cranium and drinking Jamesons, of Terry performing "I'm Five" to a full table, or bouncing in the choir on Sunday morning, of Caroline rushing the stage to forget the words once she had the mic, of the children of friends unleashing Lady GaGa on Rock Band, and of a seven year old boy taking the stage as the lead in his elementary school play.
What happened along the way that made me so concerned with not being seen as silly?
Jeremy Piven has probably the best line in the movie "Serendipity." Though he has the best lines in most everything he's in, this is among my favorites:
Do you remember the philosopher Epictetus? You remember what he said? He said, "If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid." That's what you've done.
And while the quote isn't literal, it's close enough to accurate to make me ask: why am I not content to be thought foolish and stupid? Why do I have to be the guy with the answers, the thought-out, snarky comment? Why do I insist on being Groucho when I could be Harpo?
Lately I'm closer to letting go of the things that keep me tethered to worthless inhibitions, the fears that don't serve me at all.
In the meantime here's the Gigolo Aunts from the Dumb and Dumber soundtrack. A stupid movie about foolish dreamers.
And the sacred moments of silliness are where I find my Heaven.
DOUGAL: Can you, Ted?
TED: Yes. It's a way of thanking him for a tiring day.
DOUGAL: God, there's lots of ways you can praise God, isn't there, Ted? Like that time you told me to praise him by, you know, just leaving the room.
TED: That was a good one, yes.
-- Father Ted, Channel 4
I know my blog is called staticandstillness (which I may explain one day) but right now I'd like to take a little time to muse on the nature of sacred and silliness.
Early last year I was hanging out with a crowd of people who were all about our collective connnectedness to the earth and the universe, and how we could channel the infinite energy around us if we simply allowed ourselves to learn how. I have no gripes with that as a way to live your life if you accept some personal responsibility to actually take action instead of passively waiting for the universe to deliver. This group liked to observe a certain degree of ceremony, and that's mostly where I got bored and tired of them. On one occasion I was told that from the ceremony until the fire we should keep "sacred space." Apparently that meant "no laughing." And, for me, laughter is one of the most sacred things we have.
I wonder sometimes, how I will be remembered after I die, and I'm often sad to think that I'll be remembered as quite a serious person. Not that it's bad to be serious, but I wish that I could drop my guard more, enough to be totally, uninhibitedly silly -- because that's what I usually feel inside.
There are, or have been, a few people in my life who allow themselves to exist in the moments of laughter, not to get to the next laugh or outsmart the last one, but to exist right there where the laughter is and, invariably, more laughter comes.
I find myself tearing up almost every time I write this blog. Sometimes for things I've lost, other times for things I have never had -- and sometimes for things I never had but can imagine vividly in my head what it must be like, or things I've had, though the details are now only a frustrating itch in my memory.
Tonight it's memories of a crazy night of bowling, of playing Cranium and drinking Jamesons, of Terry performing "I'm Five" to a full table, or bouncing in the choir on Sunday morning, of Caroline rushing the stage to forget the words once she had the mic, of the children of friends unleashing Lady GaGa on Rock Band, and of a seven year old boy taking the stage as the lead in his elementary school play.
What happened along the way that made me so concerned with not being seen as silly?
Jeremy Piven has probably the best line in the movie "Serendipity." Though he has the best lines in most everything he's in, this is among my favorites:
Do you remember the philosopher Epictetus? You remember what he said? He said, "If you want to improve, be content to be thought foolish and stupid." That's what you've done.
And while the quote isn't literal, it's close enough to accurate to make me ask: why am I not content to be thought foolish and stupid? Why do I have to be the guy with the answers, the thought-out, snarky comment? Why do I insist on being Groucho when I could be Harpo?
Lately I'm closer to letting go of the things that keep me tethered to worthless inhibitions, the fears that don't serve me at all.
In the meantime here's the Gigolo Aunts from the Dumb and Dumber soundtrack. A stupid movie about foolish dreamers.
And the sacred moments of silliness are where I find my Heaven.