Is my house me?

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I started this not so little rumination yesterday. The comments to that post already answered some of the questions I wanted to write about today. They also gave me more to think about.

After 15 years of living in the same house and garden, are they me? As
Liz suggested, unequivocally yes and no.

The house is concrete metaphorically. It is filled with tangible answers to decisions I’ve made, accumulated over the years. When R and I lived together here, he had some influence on decorating and renovating choices. Sometimes I’d let him decide, but I tended to bring those choices in my direction. The decorating style is what R called “eclectic” not without a tone of exasperation. (remember, he’s German)

Many choices were made with a balance of practically, price and aesthetic. Like furniture for example. The space between the two French doors is shorter than most couches, so we found a used, lime green velvet claw footed one which fit the space, and worked with that as a starting point.

That couch remains. I enjoy oriental rugs, which have many colors, so that opened up lots of possibilities. I also collect antique quilts. So those just have to get along with the rest. The living room is dark, so I chose a bright, clear yellow for the walls, which contrasts the dark, Sweetgum woodwork nicely. What we ended up with certainly didn’t look like something out of a magazine (thank goodness!) but it is very homey and inviting.

People often comment how comforting and inviting my house it. I guess that could be an expression of me. But the house doesn’t show the indecisiveness and general chaos of
my inside life. In that way, the house helps anchor me with its stability. When I’m not feeling sociable, the house is my friendly alter ego, assuring my guests that everything will be OK.

Then there’s its familiarity to me, which can be both good and bad. I tend to thrive on change, and the mute predictability of the house can inspire my contempt. It ties me down. Imprisons me. When I lived in DC 6 years before moving to Columbus, I had several house-mates who shared a rental with me. That was my heaven. I thrived on that mutability. I’ve recreated that somewhat in my house by renting a room out. Even during the first few years of my partnership with R, we rented a room out.

Jessamn’s comments mention of “dream” houses, those made in dreams, that is, reminded me of one of the few recurring dreams I’ve had. It began in one of the rooms of my current house, or one like it. I would find a new door leading to an intricate series of new rooms, each with multiple doors, leading to ever more elaborately shaped rooms, nooks and crannies, cozy little rooms with fantastic views, hidden rooms, secret rooms, invisible rooms. There was a definite feeling of magic in these dreams.

Now I come to the question of intimacy, either in relation to the house or an intimate expression of myself within it. This is where it gets sticky. I was talking to a new friend a week ago, someone to whom I just uncannily gaped open with, right from the start. And the words came out of my mouth which really surprised me. In so many words I said, or asked, “Is my house a huge deception, a denial of who I really am? Is it a cover-up, a structure upon which I try to grow a certain type of personality to create the illusion of stability and normalcy? Am I hiding my true self in the camouflage of this inviting house?”

The answers are complex to be sure. As Liz might write again: yes and no. But the feeling I had was more of yes than no to the above questions. I do think I create a beautiful, inviting house because I don’t feel that way. My real self is so completely effervescent, so relative, so mutable, that I need the weight and mass of the life I’ve tethered myself to in this house, precisely to keep me from floating away. Then there’s the other implicit question. If not expressed in the house, what is this mutable self? And, more importantly, how can I articulate or evolve the concrete house to match the mutable one?

The answer: paint color! Really, I mean it. I’ve repainted one new room several times in the past year, from pale Aegean Mist to Delft Blue, and now I’m leaning toward Eggplant, a color of deep, rich passion. And I plan to paint the now beige kitchen the color of a bright, orange pepper.
orangepeppers
But that’s not the only answer. I think I’m confronted by my own inordinate skill as a shape-shifter. I cannot look to the house, or friends or life, to BE me. I must wrap words, thoughts, almost any form of self-expression around this vague identity. I must demystify it. I know that’s the main reason I blog. To urge to the surface the endless metamorphosis of constant becoming that is me. (or anyone, for that matter) To freshen the daily theme and notice the overall patterns. To sharpen the dialectic of my existence.

Then, perhaps, the house will be free of that burden, and can be experienced by me as a natural extension of me, instead of a shell I try to fill with my will.

Tomorrow, some thoughts on the garden, and gardening.

House as Metaphor

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I bought my house in October of 1990. I had lived a year in Columbus in a rental duplex, and wanted something permanent. I planned to stay here awhile. It was a good investment and a tax write off for the interest. So I sifted through many choices and decided on the one I’m still in.

But you need to know a little about me as a person. I’m the shapeshifter, the chameleon, the effervescent spirit that comes and goes with your dreams. I am the hippie, the loner, the floater, the non-conformist, the rebel, the starving artist. None of these persona are supposed to own homes.

But, good sense and the pressures of well meaning society along with parents, and my own desire to belong, to solidify, nudged me along the acceptable and responsible path of buying a house to own, cherish and love, for ever.

While I looked, I struggled with the decision, agonized, labored, floundered, waffled and waffled. I might as well have taken a butter and syrup bath for all the waffling I did. I had migraines for days during this time. I hated it.

But I reduced my desires to a list of requirements. The house I bought had to have: a porch, a circular flow pattern on the first floor, double French doors to the street on the fist floor, a sun room on the sunny side, a decent garden, a wood burning fireplace and not to many updates needed (move in condition). At least I knew the area I wanted to live in: an old, 1920’s suburb where many OSU professors and several musicians lived.

I had all but given up, and I’m sure my Realtor was about to make me disappear. I was seriously afraid he’d pop while I looked at and rejected yet another house. (my mother was a Realtor and I now understand why she hated it at times)

One house appealed to me, at least from the street. I had driven by it several times, and loved the setting. Tucked among many trees, you could barely see the house. It had a third floor dormer window which made it look bigger than it’s 2 floor size. The cedar shake shingles and boxy shape gave it cottage charm. And the yard was beautifully landscaped with soft curvy lines.

I decided to walk in one day during an open house, without my Realtor. It had double French doors over looking the front porch facing the street. There was a wood burning fireplace, and the circular floor pattern I wanted. The kitchen was good sized, with a breakfast nook over looking the back yard, which was not so nicely landscaped. The second floor had the usual three bedrooms, a decent sized bathroom, and a sunroom off the bath, with three sides of glass facing South. I fell in love.

I called my Realtor, who commanded me not to breathe until he got there. (the Realtor who had the open house would have been happy to sell it to me) Over the next 48 hours I bargained them down 12% from their asking price. The house was mine!

That was 15 years ago. Now, a hundred thousand in renovations and additions later, plus thousands (really, I think it’s true) of hours gardening later, the house is all me.

Or is it?

Better Left Un-Named

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There are things about ourselves that are better unsaid, unnamed. Like those little perfidies we would rather not look at too closely. Perhaps they are weaknesses, cracks in the armor, which may heal on their own, or holes in our heart through which we can only smile, if a bit wistfully or forlornly.

And we also look the other way when we see those little chinks in someone else. We all have our crosses to bear, our blind spots, our strange phobias, our bitterness, our pettiness. To focus on the faults, either in ourselves or in others, brings about a kind of dramatic exaggeration of the flaw, a microscope peering too closely and then broadcast over a huge live screen. It’s too much to bear, to admit. We want to play out those flaws, and let them dry and shake their way slowly out of the fabric, let them wear off with under-use, dissipate with neglect, fade with inattention.

We prefer to emphasize the strengths, and let the weakness be over shadowed. It’s better that way.

Those of us perfectionists who sometimes wish to air all dirty laundry, to confess all our sins, to cry our faults on the mountain top, we are shunned, or smiled at with a certain pity, a soft, sad eyed compassion, just enough attention to calm our desperation, but not enough to encourage too much public absolution. Or we are viewed with scorn, branded as weak. And we fear being marked by our blind-heartedness, our shamefulness, which, although no more than anyone else’s, we simple choose to show, unwittingly, almost sacrificially.

To be one of those underlings who are blind to the common superficialities of accepted behavior, we struggle to reason toward the patterns others consider common sense. We see the icebergs looming under every smile. Yet others seem not to see, or not to care. Somehow we try to create, to fabricate the wisdom in this myopia, this blindness. We struggle to laugh with everyone, to blend in, to be part of the gang, to belong. We all want to belong. But belonging is so intangible, so unquantifiable.

So we leave our icebergs unnamed, unconquered, hoping they melt on their own accord, in their own time. We leave the dangling disconnections, the unanswered guilt, the petty pain, the looming emptiness, the caustic looks, the lacking, the fear, the discomfort, we leave those un-named, un-marked, and we walk on, we smile, and keep smiling, hoping everyone else knows what they’re doing, hoping someone else might see the uneasiness in our eyes, and hold our glance a little longer, to tell us we are not alone.

You are not alone.

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Ghost in the Mirror

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His face glistened with tears as he looked up at me. I didn’t cry, and was surprised but touched that he had. Behind his impish, lined visage, the clamor of airport noise dragged me back to the present. We hugged one last time. I smiled and turned away.

As I headed for my flight, I thought “It’s not too bad. We’ll have a year apart and then reunite. After all, absence makes the heart beat deeper, doesn’t it?”

We had spent a wonderful two weeks together traveling to Dresden, Nuremberg and finally, Italy. For this last stop, the weather, the food, the villa in a cute little town right on the lake Como, were all perfect. A few friends shared the house with us. R and I even had some of our best sex in a long time. It was a perfect way to part for a year.

The plan was this. He wanted to spend more time in his homeland: get a part time job there for a few months a year, and spend the rest of the year at home with me, where he’d keep his job there part time as well. I’d have a chance to travel to Europe with him when I visited. I wouldn’t have to quit my valuable job here. The time apart would do us good. In our 9 years together, we’d developed a nice balance of time together and time apart. The reunion was always sweet.

When we committed to each other, we used the Jewish metaphor of two trees growing side by side, but not so close as to shade each other. I saw this separation as us growing individually stronger to have a stronger bong together.

So I was all aglow as I returned that September to our house and my life in Ohio. We exchanged almost daily emails reporting details of our days. All continued happily for a few weeks.

For some reason, I began to miss him more than I had expected to. We’d grown close over our 10 years living together, but we always had maintained our own lived. He’d been away weeks at a time and it hadn’t bothered me, so I was a little surprised at my sudden need to see him again. But the yearning was pleasant, especially for someone as independent as I am.

About this time, his emails began to include comments such as “You must be happy to have your time so free now.” and “I’m sure you are making some new friends” and “Now that you’re healthy again, you must be finding lots of new things to do.” I explained that these things were true, but I looked forward to seeing him as soon as possible. We planned for me to visit him over Thanksgiving.

Through October, we continued to update each other regularly. He had met a few new friends with whom he now partied regularly. I didn’t consider this a problem. After all, he would be spending lots of time there yearly and certainly needed friends. But I was beginning to get depressed. I had no idea why, since I’d be seeing him in November.

I clung to every word of his, looking for meaning, support, assurance. He told me he missed me, that he looked forward to seeing me. His job search was not going well but I knew he’d find something, and that he’d probably stay the full year. He even brought up the possibility of returning to Columbus earlier than a year. But I wanted him to succeed. I knew he needed this affirmation of fitting back into his home culture after so many years being in the US.

Things continued like this until my trip to see him over Thanksgiving. If he missed a day of emailing or calling me, I fretted until I heard from him.

Our reunion was satisfying. It was good to see him again in person. But I felt weak and dependent. He kept getting calls from a new friend, whom he said was fragile emotionally and needed lots of support. I asked to meet him, and he demurred. I dropped the subject.

I was tired all the time, which I blamed on jet lag. I felt lackluster, dull, flat. We became quarrelsome. He wanted to see the sights, show me his hometown. I fretted and fussed. But we just kept going. Our conversations were surreal, saying nothing with lots of words. I wanted to stay a few days somewhere, anywhere, to catch up on our physical relationship. We finally ended up at his parents house in a small country town. They were away for awhile, so we had the place to ourselves.

He continued to get numerous calls from his fragile friend, who lived not too far away. I became distraught and very clingy. After a tour of his old bedroom, which I’d never seen before, I felt guilty for not knowing enough about his past, for assuming I was all he needed. I managed to fall asleep in his arms, crying. I can’t recall what I was thinking or why I was crying. I felt I was floating away, and only he could keep me grounded. It was as if I’d left my body, which went on with the usual motions, like a chicken with it’s head cut off. I was empty.

I woke up a few hours later and found him gone. This was at 2 AM in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. When he returned an hour later, he explained that his friend had needed to talk, so he went to visit him. My body cried, my heart filled with dread, with blind emotion. But my mind was blank, no thoughts came. I lived, breathed, ate, talked, but was absent. The next day I traveled to Koln by train. There I immersed my body in the now throbbing culture of German Christmas markets, with their festive music, hot mulled wine and ubiquitous cut trees lit up like beacons of hope throughout the city.

I returned home a few days later. I never did meet his new friend. I continued my downward spiral. My doctor prescribed Xanax for anxiety. I continued to work, but friends asked if I was OK. I cried 3 or 4 hours a day but I had no idea why. I just knew R held the key. I began to doubt my existence. I wondered if I had lived the past ten years, if anything was real. I began to talk of suicide.

I could not see who I was what was happening to me. But I began to see who I wasn’t. I saw all my failures floating around me, surrounding me, cocooning me. I saw all my weaknesses, my insecurities. I saw all the times I had failed be a good lover, all the times I had been selfish, petty, controlling. These failings grew to fill my heart, and told me I had nothing to offer, I was a freak who nobody really needed or wanted. They told me I would never fit in, that anything I did would offend those who cared for me.

I was strangely comforted by these thoughts. I felt safe with them, secure in the negative image of myself, that hollow shadow that stared back at me from the mirror. I kept looking, staring at this image, this haunted ghost of myself. It was all I could see. I became the ghost in the mirror.

R and I still talked on the phone, or rather I wept and he talked. He didn’t say much new, just went in circles about how I should be happy, find new friends, that he cared for me. I don’t remember much. I couldn’t hear him anymore. I was deep in a hole. His voice echoed around me, far away.

I continued to work, somehow. I remember leaving at intermission one night, unable to play, my body barely noticing that I had left. But I came back the next night and continued, somehow, a puppet dangling like a human, moving fingers. I don’t remember much. But I kept thinking about my garage, and how nice it would be to take a nap there, with the car running. How nice it would be to sleep, and refresh my tired soul.

The hole became my house. I saw no way out. The little, singular light at the top was far away, small. There were no ladders, no walls, just darkness.

Christmas Eve came. I played the church gig I’ve done for 15 years. It was a bitter, bitter cold night. The stars were out, quietly glittering, musing their infinite thoughts, not interested in me or interesting to me. Work was over, we were on vacation now, so I wouldn’t have a schedule for a week or so.

After the service, my friend S came up to me and suggested we go have a talk with a counselor at a nearby hospital. I agreed to the short delay in getting home. Home to my garage. My hole. My peace.

I was admitted and stayed there a week. I cried most of the time. Friends came to visit, but I don’t remember much, except getting a stuffed dog from the son of another friend. The other patients were stark reminders of my relative luck. Their suffering was much more tangible than mine. Some were insane, I was only haunted. Slowly, I began to breath my own air again, to speak through my own mouth, to have my own thoughts again. But the ghost wouldn’t leave me alone, it clung to me as I clung to R.

One day I had to participate in art therapy. I resented this insulting and childish task, but it was required. We created a life collage, with photos and text from dozens of various magazines at hand. On one side I pasted words and photos of who I had been, a sad, lonely figure, surrounded by darkness. The other side had optimistic imaged and words. It was a symbol to grant me permission to free the ghost, to turn away.

A week later, R called me and told me he had stopped loving me a few years back. He apologized profusely for not being clear. The mirror smashed into a thousand bits. I was released from the hollow negative image. I forgave him and began to reassemble my life.

Those broken, haunted bits reassemble occasionally when I flounder, when I doubt who I am, and the ghost returns to lure me, but I see the cracks of that shattered memory and recognize the distorted figure reaching out for me. I know who it is not.

This post was inspired by Jessamyn at Theriomorph, after a post of hers called Ghostly Concerns of the Living.

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