Reconnecting (Part 2)

When I wrote Reconnecting (Part 1), I had envisioned that Part 2 would be a follow-up post describing how the newly reforged relationship was faring. Since then however, another person from my past has reappeared in my life. I don't know what's going on in the universe.....

I got a phone call from an unknown number last week, which I promptly diverted to voicemail. Standard procedure for me.

A few minutes later, my phone beeped to indicate that I had a new message. I played the voicemail and heard a small and wavering voice on the other end. It only took a couple of words..."hey Mara"...and I knew who it was immediately. The message was long and apologetic..."sorry I stopped calling you....I miss you.."

The story about how I lost (or at least thought I had lost) this friend is similar to the one I told last week, except this girl and I go way, way, way back. I'm talking back to our days of diapers and pacifiers back.

We were best friends through all of our childhood. We spent our weekends joined at the hip, jumping on the giant trampoline in her yard, playing in the creek, tromping through the woods and tormenting her little sister who always followed us around. We shared everything from an innocent crush on Peter from GhostBusters to boogie boards on the beach in the summertime.

We were inseparable until middle school

That's when her parents decided that I was a bad influence on their daughter and forbade her from hanging out with me for a year or two. Of course we still saw each other in school until I moved to another town in eighth grade. Now in different schools, we started to make different friends.

By the time high school rolled around, we were in completely different "social circles" at completey different schools. That didn't matter. We still referred to one another as "my best friend." I went through many other "best friends" during this time, but she was a constant. Always.

She was there when I needed a shoulder to cry on after being verbally abused by my drug-addict father. She was there when I quit the soccer team because my interests had shifted from sports to weed. She was there all the times I got grounded for sneaking out of the house or stealing the family car. She was there when at age 15 I had to leave school and go to outpatient rehab. And, she was there during my final two years of high school when I continued to struggle with my to be clean. She was always there.

After high school, I went off to college and she didn't. It was my best friend's turn to lose herself in an altered state of concsciousness. Just when I was cleaning up my act, she was tumbling downhill. Fast.

I won't go into the details, but at her lowest, she was shooting heroin and stealing from her work. Actually, the stealing may be what saved her life. She got caught and was sentenced to probation and mandatory in-patient rehabilitation.

I tried to be there for her. I visited her when she went to the halfway house. I listened to her babble on about god and how if she could just give herself to him, she would be OK. I did my best to accept the ex-addict, ex-drug dealer, ex-homeless guy she claimed to love.

I tried until she stopped answering my phone calls. After a few months of not hearing from her, I got a card in the mail saying she loved me but couldn't be my friend anymore.

Maybe she sensed my disgust of the way she was placing her new-found faith in god instead of in herself. Maybe she knew I secretly hated her new boyfriend. Maybe she couldn't stand to see me doing so much better than she was. Maybe she wasn't doing better at all. Maybe she couldn't stand hanging out with someone she used to get high with. Maybe I'll never know her reasons.

It took me a couple of days to muster up the courage to call her back after hearing that voicemail. I wondered what I would say, what she would say, would it be awkard, until I finally just made the call.

She aswered the phone, "Hi. Mara?" Before I could say anything, she started talking: "There's something I have to say..." She told me she was sorry that she hadn't contacted me in years and that she really missed me and hoped I could forgive her for being a "bad friend."

I told her that I understood and that she could have waited 50 years to call me; I still would have picked up the phone and been happy to hear her voice. With those few words, 26 years of friendship were salvaged. No more apologies or explanations needed.

Reconnecting (Part 1)

Over the years, I have had friends come and go from my life. Sometimes these relationships have quietly fizzled out after running their course, and other times they have ended in explosions of intense emotions and hurt feelings.

Throughout high school, I had a different best friend pretty much every year. First there was Rikki, then Nikki, then Jessica. I shared many unforgettable experiences with each of these girls, but in the end we grew apart. It's only natural I suppose.

After high school, I moved to Philadelphia. I met my first real friend in the "City of Brotherly Love" when I started waitressing at the Irish Pub on 20th and Walnut Streets. I was the youngest waitress on staff and most of the girls were standoffish to me because of it, but not this girl. She was nice to me from day one. Our friendship started with taking cigarette breaks together at work and quickly turned into wild nights at bars we had snuck into with fake IDs, dancing until the wee hours of the night, and hanging out at my apartment, eating cheese, acting silly and generally having a good time.

When I was going through some rough times and needed a place to live, she was the one who took me in. We shared her big two-bedroom apartment in a crappy section of South Philly for a couple of years before I moved away. We were great roommates, at least at first.

This friend who had always liked to get fucked up, had taken fun and partying to a whole new level. She would bring strange men back to our home and not remember their names in the morning. She often left food cooking on the stove or in the oven all night after passing out drunk. We would wake up to an apartment full of smoke and a ruined pan. On more than one occasion, I had to bust down our bathroom door because she had passed out with her head over the toilet and the bathroom door locked. Finally it got to be too much, I started spending most of my time at the apartment on Mifflin Street that my bestfriend (at the time) was renting. Eventually, I left Philly and moved to Baltimore. The ex-roomie and I kept in touch.

One night when I was back in Philly visiting, another friend and I ended up having to take this girl to the hospital after she passed out on the dance floor at a bar. One minute she was dancing, the next she was unconscious. We didn't know what she had taken. We feared the worst and took her to the hospital. After that night, this friend held a grudge against me for years. She blamed me for her hospital debt. She felt betrayed. That was the end of our relationship. Or so it seemed.

Earlier this year, this friend got back in touch with me. She called me and told me that she had been to therapy and wasn't partying so much and was doing much better all around. She told me she missed me. I missed her too. We decided to give our friendship another shot.

If I told you it was the same as it was before, I would be lying. Our lives changed in the years we spent apart, and we are both apprehensive about baring our souls to one another to reveal the people we have become.

I'm hoping that are friendship will rebound, not to what it was but to something new and equally as wonderful. We seem to be getting there, one step at a time.

We started with a few long telephone conversations. Then, she came to visit me at my new(ish) house in Baltimore. And, now we have plans to spend Thanksgiving together IN PARIS!!!

I was pretty shocked when she called to ask if I wanted to take a trip together. In fact, I'm pretty sure she only asked me because I'm one of the few people she knows who would be able to afford a trip like this, but that's OK. The trip will give us a chance to reconnect and get to know one another all over again.

My own skin

It seems that all women struggle with self-esteem issues, especially when it comes to their physical appearances. I am no different. I have spent pretty much my entire life feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.

When I was a pre-teen I read an article in some beauty/fashion magazine that listed the bodily dimensions of the top super-models at the time. To this day, I remember the inadequacy I felt comparing my own body to these women's impossible proportions.

I was the tallest girl in my class at the time and I wore a 32C bra. Developing at a young age is really tough on girls. I was treated differently, not only by my my peers but by adults too. I was actually sent home from school one day for dressing "too provocatively." I clearly remember the colorful, striped, wide-strapped Stussy tank-top that caused all the trouble. I can also recall defending myself in the principal's office, stating matter-of-factly that my shirt was no more revealing than the shirts that the other girls were wearing. And, I will never forget my disciplinarian's response: "You're different from the other girls. You are causing a distraction for the boys." According to him, it was my fault that the pubescent boys in my class were more interested in boobs than in mathematics.

Sometime around that same period in my life, I developed an eating disorder—the classic binge and purge technique. I also started taking diet pills, which I got from a friend who stole them from her older sister. I wound up getting suspended for 10 days and sentenced to drug treatment/therapy at the local family health clinic when I got caught with them in school.

It wasn't until my early 20s that I would even consider wearing a bathing suit without shorts in public. I was in a horrible car accident when I was nine years old that left me with a huge scar down my left thigh and what is now a barely discernable limp. I spent the next decade obsessed with and embarrassed of my "disfigurement."

By the time I entered high school, I was attracting a lot of attention from older men who would try to pressure me to do things with them that I wasn't ready to do. I remember when I was 14 years old being at a house party and this guy Mike had cornered me in a bedroom and was forcefully pushing me onto the bed. Luckily for me, someone heard me yelling and busted through the door to yank the scumbag off of me. On another occasion, I was left on the side of a road after refusing to give a guy a blow job in exchange for a ride home.

At 16 years old, I started dating men in their 20s. I saw nothing wrong with it then, but now it literally makes me feel sick to my stomach. If I had a 16-year-old daughter bringing 20-year-old men around, heads (or nuts) would roll. Being sexualized my men at such a young age wrecks a young girls self-esteem....

I moved out of the house immediately after graduating from high school and moved into an apartment in Philly with my boyfriend at the time. He was a 22-year-old bum with no job. My mother was completely opposed to the idea and cut me off financially. That's how I wound up working multiple waitressing and odd jobs to pay my way through college and to support myself—and my boyfriend who never seemed to keep a job.

When the bum boyfriend first started showing signs of aggression, verbally abusing me, punching holes in the apartment walls and busting up my things, I just ignored it. I guess years of being emotionally abused by my drug-addict father had led me to believe this sort of behavior was acceptable. It wasn't until he shoved me down the staircase in our apartment building that I finally left him.

I will never forget that night. We were in the apartment arguing. Fed-up, I went into the bedroom and called my friend Nadine to tell her I was coming to the little South-Philly bar she was working at. I needed to get away. The boyfriend heard me on the phone and stole my shoes to try to stop me from leaving. He started pushing me out the door, barefoot, screaming at me to "go ahead and leave then." He pushed me hard the last time, and I fell down the stairs in our apartment building hall. I jumped to my feet and ran out the door. Tears streaming, barefoot, I walked down Washington Ave. towards the bar. I called Nadine, and she informed me that she had called the police and they were on the way to my apartment, so I should go back and have them take me inside to get my car keys and some things to come stay with her.

When I got back to the apartment, there were two police cars. The boyfriend was screaming at the cops, and when he saw me, he threatened to kill himself if I left. I left anyway. I left him with the apartment and everything in it and moved into Nadine's place. He didn't kill himself.

For the next couple of years, I hated men. Really hated them. Maybe I had always hated them....I certainly didn't trust them.

Jack has helped me through a lot of my issues with men. We were friends for years before we started hooking up. It took months of dating exclusively before I would call him my boyfriend and even longer before I would stop flinching when we had even the slightest disagreement. He is so unbelievably patient with me...

Until now, Jack was the only person I had ever told about a lot of the things I have written about in this post. It feels really good to get these things out. I feel one step closer to becoming "comfortable in my own skin."

Let me count the ways

What I love about Jack.....

He pets my hair until I fall asleep each night.

When he makes me a sandwich, he cuts it into four pieces and turns the pieces of bread so I have the perfect amount of crust in every bite, just like I like.

He smiles the biggest, most-genuine smile when he dances.

He's not afraid to be silly. Just last night, Jack and I sat around making up ridiculous songs to sing to our kitties. "Puss-cat, puss-cat, why you bug-gin'?"

His kisses are deep and passionate.

In the six years that we've been together, he has never raised his voice at me. Not once. This is not to say that we don't have disagreements. We do. But, Jack stays calm when we argue and never resorts to intimidation or personal attacks to win a fight.

When I ask him to do something, he always responds, "as you wish."

I have never know Jack to falter on a promise to me, to a friend, to a family member or an associate for that matter.

He treats his mother like a queen. My mom always told me, "You can tell how a man will treat you as his wife by the way he treats his mother."

I do. Don't I?

If you've followed my blog for a while, you probably know how I feel about marriage. I wrote about it here. And here.

For me, accepting that Jack and I will get married one day has been a lot like the grieving process.

Stage 1, denial. "I'll never get married," I told him when we were first dating.

Stage 2, anger. A couple years in to our relationship, Jack told me that he wanted to marry me someday. Threats were made.

Stage 3, bargaining. "I can't marry you until you finish your degree." "I can't marry you until you start your career," "...until your credit card debt is paid off." "...until...until," until I ran out of excuses.

Stage 4, depression. I would say I was more doubtful than depressed. "Will things change when we're married?" "What happens if we grow apart?" "What if he changes his mind and decides he wants kids? What if I do?" "What if, what if, what if?!?"

Stage 5, acceptance. Last month, Jack told me that he intends to propose by the end of the year. I didn't freak out. I didn't make any threats or excuses. I didn't ask any questions. I just smiled and thought about what my answer will be. Yes. I will say "yes." I just hope I can say it with enthusiasm. I am terrified of my reaction when Jack finally does pop the question. What if I am not happy and excited when he asks? What if I still have lingering fears and doubts that he can read on my face when I respond? It would break his heart.

It's nice to feel loved

Since yesterday's tragic Metro accident, friends and family have been calling me to make sure I wasn't on one of the trains that collided.

My mom was the first to call. When I picked up the phone and said hello, the first words out of my mother's mouth were "thank god you answered." She proceeded to tell me about the collision on the red line, which apparently had happened right in the middle of my commute. On the red line.

I had spent 30 minutes stuck on the tracks near Gallery Place with no information except, "there's been an incident ahead." It wasn't until my mom called that I knew the severity of the "incident."

The next phone call came from my friend Stephen in Philly. Word travels fast. Then Jack's parent's called to make sure I was OK. Within three hours of the collision, three people had called me. By 8 a.m.this morning another friend had sent me a concerned text message.

It's nice to know that there are people out there who care about me. It's nice to feel loved.

What's in a name?

In modern Judaism in the United States, it is customary to give your child two names--one a secular, English name and the other a Hebrew name. Hebrew names always have a meaning--it's an important part of Jewish culture. I have known my Hebrew name my whole life, but I never knew what it meant until I went to Israel this past March.

"Nechama," he said, the letters of my Hebrew name rolling off his tongue smoothly and naturally, "means compassion." "It's a beautiful name, but it comes with a lot of responsibility. It's your responsibility to care for and help your family and loved ones."

At first his words stung. I slowed my pace and dropped back from the hiking group, allowing myself to be alone on the trail that snaked through hills and hills of yellow wildflowers in northern Israel, along the border of Lebanon. With each thump of my hiking boot against the hard, packed dirt, dizzying thoughts rushed into my mind--I don't deserve my name. I haven't been living up to my responsibility. I don't have the capacity to care. I can't live up to the responsibility I have been given. I don't want the responsibility. I didn't ask for this.

I thought of my father who I can't seem to forgive for all that he did to me as a child. I thought of how I gave up on my junkie (ex)step-sister and her new baby. I thought of how I don't talk to my grandparents as much as I should because of my strained relationship with their son. I thought of my tendency to drop out of people's lives when I feel we are growing apart.

Images of every person I had ever given up on or let down swirled in my head until my mind simply went blank.

With my mind quiet, I again became aware of the buzz of the bees busily moving from flower to flower. The happy voices of my fellow group members hung in the air around me, and the babble of the stream became audible. I found comfort in my steady hiking pace. One foot in front of the other.

Then it happened. Acceptance.

I am a compassionate person, but I can't care about everyone. It's OK to pick and choose those who are worthy of my concern. I can't help everyone, and that's OK. There's simply not room in my heart for the disappointment and pain that so often comes from caring to much. Those in my life who are good, those in my life who are deserving, they are the ones I have a responsibility to.

Nechama. A name I've had my entire life suddenly meant so much.

Love note, from Jack

The hours flash by....
Days turn to weeks, weeks to
months, and months to years
Yet the intoxication of your love remains.

- Jack

Reflecting on my Birthright Trip to Israel

Written March 12, 2009

After looking through the pictures I'd taken during my Birthright Trip to Israel, I knew what the trip leaders meant when they said, "this is not a vacation but an experience, an adventure."

In just ten short days, I have done everything from riding a camel in the desert to standing before the Western Wall in Jerusalem, and from scaling Masada before sunrise to learning about Kabbalah at an artist's gallery in the mountaintop town Safed.

Looking at the beautiful photos I took--which only capture a glimpse of the true beauty of this amazing country--I was shocked to find that what touched me most was seeing the smiles of the new friends I'd made.

How is it possible to connect with so many people on such a personal level in just ten days?


It was absolutely amazing to take a break from my "real" life and focus on getting to know new people and forming connections that I expect to last a lifetime.

Aviva and Emily, I'd like to thank you both for being awesome and open people--you were great roommates!

Thanks to Pam, Ariel, Ashley and Liz for an awesome last night, and to Sam for making me feel like a kid again.

And thanks to the Israeli soldiers who joined our group. The trip wouldn't have been the same without Guy, Sve, Chen, Gitit and the others who taught me so much about Israel, past and present.

I also have to shout-out Christine for her unfading energy and adventurous spirit, and Shy for being an awesome, down-to-earth kid.


And, last but not least, David for keeping things interesting by constantly breaking my balls.

I will never forget any of you; I hope you'll keep in touch.

The inevitable "big question"

There is no more delaying the inevitable. Jack is going to "pop the question," most likely before the end of the year.

We've been dating for five or six years (who's counting), and living together for almost three. Somewhere around our two-year mark, Jack told me that he intended to marry me.

My first reaction: "If you get down on one knee, I'll kick you in the teeth!" Poor Jack. Luckily for me he's a patient and understanding man. He knows that my father's multiple failed marriages that crumbled before my eyes and his horrible parenting skills (putting it mildly, the man should have been put in jail for the things he did when I was younger), have jaded me against marriage and men in general.

The next time Jack mentioned marriage, I got all logical and said: "You should finish your degree and find a career before we talk about this. I want you to have options. Besides, my parents wouldn't approve of me marrying a man without a "real" job." Sounds good, right? Bought me few more years.

Well, Jack has finished his degree in psychology and earlier this month he began training to be an elementary school teacher in the Baltimore City Public School System. Degree? Check. Job? By next month. Now he's asking what type of ring I want...

Don't get me wrong. I have no qualms about being with Jack forever. We get each other in a way that must be rare. We can joke, have fun and work hard together. He's my favorite dance partner. We see eye-to-eye on so many things. We have great sexual chemistry. Things are good, so why go screwing that up by throwing marriage into the mix?

So many people tell me "everything changes when you get married."

Jack and I have had numerous conversations about--and agreed on--things that will likely never change, whether we get married or not. I don't want to combine finances. I don't plan to have children. I would like to pursue a PhD eventually (after I complete the master's program I am applying for this week). My career goals involve moving to Latin America and working in the nonprofit world, in the ecotourism industry or at an environmental research or conservation center. I've already started teaching Jack some Spanish.

I DON'T expect that Jack will suddenly expect me to be barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen allowing my dreams to fade away just because we get married.

Of course I realize that people grow and people change, so maybe I am naive in thinking that we can grow together, not apart, and the promises Jack and I have made will hold strong. I don't think he'd want that.

Maybe I am naive. But, is that really so bad?

If I am going to "take the plunge," I'd like to say my "I do" with a head full of positive thoughts and a heart full of love.

Marriage

As a little girl, I never dreamed about being a bride. I didn’t fantasize about wearing an elaborate white (beige) dress with a long train. I didn’t hum duuum-duuuum-du-DUUM while holding mock weddings for Barbie, Ken and friends. And, I certainly never believed in “Mr. Right.”

In fact, I have spent much of my life hating men and viewing marriage as a conformist and stifling ritual at its best, and a huge mistake at its worst. My cynical view of this so-called sacred bond between two people is probably thanks to my deadbeat father who married and divorced multiple times during my childhood (and before and after). Watching his numerous dysfunctional relationships crumble (aKa go down in a heap of twisted wreckage and burning flames), I remember thinking: “Why get married? Just makes it harder to leave when that time comes.”

Sad, huh?

The reason I am writing all this is that Jack recently divulged his plan to propose to me sometime in the near future. This is not the first time he brought up the subject. Last time I threatened to kick him in the teeth.

Jack may not be “Mr. Right.” He’s certainly not perfect. I’m certainly not either. I love him. He’s by best friend. We live together and share everything. Why screw that up with marriage?

What is marriage? I want to get a master’s degree, dance all night long, travel the world and eventually move to Central America. Can married women do that? Would I have to take his name? Would I hyphenate? No, that’s tacky. I’d be Mara Low. I’d have to get a new license, passport, etc. Would we have to put all our finances together? I don’t want to. He’s not great with money. I don’t want kids. I don’t want a dog. Would his tolerance for my insanity wane? Would sex be different? Would he suddenly become jealous? Would I?

So many questions….