Mr. Curls Moves On

When I ended things w/Mr. Curls, I was sad for a couple of days. Then, I wasn't. I felt relieved and freed. I felt very, "Ah, that's better." It grew clear to me how much the relationship had been stressing me out and how much we really didn't have in common.

Mr. Curls called me the night we broke up. I didn't answer. Then he e-mailed me. The next day, he called me at work. After a couple of days, I flat out told him that we needed to not talk to each other for a few months.

Last weekend, he called. I didn't answer. His voice mail was something to the effect of, "We haven't talked in a while and I just wondered how you're doing." I played the conversation out in my head and realized there really wasn't any good way for it to go.

Option 1: "I'm doing great!" = He's offended & it rubs salt in the wound of the break up.
Option 2: "I'm having a hard time" = Open door for him to try and talk me back into the relationship. I refuse, we have an argument, nobody wins.

The day after I got the call, I told my friend Jenny about it. She looked me in the eye and said, "Don't call him back." Amanda called. I told her about it. She said, "Don't call him back." So, going with my gut as well as the input of two good friends, I didn't call him back.

Today, I saw that Mr. Curls had un-friended me on Facebook. How do I feel about it? Relieved. I'm taking it as a sign that I officially don't have to worry about him any more.

BTW: I have a bet with myself that Mr. Curls will be in a new serious relationship by Christmas.

Sex + DD

Here's the problem when you start talking about DD: A lot of people look at adults with DD and treat them like children. In their minds, an adult with developmental disability isn't really an adult.

Here's the problem when you start talking about sex and DD: The people mentioned above totally freak out.

Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of people who are very matter-of-fact about the topic. Plenty of people who recognize that pretty much everybody who has genitals wants to take them out for a spin every now and again.

By the way, did you know that we have evidence of fetuses masturbating? Bottom line, folks, you're playing with your junk before you're even born.

When I set out to do a sex ed class, I ventured into this controversy of perception of people with DD, issues of informed consent, and issues of liability. And here, I thought it was just a matter of blowing up condoms and talking about fertilizing eggs.

Enter: The Policy.

Let's Talk About Sex Bab-ee!

Okay, so enough with the pity part. It's time to talk about sex.

If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be gearing up to teach a sex ed class, I would have laughed at them. Me teach sex ed? Puh-lease. I blush at the drop of a hat. I blush so hard, I practically glow.

And yet...

It started out innocently enough. Part of our responsibility (as per the rules and regs) where I work is to provide sex education to our clients. I was curious, so I asked what we did to meet that requirement and the response was, "Glad you asked. That sounds like a great project for you."

Since I was still new to working with people with developmental disability, I asked to have a few of the agency's more experienced staff work with me so I could get their perspective. The first time I met with the group that was picked out for me, I went through half a dozen shades of pink and red as I explained what it was we were going to do. Here I was, sitting in a room with a handful of people I barely knew (or had literally just met) talking about sex. Definitely a first for me. Little did I know, that was going to be the easy part.

Writing Letters to the World

I rejoined my writers group last month. For a number of months, I've been feeling a bit of writer burnout, but I decided I had to do something other than sit there and not write.

Lately, I've been writing letters to a friend of mine (not the long-standing penpal). Then, this weekend, I wrote a short story from start to finish pretty much in one sitting. I'm not sure if it was rejoining the group or writing the letters, but I think my block has knocked loose.

Now I'm blogging again, too.

In the grand scheme, I'm feeling lonely and frustrated right now. The good point, though, is isolation and frustration are great for getting words down on the page.

The Melancholia

I'm glad I took my job and I don't regret the decisions I've made while doing it - not even the decision to take on a 2nd job in addition to my primary job (and, BTW, I really, really dislike the 2nd job). But, I've done what I came here to do and I've taken the job as far as I can given the constraints of the position.

Now I'm feeling the ceiling pressing in and I'm getting more and more frustrated with the politics - the place is very compartmentalized/cliquey. I've never been one of the popular kids and this job is feeling too much like high school for my taste. And, in the past couple of weeks, I've been personally let down by some of the higher ups in the organization. I don't want to be here any more. I decided, going into this job, that I'd stay here for 1-2 years. The 24th is my one year anniversary. This job has run its course.

I know exactly where I want to be. I want to leave this little backwater and move to the city I've spent so much time in. That's the city that made my parents move to this state (though, they've never actually lived there). It's beautiful. It's big enough to have cool stuff going on. That's where my writer's group is. That's where one of my best friends has moved to. That's where I want to be.

It's not where I am.

I'm in a little town, far, far away from the people I want to be with. I'm isolated, frustrated, and wrestling with self doubt. I've been in a funk for a couple of weeks. Try as I may, I can't seem to pull myself out of it.

On the bright side, I've decided that this weekend I'm going to ditch this town and either go visit my parents or go a bit farther (to the city I want to move to) and hang out at the penny arcade with a friend. I'm hoping the change in scenery will lend itself to a change in mood.

The Worst of the Four Letter Words

I wrote a story for my thesis that's about a man who essentially sews himself back together after his life crumbles. Stitch, by painful stitch, he slowly becomes whole again. I wrote the story because I feel like him a lot. Bits of thread and sheer faith that I won't fall apart.

Some days, it works better than others. There are times, whole months in a streak, where I don't even see the stitches. Lately, I'm feeling more threadbare.

I ended my relationship with Mr. Curls, but that was a good thing. In the end, he was still repeating the same patterns of thought and action that led to all the drama in his past. He thinks he's changed, but he hasn't. For a few days after the breakup, I was sad. That part didn't last long, because the relief was stronger. But, now, I'm left thinking about how, in the past five years, I met exactly one guy who liked me and I liked him back. Five years. What's wrong with me?

When I took my current job, I planned to be here for 1-2 years. Now that I'm a week away from my one year anniversary, I know that plan was the right one. I've grown claustrophobic. My search for a new job has so far yielded one, "We want you to come in for an interview, but we're still working out when," and half a dozen either outright, or implied, "Thanks, but no"s. What's wrong with me?

On Friday, my doctor sliced into my back, cut out a piece of me, and then put about a dozen black stitches into my skin to sew me back together. I'm in the mood to run. I'm a terrible runner, but the exercise eases my mind. With the stitches, it's painful to wear a regular bra, much less a tight sports bra. So, it's just me and the thread in my skin and the waiting.

I wait, and wait, and wait...