Time with the doodlers

Gracie loves the movie, "Annie" so, when the final song began and I offered to dance with her, she leaped into my arms, and we sang together: "I don't need anything but you." 

It's taken a few days for her to warm up to me. I haven't seen her or her sister Marie since July. But I'm quite in love with them now. 

I'm learning things I thought I'd never have to know. I used to think I would have my own children so I didn't pay much attention to loving other people's kids. Now I feel there is no real chance of having my own kids, so I let myself love and care for the children who will launch themselves into my arms. 

Analysis

I can't write about San. I talk to her. I write messages to her. But nothing I can do will take away what happened and that is untenable. She's taken a leave of absence from work. She asked to stay with me for a while. I'm glad she asked. It feels like there's a future.

I'm with Corinne and her daughters for Christmas. I won't do another Christmas alone. Christmas 2012 was awful.  So I will always be around people during the holidays. I love my sister and I love her daughters, and that is good. Today, we went walking through the wetlands and spotted endangered bird species and watched out for gators, and I gradually earned the trust and confidence of the young doodlers. 

I'm using the break as a chance to finally write the analysis I've meant to do for months. I thought it would be easier after I let some time pass, but I think it will always be difficult, so I'm just writing the damned thing. I've begun with a literature review of the traditional role of intelligence operations and their modern evolution in an asymmetric battle-space. I'm picking apart the assumptions. I want to ensure that, when the editor gets back to me, I'll have a cohesive product to submit. 

memorium

I want to write about the past three days. There is something significant that needs to be said. But I feel her grief too much and it clouds my ability to think or process properly. My heart is broken for her. I wish I could take her pain.

In between spaces

While I was in Utah, S and her husband gently declined my offer to carry their child. This was difficult for me for a few days. I had to be really ready to do this thing before I could make the offer. I'd prepared myself mentally and emotionally, projecting a future where I could give my body to this. So it took me a while to re-write the next year without a pregnancy in it. I feel good about it now. I think there is something important about saying "yes" to things, particularly when there have been so many "no"s in recent memory.

It is very sweet that S now feels warmly towards me. I'm moved by the way she reaches out more frequently than before, wants to meet for sushi, go to galleries. I worried she'd feel awkward around me, but she seems really happy about what I offered.

It's been a difficult couple of weeks. Ten days ago, I contracted the zombie flu which hurt like hell and effectively ate my brain for days. I'm still coughing and weak, but I think it's going away.

Since my return from Utah, I've met with good people, been invited to office parties in the Pentagon; had drinks and pizza with my friends in national and international law enforcement, and continued the dialogue with contractors. Next week, I start a project with the Navy. These are good, positive things.

I met earlier this week with Lyon, a man I've known for nearly a year. He was in town for a conference and we met for sushi. He's a lovely person, a father of three teenage daughters. He's a big deal in a big community, but whenever we spend time together, I feel like I'm the most important person in the world.

last day with the fam

These past weeks and months have been difficult to write. These past days with my family are also difficult to put down. Some events and feelings have the ability to short circuit language and metaphor for me. I can describe an occurrence but lack the skill or objectivity to convey what it means for me.  

Mom and dad and I visited Lee in St. George. She's doing surprisingly well: working two jobs, living in her own apartment, running, and taking yoga several times each week. We went for several decent jogs, a yoga class, and a hike up Snow Canyon. We went to a movie, and celebrated her birthday and Thanksgiving early. In the evenings, mom and dad showed us the digitized 8mm films they'd made of my infancy and early childhood. It was a peculiar sensation for me, but particularly difficult for Lee who didn't have particularly functional nor protective parents when she needed them. 

So it was no surprise that she talked a lot about the way I stepped in and raised her. She still thinks of me as her mother. I suppose that I was her mother in nearly every way that counted when she was young. And now, I think I love her more than I love most people. I'm glad she's off the drugs and doing alright. 

Dad needed time to go hiking and biking with me. Which was fine, since I like to do these things and I like him. We hiked up Rattlesnake Ridge, and he found a "short-cut" down the mountain. Two days later, we took J's boys up Big Cottonwood canyon for a hike, too. 

I spent a lot of time with the boys on this visit: reading stories, rough-housing, playing make-believe, and tucking into bed. In the evenings, after a tuck-in, I stayed up with J and we chatted. 

I took Mom shopping, and we bought a bicycle trainer, to get her healthy. 

I've taken things a day at a time. And today was my last day. I'll miss them. 

Bicycle ride with dad

Dad took the day off of work because I was in town and he wanted to spend time with me.
"I feel like my best friend just came into town," Dad told me when he collected me at the airport last night. Me too.

I let him pick the day's activities. If he had his preference, it would have been hiking and biking all day long, but he had a flight of his own to catch at 1700 so there was a cap on the fun.

It's really freezing here. From what I hear, it's freezing all over CONUS. But this doesn't stop dad from wanting to ride. So we bundled up, and let the various exposed bits freeze off in little chunks during the two hours riding trails in the biting wind. We rode completely shit bikes with crummy helmets and wore enormous coats dad bought second-hand from Deseret Industries two decades ago. Dad rides this crappy bicycle every day for his PT because his knees won't let him run anymore. But he loves it. I will absolutely not tell him that his bike is crap because he looks at it fondly as he puts air in the tires and says, "you know, this has been a really good bike."

One of the things I like about dad is that he's game for anything. Anything. Ask him to Zip-line from the Eiffel Tower or hike in the Himalayas and the answer is yes. Doesn't matter if he's never done it before or even trained for it. Doesn't matter if he may not have the right gear. No problem. We'll figure it out. When I was younger, this embarrassed me because the lack of appropriate gear felt like amateur-hour and hick-ville. Rich and attractive people always were suited up to look like some magazine version of an expert climber or hiker while we had mismatched pieces assembled from the local second-hand shop. In college, I dated the son of the CFO of a major corporation and was mortified when he took me skiing - because his ski gear was perfect and olympic-grade and matched while absolutely nothing I brought looked like it had ever belonged to the same decade, let alone the same closet. But it's always been about the adventure for dad - never about the appearance. He skis because he loves to soar down the slopes, yodeling as he goes, not because he gives two shakes about what anyone else thinks about it.

For the past few years, my parent's church "calling" has been to hold religious meetings in the mental health unit in the nearby women's prison. This calling completed three weeks ago and its driving dad crazy because nobody else has been selected to fill the role. He worries about the women he's been ministering to. He talks about them, about their issues and their families and their sorrows. He worries that they will think nobody loves them since they've been left alone for three weeks. It doesn't occur to him to feel pleased that his new church "calling" is as the Elder's Quorum President - one of the biggest and most important positions in a Mormon congregation. If he was looking for accolades, he would stop thinking about those mentally ill women in the prison and get to work being an important person.

Dad had just arrived in Italy in July 2013 when the shit MIVD threw at me actually stuck and I lost my job. I was in shock, horrified, and saddened to lose my programs and work. It was also embarrassing to know that my father, who had come to witness my success and to learn about the work I'd accomplished, had to see this awful destruction instead. But, true to form, he didn't give a shit what it looked like to anyone on the outside. He was proud of me because I maintained my integrity. In fact, he's so proud of me for the way I stood up for the truth, he gets choked up when he talks about it. Fucking amazing.

As I get older and see the world for all its games and arbitrary rules, I realize now that it was probably the best preparation to have dad as my example. If people are trying to use shame and innuendo and social pressure to get you to do what they want, it helps to be raised by a man who doesn't give a shit about these things, and who plunked his 11-year-old daughter on a beat-up snowmobile and said, "this is the throttle. Turn this when you want to go faster. This is the brake. Pull this when you want to stop. Follow me."

Today, I was totally happy to get on that crap bike and wear that beat-up coat and mismatched helmet and gloves today and follow dad up the mountain.

surrogate

I offered to be a surrogate for S. I've thought about this for some time. I may not have the opportunity to be a mother myself, but I can give her and her husband the chance.

Running with a friend

Today was the Marine Corps Marathon.
I've been a bit more bike than run this summer so I certainly hadn't logged the miles to have any confidence in my own marathon-capability. But I waited at Mile 23 for a friend and then paced him past the Pentagon and into Arlington Cemetery.
It felt good to be in a race again with so many people and so much good energy, and I remembered how much pain I was in at the Las Vegas marathon when it came to Mile 23. God, I don't remember a single part of me that didn't hurt. So I felt a bit guilty to be so fresh and running with all these wounded bodies. It was one thing to stand on the side for an hour, clapping and whistling and calling out encouragement. It was quite another to step into the fray and make a mockery of the shin splints and the aching knees. I saw one overweight old man putting in quite the effort in spite of a bleeding nipple that had rubbed itself raw against his white T-shirt for the previous 4 hours.
"Hey," I told my friend. "Tell you what..about a half mile from the finish, I'll sprint on ahead so I can snap your picture crossing the finish line."
I thought it was friendly and nice. But he groaned.
"That is the meanest thing you could say to me," he said. And I guess it really was. But he finished, and that was good. Plus, I brought him ibuprofin which is a god-send when your legs feel like hell.

This evening, I worked on my Dutch - particularly the past participle of action verbs. So now I can say, "Vandag, Ik heb met mijn vriend gelopen" instead of perpetually using the present tense: "Vandaag, Ik lope met mijn vriend".

Also, I wrote (Ik hebben geschreven vijftien pagina's vandaag)  I'm up to May 2013 now. Peculiar to remember the strangely pivotal moments that changed everything. "If it bothers you so badly," said John. "Just open Pandora's box."

Disturbing messages

I'm nearing the end of the reconstruction. This project has taken the better part of four months and will clock in at around 200,000 words.   I have little time to finish this. I'd like to be done within the next week before I have to start working. A significant amount of editing lies in front of me.

The most difficult task for me as I near the end of this story is to accurately represent Sjors' messages and character during those last months. His messages are disjointed and strange and I do not understand the person, or people, behind them. I feel that it's important to maintain integrity in all reconstructions but this one baffles me. Additionally, because his messages are harsh and cruel, it is emotionally difficult to reread them. I feel that I am assaulted and accused all over again.

I'm grateful for Marie's critical opinion as I write. She always had a greater COP of this part of my life than most people, but this completes the picture. She reads and gives me regular feedback. I'm grateful for her analytical objectivity. It was difficult to fight Sjors' team and she stood in my corner, ready to deconstruct the punches and strategy, every time the bell rang.

Marie is the person who reminds me to not take those ugly messages at face value. I'm grateful for her defense of Sjors because everyone else wishes to assault him for the pain he caused. I have no way of understanding the complex pieces of the puzzle that comprised Sjors' life at the time. I have no idea who had editorial authority over the messages.

My sister Jane called me unexpectedly tonight. We've been trying to build a relationship. The parent-child dynamic we used to have when she was young and fragile became a liability to her as she healed and needed to stretch her wings. Now, we try to become adult friends. I told her about my project and was surprised to hear that she supported it.
"Sometimes, you need to tell the truth regardless of consequences," she said. She would know. The consequences for her truth telling have impacted us all.
"People will be uncomfortable," I said.
Jane said, "When I started work as a nurse, people used to share things with me. They would tell me about how they were afraid of dying. They would tell me about their anger with their bodies. This would make me very uncomfortable. I would always change the topic. Then, one day, I decided: It's okay if I'm uncomfortable. I made peace with it."
"That's really good," I said.
"Well," Jane said. "It's okay if people are uncomfortable by what you write. Just tell the truth."

I rode my Dutch bicycle into Old Town tonight, ate salmon, and then strolled the street, wandering through shops and a local art gallery. I've continued writing at a coffee shop as the darkness deepens outside. Better to be here with strangers than holed up on my own.

Recording

Tuesday I met Marie for lunch at our sushi place. We keep saying that we'll find someplace else to eat but we never do because we both like sushi too much. Afterwards, I stayed in the area and worked at a nearby cafe. As it turns out, the cafe was a hang-out for people from my former work. I found this out - not because I recognized anyone  - but because everyone had tremendously bad OPSEC. I derived not a small amount of pleasure listening in on their conversations. Apparently, employee reviews have just completed. There were two adorable analysts completely pleased with themselves and preening with their assessments of their performance. 

I work just about everywhere I go. I can't stand to have an idle moment. It isn't always "work" work, though. I've expanded the repertoire since returning to the U.S. Now, as I wait for this next contract to start, I'm taking this down period as an opportunity to do things I used to enjoy, but forgot to. I've been working on my French and my Dutch - I'm taking language lessons at the Belgian embassy. I run and go for long walks.I call friends and have coffee. I paint. I read math books. Actually, I read tons of books. (Recently, I've started reading a book about Edward de Vere, the 17th Earl of Oxford who probably wrote Shakespeare. Fascinating). More than anything, though. I write. I hope that these records will mean something someday. 

Van Gogh

I had my coffee and run this morning. I showered, packed up my things, and walked to the train station. I needed art.

I love that the National Gallery is a free museum. For all the trouble we have with getting things right in this country, this is one thing that we definitely got right.

I recall trying to visit the museum when I first returned to the U.S. It was impossible for me. The art stimulated such emotion, and I was already raw. I couldn't tolerate it. It was a painfully loud noise in my head.

Today, I felt hungry for the images and textures and shapes and colors. I needed to get to the museum. I couldn't drink in enough. I was surprised to discover that so much of what I used to love - the calm precision of Vermeer; the elegant brush strokes of Sargent; the brooding light and shadow of Rembrandt - none of these could satisfy me the way I needed. Even Monet's fluttering play with color and texture seemed tame and prissy.

I found what I needed in another room. I needed Van Gogh. I needed his bold, restless lines. I needed his unpretentious self examination. I needed his manic disproportionate sense of color and contrast. I needed the heavy sorrow and emotion belying the simple beauty in a vase of roses.

I first visited the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam when I was dating Hans. I wasn't a particular fan of the Dutch artist. I preferred representative realism. Later, I took my mother to the museum because it was a nice thing on the "to do" list in the Netherlands. I was very depressed at the time, and I believed that it was largely pointless to visit an art gallery in this state. I generally can't feel any beauty when I am depressed. But my experience was utterly different. The paintings moved me in a way I never could have predicted. I felt them. At a painting of black birds flying over a harvest field, I began to weep. I believe that there is an emotional truth in Van Gogh's work that can't be adequately described. It has to be felt. And I wonder if it is ever possible to feel it if you are in a "normal" state of emotion?

The Van Gogh museum is one of the few real-world locations I visit in my dreams. Sometimes I dream about Pozzuoli or Limbe. More often than not, the landscapes of my dreams are unknown to me. But these are stand-outs. Why would I find myself back there?

I think about Vincent's tormented life. I think that a normal person was not able to feel what he felt. So he tried to show us. It was not a perfect translation for emotion any more than a book is a metaphor for actual human experience. But the man certainly came close. I wonder if the art served to give him the modicum of peace that it is able to impart to me.

No safety rails

Yesterday afternoon, I had lunch with an amazing woman who used to work for the U.S. military, conducting capacity building in Africa. She was, to my mind, an impossible ideal of effectiveness and cultural compassion. She was very good at her job. She was exceptional.

But the woman I saw yesterday was shaken and torn. Broken. I recognized the look: she reminded me of myself in 2012.

She told me that she had fallen in love. This was what had wrecked her. Now, she cannot be with her husband of more than 20 years. He wants to "make it work", but she, knowing what she knows, cannot go back to her marriage - even though she cannot be with her lover, either. She is tormented. While we talked, she expressed surprise that I did not condemn either her choices or her pain. When she said this, I realized how often I have been on the receiving end of such condemnations.

There seems to be a particular intolerance for people who are deeply affected by love. For all that movies and books focus on the subject of romantic love, there tends to be a safeguard placed on the actual practice. Love, but don't love so deeply that it destroys you. When a relationship ends, the pain is supposed to be temporary, solvable by a pint of Ben & Jerry's and conversations with your girlfriends.

But the pain caused by true love does not fade with time. It does not become less real or relevant. It does not yield to rational argument.

I know that Sjors was a spy, and that he lied to me about that. I know that Sjors was married and that he lied to me about that. I have good reason to believe that, when faced with potential consequences to his career, he lied about his relationship with me and, through this betrayal, caused me to lose my job. I know these things and my rational mind tells me that I should hate him for what he's done. But I do not hate him. I love Sjors, and I will always love him.

I don't often share what I'm doing or thinking with people. The fact that I still think about Sjors every day seems to them that I am dwelling in the past: looking backwards. There is a peculiar pressure from the rest of the world to "move on". I'm sure Sjors received the same pressure about me.

"It was a relationship. It was a breakup. Move on."

But people say these things because they cannot understand what it is to be with the person you are supposed to be with. They have never been wrecked by the absence of that person.

Translation support

I wanted to protect certain identities. So I went looking for translations of various words. The synonym floored me. God has a sense of humor.

Blocked

I've gotten to the ugly part of the story. It feels awful. I know I have to go through it to get to the other side. But I don't want to.
The longer I linger here, the less okay I am. I need to make a sprint to the other side. But it's like running through molasses. I hate to re-read my notes from that time, remember how hopeless and despairing I felt. Feel again the frustration and distress because Sjors did not take action when I so badly needed him to.

I spent the day writing a query letter instead. And working on the automation scheme for my patent. And cleaning my living room and rearranging the furniture. Then I walked to the store and bought bread and oranges.

I'm doing the best I can.

The possibility of conversation

I went for a long walk in the sunlight yesterday and I worked and wrote. 

In the evening, I had dinner with a man of rank in the Department of Defense. We've been friends for the past year. It's an intermittent friendship - we meet once every month or two. We walk, and eat and drink wine and whisky, and talk about books and philosophy and we practice Dutch because he was once a senior defense official for the U.S. in the Netherlands and likes the chance to take the Dutch out for a stroll. I've been working on my Dutch recently as well, and I enjoy the challenge of trying to  understand it conversationally. 

Last night, I told him about my writing project. He was disparaging when he believed it was a personal memoir - but he became interested when he realized that this is a data-driven reconstruction of events: that my intention was to contribute meaningful information to the dialogue about the scope and latitude of the Intelligence community. 

 During dinner, he wanted to know about the events. I told him. 

I talked about the privacy violation, the subsequent confrontation; the criminal complaint I had made in the Italian courts, and the informative messages I sent to MIVD and the Netherlands MoD Inspector General. I described my work with the Dutch planners, and the backlash by the Dutch Intelligence community: the slander that had significant consequences for me. 

My friend was shocked. "I didn't know," he said. Then he considered for a moment. 

"I know the former head of MIVD," he told me. "I'm going to the Netherlands in January. Would you like me to speak to him for you?"

I sat stunned. I didn't know what to say. What would I have this man know? What sort of closure could I get? Would it make a difference or would it make the situation worse? 

I have some time to think about it. I think I will ask him to have a conversation. But I don't want to do this unless I have a specific objective I think I can achieve. Would it even be possible to begin to undo the damage that has been done? I really can't hope so - but what a strange coincidence. 

Completed task

I spent the weekend at Eve's house, in the growing cold of a Pennsylvania autumn. The trees had not changed out of their summer dresses yet, but the bright green leaves grew wan, and the edges were touched with reds and yellows. At night, in the big old mansion, I froze. The ghosts kept me company in the upstairs room, watching as I hashed out the details of the February 2011 trip to Stuttgart with Sjors, and then reviewed the patent examiner's comments, my fingers like icicles on the keyboard.

To say that I am a person in transition is an understatement. I have not lost my integrity or drive, but my purpose has been stymied. Both professionally and personally, I have paid a dear price for MIVD's actions and Sjors' complicity and I live in a sort of limbo. I am further from the side of ghosts than I was in the late summer of 2011, but this dormancy sets a different sort of ache in my belly. I am pregnant with ideas and desires, and I cannot deliver. I preach patience, and dedicate myself to compiling histories and notes, weaving projects together, spurred on a little more every time I see you there.

I rode my bicycle in Saturday's race. Today, I finished my response to the patent examiner's review. Every day, I edge a little further on. Am I approaching the shore, or paddling futher into the ocean?

Transitory storm

I returned from Pennsylvania two days ago. The drive is nearly seven hours. I stopped by Marie's house on my way home, bringing a tribute of fresh blueberry jam and stealing a few minutes to chat with Marie.  

Mark met me at home. Mark grew up in Ohio and then became a bush pilot in Tanzania for a number of years. He is a very calm person. And he's game for anything I throw at him. He makes me feel comfortable, so it's easy to have him around. Until I started hanging out with him, I didn't realize how often men feel that they need to compete with me. This guy seems totally okay being himself and this relaxes me. It lets me be myself. Also, he's game for almost any activity I'm interested in doing. We hike and bike, and bike some more. 

Mark spent the night and, as he slept in, I arose early. I made coffee and worked on a proposal for a few hours (it was due today).  When he awoke, we walked to the UPS store and around the block. I showered and left for a meeting and he returned home. This evening we met again for a bicycle ride. We rode down the Mt. Vernon trail and then returned and crossed the bridge for the National Harbor. It was beginning to rain. We stopped at a Mexican restaurant and ate guacamole and waited for the storm to pass. 

Mark and I talk about our experiences. I have been very frank with him, and he seems more interested than disturbed by what he hears.  He knows about Sjors and MIVD. I can talk through the details with him and it doesn't bother him. Because it is an unusual circumstance and because it had such a profound impact on my life, my close friends often don't like to know about it. Maybe it makes them feel that there is something fundamental they don't understand about me. In turn, I have found it difficult to relate to my friends when they're upset about gardening decisions or a difficult visit from the in-laws because these types of problems made me feel the bizarre gap between us.  But Mark has experienced deep personal tragedy and now, years later, this allows him to see and acknowledge another person's grief. I find this to be a relief. I don't have to hide the things that matter most to me. They are in the room with us, but they sit quietly in the corner, and we eat guacamole. 

PA

On Friday I was scheduled to drive to Northwestern Pennsylvania. I was also scheduled to take some Dutchmen into the Shenandoah mountains for a hike. I decided to live up to both commitments. This meant that my day consisted of 11 hours in the car and 5 climbing a mountain.
There is something good about doing something miserably difficult. The pain and the focus drive out the other voices of memory, and excuse the ghosts and demons to the next room. I think that this is why I need to climb, bike, run, lift.
I arrived at Eve's B&B at 0200 on Saturday morning. It's an old Victorian mansion on the town's main street, and the inside of the home is becoming slowly but surely lovely and
In the hours since, I've participated in small town and family rituals, adopting (for a few moments) the identity of someone who lives here and is part of the world.
We picked blueberries at a local farm and made blueberry jam. I discussed global warming with a neighbor. We traveled to yard sales to find bicycles for the Inn, and I test-rode and inspected bikes until we found a good one to purchase. I spent hours doing bicycle maintenance and repair for the family bikes, and went for a ride today along the course I plan to race in two weeks.
It's been a check-out of the brain that I needed.

December 18, 2010, Alkmaar, the Netherlands 18:48

 The camera is switched on and bounces a little as it begins to record a room with white walls and a door with black panes of glass. It is the inside of a home in the evening.  The view is from the surface of a desk or table. To the right of the door, there is a large black clock with golden roman numerals. There is the top rim of a tan office-chair in the foreground. On the wall behind the chair, there is a poster made of dark pink butcher paper, with a large red heart in the center and colored hand prints: The small hands of children pressed in bright paint. Taking awkward space in the foreground, there is a water glass which he has not removed from the frame. There is a shuffling noise as he adjusts the camera and comes to sit in front of it.

He is a confident man in his early thirties. He is wearing a sporty sweater with a collar, zippered down the front. It is dark brown with yellow stripes on the sleeves and the letters in yellow, “G S” on either side of the zipper. His face is expressive with prominent cheeks angling into a square jaw. His lips are full, almost femininely so. His words are glib and firm, and the smile that touches his mouth is at once knowing and playful. His forehead his high, with a receding hairline, and his forehead creases with passion and intensity as he speaks. His eyes are his most arresting feature. There is an alertness and intelligence in his gaze and very little self-consciousness as he addresses the camera:

 “Okay, Elisabeth,” he says in a business-like tone, settling into the seat.

“Um, this is very strange because I am talking to you and you can hear my voice now, and I am looking in this camera.”

He smiles as he says this, perhaps struck with the absurdity of what he has begun. Then he becomes serious, and speaks earnestly.

“I do this because I…want to…share some information with you. I want you to know that…I very deeply care about you. And I love you as I have never loved anything before. And...”

He pauses, seeming to grasp for the right way to structure his next thought. “I know that it’s a very difficult situation. I know what my part in that is, and that, therefore, I am not entitled to have any expectations. But I am allowed to have hope. And all I can say is that I will respect you, whichever path you choose. And I love you, and I fear, forever.”

These last words are spoken with a wide, mischievous smile that promises much but lingers only briefly, before he reaches for the camera and the screen goes dark.   

Hidden Facebook

Okay, MIVD. This is really silly. You're still hiding Jan's FB friends list. And you don't let me post on his timeline. I was reminded of this fact just now because I wanted to write on his timeline and thank him for dinner. Just so you know: this irritates me more than stops me. And when I'm irritated, I'm going to start tracking down the people on the list to figure out why you don't want me to see them. If there's any trouble you're actually fearful of, I'll try to make sure it happens.

Also: you should know that I took screen shots of his friends list the last time you did this. So I already have the names.

Another species

I don't understand other women.
Clarification: I have some deep and abiding friendships with specific women. But, in general, I feel that I don't understand most women.

I was at an event this evening: a dinner with army men and their wives. "J" invited me. He didn't clarify to anyone at the gig that we weren't a couple so I figured this was one of the reasons for my invitation: he wanted someone with makeup and coiffed hair to sit next to him and keep him from looking divorced and alone.

There were three women, apart from me. One was a lawyer with experience working in the White House. The remaining two women seemed to affiliate themselves exclusively with their husband's careers, so it was difficult to know if they had identities of their own. One was a lovely pregnant person, and the other looked to be vying for the position of trophy wife (TW).

TW clearly had some work done (at least the boobs. Probably more). She was blonde with lean legs and short-short-you-can-see-my-butt-cleavage-shorts. Early forties, I guessed. Both her shorts and the silk blouse with the plunging neckline were white. Funny, when you consider that this was a "eat boiled shrimp and sausage with your hands" dinner with plenty of Old Bay to go around. I wonder what her plan was...

They were nice. All of them. But I really think I would have shot myself if I'd been trapped in a room with them by myself for more than a couple of hours. We all have vaginas and breasts, but I think that this is where the similarities end. I really don't think we are the same species. The things that they talked about; the things that they valued; the things that they wanted; they were in no way related to me.

Because they assumed I was with "J", there was some twittery conversation about single women that I found fascinating. There was a general sense of self-satisfaction that they had already snagged their husbands, and pity for those women who hadn't. TW had a male friend who was 41 and single. He'd been dating a 36-year-old chick, but wasn't sure he was going to marry her. TW advised him to move on - for her sake. She viewed it as cruelty if you led a 36-year-old woman on. The other army wife agreed that this was very sound advice.

Of course, the irony of the age she named was not lost on me. I am also 36 years old. It occurred to me that there was an unspoken agreement that it was awful and pitiful and worrying if you were alone at 36 - and that you'd better find a guy to marry. Fast. Both of them talked about all of the really talented and beautiful women in their thirties who were single. As though it was some sort of contagious disease! Then it occurred to me that I wasn't panicked about being alone. I think it's a likely scenario for me. And, frankly, it kicks the ass of being with someone you don't adore. I would have fucking loved being married to Sjors because I loved everything about him and he was my match. But any of the other men I've tried to date since? Naw. Not so keen on that idea. I wonder: is this agreed-upon-panic even reasonable, or is it imposed on us by some other rule-maker? It certainly doesn't seem to bother men too much if they're alone at 36-years-old.

So, here's what I think: women are told to worry about these things because if they're worrying about superficial markers and status symbols, they don't spend their time thinking about things that really matter. They don't become big problem solvers and deep thinkers. They don't value themselves and their contribution to the world, because they're told that their value is to support their husband's contribution. And, because they don't value themselves, they will not demand equal pay for equal work, and they will feel catty and judgmental about other women. They will be competitors with other women for the attention of men. They will not be sisters.

Sometimes I think about that moment when the HR lady, Pearl, tried to manipulate me by telling me that my work was appreciated by other people and I responded, unemotionally, that this was because I was a "damned good analyst."

I think it's bad that I don't relate to these women. I think I have to do this at some point: get into their head space and do what I can to make them sisters. Because, even though they follow the social rules, I can't believe that the paradigm is one that they invented.  And people shouldn't be trapped by paradigms.

Metric Century

I went riding with "J" today. It's been a long time since since we briefly tried to date last March and then he fell off the planet. On the few times I've reached out, I heard only crickets.
He sent a short e-mail on Thursday. Did I want to ride? Yup. I always want to ride.
I don't think he expected I'd be up for much, so he put in about 40 miles before we met. Of course, he asked that I meet him 17 miles out from my home, on the W&OD trail at some place in Vienna, so I'd already put in my fair share, as well.
I arrived before him, ate half of a turkey panini, and drank coffee. It was raining lightly outdoors. The forecast said it was supposed to clear up after noon. We said hello and chatted for a while. Since I detached emotionally months ago, this was no big deal for me. I was just glad to have someone to ride with.
So, then, we rode. Together, we logged 50 miles. It rained the entire time, and we didn't stop. It was pretty rough. But also fun. At the end, I was glad to get in my metric century ride.
We tried to chat as we rode, but as the miles wore us down, conversation became sparse, and was replaced by a camaraderie born of shared misery.
"J" talked about his time in Ranger training. During a 27 hour hike through the forest, in the rain, he said you cycled through a series of emotions. First, you were pissed off. You were angry at the situation and the rain. When the anger burned out, it was replaced by self-pity and sadness. Then there was absurdity, and then a brief moment of zen acceptance. Then the cycle started over again. Everyone on the hike was going through the same cycle, but not at the same pace. So it was trouble when you were in a laughing-absurd mood when the guy next to you was pissed off.
I suppose most of life is this way. We encounter our friends at different phases of their mood cycle. Sometimes we're in synch, sometimes not.  It isn't personal. It's just part of the long march.

shooting stars

I was in Western Virginia late last night.
After hiking Old Rag by myself and finding that it cleaned out the dusty parts of my mind, I feel quite driven to return to the mountains. I've spent time on REI.com checking out 2-lb tents and backpacks and sub-zero sleeping bags. I want to plan an expedition.
My talk of this seemed appealing to a fellow named Matt. We just met, but he agreed to a day hike in the Shenandoah National park. So we drove out there. It was raining, but we hiked anyways. Among other things, he had a bizarrely thorough knowledge of edible mushrooms. It was a good time, but far too short due to weather and daylight.
It was a foggy drive back. We saw deer crossing the road, and two baby bears loping across the yellow lines and tumbling up and over the stone wall on the other side.
On the drive back, we pulled the jeep over and looked at the milky way. I watched the International Space Station move across the Big Dipper. And I saw about 5 shooting stars.

Today, I trained early and made it in time for an 1100 interview.

Path function vs. State function

In physics and chemistry, there is an interesting concept about the beginning and ending of things.

Those properties or quantities whose values depend only on the starting point and ending point are called "State" functions. In physics, the concept of "work" is a state function. That is, you may climb a mountain any route imaginable, but it is only the height of the base camp and the summit that are taken into account into the calculation of "work". In a path function, the state of the system depends entirely on the way in which the effort was achieved. The process is everything.

I am coming to believe or understand that human interactions and endeavors are path functions. There seems to be some fundamental law of life which says that the ends do not justify the means. In fact, it seems that when we take actions for the sole purpose of achieving a particular end, that ending is somehow spoiled or tainted, or we find that it was not worth the damage we incurred to achieve it. This is counter-intuitive to the pragmatist, the manipulator, and the Machiavellian. But it seems to be true.

This thought has particularly struck me as I write this biography of a Dutch spy, unwrapping my notes, and stitching together memories and analyses. The ethicist in me sees the vast moral ambiguity and immorality of MIVD's actions, and the scientist in me sees the technologies that they deployed, and the tactics and procedures they used (or, in this case, misused) on Sjors and on me. The analyst in me sees that this type of behavior, though intended to achieve economic advantage and institutional security, has the grave potential to undermine both. The analyst in me disapproves of these methods not merely on the basis of their being unethical, but on the basis of their being ineffectual.

On the strategic level, consider that the current threats to national security come from asymmetric, non-state actors. Their detection and elimination is certainly dependent on technology, but it is increasingly important to have access, understanding and, ideally, shared objectives with well-positioned people or organizations. You can buy or manipulate your way into this access, but these types of purchased relationships are shaky and uncertain. what you want is a partner who will have your back even when you're not around to request it. This is the difference between intelligence operations and security force assistance. In the first case, you have a "source" whose motives are varied and possibly changeable. But in the second case, you risk to make genuine friendships and partnerships. You risk to be successful in building a lifelong, capable ally whose goals align with yours. They help you because they want to. Because it is the right thing for everyone. This is the difference between what Sjors was doing, and what I was doing.

On the operational level, I think about the MIVD team's misuse of their technology. They were, I believe, intending to block communication between Sjors and myself. They were trying to minimize risk and bring Sjors in line. Certainly it must have made sense to them at the time. But the way that they went about doing this was so wrong-headed and illegal, and it made them wildly vulnerable. I saw what they did. I recorded it. I filed a criminal complaint. Everything that they've done afterwards (the denial and sliming) has been to cover that fuck-up.

On the tactical level, I think about Sjors' lies to me. He was trained to lie. It was his job to lie. But his lies were intended to prevent me from acting - and they had the opposite effect. I loved him. I wanted to help and protect him. I saw his lies (how could I not?) and interpreted them as symptoms of coercion. And I deployed every weapon in my arsenal to help him.

I remember when I first learned that Sjors was married. I loved him so fiercely and the situation devastated me. I wanted so badly to be with him. I remember thinking that I would give up everything I had - happily give Sjors' wife all my earnings for the rest of my life if I could be with him. I would have given anything in the world to be with him. But I understood somehow that this was a path function. It was too important to me to do this wrongly. Sjors was so vulnerable and open to me at the time and there were so many things I could have said and done to manipulate the circumstance to my advantage. I could have pulled strings and pretended and feinted and punished to achieve my objective. But I chose not to. I was always open and honest. I wanted Sjors - but I wanted Sjors freely. Because he chose to be with me - not because I had manipulated to get what I wanted.

The other side did not play fair. MIVD manipulated and conned and coerced and threatened and rewarded. And he chose them.

I look back over my decisions and I know that, if I had done everything I was able to do, I would have lost something fundamental of my self. I might be with Sjors today. But the victory would be Pyrrhic. What would I have to offer him if I had lost my soul?

Driving the car into the garage

Google Maps estimated that the trip would take less than 7 hours, but the trip to Newport, Rhode Island to bring P and his family home yesterday took 13.5 hours. 

Crystal had the new baby on Tuesday. They named him after the doctor who had saved their other son's life.  Friday, everyone checked out of the hospital and spent Friday night in the Ronald MacDonald house. Eve and I met them there yesterday morning and loaded them into two cars. Eve took Crystal and the new baby. I took P and his two sons. 

It was difficult going. I drove the lead vehicle and navigated, and everyone suffered. We stopped for picnics on the lawn of the rest-stops and we stopped for potty breaks when the situation required it (as it often did), but these were never enough to stop the pain. Poor Crystal suffered with breasts full of milk and a tiny baby she couldn't get out of the carseat to feed.  In my car, the 2-year-old, miserable after nearly two months in the hospital and plugged into respirators, feeding tubes, catheters, shunts, and undergoing three cranial surgeries, and now lashed down in a car-seat for an impossibly long journey, began to scream. 

Until last week, we thought he would be shipped out on a medical evacuation flight. Now, this fragile little guy was reliant on my good driving skills and awareness of other drivers' stupidity to keep him safe. This was nerve-wracking, but I didn't want his dad to see how worried I was. His brother, in a toddler seat beside him, was as patient as he could be. I'd loaded up coloring books and crayons, puzzles, cards, stickers, and as many toys as I could find on the dollar rack of Target during my late-night run the night before. 

P did parenting from the front seat, trying hard to keep the two boys comfortable and happy. 

The screaming and thrashing-about seemed dangerous to me. I worried that this little guy would whack his head or induce swelling in the brain again from his obviously elevated blood pressure. I pulled the car over several times, but we found that he wasn't hurt - he just wanted out of the seat. We couldn't do that. 

After nearly two hours of howling rage, I risked to pull out my i-phone and use the application my brother had downloaded, Spotify. It allowed me to find the song I knew the boys liked: Paradise by Coldplay. 

It worked. He calmed down and, though he still can't speak, he vocalized with the music: "Para...para...paradise".  I was so relieved and grateful, I could kiss Chris Martin. We listened over and over and over. 

I can't begin to express how grateful I am that we got everyone to Rhode Island safely. It was no sure thing. But it needed to happen. When Eve told me what needed to be done, she said: "It's like we've done the Dakar rally through the Saharan Desert, and all that's left is to pull the car into the garage. We need to pull the fucking car into the garage."

She's right. This has been a marathon. At any point along the way, things could have taken a turn for the worse. When they brought the two little boys into the hospital last month, one was dead. They worked a miracle. Everyone is alive. And our little guy is doing well. He's starting to talk at last. And, when we finally brought him into his new home and he saw the books and toys he recognized, and realized that he was home at last, he walked around the place like a madman, holding onto Eve's hands for balance as he wobbled about. He jumped and squealed with joy. 

My little 4-year-old friend snuggled up against me last night, relieved to be at home at last. He sucked his thumb and reached up with his other hand to thread his fingers through my hair and pull at the fleshy bit of skin at my jawline. 

This morning, he came into my room first thing and declared to me: "Je ne veux pas que tu partes"

The first part I heard and understood: "I don't want..."

"Je ne comprends pas," I said. 

"Je ne veux pas que tu partes" he said again. 

"Je ne comprends pas partes," I said. "qu'Est-ce que c'est partes?"

"Partir," he said. I understood. Partir is to leave. To depart. 

"I don't want to leave you either, buddy," I said. I wanted to snuggle him on my lap but his pants were wet where he peed the bed last night. 

I tried to use my French to tell him I didn't want to leave either, but the broad grin on his face made me feel like I'd missed the mark. Had I told him that I wasn't going to leave? 

Eve and I fixed breakfast for the two little boys (Eggs and grapes cut in half so as not to be a choking hazard.)

As it came time to go, he lingered by my side. He reached up for me to hold him, and I'm grateful for the months of weight lifting that make this an easy task. Then, we sat together on the couch, and he climbed into my lap and I held him like a baby. This seems to comfort him, make him feel that he is cared for, even as his little brothers need the attention of infants. He looked angry at me as I left. It's probably best that he get pissed at me and . I would take him home with me if I could. 

Eve and I headed back today. It took 11 hours. Google maps lies. So glad to make it back. So glad that it's gone well. 

We pulled the fucking car into the garage. 

The liar

I've been so saddened to consider Robin Williams' death yesterday. God, what a bright light to be extinguished. I remember him the way that I remember an old friend.

When I was 5, my parents, sisters, and I were living at my grandparent's house in Sacramento, California. This was because Grandma was at stage 4 breast cancer and my mother was helping her as she deteriorated. I remember sitting on the floor, close to my grandparent's television, watching Robin on Mork and Mindy. Even now, I can recollect the feeling that he was somehow my own special person. Over the years, I must have retained that same sense of special ownership and relationship. I wonder how many other people felt the same way. I see the feelings expressed on social media and I think that his impact must be both enormous and personal in the same way it has been huge and personal for me.

Depression is such a fucking liar. Completely powerful. All consuming. It takes beauty and joy. It corrupts even the good memories, convincing you that your happiness was a facade, and that this is the reality. I think the thing that I hate the most about Robin's suicide is knowing that the voice of the liar was the last thing this beautiful and generous man heard. 

Old Rag

Yesterday morning, Eve went to the hospital to take care of Crystal. It is such a relief to be able to hand this off to her. It has become very difficult for me. The last time I visited the hospital and took Crystal on errands, I became nauseated and had a painful stomach. I thought I was sick, but I believe it was just the accumulation of stress from the circumstance as I recovered after returning home and downing antacids. I have found it near-impossible to work. My desire to support has been overtaken by the physical limitations of this support. 

I knew I needed a reset. I considered the "usual" bike ride to Bethesda, but this has become less of an adventure for me, and I needed something atypical to pull me out of this slump. 

I still have Sara's car, so I decided to drive to the Shenandoah National Park and hike a mountain. The idea didn't even occur to me until 1300, and I knew that the drive would take two hours - but I thought, "what the hell? If it gets late, I can always turn around." 

The entrance to Old Rag is through Sperryville, Virginia. The drive took about two hours. 

I'd packed supplies and emergency gear in case I was stranded on the mountain overnight. I decided that it wasn't a bad night to be downclimbing since it was the night of the Supermoon - when the full moon is closest to the earth. Even if my headlamps failed, I would have lunar assistance. 

It was a beautiful hike. The trees were in their full foliage and the sky was overcast but bright. The air was extremely humid and the exertion was good. I was drenched within an hour of climbing. I took off my undershirt and hung it on my backpack to dry. I listened to the audiobook of Scott C. Johnson's "The Wolf and the Watchman". In it, Johnson discusses the relationship troubles caused in his family by his father's work as a covert operative for the CIA. 

The theme of Johnson's book focuses on the emotional damage it caused him to live a lie during his childhood and adolescence in support of his father's cover, and the distrust that fomented over the years between him and his father as a result of his father's spy-work. He wrote: "I had by now accepted that selective nondisclosure was part of the deal with him; he couldn't tell me everything, and I didn't need him to. But this wasn't as much about information as loyalty. I had always wanted to believe I came first. But what happened, I wondered, to spies when loyalty to their loved ones conflicted with their loyalty to their masters? Who, in the end, would win? Whose loyalty was more important?" 

I thought it interesting that Johnson used the word, "master". Not "employer". This is the word you use to describe a puppeteer or slave-owner. This stands in contrast to the adulation Johnson readily expresses for this father; admiration for his calm confidence, intelligence, and resourcefulness. But how, in light of this alternate framework, could he so respect a man who would willingly be a marionette or a slave? 

This is one of the rare leaps that Johnson makes to comment about the ethical conflict and psychological danger generated by the organization itself, its methods, objectives, priorities, and operating procedures. I believe that Johnson erected firewalls in his mind when he was a child, partitioning the CIA into some category of untouchable omnipotence. It is some immutable thing - to be rejected entirely or complied with, but not to be questioned. He ranges between affection and hate for the organization, but cannot ever seem to rationally examine it. In adult years, Johnson judges his father harshly, but not the organization who created him. 

Because I saw firsthand the methods that MIVD used on Sjors to control him, and I saw the damaging effects it had on him, I am considerably less critical of the man, and far more critical of the organization. When he signed on the dotted line to be one of their ranks, he did not give informed consent. Because the organization operated in the shadows, he had no way of knowing what he signed up for. But they knew. 

I think that I have some fundamental differences of opinion with Johnson. I believe in the importance of covert action and espionage in instances of real threat to National Security. For example, I think that it is crucial to use these methods to infiltrate organized crime and terrorist groups. However, I think that it is inherently bad for any individual or group when they have 1) The ability (or, in this case, the mandate) to operate in secrecy, 2)  Powerful tools and techniques, and 3) the mandate to lie. It is far too tempting to abuse your tools and techniques, and then to cover your actions through secrecy and deceit. 

I was surprised to find that, in spite of the late hour, I was not alone on the trail. There was a group of about 15 people who were hiking to the summit to watch the moon rise. When I arrived at the top, climbing my way through the boulder-field, I was able to sit with them, share food and wine, and chat. I also had people to walk with as I hiked down. It's bear country and safer to walk in groups, making noise. The most dangerous thing we saw on the hike down was a copperhead snake crossing the trail. 

The full moon lit the 5 mile descent, shimmering through the trees in an eerily beautiful glow. 

I feel refreshed today. My mind is clear, and I don't feel like I'm going to bust out of my skin. I don't know why it is so important to do these things, but I'm glad I know the trick. 

Crystal

Still can't focus on work. The situation with Crystal and P and their boys has taken it out of me again.

I tried to take this week off from going to the hospital. But it wasn't possible. I took Crystal to the doctor on Tuesday. Wednesday, as I worked and tried to finish this pricing structure for this potential contract, her interpreter called me and asked if I could come and watch the 2-year-old while Crystal was checked out on the 3rd floor for contractions. The interpreter asked me what the plan was for Harold when Crystal went into labor. I felt horrified. I'm not the plan-maker. I'm the emergency support. But when I told the interpreter that Crystal needed to talk to P about the plan, Crystal interpreted this to mean that I would not come and help her unless P asked me to. It's all so awful and fraught. And it doesn't help that Crystal doesn't seem to like me very much.

I don't want to resent them, but I'm so tired. It is hard to be the perpetual support person. This morning, Crystal sent me a text message in the best English she could muster: "Hi Elisabeth, please if u have a time today I need that u help me. i want to buy some clothes for the born. if u dont hav a time dn't worry."

I feel so sad for her. Here she is, ready to give birth, and she hasn't had the chance to buy anything for her baby. The only thing I've thought about the baby sofar is: "Please don't come yet!" God, of course I'll go and get her. We'll go baby shopping. And I look to god and the universe to buoy up my foundering business while I do this.

Strangely, I am writing a tremendous amount. My brain still seems able to do this. I write 3,000 to 10,000 words each day. Can't say much about the quality at this point, but at least the memories and records are going down chronologically. Grateful that I can still produce something during this draining time.

Back on track

It's been a challenging weekend. I collected P at the airport on Friday and took him to the hospital. The 2-year-old is interactive. He had surgery to replace one of the two pieces of skull they removed. He seems to be recovering very quickly. What a resilient kid!

I am worn out from being at the hospital and drained from the emotional energy it takes to support the family. I spent most of the weekend buying and preparing food for them and sitting in the hospital and playing with the 4-year-old. I took him on a special trip to MacDonald's because there are toys in the happy-meals (even if the food is disgusting) and because this was a wild appeal to him ("Mac-Doh", he chanted. "Mac Doh", "Mac Doh".) It is easy to love him. When he sees me, he lights up and leaps into my arms. He rests his head on my shoulder, and wipes his mouth on my shirt. Sometimes he uses me a jungle gym and I throw him over my shoulder and jog around. Sometimes, he pretends that he is asleep so that I will cuddle him like a baby and coo at him. "philippe doux, il dort. Je t'aime."

I'm quite enamored. It causes me to consider the possibility that I might adopt a child someday. I cannot have Sjors' children and I do not want the children of another man. But there are plenty of kids who need someone who loves and gentles them and rough-houses when they want it.

I am very tired. I do not resent them for their need but this has become very difficult for me. I feel very tapped. As Bilbo said, "like butter spread over too much bread."

I decided that I would take the week off and not visit until next weekend. But P asked me to take Crystal to her pre-natal doctor's appointment tomorrow. I feel this obligation as a difficult weight on me. However, as I request great support from god and the universe, I do not think it appropriate to be stingy with my support of others.

Apart from this drain, I feel better able to work this week than last.  It is a difficult time to get contracts, but I am hopeful that there will be good news soon.

In the meantime, I've been able to write a considerable amount: to collate the records and notes from that time in 2010/2011 when the MIVD team attempted to manipulate Sjors' behavior by blocking his communication with me (and me with him). It is good that I have detailed, dispassionate records which stand up to any level of scrutiny. There has been considerable international dialogue about the role that covert governmental and military organizations play in invading personal privacy. I think that it is an appropriate discussion, and that my contribution to the discourse will not be unwelcome. Covert organizations have always had the initiative to invade privacy but they have not, until recently, had such a vast capability to do so. It is appropriate that they be subject to scrutiny, reprimand, and reconsideration of practices.

Perhaps it is the intention and application of this specific privacy violation that causes the greatest ethical and practical concern. MIVD did not simply stand by and passively monitor (as they do with this blog) but they used their capability actively, intrusively, and for the specific purpose of interfering with the relationship between Sjors and myself, and manipulating his behavior. This is a dreadful practice and one which they should answer for.

The fact that they were successful in their manipulation is despicable. Not to mention: it has caused such terrible harm. That they subsequently attempted to slander me to cover up their misdeeds should be cause for alarm. These are bad business practices because they do not protect the institution but, rather, open them up for criminal investigations and defamation lawsuits. These are bad ethical practices that justly expose them to public scrutiny. These practices also interfere with the actual mission of the organization: to stop bad people from doing bad things. If it is your job to find and eliminate terrorists then, by all means: fucking do so. To waste your resources and capabilities in order to interfere with a person's private affairs is a distraction and a fuck-up. To make matters worse, you stopped me from doing my job - and I was working to make your military more effective, and to make the world a safer place. You have stopped all the good things I would have done in this past year.

I had a long conversation with a member of the Cameroonian Special Forces today. He contacted me because he very badly wanted me to conduct additional training in Cameroon. But I am powerless to help him, as I am equally powerless to assist the dozen other African countries where I was supposed to put programs in place in the past year. I put this on you, MIVD. I blame you for this capability gap which cannot be filled any other way. Ask your own officers who worked alongside me. Ask them what value I brought. And ask yourselves: what the fuck were you thinking?

Gabriela y Rodrigo

Last night, I went to a concert at Wolf Trap with Sara and her husband and their friend. What a lovely way to spend an evening! We picnicked on the grass beforehand, eating cheese and bread and wine.

Then the concert itself was amazing. A fusion of flamenco and heavy metal by two Mexican artists, Gabriela and Rodrigo. Sara's friend had gotten us fantastic seats, and it was impressive to hear and see the skill and musicality. They used the guitar in interesting and different ways, Gabriela providing both harmony and percussion, using complicated strum patterns and the guitar itself as a striking instrument. Rodrigo played with his legs apart, hips thrust Elvis style as he played sexy melodies. 

The experience was quite invigorating. I'm starting to get my groove back on. I've been a bit lethargic lately. I suspect that it's been difficult to deal with the emotional attention required for P and his family, and then for my own family. I've had trouble doing work. But today, I was up early for some Crossfit. Then I took the train to Reston where I met with some software engineers who will be developing the prototype for my invention. Very cool. 

And I've been able to write a tremendous amount recently. Recording events and putting pieces together chronologically so I can tell the complete story. I feel that it's important to do this. I've always felt the need to look at it all: spread out behind in its complex pattern. With the benefit of hindsight, I can understand the whys and wherefores, but I didn't know the significant parts while I was in the middle of them. I have excellent notes, e-mails, and records so it becomes possible to create an accurate (is memory ever accurate?) narrative. In retrospect, I think that I would do one single thing differently - and it would have made all the difference: When Sjors and I were in his rooms on the base in 2010, and Mac came sniffing at the door, I was ready to open the door and to tell Mac to fuck off. Sjors begged me not to. He was fearful and I became contaminated by his fear. But I am not someone who hides in the shadows. If I had it to do over again, I would have confronted Mac before Sjors left the base on 11/26/2010. I would have forced the bastards to talk to me. 

Rejecting myths

I grew up in a suburban neighborhood south of Salt Lake City, Utah. The dominant religion - and the religion of all my neighbors - was Mormon. In the doctrine of the church, there are clearly defined gender roles. Men hold the priesthood and the leadership roles in the church and family, and women's primary responsibility is in the home. According to the religion, your relationship to god differs according to your genitalia. In the temple wedding ceremony, men covenant to obey god, and women covenant to obey their husbands. These roles were deeply ingrained in my psyche, and I believed that my deep hunger to educate myself, and to see the world and to impact it in a major way derived from unrighteous desires. It was vainglorious to wish to accomplish something large with my life and I was cautioned, in my personal Patriarchal blessing, that I should, "beware the things of the world" and that I would lose the blessings of family if I wasn't careful. I felt that it was unworthy for me to pray for assistance, so my prayers to god before physics exams was, "please don't stop me yet."

I think it was the articulated gender roles which first caused me to resist the religion. The women they described, and the ideal that women in the church aspired to, bore no resemblance to the truth I saw in my own soul. I was taught that I should try to become the person who accepted this church-sanctioned version of my female self. If you doubted this version, you were supposed to pray and let god realign your heart. I lived with other Mormon women in Boston, and we attended church together. They accepted these roles and tried to be good Mormon women and find husbands in the local congregation. But some fundamental source of self-knowledge in me rejected what I saw and what was required of me. I didn't know another way, but something in me cried out, "not this." I quietly walked away. 

As I read about sexual selection, and the role of agriculture and property in patriarchy, it becomes clear to me that any organization which defines people along gender lines is man-made. Literally: "man"-made. Because men are in the power seat and benefit from the status quo - and gender roles reinforce this power position. Any organization which encourages a person to accept the organization's version of themselves above their own judgment - and to believe that any misalignment between these versions is due to their own personal failing - is using a particularly insidious form of social control. This is not benign. It malevolently undermines a person's confidence in his/herself and insists that he/she expend increasing energy forcing her/himself into the artificial standard and then, because this standard is not achievable, blaming themselves for the failure. 

This rejection of Mormon gender roles was the first time I saw behind the curtain and stepped away from an externally imposed assumption. There have been many times since then. I rejected the undermining efforts of a sadistic Advisor in graduate school who shamed me publicly, ridiculed me behind closed doors to other professors, and wanted me to believe I was worthless, and another graduate Advisor who felt that my graduate thesis was looking great and on-target for dissertation defense - up until the moment he solicited me for sex and I refused.

It can powerful tool to introduce doubt into a person's psyche. I was infected with a thorough doubt of my abilities in physics, after years of negative reinforcement and outright verbal abuse. This may be why I couldn't bear to become a full-time theoretical and computational physicist. But I have been able to fight my own doubt in other arenas.

Through the years, I've learned to stop interpreting the failings of the men around me as something that I've caused. It was their problem, not mine. 

It was an object lesson on personal doubt when I visited my fiance Jeff in the hospital when he was admitted for manic psychosis and in the months and years afterwards. He developed a pointed fury at me. He was angry at me for so many reasons, and there wasn't anything I could do to appease him. For a long time, I accepted that the fault was with me and tried to comply with his unreasonable demands until a friend reminded me: "you're the sane one".

This has been a helpful insight for me to remember. On June 22, 2012, I had cut off all communication with Mac and looked to file a criminal complaint. MIVD had no way to reach out and rattle my chain. So they used Sjors. In July, he suddenly started writing to me (he had been silent before) and tried to imply that I had imagined the events which we had witnessed and I'd recorded. He wrote in July 2012: "I think you need help and I offer you my friendship. I feel you created your own reality but it is far from the truth". I remember how hurt and angry I felt. Not only angry that he would deny what they had done, but that he would participate in a campaign to discredit me. As the correspondence continued, he continued to imply that the fault was with me. I never doubted myself or my evidence. And I always responded with anger. 

I also responded with anger (rather than doubt myself) last October when the corporation I worked for tried to get me to agree with their version of the MIVD lies. In exchange for continued work and paycheck, they required that I sign a document admitting fault and accepting censure. I had told them the truth of all events. I recorded the minutes of each meeting and e-mailed these to all participants. I was not afraid of the truth. This unnerved the VP of HR who was much more comfortable in the realm of fearful, self-doubting women who were far more easily manipulated. I recall that, after a particularly ugly meeting with the company president, Pearl (the VP of HR) stopped me from leaving, and told me in a simpering voice intended to sound sympathetic, "You know, everyone has such good things to say about your work."

She was blocking my way out of the room, and I remember looking at her with dead eyes. 

"That's because I'm a fucking good analyst," I told her. And I walked past her. 

I sometimes wonder if Sjors has ever rejected the myth he was handed. I know that he rejected the status of MAVO - and got himself educated and promoted. So it seems that he was able to move beyond some early assumptions. But, in general, it seems to me that this was a muscle he didn't tend to use. He wanted to be part of the club. And the club required that he accept their mythology. He fucking married a woman because the club told him to. He attacked me when I threatened the myth. He's fit himself neatly into the lie now.

But I know the man who fought to get out and who longed for a bigger truth than this. May the god who sees the truth of all hearts (regardless of gender) let you see behind the curtain - and help you to liberate yourself from the lie.