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.

Jam session

I had a play date today. Kept me occupied. Kept me sane.
I took the train downtown early this morning. I met Sara for hot yoga. She made tofu and broccoli for lunch. We ate with chopsticks. Then we went to her friend's house. Picked peaches and nectarines from the backyard. Made jam.
Glad for the distraction. Glad for the company. It doesn't help to ruminate. And this ugly fucker's just waiting to make a comeback. Damned if I'll let it.

Bicycling

It seems to be some sort of miracle cure for me: the high-intensity bike ride.
Last night, I felt like hell. The darkness wrapped around me and was pulling me back. I couldn't get Sjors out of my mind. I couldn't stop the memory of what it was to be with him. What it was to lose him. What it was to know that he had betrayed us. I couldn't stop myself feeling the loss.
So I got on the bicycle today. 15 miles into it, I was only concentrating on the ride. By mile 40, I was practically brain dead. And feeling better. Things feel less ugly after I ride.

I had dinner with a friend. Then I stopped by the hospital for a few hours.
"P" was with his 2-year-old-son, and the little boy seemed comforted to have his daddy there. Crystal came with the older boy who flung himself into my arms when he saw me, rested his head on my chest, and wrapped his legs around my hips. I cradled him for a long time because the little ball of energy seemed completely content to let me hold him.

I was glad that I didn't drag any of my darkness into the hospital with me. That little family needs all of the good energy it can get.

joy

It was two weeks ago - to the minute - that this little boy fell out the window. And tonight, I was in his room in the hospital, interacting with him.
During the first few days of the crisis, when it was still likely that he would not evade death, I sat with his mom and played with his brother, and brought the family meals, I forbade myself the indulgence of emotion. This was not my tragedy. If I was sad or overly-upset for this little boy, perhaps I would distract attention (even within my own soul) from the people who were really suffering.
Tonight, I spent a few minutes in his room. I held his hand, ran my fingers gently up his arm, and stroked his leg and foot. I called him by name, and I told him my name in French because he cannot understand English. He held my gaze for several minutes. Solemn little face. And I smiled and talked to him. I told him (in English, because my French is too poor) that we were all so worried for him, and that I was so happy to see that he was strong. I was so proud of him, I said, for fighting so hard. He was a little superhero.
And I felt, to my great surprise, a joy that completely overwhelmed me. I began to cry because of this relief and joy. I quickly turned away and found Kleenex, but I couldn't stop the tears. What a miracle. I have been elated and full of gratitude and joy all evening.

blessing

During my time in Utah, I spent quite a bit of time with my dad. We drove together to St. George to visit Lee, and we went on bike rides and walks together. It reminded me of the time we spent last year in Italy.

Dad had come to Naples for a visit - and his timing couldn't have been worse. He was supposed to arrive the day I returned from Cameroon. Instead, his flight was delayed and he was stuck in Philidelphia for two days, trying to get re-routed to Europe. He almost cancelled and returned home. Instead, he arrived on July 2. I was on my way to the airport to collect him when my boss, Brian, called me into his office, and told me about the lies that MIVD had passed along. Brian assured me that the Command already knew that these were lies, and that I had reported everything appropriately. But he told me that I wasn't allowed in the office spaces for 30 days until there was an investigation.

 I had not done anything wrong. I had reported everything appropriately. But they were so fearful. "It wouldn't be an issue," said Brian. "Except there's such a scandal with the Snowden thing."

I said, "I don't need to be in the spaces to get work done. Send me back down into Africa. I can run another SAMP iteration."

He said no. What I didn't know then - what I didn't learn until months later - was that Brian had already signed my termination notice when he called me into the office. He and I were already on shaky ground. I'd rejected a pass from him the previous summer (he'd pinched my ass in a swimming pool. I politely ignored this, allowing him to back down gracefully), and I'd confronted him for giving the credit for a 52-page report I'd written to someone else. Brian liked to stand on my shoulders and get points for my work, but my intensity and dedication to the mission - and my unyielding sense of righteousness - was clashing with his more flexible morality and relaxed work ethic.

Of course, my immediate concern was the nature of the lies from MIVD. I didn't know what the Dutch had said about me - and I was concerned that their lie would affect my ability for future work. Would affect my ability to maintain a security clearance. I was very distressed. I was also worried about the projects I was supporting and juggling. The mission mattered very much to me. I was trying to support the Dutch ship, the HNLMS Rotterdam as it went into West Africa. I was supposed to board the ship in less than a month to run their assessment program. The planners were scheduled to arrive that week in order to knock out the details.

Later that day, I received a phone call from  my company. They told me what Brian was too cowardly to say: that my contract had been terminated. They said that they wanted me to return to DC right away. I told them that I was happy to comply - but that I was going to spend two weeks with my father first. He'd worked so hard to come to see me and I would be damned if I didn't spend time with him.

For me, the time was hell. I tried very hard to be attentive and take care of things and show my father a good time. But I was in an anxious misery. We drove to Rome and into the Italian Alps and across the border into France. But I was so caught up in my own private misery and loss-of-control, I barely remember those days.

My father is a man with a very good soul and he is earnestly glad that he was there for me during that time. I am glad, as well. But I still feel such anger at MIVD for ruining my father's vacation.

It has been a very difficult year. I have lost so much, and I can hardly look behind me for the pain it causes. Dad said to me, "I sometimes imagine what it feels like to go through what you've experienced, and I can't believe how well you've handled it."

"I lost the most important thing first," I tell him, reminding myself. "Sjors mattered the most to me. Losing him was the greatest pain. Once I'd lost him, nothing else mattered. Every other loss was so small in comparison."

But none of the losses have been easy. I keep these things in boxes in my mind, and I try to only look at them through my peripheral. Just enough so I can bear it.

In the Mormon faith, people believe that men can receive a sacred priesthood. They believe that this endows them with a special power to bless people in the name of Jesus Christ. When I was a child, I would receive blessings of healing from men from the church when I was very sick. And when I was suffering regular seasonal flu, or on special occasions, my father would give me a "father's blessing", with a laying-on of hands.

I'm not Mormon. But I asked Dad for a blessing before I got on the plane yesterday. Whether god speaks through him or not, there is something beautiful about having my father give to me all his good intentions, unfettered by social convention. He cried while he spoke.

He told me that God would protect me in the difficult times ahead. That God would guide my steps as he had guided all of my other steps, and that my experiences had turned me into a capable tool which God would use to bless his children. That God hears my prayers even when I don't speak aloud, but only offer up the prayers of my soul.

Then I started to cry. "I don't want to fight any more," I told him. "I don't want it to be so hard anymore."

"If you are a tool in the Lord's hands..." began my father.

"He's turned me into a weapon," I told dad. "I am sharp and hard and I can fight. This is what I can do. This is what my experiences have given me. What sort of tool is a weapon if not to fight even bigger battles?"

And in a few minutes, I'm gearing up for another fight. This time, with a patent examiner who's misunderstood my work. My attorneys tell me it will cost me another $4000 to help me with the appeals. But I haven't received a paycheck since November. If there is a prayer of my soul, it is for the strength and cleverness and good intentions of the attorneys and patent office so that this fight will not last long, and will end well. 

Secrecy intolerance

In 2005 I invented a way to find the structure of molecules which don't form good single crystals. I didn't tell anyone in the laboratory where I worked. Instead, I bought computer equipment on my credit card, installed the equipment in my brother's basement, and started running simulations.
My idea worked. The proof of concept worked.
Problem was: I couldn't tell Jeremy. Jeremy was a Post-doc in the lab, and my friend. In 2011 he married my sister.

There were several reasons I couldn't tell Jeremy. The first reason was: he was affiliated with the university. If I wanted to retain intellectual property for my invention, I couldn't use any university resources - including him. Another, more subtly destructive reason was: it was likely he would feel angry that I'd done something he hadn't (and done it without him) or that he would start to believe that it belonged to him.

I submitted the invention for a patent in 2010. The following year, Jeremy left the University to accept a research position across the country. I could have told him then - but it had gotten more difficult by then. It has caused a non-negligible amount of guilt and pain to exclude him from this.

It's interesting what secrecy does to a person. When I was dating Sjors, I did so in secret because he didn't want to make the necessary changes in his life to include me in the open. I kept his secrets because I loved him and because he asked me and because I didn't want him to be hurt or damaged. Ultimately, the secrecy destroyed us both.

During this trip to Utah, I've found secrecy to be intolerable. The firewalls we've erected over so many years to protect one part of the family from the pain of hearing about another person. There was a very good reason we compartmentalized everything. But I can't stand it any more. Yesterday, I started tearing the walls down: talking about those things that have been taboo for years.

I took Anne for a bike ride to get coffee yesterday morning and told her I thought she should make an effort to get to know William - the brother she hasn't  seen for more than a decade. She hasn't even met his sons. I talked frankly about it. And then, later in the day,  I told Willliam that I wasn't going to keep secrets any longer, as well. And I talked with him openly about my sisters and the nieces he's never met.

Then, last night, I finally had the conversation with Jeremy about my invention. It feels so good to be free of the secrets. I fucking hate secrets.

In Recovery

It is always a challenge to come back to Utah. 

I don't hate the state. It's quite a lovely desert with stunning scenery and fantastic outdoor activities. Because I was raised here (by an Idaho boy) I benefited from the finest education in outdoors activities a girl could wish for: hiking, biking, snowmobiling, camping, dirt-biking, boating. These are the aspects of Utah I miss and wish I could transplant to my current circumstances. 

More difficult, however, is the painful, chest-tightening love for these people. My family. 

I'm staying at my parent's house. Dad made up a room for me, and made sure I was supplied with towels and soap and clean sheets. 

Dad and I drove down to St. George yesterday morning and spent the afternoon with Lee. (It was roughly the same time of year that he and I traveled to Northern Italy and Southern France after the MIVD's lies caused me to lose my position. I don't recall much of that trip, but he remembers it happily!)We went to Zion's National Park and hiked a few hours up the Narrows. "The Narrows" is a slot canyon carved out by the Virgin River. When you hike the Narrows, you walk in the silty, muddy water almost the entire time. Sometimes it is ankle-depth - and sometimes it goes to your waist. 

It was overcast and, as the drops of rain sometimes touched down, we listened for the roar that precedes a flash flood, and we kept an eye out for every refuge: every high ground and crevice we could conceivably grab hold of if the floods came sweeping in. At one point, we did hear a roar echo through the canyons and I thought, "oh shit". I looked back to Amy and urged her forward to a space in the rocks where I thought I could keep us from being swept away. Dad, hearing the noise as well and not wanting to be caught on the opposite side of the river, separated from his daughters, made his way quickly, bravely, and idiotically across. Later, when we were alone, I said, "you shouldn't have crossed when you did. You could have been caught out."

"I needed to save Lee," he said. 

I knew what he meant. I needed to save her, too. 

Lee said, "If this was Tolkien, and we were members of the Fellowship, I would be Pippin."

"Okay," I said. "I can see that."

"Jane would be Merrie," she continued. "And Corinne would be Legolas...and Dad would be Samwise." 

"Who am I?" I asked her.

"Aragorn," she said. 

That is how she sees me. Invincible. Wielding a sword. God, I wish I was worthy of that hero-worship. 

She's finishing the summer semester at school. Miraculous, considering the preceding five years of drug addiction. I'm so proud of her. 

P

"P" arrived at the airport at 2200. Eve and I picked him up. He hugged me when he saw me. Held me tight, said over and over, "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
We took him back to the apartment to see his 4-year-old son who went ballistic and flung himself into his father's arms. The 4-year-old proceeded to tail "P" around the apartment as he showered and changed his clothes and ate food, chattering happily to him.

At the hospital again, I couldn't bear to watch as "P" saw his tiny, 2-year-old son for the first time, hooked up to machines, eyes closed.

The little boy's heart rate was lower than it had been the previous two days. Every time I visited, I saw it at 167 - 175. So fast. Like a hummingbird. Now, I saw that it had dipped to 145 and this gave me a sense of relief.

But, as "P" held his son's hand, and talked to him, the little body began to twitch, and the heart began to pound: 187, 190. The nurse rushed in. They tried to calm him.

But I knew it wasn't agitation. The boy wasn't upset. He was excited. Just as his 4-year-old brother had thrown himself into "P"'s arms, this little guy knew his daddy was there and wanted just as badly to be near him.

Honoring the tragedy

"P"'s wife, Crystal, won't eat. 

Yesterday, when I came to the hospital, I thought through the things that she might need. Hospitals are cold, so I brought a sweater and a scarf, and some fuzzy socks for her. Also, because she's pregnant, I figured she might need some nutrition for the baby. So I threw everything I had in the blender: spinach, oranges, blueberries, pineapple, mango, cucumber, ginger-root, chia-seed, and I brought this to her. 

Yesterday, the shock was apparent. She was wandering the hospital like a zombie. She put the sweater on, and drank the juice because it was in front of her. I rubbed her feet and her back, and she seemed to barely notice. She cried when I hugged her tight. 

Today, the shock is wearing off and, in its place, a growing horror of the reality of the situation. Eve stayed with her most of the day. 

I took off on the bike ride I'd planned. I have to keep my mental health going into the visit to my family. I've just climbed out of one depression, I'm sure as shit not going to cave in to another. Bike riding is part of my mental health routine. 

It was a beautiful day. Hot and humid summer. The world was green and white and blue. I have to ride a long time to get the mental health benefits - 20 miles minimum. This is how long it takes for the good brain chemicals to kick in, and for the detachment from regular life to allow me space to relax. And, as I enjoyed the day and relaxed, I realized that I felt tremendously guilty. 

Guilty that I wasn't at the hospital with Eve and Crystal. Guilty that I'd forgotten to be sad for the little body attached to machines, for the cold little feet that I could hold in my hands. 

I'm familiar with the sensation. If you are in the middle of tragedy, any deviation from perpetual remembrance and sorrow incites extreme guilt: "I've forgotten. How could I have forgotten?" Believing that our dedication to the tragedy is somehow proportional to our love for the person we are grieving. 

When tragedy hit my family during my first year of graduate school, I was in torment. And in those rare moments of respite, relief, and peace, I hated myself for feeling normal. What kind of person feels normal when there is horror in front of their face? 

Several months later, tragedy struck me again and I traveled to the Northern Virginia Institute of Mental Health. The situation was awful. My fiance Jeff, diagnosed bipolar seven years before, was on a psychotic manic phase. He had been arrested after a number of bizarre stunts and court-ordered into the hospital where they forced Depakote on him and tried to get him stable. When I visited him, he was crying and upset, convinced that the doctors were trying to kill him. He alternated between weepy and belligerent towards me. And he was agitated, flexing and twitching, and stalking about. I hugged him and found him strangely prickly - because he'd shaved the hair from his entire body (including his arms and fingers). I remember that the nurses were upset because he'd stolen a marker and was busy writing Christoffel symbols on the cinder block walls of his room, working on problems in General Relativity. I did what I could to rescue, what I could do to help. I talked to the doctors; drove to his school and talked to his professors and got his homework assignments. I sat with him as he solved the problems. Even in his altered state, his mathematics were far superior to my own. One day, the hospital let me check him out for the afternoon. He freaked out and bolted, stealing the car keys from me before he ran. Jeff's dad came to help out - we called the police to assist, and we took him back to the mental ward. 

I was shaken and upset - and then Jeff's dad turned to me with a warm smile, said, "be sure to be back at the house by five so we can be on time to the theater." 

I remember I was stunned. Hadn't this awful thing just happened? Weren't we supposed to sit around and feel sad about it? Wasn't I supposed to grieve the disappearance of this man whom I loved? Wasn't I supposed to worry and fret and feel sad about Jeff trapped in this terrible condition? 

That night, in the theater with Jeff's dad, watching political satire and laughing aloud, I felt some truth blossom inside me: I owed no allegiance to tragedy. Tragedy was a bastard, and greedy. It took something beautiful from you, a future you longed for. Then, as if this was not enough, it ordered you to perpetually pray to it, reliving those moments and seconds and hours and days when the AWFUL THING occurred, begging it to be different: begging time to be malleable, and to turn back just long enough to build a different outcome. And, when you lack the energy to even consider these things, it obligates you to dread and despair. 

I thought about this as I watched Crystal today. Eve was comforting her when I arrived at the hospital. Her little boy was being taken for another MRI because his cranial pressure had begun to climb. She was shaken and visibly upset. We brought her back into the family waiting room. I gave her another sweater I'd brought and she put it on top of the other. 

Over the next hours, as we waited for news, and talked to the doctors, I tried to get Crystal to eat. But she refused. Even in those moments of relief - when we learned that it was the sensor, not the little boy's brain, which had been faulty. This realization relaxed us all, and we laughed and joked for a few minutes. I made a comment about the fashionable way that Crystal had transformed my scarf into a headwrap. Then, in the middle of a laugh, I saw that bastard, Tragedy, reach out and snatch the smile from her face. I knew what it was telling her, "how dare you? How can you laugh and talk, and take comfort, when your little boy is in so much pain and still in such danger?" 

I fought him. And so did Eve. I heated the salmon and grilled vegetables I'd brought. I plunked it on a styrofoam plate in front of her and told her, "it makes me feel better if you eat. Don't make me worry about you all night long. Please eat." 

So she ate. And the nourishment relaxed her body and loosened her tongue. She talked to us about her little boy, and then the food urged her into sleepiness: a genuine tiredness, and not the exhaustion of terror. 

I want to tell her that she doesn't need to honor this tragedy. It is only one part of this beautiful life you've had with your son. It doesn't deserve your allegiance. It doesn't deserve your loyalty.  

Accident

I spent the day at the Children's hospital, sitting with "P"'s wife. 

They have two sons: a 2-year-old and a 4-year-old. 

"P" is in Texas, at an English course in preparation for a year at the Navy Postgraduate school. This is the first time this young Cameroonian family has been in the U.S., so "P"'s pregnant wife and two sons were excited to travel to Newport and spend a year there. 

Eve visited them a couple weeks ago. The boys had been watching American television and couldn't wait to go to MacDonald's. "Mac-doe!" they shouted at her, jumping up and down, "Mac-doe! Mac-doe!"

Yesterday, the boys fell out of a window on the third floor of their apartment building. There aren't screens on windows in Cameroon, so it probably wasn't obvious that the screen wouldn't somehow protect them. But it didn't. 

The 2-year old broke his head. A neighbor dialed 911. The ambulance was close. The surgeons acted quickly, cut out a part of the skull to relieve pressure on the swelling brain. He's in the ICU, with so many tubes coming out of his little body. And I'm grateful for every one: every engineer whose ever worked to get the calibration on the cranial pressure gauge just right; the respirator engineers and the scientists who figured out how to rig a narrow tube to put food in his belly. 

The 4-year-old is, miraculously, fine. I played with him for hours, coloring pictures, assembling Legos and Mr. Potato Head and train tracks. He laughed and played and ran around in the children's courtyard, climbing up to impossible heights and launching himself into my arms. Fearless. And I looked up at the building surrounding the couryard - counting one, two, three windows up. 

And the monster retreats...

Maybe I don't take note often enough. It's easy to observe and put meaning onto the growing darkness, my head dipping below the surface again. But when the darkness subsides...I don't tend to remark on this.

I think that, after all, it was the anniversary. An awful, ugly reminder of Sjors' betrayal and the slander of MIVD and the cowardliness of my leadership and company. It was bound to make me feel like shit. July 4 in particular. What an ugly nasty day. I thought, "this is it. I'm going back under, aren't I?"

And then, when I didn't expect it, the darkness started to lift.

I don't pretend I'm not susceptible to melancholy, but it's better to believe that it's a manageable condition with an occasional flare-up than a permanent acute state.

I hardly noticed the way the demons backed into the shadows again. I was too focused on the patent examiner's comments. And now. Tonight. I feel fine. I worked out at the gym, watched the Tour de France, wrote to my lawyer, ate a sushi lunch with Marie and got a massage. Not a bad day. And I feel fine. God, what a gift it is to be able to say that: I feel fine.

To the MIVD bastards I say: good night, and may uncomfortable, career-crushing fumbles with important issues fuck you up tomorrow. May you accidentally expose your bums to the world and may you be mocked and lose the respect of your leadership. May you be made to look absurd.

And now, to bed.

I fucking miss Sjors

Do you hear that, Motherfuckers?

I don't know who he is now. I don't know if you've fucked him up properly, and if he would still be a douchebag to me if he saw me tomorrow.

But there was a man who loved me. I remember him. I remember you, Sjors. Even if you don't remember yourself. Maybe you do. Do you remember who you were around me? Do you remember how happy you were? Do you remember how much you laughed? I remember how much I loved you and how much you loved me. There was something about the quality of that love that defined us both, and made us better. You had the chance to be better. I would have helped you. And you would have helped me be better, as well. Why did you have to fucking choose them? What are you like today? What have you become?

Today, I worked for hours on comments to the reviewer of my patent. It's a shitty job, and I'm irritated because the reviewer has a catastrophic misunderstanding of the core concept and I have to defend against bizarrely unreasonable assertions. I want to call you and tell you about it. I want to be with the man who loved me, who promised to be with me. I want to be sitting in our home in the Netherlands, working on this there. I want you to poke fun at me because I'm irritated and I want you to throw water on me. And then we would have a fucking water fight. And then we would make love. Because I can't imagine a time when making love to you won't be the one thing I want more than anything in the world.

I want to watch you race through those history tomes you love. I want to go hunting through the markets for WWI Antiques that you might like. I want to go on bike rides with you. I want to run with you around the lake. I cycle so much these days, I might even be able to keep up. I go to crossfit and lift weights. Today, I back-squatted 90 lbs, snatched 55 lbs, and did 180 slam-balls. My legs are killing me tonight.

Today, there was a news item about a German spy who was selling secrets to the Americans. Of course the Germans are pissed off. You aren't supposed to talk about what you're doing, are you? It's a gentleman's agreement to pretend that it isn't happening. So here I am, recording your actions every time your group auto-logs onto this blog.

I'm too fucking busy right now trying to keep my head above water, I don't have time to work on publishing the story of us. But I will. Because it mattered more than anything that came before or since. People should know that its possible for two people to love each other that much. From what I've seen of the rest of dating and romance, it's pretty much shit.

Beginning, middle, and end of a relationship

It was the abridged version of relationship drama, and I didn't even have to leave the comfort of my home town - or the holiday weekend. This may be the new thing.

It started with a nice conversation after work. Then dinner. Five days ago, we're riding bikes down the Mt. Vernon trail. He expresses interest, takes me to dinner. We go to dinner the next night. Then back to my place. I start to think that maybe I might be interested in dating him because he seems to be emotionally open. He seems interested and nice. It's been a while since I've had any man give a fuck about me. I think, "maybe if he continues to be interested and open...maybe I will be able to open up too." Things seem to be going oddly well. He seems easy to talk to. And solicitous.

On Thursday night, he tells me that there's "someone else", a long-distance relationship with a woman he fell in love with two years ago, but he doesn't think a long-distance relationship is going to work. Okaaaay. Friday morning, over coffee, I learn her name, how they met, why she's awesome. Apparently, they've been exclusive for the past two years. He thinks she would give up her career and move to the U.S. if he asked her to. She calls while we're talking. He notes it, but doesn't pick up.

I think about this during the holiday, and the next day. We meet to ride bikes again on Saturday and I tell him, "thanks but no thanks. I've had my fill of relationships where there's someone else involved." He fights with me. I'm being unreasonable. How is it fair that I punish him for being honest with me? I'm not punishing you. I'm glad you told me because it's saved me a lot of trouble down the road. At least now I can bow out carefully before I get hurt. What if things were different? They aren't different. Will I wait around to see whether things work out between him and the other chica? No fucking way. I already spent all my "wait around for you to figure things out and hope they resolve without you having to make a decision" on Sjors.

And, because its his birthday, I meet him and some of his friends downtown that night. I stay out way past my bedtime. I drink mostly water because I'm training and I want to stay fit. He keeps reaching out, holding me. He keeps drinking. At 0230 it's way past my bedtime so I use Uber to call a car and get the hell home. Kiss, kiss. thanks for the nice night. Happy birthday.

At 0340 he shows up at my door. I'm tired but I try to be friendly. I let him snuggle. He gets pissed that I'm "distant". I tell him we're not having sex. He is mopey and angry. He sleeps in my bed but I don't take the PJs off. I'm nice but firm. You don't get to grope my boob.

He gets up at 0700 to go to church. I think he's calling Uber. But he's not. He's driving. Because he drove over to my house last night at 0340 drunk out of his mind. It's only been about 3 hours. He's still drunk. He drives home. And, presumably, to church.

Okay. Great decision matrix. Aaaand I'm out.

A token reminder

Conversation with Marie on Friday night. Hard bike ride on Saturday. Friends and sunlight on Sunday. Crossfit today. Plenty of healthy food and sleep, and my head is above the sludge again today. Maybe this is just a breather before it pulls me under again. But I want to believe that this will be the permanent state for me. That the demon is just a visitor, a token reminder of those ugly years. I don't want to have to fight it again. I have some inherent macabre belief, which I don't seem able to shake even now, that it will win some day.

Tomorrow is the year anniversary when I learned exactly how badly Sjors betrayed me, MIVD fucked me over, and my own organization didn't defend me against the lies. Apparently, anniversaries are significant to my psyche. And this one is no different. I keep having bad dreams that seem to revolve around betrayal. Good times. I just have to get through this rough patch.

So maybe I will focus on the good anniversaries. The good work I've been able to do. The operations I've been able to assist. There have been some good opportunities, good people, and good experiences. I'm glad for the pictures. They remind me that I am a dedicated professional; a solver of problems for people who are earnestly seeking solutions.

This photo was taken on board the Dutch ship. I didn't know the man who took it. He sent it to me more than a year later. It was a big deal for me that I was able to work on board the HNLMS Rotterdam - in spite of the fact that Mac was there. I didn't let it distract me or stop me from doing my job. This was November 2012. I'd filed the criminal complaint against Mac the previous July. I'd fought back the demons by kicking and punching my way out, finally directing my anger against Mac and his gang: where it belonged all along. By November, I was strong enough for the next challenge. And the Universe, or God, or fate, brought me to this ship in Dar es Salaam.

What an amazing experience. What a lifesaver. I worked with so many amazing people - operations personnel who were fighting piracy in HOA. It was so wonderful to be able to have Dutch culture again, unsullied by the bastards who had fucked with Sjors and me. I ate brown bread for breakfast with Nutella, the way that Hans used to fix it for me. And I spent time with Dutch Frogmen and Marines. I loved those men. If I could have, I would have traded lives in that instant, transformed into one of them and followed them into live fire. I gave them my best attention and my best work. And I was with them.

No matter what happened after that - what lies MIVD told about me, I get to keep that experience. That was mine. Those brief, happy days when I remembered what it was to want to be alive.

So on this nasty anniversary, when I am forced to recollect Sjors' final betrayal because my mind works like a documentary and will undoubtedly replay the last gory details, I will close my eyes and think of a Dutch Frogman who gave me a harness and gloves, and let me climb the ladders and fast-rope down the side of the ship; who taught me how to fire a weapon; who climbed a balcony to see me; who held my hand in the fast boat and on the airplane. This is a truly kind and brave man. There are wonderful, strong men in the world. I know, because I've met them. There are good memories, too.