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.