Familiar friend

I've started reading physics texts again. I have dozens of them on the shelves - and a dozen years of study under my belt.
I don't expect to make a great contribution in the field. I don't know that I ever believed myself capable. But to read the theory, and to work through the math - it is so pleasing. It is a little like listening to a symphony by Mozart: something I can thoroughly enjoy without being able to create a masterpiece myself. There is a part of me that wishes to lose myself in it

I read out loud from a cosmology book to Eve as she packed her things last night - the particle soup and the fireball of the early universe. Eve is on her way to Africa today. I took her to the airport and then raced home for a couple of teleconferences. I spent the rest of the day answering e-mails and working on proposals. I took Eddy, the dog in the leasing office, for a jog around the block, and I went to the gym.

I met Joy for dinner tonight. Sushi. She brought me my Christmas present: homemade scrubs and creams, and a gift certificate for the Korean day spa we used to frequent when I lived in DC years ago. We talked about the experience of building a business, and about the philosophy of spirituality.

It was a cold night as I walked back from the train station.

The Colonels

We sat in the General's office around a polished conference table.
They were all in uniform: the starched blue and white.
There were six Colonels. All men. All white. Crevasses on their faces: the sediment and cracks of rank.
I sat at the head of the table, in a skin-tight black dress and bright yellow cardigan. I wore lipstick. I forgot these things when the meeting began. I have a unique ability to forget myself when I talk about the work I'm doing; the projects I care about. This is the saving grace for a personality that likes to urge and question and deplores the spotlight.
They had my business card and presentation.
 Dan used to call me a "true believer", a derogatory or affectionate term but I hated the implication: that I was driven by emotion, not reason.
But I do believe in what I'm doing, so perhaps he wasn't far wrong.
I spoke fervently. I fielded their questions.

They nodded when I noted that "capability" was more than technical aptitude.
They were concerned about whether Foreign Military Sales satisfied real-world requirements.
They expressed concern about those instances where partner objectives did not appear to align with our own.
They asked about partner transparency - reluctance in disclosing true objectives or unwillingness to participate in an "assessment" of true capability.
There was a concern about partners with deep pockets and a willingness to purchase items - but who lacked the ability or willingness to use the items appropriately or to greatest effect.
There was a question about "cultural differences" regarding concepts such as maintenance and drill schedules.
They wondered whether the folks in policy should hear about this.

They let me stay longer than planned. We shook hands. They talked among themselves. And the Colonel who had invited me walked me back to the entrance. 

Sunday Brunch

I walked to Old Town and had brunch with a man named Scott. We meandered to the Torpedo Factory and looked at art. He held my hand. We strolled along the Potomac and looked at the ice. He kissed me. And then he threw snowballs at me.

I don't know much about Scott. He might be a decent fellow. He might be a complete douche.
When I first met him, I thought, "his eyes are too close together". Today, after he's made me laugh quite a lot, I thought, "he looks like Andy Samberg from SNL".

He says he's single. No kids. I'll reserve judgment until I can fact-check these things.
I can usually sniff out the married ones. They're too confident in the way they move on you. They don't have the uncertainty that goes with wondering and hoping that you might have a real connection with someone. They give away compliments too readily. They're too physical. They aren't worried about establishing a power dynamic where they've surrendered too much of their independence. They're too ready with your coat or the door. They don't have much to lose if you say "no".  They dodge and weave when you ask about their home lives.
Not a lot of faith in men these days.

He's in the army. Don't know why I tend to have the most interest in the military types. Maybe I understand them the best. Maybe I believe they will understand me the best. I don't have to explain what it means to be doing things that are "operational" or to explain why it matters so much to me that I get off my couch and live for weeks or months at a time on a base or at sea. Why I want to be hiking Mount Cameroon with the BIR or climbing ladders on a ship instead of figuring out how to make swan figurines from apples.  Maybe it's delusional to believe that any man can understand what makes me tick.

I am fortunate to have friends who understand my ticking. They watched me walk into hell for Sjors and then witnessed as he betrayed me. They each have their opinion of MIVD and Sjors. Eve has seen my grief over the years. And now, she sits with me when the ghosts haunt me, and tries to remind me that this hell will not be forever. And Marie calls and texts me when she senses that peculiar darkness that threatens to settle. Corinne hears it in my voice over the phone and advises more time on the bicycle and in the sunshine.

Tonight, after listening to my description of Brunch, Eve opened the laptop. "Scott, eh? What's his last name? Where is he from? Let's see if his story checks out."

God help you, sir, if you are a complete douche.

Cold and bright

I spent the morning working on a proposal. I have written and submitted a total of seven proposals since November. Three were bids for existing requirements. Four were entirely of my own invention. Heavily researched and thought-out. Each proposal is 25 pages or so. Single spaced. I've had many meetings with the potential sponsors. International phone calls. In this time frame, I've also fought false accusations from my former company, completed registration for the business, and written and submitted two academic papers.

Two proposals have been actively shot-down by B, my previous boss. In the first instance, B verbally implied that I had been guilty of wrongdoing (referring to our Dutch friend's slander). The client didn't believe him, but he was made to understand that work with me would be perceived as "undesirable". So he pulled out. In the second instance, B represented that the Command had a strong preference that the client's work exclude any contractors. Any particular reason or history of this? Nope. Just being a bastard.

I will keep trying as long as I can make the money in the bank-account stretch. But then I will have to look for another job. Something that lets me live on more than my ideals and vision. I don't think I'll stay in the U.S. if this happens. I'll sell my shit or put it in storage. I'll go back to Africa.

Eve and I walked into the frigid winter to get some PT in at the gym. then I returned, showered, and took the train to Chinatown where I met R for sushi. R is one of those perfectly acceptable men I've attempted to date and for whom I feel nothing.

Lee called me this afternoon and we spoke for a few minutes. I don't recognize her. God, I wish I did. She spoke in second-hand euphemisms from every treatment facility she's ever been in. I remembered a decade ago when I used to drive my shitty little Mazda Miata with the busted-up hood into the industrial North-West corner of the Salt Lake Valley. She and Jane were at a youth treatment facility there. I would check Lee out for a drive. We would listen to the radio. I would crank it up loud and the hot Utah sun would beat down on us.  I would buy us sodas at a gas station. And then I would drive her back. She was only fourteen then. And so fraught with pain and confusion. I ached to reach into my soul and give her some piece that would patch hers.
Today, I don't recognize this person. And there is not much of a soul here left to give her.
I listened as Lee rummaged around in this borrowed bag of jargon and tried to pass off the half-baked thoughts as her own, offering them to me one at a time, testing to see if anything met with my approval.
"I have to spend some time working on me...I realize that I have to invest in the relationships that I've broken...it was really confronting to me to hear how much I need to build up trust..."
At least she's safe. She showed up at the treatment facility and she's safe.

Every day I find myself asking whether there has been any value in my sticking around these last few years. Is this a life worth living? The answer is clear. It has been clear for a long time. I died on August 16, 2011 when I said goodbye. And I didn't have the good sense to stop breathing.

The past eight months

Three years, three months since I first saw you.

Two years, five months since I first said goodbye and walked away so you could live your life.

One year, eight months ago, I tried to help you get out of  your organization. And two months later, you turned on me.

If you'd decided to fight for us three years ago, the pain of those changes would be over by now. Your life would look so much different than it is today and you would be settling into a new pattern with new ideas and new energy, with someone who loved you.

Eight months have passed since our last meeting.

What has your life been like these past eight months?

Are you still trapped? What books are you reading? Do you run? Do you have moments of peace? Have you shut off entirely?

When I saw you in Amsterdam Centraal last May, I hardly recognized you. You were so bleak and ugly. Rage and darkness seethed from you like snakes.You loved me once. How does love turn itself into that? Not by any calculus I know.

Two weeks later, you lied about me - or you signed off on the lie that they made, and you condemned me. In the end, it doesn't matter who invented it. You agreed to it. I still don't understand why. How could you do that?

I remember once, after I'd managed to do particularly good work at a conference in Tanzania in the fall of 2011, Eve followed me back to my hotel room so I could change and we could go to the market. As I dressed, I started to tremble and I couldn't stop. The tears came. I had lost you and the pain overtook me. I was so angry with myself that this sorrow was bigger than I was.

"It isn't getting any better," I told Eve. "I don't know what to do. Maybe this has turned into depression. It is so dark and I hurt so much."

Eve knew it was bad, but she did her best to make a path away from catastrophe. She said, "It isn't depression. It's grief. It hasn't gone away because there is so much of it. You don't know what the quantity of grief is. The volume may be so big that it takes longer to come out."

For me, it still is there. This love and deep grief for you. For me, they are two sides of the same coin. The magnitude of the grief is equal to the magnitude of the love. I must have loved you very much.

Breathing

Well, here it is: the first panic attack.

Pretty damn awesome I've gone this long without a problem. I feel fine emotionally - nothing worse than usual. But I can't breathe. My chest is so tight and I can't take in a full breath. I thought that activity would help so I went around the block. I thought lying down would help, so I stretched out on the floor and tried to meditate. But it doesn't work. Is it called a panic attack because it's caused by panic or because it induces it? I'm about ready to ask someone to punch a hole in my lung so I can get some air.

Lee made it to the facility in Arizona, and she registered. She told my mom that she would stay the full 90 days. So check that off my list of things to worry about.

I had lunch today with one of my Defense Contacts. This person told me that my old boss sabotaged a recent proposal I submitted to do work in Africa - by implying that I was guilty of something unmentionable. He wasn't called as a reference. He simply proffered this slander as a matter of course. The person he was speaking with knew me better than that, and didn't believe the lie. In fact, he continued to want my work and tried to figure out how he could move ahead with it. But he felt uncomfortable pursuing my work when he believed that my old organization wouldn't support.

Wow. What a champ.

 I suppose I'd always guessed that this sort of thing might happen. How do you stop someone from spreading lies and rumors about you? How do you prevent it before it happens? It feels particularly awful that his lies actually prevented me from doing the work I should be doing. It means I won't be able to help the naval officers in a country I care about.

I suppose I have a slander case against this fella. And it certainly raises the stakes on a slander case against my Dutch friends. But I don't want to prosecute him for something naughty he does. I want to stop him before he causes more damage.

And I can't breathe.

Escape from Rehab

Mom sent me a text message yesterday morning. Mom is notorious for bad-news texts. Once, while I was in the middle of international transit, she sent a text about an escaped convict who was trying to kill our family. I juggled my bag and phone while jogging through the CDG Paris airport to make a connection, and called her for clarification and to recommend a discussion with the local police.

The morning's text: "Please pray for Lee. She and another woman disappeared from the program last night."
So I called her. Lee's been in the rehab program for six months. In October, she was hospitalized and nearly kicked out of the program for suicidal plans. Yesterday, dad sent me the rehab's newsletter which featured a smiling, well-groomed, beautiful Lee prominently on its pages.

I love Lee. I thought the drugs thing was a phase. She was so bright and empathetic and articulate. She seemed so clear and perceptive about people.

I've known her for so long. I played surrogate mother to Lee when mom was sick and dad traveled. She used to sleep in my room because I protected her. When parent-teacher conferences came round, I would be the family rep. I read books out loud and made her meals and took her to school. There is a niche carved out in my soul where Lee belongs. I had confidence that Lee would join the ranks of the world's problem solvers. I thought she was smart enough to get close enough to drugs to sample and understand, but not so close that they would be the boss. I was wrong.

I got onto Facebook and left her a message with my phone number and instructions to call me. A few hours later, I noticed that she'd replied. But I'd been out.

This evening, we caught one another on FB. She texted me a phone number and I called.

She didn't sound like her. She was laughing when she picked up, but became serious quickly when I reminded her that I was worried.

She started with urgency and panic. She was suffering in the program. She had to get out.

Was she being harmed? Well, there wasn't one particular incident. She was working 54 hour weeks, lifting produce at a grocery store. There wasn't any therapy except twice each week when people stood around and yelled at each other. It was more  of a pattern.

She wasn't court-ordered to the facility. She was free to leave at any time. Why sneak out in the night? She was afraid that she wouldn't be able to get her things if she tried to leave during the day. And they would yell at her.

I was the only person who could help her, she said. The program's director had mom and dad believing his bullshit. I had to be the one to rescue her.

This tugged at my gut. Of course, if I could rescue her from the past five years, I would do it. Even now, I would give anything to save her - actually save her.

What did she want from me? She wanted me to fly her back to my house and let her sleep on the floor. She said she was sober. But I didn't believe her. Her words were too pressured; her tactics of manipulation too glib. This is not my baby sister. She is a drug addict. I don't have a job or income. I'm starting a business out of my home. I can't have her here. Not especially when I don't know this person.

I've spent the day working, and alternating with juggling conflicting expectations and behavior from people. I've found her a transitional home in Arizona where she'll be required to work her way through the program. My parents are unhappy. They don't believe that she's being abused. They think she just wants an escape.

Perhaps they're correct. But I have no way of knowing where the truth lies.

So I wrote to Lee tonight. God only knows if she will hear me.

"Lee, I want you to know something.

I hope that you're being honest with me. I hope that I'm doing the right thing by vouching for you and supporting the path for you to leave Welcome Home.

I love you and I want you to be healthy and well. I would do anything to be in a situation where we could live nearby and spend time together and I could see you really and truly happy.

I want this to come because you commit to being free and clear of the drug lifestyle - and because you remove yourself from anything that diminishes the bright light that you are.

If you go to this facility in Arizona and commit to the program, and work towards being healthy and clean and sober, and begin to patch up your broken relationships with the people  you've hurt, this will go a long way to gaining my trust.

If you don't make this work - if I find that you were manipulating my love for  you so that you could return to a drug lifestyle and drug habit that removes you from me - this will harm your relationship with me very badly.

It will mean that I will not be able to support you again.

I knew you once very well. I knew the soul of you. And you know me. Please choose to be a part of my life.

Please put yourself in a position to be close with me again."