Suburban Goddess

A few years back, my co-worker and I would eat out often for lunch. At one particular restaurant, there were always a bunch of police officers sitting in a group.

“I want to date a cop,” I would remark.

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never dated one, and I think they understand the concept of honor. And I like the uniform.”

Fast forward a bit, and my friend M would point out that you should be careful what you “speak into your life.” A few months later, I met a nice “photographer” on the Internet who ended up being a cop… and we’ve been in a relationship ever since.

There’s a lot of things a civilian doesn’t understand about cops. The things they see, the caliber of human they interact with on a daily basis, the jaded view of humanity that possess. Cop parents are over-protective, bordering a little on paranoid; I can’t say I blame them. They see some of the most horrible injustices and disgusting, unforgivable crimes against children that civilians could never imagine. Their jobs don’t end at 5pm, and the images burned into their heads are not easily, if ever, forgotten. They encounter more negativity and disrespect than reverence and appreciation. Some people would readily kill them simply for no other reason than they carry a badge.

I can’t understand it. It’s not a world I was raised in.

There’s a connection between co-workers that corporate employees will never understand or experience. It’s a family mired in dysfunction; late hours, sometimes days spent with their “other family.” Their politics are brutal; often the “good cops” only reward is the self-satisfaction in knowing they personally did the right thing. They forge relationships with one another that outsiders can’t understand.

Outsiders like me.

Here is the reality of my situation. I’m in love with a person who nobody understands, and nobody truly knows. I’m in love with a person that has knowledge of a world I don’t ever want to know. I’m jealous of his relationships with these other people, because they connect to him in a way I never can, and in all honesty, don’t want to… because to do so would shatter the glass bubble I live in, and expose me to a world I could not live in. I’m too sensitive to live in that world. There are some things you truly are better off not knowing.

On the surface, things appear a certain way. Stoic. Quiet. Reserved. Everything people would say isn’t me… everything people would think is wrong for me. He does not react with passion or anger; his responses are cold, logical, and calculated. The complete opposite of everything I am… and yet, underneath, a carbon copy of myself. The paradox is impossible to explain; you will never understand it because you will never see him in that way. He does not allow it. It is the Cop’s Way. Shut down, close off, compartmentalize.

They have to, simply to survive.

You start to understand how they can go bad… the power rushes, the adultery, the suicide rate. How can a human being endure what they do for an extended period of time without changing to the very core of their moral fiber? It takes a strong man/woman to survive; it takes an even stronger one to maintain a “normal” life. My parents always instilled a respect for the law in me; it is only now I realize how hard it is to maintain.

It’s brought into question some serious concerns. What am I prepared to live without? Romance? Sponteneity? Flowers? What’s really important to me? Time together? Holidays? Both will suffer because of his job; there is no escaping that. This is where all the failed relationships truly come into focus; what did I give up that I couldn’t live without? At what point did the compromises become sacrifices, and when did those sacrifices become settling? Your answer may differ from mine, because the lines are drawn differently for anyone involved. But in the end, isn’t it all the same thing? No matter what you call it: Compromise, Sacrifice, Settling… it’s all denying a need within yourself for the sake of someone else who is either incapable or unwilling to fulfill that particular need.

There is no perfect relationship. Even those that appear to be perfect on the surface… there is simply no such thing. You just strive to get as close as you can to it, and learn to live without the other stuff. There is always SOMETHING you will have to compromise on, something you have to accept, something you have to give up. Some are lucky that those things are small; others settle for bigger things. But it is purely an internal choice; yours may not look anything like someone else’s. Some believe it is God’s Path, others call it a cosmic crap shoot.

It is only now, after two failed marriages, am I starting to understand what it TRULY important to me. Time. Appreciation. Understanding. Acceptance. A person willing to love me for my strengths and my weaknesses. A person willing to push me. A person who reads my mind (even though that’s his JOB).

Is he perfect? No. But neither am I. Am I compromising, or simply maturing? Am I sacrificing, or living in denial?

I’m not sure yet. But I’ll let you know. These are all internal questions that only you have the answers to.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my mojo. Oh, I had a LOT of mojo… just ask anyone who knew me in my 20′s. I slung mojo around like slime on a Nickelodeon show (you have to have a kid to catch that reference.) I was cool, I was confident. I would race in a bikini (got married in one, too.) Mojo wasn’t about the way I looked, though… it was an ATTITUDE. I had fun. I liked to tease and provoke; I liked to make people laugh and I loved good conversation. I could talk trash with the boys (drive faster than a few, too), and stand out in a crowd, but I was always friendly, open and approachable. If I saw something or someone interesting, I’d walk right up to them and start talking.

Occasionally, I’d run into someone who was shy… I used to be that person. Nobody would ever talk to me; I knew how that felt, so I’d go strike up a conversation. After years of not fitting in, I wanted to prevent that from happening to anyone else. In my world, everyone is welcome.

I’ve hashed over why my marriages fell apart too many times to do it again… but I know that the collapse of the second one is what did me in. I was left standing alone, wondering what I’d done, why he would leave, and how he could possibly do it the way he did. It shook me in a way that I could not recover… suddenly, I began to second-guess myself. I had several opportunities to start new relationships with wonderful people, but I was too afraid to make the jump. I’d been so badly burned, I was afraid to go anywhere near a flame anymore. The girl I was became a hollow shell of a person, scared, timid, and suspicious. I cannot trust fully; I cannot let go completely. I am damaged.

Living this way has lead me down a new path… a path with too much fear and too much doubt. A path with endless anxiety and constant heartburn. And I hate every minute of it.

I put it all aside for six days, went on vacation, and recharged. I recognized the signs immediately upon my return; the triggers that set me off, cause my shoulders to tense and the acid to rise. I SEE the issues in my life with stunning clarity now. And the saddest part; they are all completely self-inflicted.

There’s only two ways to change something. Change your environment, or change yourself. Those are the only two productive options you have. Oh sure, you can whine, or complain, which I am MORE than guilty of, but that behavior is completely stagnant. It will get you nowhere, and it totally wasted energy.

Sometimes it takes tremendous courage to make the change, and whining seems easier. Maybe, in that moment, it is. Change is hard. Big change is REALLY hard. But if you want things to happen, and you’re not happy, it’s the only way. Waiting is simply not an option. Life is happening.

Experience is on my side. When other people live through what I’ve lived through, I can see the light they cannot. I like being the hand that helps pull them through. And when they get to the other side and say “thank you,” it gives me a purpose again. I am not worthless. I am not easily discarded. I am the person they can count on… because everyone NEEDS one of those. At least one.

I may not be racing in bikinis anymore, but I’m comfortable in my own skin once more. I will never be defined by the person I am with again; I will simply be Myself. I love Photoshop, photography, animals, and playing on the lake in the summertime. I’m a damn good mom, a great friend, and a freaking awesome girlfriend. If people around me don’t see the worth in what I am… then I don’t need them. I am strong and I am independent because I have to be; I am kind and considerate because I choose to be. I appreciate tolerance, kindness, and patience in others, and have no use for people who don’t have a concept of loyalty. My friends are strong and true, and I can count on them to carry me when I stumble.

It’s been a hard path getting here… harder than I ever imagined. Even rougher times are directly ahead, and I honestly have no room left for the things that don’t matter or people who will not support me. I’m back in my own driver’s seat… and those who know me also know how I drive.

My friend sent me a link to an article that got my blood boiling. As women, we’re all guilty of “psycho” behavior at times. But she was unfairly labeled “psycho” by her ex-husband, who couldn’t understand why she may be upset when he continued to cheat on her through the course of their marriage.

Listen up, men. I know a lot of you who have called your ex (or current) ”psycho.” Some of the tales have been so horrific that I can’t help but take pity on you. Women, we’re guilty of it, too; we’re known to slap the “crazy” label on our exes as well.  They call constantly. They stalk us. They say horrible things about us.

But at one time, you *loved* them, right? So what happened? One day they just flip on the “psycho switch?”

The article got me thinking. I’ve had some difficulty believing some of the “psychotic” stories I’ve been handed. For one thing, I know women. We don’t start out that way, I assure you. In the beginning, you guys are PER-FECT. I will give some of you a break; hormones *can* make us a little wacky sometimes. (Pointing that out, however, could possibly be an insanity defense in a court of law, so I wouldn’t recommend it, guys. Don’t be stupid.) So I’m told how insanely jealous this whack-job of an ex is… following him around, monitoring his phone, reading his email… and I’m thinking, “Poor guy.”

Yeah. That’s how you hook us.

You fail to mention you’re a serial flirt. You leave out the part where you were dating other women. You don’t mention all the lies you might have told that might make this “whack job” a little whacky, like how you were supposed to be “on a job” but came home two hours after it ended and jumped in the shower. Essentially, you MADE her that way. Most of us don’t start out as paranoid schizophrenics.

Now, like I said, there’s a few instances where they are truly nutcases to begin with; lets face it… every widget that rolls off the factory line isn’t flawless. Personally, that’s why I like to attempt to “befriend” the nutjob; there’s quite a few benefits to that. One, you can judge for yourself. Two, you might find out a few things you need to know (It wasn’t until after my divorce that I heard the story of my ex’s bathroom encounter with his ex’s best friend. Would have been nice to know BEFORE I married him). There’s two sides to every story, and let’s face it; his/hers is going to be a little biased. Three, you can have some idea of a self-defense plan if she truly is a nutjob. Because sometimes, he/she is.

But I digress. The heart of the story was an admission of guilt from the guy; he did cheat, he did lie, and that’s when her behavior changed. And I took a deep sigh of relief, because essentially, that’s all we ever need as women; validation that we are NOT insane. We have intuition, we have past experiences, we have unexplained changes in behavior. YOUR behavior changes, but WE are the psycho?

I think not.

I will wear my “psycho” badge like a battle wound; you want to know why I’m “psycho?” Sister, let’s go have a margarita and I’ll tell you ALL ABOUT IT…

I’m wandering. My brain is moving in a million directions, and nothing seems to be following the path I need it to. You turn around, and the house you just cleaned is trashed again. You swore you paid that bill in February, yet now you’re getting a late notice in April. Another month has passed and the things you were “going to get to” didn’t get done.

How do you slow down this damn train?

All I want is a moment to breathe, to relax; but in those moments, there’s the emotional baggage to deal with, and it’s just easier to keep rushing, rushing, rushing…. I don’t want to stop to think. When I stop to think, it all hurts too much. I’m trying to cram lifetimes into minutes. There’s so much to be done, so many people to reach out to, so little time left. And through it all is this nagging, this awful voice in the back of my head that I keep trying to tell, “SHUT UP,” because it’s only intent is to drag me down.

I don’t have time for down. Not now. Not right now.