On Saturday, I made a special trip with Other Husband (Legal Husband was working) into New York City. We were going to Gramercy Typewriter, and it was going to be just like being in Ollivander’s wand shop: the right one was going to choose me. I viewed this moment as a rebirth of my busy, writerly self… but why? Why would a typewriter make any difference at all, especially to a lady who got her start on Microsoft Word?
I struggle with depression, and I grew up hiding my feelings and thoughts because voicing them usually didn’t turn out so well. It was/is hard for me to speak up about myself because a) I often think I’m being ridiculous and b) the people around me often thought I was being ridiculous too. But to hold your tongue when you are hurt is like watching a flame turn into a fire and not doing anything about it: you threaten your own happiness, and your relationships, the longer you let the secret burn. This is how I learned to just say the things, even when it felt difficult.
I recently had reason to see myself on video. It really hurt my feelings. As far as I have come, I still look like a disabled person. It had been so long I guess, since I had seen myself in motion, that I forgot: the person behind my eyes is not the person presented to yours.
I suppose this sticks out in my mind because it is unusual. Normally, people are surprised to find that Other Husband has a wife (me), because for much of his life he has identified as gay. Recently, this happened instead:
When people hear that we all live together and are all in love, their thoughts turn pretty immediately to sex–whether it’s about jealousy regarding sex, or what sort of sexual configurations do or don’t exist in our house or, more negatively, that we are hedonistic sex-fiends who should be ashamed of ourselves. Any of these people might have been shocked to learn that, for a trio of lovers, there wasn’t very much physical loving going on. In fact, sometimes for months, there was none at all.
It feels wasteful to write about writing. If I’m going to sit here and type, shouldn’t I type the things themselves instead of typing about the things? Yet, up there it does say that this is in part a writing blog. So I’ll bite. Or rather, you bite. I’ll tug.
If I took it hard that all my dreams were crushed at A Christmas Carol, my mom took it harder. When I found out Tim Curry would be starring in Monty Python’s Broadway adaptation of Holy Grail (which I had been following for its own merit, because duh), Mom jumped at the chance to try again. We were going to do it right this time, she said. She was going to get us a hotel room in New York City, and we would wait at the stage door before the show. I was going to meet him, come Hell or high water. When Mom called to get tickets, she said the words “best seat in the house.” The operator replied: “Okay, we won’t have those until April XX.” “That’s my birthday,” Mom said. “Let’s do it.” A month or so before the show, I found out through the BroadwayWorld forums that everyone was going nuts over seat A101. They just wouldn’t say why. I hadn’t taken any interest in the actual numbers on our seats, but now of course I asked. Mom confirmed: we had a ticket to that seat. (more…)