Sheri,

At 67, I am at that point where- given a long and unfortunately sordid history of family abuse, then multiple rapes in the military, then forty years of eating disorders, it would be fair to say that the path has been bumpy. I’ve not been without wicked good humor along the way, but that doesn’t always suffice when we’re faced with the stark reality of our typicalities. It really strikes me how much we lean into what is most comfortable even though it is so painful. Those relationships which tend to perpetuate our pain. We know it. It feels familiar, like alcoholism. I think there is this insidious lie that because it feels familiar that it is home, or it is comfortable, or whatever. I love what a dear friend said to me about the last “potential” relationship I had, ten years of ongoing hell, was that how fortunate I was to be able to tee that up so many times and get to look at it.

Rising beyond blame takes a great deal of courage. The cyclical message that I have carried nearly all my adult life was that I was fuckable but not lovable. The issue of stories is another very deep one, but suffice it to say that the compulsion to make our parents right about our worthlessness is a huge driver.

I just did a piece about our parts, if you will, which speaks to this. Mom and Dad come into the world pre-loaded with bloatware, and we do too. It gets cascaded. The challenge seems in part to be how we tease out that which needs to be discarded- those stories and labels which are outright lies about our relative value- and embrace those truths which define us as worthy and lovable.

I am single, have been most of my adult life, and fully expect to end up that way. That’s not a bad thing at all. I have a life that many envy (I do epic adventure travel all over the world) and there isn’t a lot of room for a man. Certainly not the last one I had, who told me that “I didn’t need to be doing that any more.” Ah. well. Give up the one thing I love most to wait forever for him to decide that I am worth more that two hours of his time, perhaps four or five times a year. That I accepted such conditions is remarkable. Which is why if I never see a swinging dick again I am perfectly satisfied, especially after being pummeled with pictures of them for years- unsolicited- on online dating. Takes the breath away. Not the appendages, the stupidity. It’s terrific comedy fodder but it most definitely speaks to the deficit of decency among single men, of any age.

There are times that I skirt the edges of a Black Hole that speaks to a lifetime of abuses, and bad men, and mostly solo time. Especially these last twenty years. Those times I think about how badly I wish that a guy I trusted (loaded word) that I felt safe with (VERY loaded word) would just hold me without needing immediately to rip my clothing off. SICK of it. Even at this age, it doesn’t stop. Ancient men in their 70s still say the same desperately foolish things and send me photos that kindly, really, honestly.

I just trust Forces far larger than I am. For now, horses, dogs, camels, elephants, donkeys…animals. They are far more honest.