by SG’s Team Agony feat. Aadie

Let us answer life’s questions – because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.

Q. I’ve been married for two years and my wife told me she wants to separate. It’s been three months and everything I do or see reminds me of her. I want to move away but I’m on probation and can’t. I’ve tried dating other women but every time I go on a date all I can focus on is how it’s not the same as with my wife. She’s already moved on and I see no hope of us getting back together. What should I do?

A: You need to focus on you. You have devoted two years to ‘us’ and she left. For that I have empathy for you, but now it’s seriously all about you.

Going on the odd date here and there is healthy but don’t over do it. I think you need to find yourself again in the aftermath of a relationship that very much defined you. It’s sad when people separate but sometimes that’s just the way it is.

Now it’s time to reintroduce yourself to yourself, get new hobbies, go to new bars, join a new gym, get a new hair style even. Find new friends, and also reconnect with old ones who perhaps fell by the wayside as you put more energy into the relationship.

For the moment, instead of looking to replace one relationship with another, build up your social circle and social life, so you have plenty of support and distractions. This will also help you when you are ready to find love again, to perhaps find it in a more organic and less overwhelming way through friends and friends of friends.

It’s going to be difficult, but you’re worth more then you know. Take a deep breath and hold your head up high. Your new life is beginning. You can only move forwards from here.

Aadie
xoxo

Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com

by M. J. Johnson

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and, if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole and genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion. For most men, it appears to me, are in a strange uncertainty about it, whether it is of the devil or of God, and have somewhat hastily concluded that it is the chief end of man here to “glorify God and enjoy him forever.”

– excerpt from Walden: Life in the Woods by Henry David Thoreau

I went into the park because I wished to read my book. What could be better than spending a warm afternoon with my back to a tree, a good book in hand, a cup of coffee next to me, cool grass and dirt under my butt? Well, apparently, I’m the only one who was thinking that way.

I recently moved to Iowa City; it’s a funky little college town, sort of a mini-Portland. On one side of town is this HUGE city park (cleverly called “City Park”), which is roughly the same size as the village where I grew up. There are pavilions and playgrounds, ball-diamonds and soccer pitches, and even a little train kids can ride. And the place was PACKED! Every pavilion had a family reunion, and the playgrounds were humming with giggles and screams. The walking trails were full of serious runners and leisurely walkers. There were even people using canoes to annoy the ducks.

But only I was on the grass. There weren’t any signs telling people to stay off the grass; in fact, there were benches and grills scattered all around under the trees. There just weren’t any people off the paths.

Hundreds of people, gathered in this tamed forest, and only I walked on the grass. Only I sat under a tree. Only I dared to leave the concrete or wood-chips.

Carl Jung talks about the Collective Unconscious, a sort of racial memory (where the “race” in question is “human”), which forms our psyche and explains why people in different cultures have similar stories and fears. Based on fairy tales and stories, forests are a place of human fear. Hansel and Gretel? Little Red Riding Hood? Any knightly quest, all have scary things hidden in the wild places. Our ancestors learned to fear the woods because all those trees give predators a good place to hide.

Has this translated into a fear of leaving the concrete path? Are we all so afraid of the wild that we don’t want to even walk on the grass? When I was teaching, I had to laugh at students who went far, far out of their way to get from class to class, simply because that’s where the sidewalk went.

Do we quaver at the feel of uneven ground under our feet? Does the thought of getting our shoes dirty terrify us? Are grass-stains scary? Do we think a mountain lion is lurking in the trees over our heads? Do we still fear the witch in the woods?

Or is it something else? This park did not have “keep off the grass” signs, but many do. People spend millions of dollars every year to create lawns to see but not walk upon. Shoe companies create specific shoes for running on roads, dirt paths, or sidewalks, but the human foot is designed to run on grass, to step where no one else has stepped.

When Thoreau went into the woods, he wanted to wake up knowing that he was surrounded by nothing but nature. He reveled in squirrels who invaded his home, and spent hours just studying a war between black and red ants (scholars like to debate whether he really saw the ant war or not). He spent chapters describing the quiet.

When was the last time things around you were really quiet? I open my windows at night and listen to people in the parking lot, cars on the road, fire engines, shouts, motorcycles, and some annoying brat with a whistle. We buy white-noise machines to play static so we can sleep. We have televisions and radios and ipods playing at all times, and claim its because we “live for music.”

Humans have never been all that comfortable in the wild; we’re fragile when compared to lions and tigers and bears (oh my!), so we build caves (houses) and cut down the trees, then complain that all the wild places are disappearing.

We’re supposed to be a part of nature, not separated from it. So, there is no reason to walk on the sidewalk.

Except for the bears.

M. J. Johnson is the professional name of Coyotemike. He has written a moderately bad e-book called The Bastards Club and is working on getting more serious work published.

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by Laurelin

He looked just like he did on TV. Face, smooth and smiling, muscles pressing up against his huge T-shirt and his hat pulled down just enough so that I could still see his eyes. I had started to get up to refill my wine glass, but when I saw him I sunk back down, the air rushing from my lungs as though someone had just squeezed the life out of me. I could feel a flush traveling up my body and suddenly my face was burning, and I turned away so he wouldn’t see me.

I rarely meet celebrities. Like every other girl in the world I have dreamt what it would have been like to meet Leonardo DiCaprio, staying calm and collected so that he would shake my hand and look me in the eye. You imagine that if they could just meet you, you would be best friends, they might even fall in love with you, and everything would be right in the world. But that’s just in dreams. You will never meet Brad Pitt or Ben Affleck, and they will most certainly not fall in love with you. You are just you after all, a regular girl, who dates regular guys. You are common, and they are special.

He took his time walking around the room, signing autographs and taking pictures with everyone from old ladies to screaming teens to little kids. Still, I sat. I wonder what I’ll say when it’s my turn, would he remember me from a brief Twitter message I sent that he replied to? Will he think I’m crazy if I bring it up? He moves closer and as he approached I could finally stand and I shook my head, clearing the clouds. He is just a man after all.

I reached out my hand to find his and from somewhere in me comes a voice, and I said, “Hi, I’m Laurelin.” He smiled and inside I melted, but outside I must have seemed okay because he started asking me questions, then we laughed and he said that he did remember me from a year ago on Twitter. I made a snarky remark about his clothing and he thought I was funny. I sat back down in my seat and I watched him continue to sign autographs. I clutched the stem of my wine glass and I looked at our photo and I smiled. I’m taller than him.

When I looked up he was sitting next to me.

“Do you have a ticket for tonight?” he asked.

“Yes,” I stammered, fumbling around for it. He must want to sign it; he signed everyone else’s. I found it and he took it, smoothly scribbling something on the back and pressing it into my palm. I looked down and I see a phone number. My blood ran cold and hot at the same time, and I thought, “Say something clever…”

“Can I drunk dial you later?” I asked, smirking.

“Absolutely,” he said, and I die. The girls around me had their jaws on the floor, and as he left he smiled at me and waved. We started texting almost immediately, stopping only because the arena was growing dark and it was time for him to come out.

I think of how all summer I have had no one, nothing but an empty bed and a cat, and now, with the coming fall, the promise of something new. All of a sudden, out of the blue, the promise of something totally just… fun. I slid my phone into my pocket and headed to my seat to watch him. The place is packed, everyone screaming his name, and my phone buzzed one last time.

“Nice to meet you,” he said. “I would love to see you again.”

I felt sick. I went home that night alone, and I crawled in bed with someone else.

“How was tonight?” my real life non-celebrity boy asks. I buried my face in his neck and hugged as tight as I could.

“It was fine,” I said, “really fun.”

We fell asleep, and I knew I was right where I belonged.

[..]

by Moby

Ok, I think I figured it out.

Mitt Romney is disdainful of anyone receiving government assistance because:

1. He comes from a rich and privileged background, so he’s never needed or received government assistance.

And…

2. He comes from a rich and privileged background, so he’s never known anyone who’s needed or received government assistance.

Almost everyone I know has received some sort of government assistance, whether it’s student loans or small business loans or Medicare or Medicaid, and almost everyone I know now pays taxes and contributes to society.

I’ll use myself as an example.

I was the only child of a single working mom. We struggled a lot economically, and there were times when we lived off of food stamps and social security and government assistance. And then when I went to the University of Connecticut and SUNY Purchase I received Pell Grants and student loans.

So, according to Mitt Romney, I was part of the 47% “who are dependent upon government…who pay no income tax.” [As heard in a video obtained by Mother Jones] Mitt Romney then went on to say: “My job is not to worry about those people. I’ll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives.”

In the last 20 years I have either personally or professionally paid millions of dollars in income taxes to the state, local, and federal government. I have employed hundreds of people, who have in turn paid income taxes and in many cases have gone on to start their own businesses.

So I think it’s safe to say that the government assistance my mother and I received was money well spent. I was able to go to decent schools and get a decent education, all thanks to ‘government assistance.’ My mother and I were able to eat, all thanks to ‘government assistance.’ I was able to see doctors, all thanks to ‘government assistance.’ We were able to pay our rent at times thanks to ‘government assistance.’

Not to mention the roads, clean water, streetlights, police departments, fire departments, clean air, libraries, public transit, electricity, etc., that all came from the government and enabled my mother and I to stay alive and live good, educated, safe, and healthy lives.

Mitt Romney comes from extreme wealth. He has never once needed financial assistance from the government, as his family had millions and millions of dollars. But there are millions and millions and millions of Americans like me who didn’t come from extreme wealth and who needed help with education and food and healthcare and shelter, but who have gone on to start businesses and pay taxes.

We are not an ‘entitled’ class, we are not ‘dependent upon the federal government’ and we do not consider ourselves ‘victims.’ We are the hundreds of millions of Americans who had the misfortune of not being born to millionaire parents.

So I understand why Mitt Romney is disdainful of government assistance, as his parents paid for everything and he never needed help being fed or educated or looked after by doctors. I understand that in Mitt Romney’s entire life he’s never known anyone who’s needed student loans. He’s never known anyone who needed food stamps to keep their family fed. He’s never known anyone who’s had to spend hours in a health clinic just to get basic medical care. He’s never known anyone who couldn’t pay the rent.

I understand that Mitt Romney grew up with phenomenal wealth and privilege
but I don’t understand why that leads him to contemptuously dismiss anyone (like my mother and I) who have, at times, needed government help with food and education and shelter and health care.

Mitt Romney is a product of wealth and privilege. That does not give him the right to loathe and dismiss the rest of us who are not the product of wealth and privilege.

Oh, for some reason I was thinking of ‘Common People’ by Pulp when I heard Romney’s quotes.

– Moby, September 19, 2012

“But still you’ll never get it right,
Cos when you’re laid in bed at night,
Watching roaches climb the wall,
If you call your Dad he could stop it all.

You’ll never live like common people,
You’ll never do what common people do,
You’ll never fail like common people,
You’ll never watch your life slide out of view.”

– “Common People” by Pulp

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by Steven Whitney

When traveling throughout the world, one learns a lot about the Dream of America by talking with whomever one meets along the way – taxi drivers, shopkeepers, writers and artists, students, and ordinary men and women with or without agendas of their own…almost anyone except the country’s elite and politicians.

Berlin, 1996

In the mid-80s, Berlin was a shadowed city within a divided nation, split into East and West by a concrete barricade that cut off all unauthorized passage between the two sectors. Actually two barriers about 50 yards apart, with manned guard towers overlooking what became known as “the death strip” in-between, the Berlin Wall put a punishing halt to the mass defections from the Eastern Bloc and became a global symbol of entrapment and oppression.

Standing at Checkpoint Charlie, looking from the American zone to the Soviet sector, drab residential buildings and factories filled the bleak landscape. Soviet tanks and the Stasi – arguably the most intrusive and repressive secret police of its time – prowled the streets under dark clouds spewed forth by gigantic industrial smokestacks, adding to an almost palpable sense of imprisonment.

Ten years later, with both the Wall and the USSR antiquities of a vanquished era, the united Berlin was a bustling metropolis determined to become one of the greatest and most sophisticated cities in the world. No expense was spared, no architectural or cultural plan was too extravagant. Giant cranes dotted the landscape like oil rigs on the west Texas plain. Berlin had become a modern “boom town.”

Yet several hundred miles south, the Bosnian conflict had become a sordid battleground of “ethnic cleansing.” Refugees from both sides fled north, and the Germans – a people imprisoned within their own walls for decades – took them in.

I was in Berlin to write a television film involving the journey of two families – one Christian, one Muslim – from the corpse-littered streets of Sarajevo to the German border. These were people who had left everything behind, families that had lost brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, and even children to the hatred of racial and religious persecution. They arrived in Germany without money, water, and food, possessing only the clothes they wore.

For research, I spent two days at one of the largest camps. Fenced in on multiple acres of flat, dry farmland, the refugees lived in tents erected by the government and guarded by UN forces. They were provided with basic medical care, immigration assistance, language classes, and small daily rations of food, water, and wine. And each day, more and more refugees arrived – hungry, sick, and weak from their desperate flights – until the camp resembled an overcrowded ghetto.

By the time I visited, literally tens of thousands or people were cramped into this makeshift Tent City. Yet I heard few complaints. Even fewer fights broke out. Bitterness and recrimination had for the most part evaporated in this netherworld of safe harbor. They were no longer Muslims and Christians torn apart by separate and warring ideologies, but survivors entwined by the brutal migration north.

I went from tent to tent, accompanied by translators. At each, I was invited inside and offered food and drink so I could more comfortably listen to the stories they wanted the world to hear. Their last portion of meat or wine, whatever they had left, was tendered. A few families had been in residence long enough to make Bosnian moonshine…and that was offered as well.

It struck me that in the aftermath of unimaginable horror, these people offered me everything they had left in the world. I was their guest and all their hardships would not deter them from being gracious hosts. Never before nor since has anyone ever offered me everything he or she had. It speaks to the overwhelming generosity of the impoverished and their inherent goodness.

We talked about their journeys, their hopes, and their imagined futures. When I asked each of them the key to their ongoing survival in the face of such devastating loss, they all replied with the same sentiment: “You must let go of hatred and forgive your enemies.”

They had many different questions about my own homeland, but the one thing they all wanted to know was this: did we truly practice religious freedom here?

I recited to them our First Amendment and it perfectly fulfilled their dream of America – a land where people of all religions are free to practice their beliefs without fear of bloodshed and discrimination…a nation where they could worship whatever they held sacred both in peace and in harmony with others.

I did not tell them that many people wanted to officially sanction the United States as a Christian Nation, just like the warlords in Bosnia sought to make that country either a Christian or Muslim nation. Some things are better left unsaid for dreams to soar undisturbed.

South Africa, 2001

I was reminded of the Bosnian camp when I flew to a country that for most of my life had been held in the strangling grip of apartheid, a rogue nation in which the majority was brutally held under the cruel thumb of a racist minority.

When the changeover finally occurred, most people throughout the world expected rivers of blood to flow in the streets – payback for a pitiless regime of torture, murder, and almost unimaginable repression. But for the country to succeed, national and racial unity was mandatory, so outside of a few isolated incidents, calmer heads prevailed and violence never went viral.

In the new South Africa, Nelson Mandela and Bishop Desmond Tutu led their people – black and white – to a peaceful aftermath of a startling and long overdue revolution by putting into play the transformative power of forgiveness. They even convened “Forgiveness Trials” under the newly created Truth and Reconciliation Commission in which victims and perpetrators alike bore witness to gross violations of human rights and amnesty was granted in cases of true repentance.

Was justice done?

Justice is always somewhat immeasurable. But a just country was born and sustained that otherwise would have faltered – old resentments and hatreds were put to the side and the awful cloak of “victimization” was avoided. Once again, harmony was achieved through simple and multiple acts of forgiveness.

And, too, wherever I went – from Johannesburg to Cape Town – both white and black South Africans talked openly about the benefits accrued by the national policy of forgiveness.

In times like ours, when senseless and widespread violence can be sparked at a moment’s notice over what seems to many the most trivial of slights, as happened last week, it’s important for those of all religions, cultures, and nationalities to appreciate the potential of forgiveness in bridging an oft times considerable communication gap to saner and more human understanding.

Sometimes, it is true – what is invisible to the eye is essential to the heart…and to a better life for the global community.

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Gotcha!

by SG’s Team Agony feat. Yulia

Let us answer life’s questions – because great advice is even better when it comes from SuicideGirls.

Q: I guess this isn’t a major thing or whatever, but at the moment it is to me. In my head I imagine the things couples do, simple things like going on a walk or a picnic, going out to dinner and then to the cinema, but these are probably more like what happens in movies than in real life – or at least I haven’t done these with my girlfriend and we’ve been going out 8 months now. I really want to spend time and go out and do these things with her. I’m only 19 and this is the second and longest relationship I have been in, so I’m not sure how these things go or whatever.

I guess my first question is: In movies and on TV shows you see/hear of people having “the conversation.” Do people actually do this? Is it important to have the conversation?

The main thing is, my girlfriend works all the time, and I mean literally all the time. She’s working 12-hour shits, and double shifts one after the other – sometimes without a break – so she can afford to live where she recently moved to. This means that we don’t see each other that often and when we do it’s usually not for long. I pop in to her work to see her on my way from college to work or if I’m in town, and occasionally I spend the night at hers but then she has to leave early in the morning for work. I want to cook her pancakes for breakfast and have breakfast in bed or something to be romantic, but she doesn’t eat breakfast and is always rushing off to work. I feel that whenever we have longer to spend with each other, I go round her flat and it’s always the same. We watch TV for a bit, maybe while we’re eating lunch or something, then we go to her bedroom to snuggle which always turns into a bit more and then she’s off to work like as soon as we’re done. I don’t mind what we do, it’s just her leaving at the end. It’s all a bit rushed when really all I want to do is spend time with her.

Recently I’ve been feeling down and have been in weird moods, and it’s because I keep thinking about this and I don’t know what to do. I’m happy with her and I love her, I just don’t know whether to tell her or not. I guess, I don’t want it to ruin our relationship, but also I don’t really want to be hiding how I feel from her.

I guess my second question is: Do I tell her how I’m currently feeling or just be patient and glad of every opportunity we get to spend together? I know she has to work, I just wish I could spend more time with her. I just don’t know how. I don’t know what to do any more.

Sincerely,

Quite a bit confused in the UK

A: It definitely sounds like you could both use a change of scenery! I can relate to both of you. I live in an expensive city with ridiculous rental rates but what you’re describing as the ideal is exactly what I hope for in relationships too. On that note, I wouldn’t be surprised if your girlfriend felt the same way you do about wanting a richer “dating” life, but she may feel powerless and at a loss as to how to change anything. She may not want to bring up the problem without having a solution.

If “the conversation” is about where you each stand and where the relationship is going, yes, people do talk about these things. But I don’t find these conversations are pre-planned or even announced most of the time; instead, they just happen. You’re walking somewhere together and something you said makes her ask, “So am I your girlfriend?” or something like that, or vice versa. Obviously you two are pretty comfortable together by now, since 8 months have passed, but these future-oriented talks can still be awkward. Wait until the moment feels right, no one is stressed or rushed (at least not immediately), and do tell her how you feel and ask how she feels too. I’ve known more relationships to end because the couple couldn’t talk to each other openly than those that ended because they could. Tell her how much you like/love her, and then tell her that because you feel this way you want a bit more.

Nothing has to change drastically, unless your girlfriend wins a lottery and can cut back on work. You could suggest simple things to change up your routine and refresh your relationship that wouldn’t take much extra time, such as having lunch on a balcony or in a nearby park instead of in front of the TV. Play cards or Scrabble for entertainment. Meet at a museum or gallery instead of her apartment. Go see a matinee; it’s not quite a dinner date, but if the schedule allows… If you’re up for a goofier idea, suggest a throwback to middle school with Truth or Dare — if this is appealing and you both are into it, you might be able to start that conversation quite appropriately. I don’t doubt that your girlfriend is chronically exhausted from overwork, so I wouldn’t recommend trying anything too exerting until she has some time off.

Good luck! You’re an amazing person for wanting to get out and have fun with your lady. I’m sure deep down she appreciates it and is utterly grateful to have you in her life.

Yulia

Got Problems? Let SuicideGirls’ team of Agony Aunts provide solutions. Email questions to: gotproblems@suicidegirls.com

by Laurelin

Disappointment is one of the worst feelings in the world. I vividly remember experiencing it as a little girl who so badly wanted a cat for her birthday; my parents had a huge wrapped gift on the table when I woke up, and as I tore through the paper I was so sure it must be something for my new cat. It was a birdcage, and as it took everything in me not to break down in tears. I forced a smile, and I named my first pet parakeet Buttercup.

Later on in high school I would pick out my favorite outfit just to have my crush be out sick that day. I would do something out of line at home and have my parents so upset that they weren’t even angry, just disappointed, and I wished with all my heart I could take it back but I never could.

As I get older I notice that a lot of the time the fierce optimism I associate with my bright demeanor has faded. When one always expects to be let down, it almost makes the inevitable disappointment more manageable. That guy you liked, it never would have worked out anyways. He would never like someone like you. Things would be too complicated, too messy and it’s probably better this way, even though inside I’m screaming because I want so badly for just one person to prove me wrong.

I remember the moment I realized my last relationship was over, the black cloud of disappointment just washed over me like a wave and I was shaken to the core with the realization that this was really it. I was back to being just me, not me and him. It was the day after his birthday, and we were supposed to meet for a drink at the bar we worked at. I wanted to see him so badly, our schedules were tough and we rarely had days off together. I waited…

Every time the door opened I looked, and it was never him. A lifetime spent watching the door, and he never came, my cell phone eventually glowed with a text that simply said, “I’m sorry.” I walked home and I watched the trains go by under the overpass and I knew it was over, this was the last time he would let me down.

We all have baggage. An expected crash and burn after so many before seems only right; but maybe, just maybe, this time things will be different. As someone new comes into your life, there’s that fine line between great expectations and where they’re going to fall. I can’t help but find myself waiting for a storm, holding my breath, forever waiting for disaster.

It’s exhausting and I wish for something different. Outside it starts to rain, and I quicken my pace as I head for the bar. I wonder if he’s there yet, and I wish for sun briefly before realizing I don’t even care. No matter how grey the sky becomes and how rarely the sun seems to shine, maybe I’ve been going about things all wrong. Maybe the key is just to learn to dance in the rain.

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