Divorced Baby Boomer Men and Their Sexuality Issues, With Peppermint Tea

When I was still a wife and the kids were young,  Chris and I were very frank with our children about sex. We never used words like ‘little man’, ‘coochie’, or even ‘banana hammock’ for underwear (which privately I found to be hilarious.) If anything, we were guilty of overexplaining things to our kids, which is kind of hopelessly predictable for a household with two teachers.

Divorced baby boomer men seem to be stuck in some sexuality netherworld. I just can’t figure it out. There is prudishness, where we simply can’t talk to a date about sexuality issues. Of any sort. Or we are hypersexualized, and want me to come over the second date. (Honestly, I once had a delightful date with a retired doctor on the other side of the baby boomer demographic, born in 1946. We had a lovely dinner out. The next night, he called and asked me over to his house to cook me dinner. What. Me and my pistol? What were you thinking? No! You may not ask me to the man-cave on the second date! No!)

What were you thinking?

Or we are hyposexualized. One of my dear male friends, not a romantic interest, said he could gladly live without sex, but not his reading glasses. I’m still not entirely sure he was joking.

Or we are oversexualized. Pornography, the ‘victimless crime’, is endemic to Divorced Baby Boomer men, and I could slap them silly. (Check out fightthenewdrug.org for some thoughtful, reasonable, intellect-based commentary, and XXXchurch.org for hipster, rational anti-porn Christian thought.) I’m especially incited to violence by CHRISTIAN men who use this exploitive medium. Honestly! I like my body, it’s popped out four kids, and still lets me skydive, swim, kayak, ski, run around, do all kinds of stuff, and will never, ever measure up to the silicone stick figures you’re watching.

AAAAND by the way? Should I decide to make you my next partner, (namely, my next husband) pornography will AUTOMATICALLY make you boring to me. Keep that in mind.

It seems too, as though divorced baby boomer men haven’t had the reality of a functional sexual relationship. This is actually heartbreaking, when you think about it. A dear divorced baby boomer friend of mine, not a romantic interest, once related to me the affairs of his first two wives. Maynard was ex Army, a firefighter with an actual degree in fire science. He’s a Crossfitter, and a competitive weightlifter, and has built himself up to look like a block of granite at 54.  Personally, I like that look, and have zero problem telling my male friends they look stunning.

Maynard looks stunning. Being betrayed twice in a sexual manner was obviously devastating to a man like that, and Maynard has come to a halt in his sexual development.

“Victoria, you will not believe the kind of people I meet on Match.com.”

(Inward eye roll)

“Victoria, meet my new girlfriend, she’s an interior designer I met on line. Victoria, meet my new girlfriend, she’s a bank executive I met on Match.com. Victoria, meet my new girlfriend…….” and on and on and on. Maynard sleeps with each of them, breaks up with some complicated quasi-Christian rationale, and moves on to the next one who will affirm his damaged sexual identity.

Doesn’t take a doctor to figure that one out.

Go figure.

Another divorced baby boomer gentleman, once a possible romantic interest, related to me how he and his ex wife had a tumultuous sexual relationship, They were in love, or so they thought, but the only time they had satisfying sex was after a knock-down, drag out fight.

No, thank you very much.

Chris was a lot of things, most of you know his history. When he became a Christian, the sexuality issues were suddenly righted into perspective. Not that he wasn’t human, no one is perfect. But sexuality was never, ever an issue in our marriage. It was candy to children.

I wonder if it has to do with this conversation I just had with my son, here in Puerto Rico. I’m here on my ‘vacation’ doing some necessary work. Christopher had to run back to the parking garage to get something out of the car.

Facetime rings on my computer.

“Mom? I’m at Starbucks. You want your peppermint tea? ”

Heart melts. “Yes, dear boy. Peppermint tea with two honeys.”

“Got it, see you soon.” Click.

Gentlemen, listen to me here. (Divorced Baby Boomer men have to have stuff spelled out) My son saw my husband be thoughtful with me for eighteen years. It stuck. When my son marries, his wife will have the joy of a man who (mostly) thinks before he speaks. Who wonders what she’d like. Who uses his words and asks her. Who, most of the time, puts her desires in front of his. Who treats her well.

This, gentlemen, is not learning brain surgery. It’s learning what makes great sex.

Much love,

Victoria

Jeff Mackleby and the Art of Advanced Forgiveness

   DSM-IV Criteria for Posttraumatic Stress Disorder

A. The person has been exposed to a traumatic event in which both of the following have been present: 

(1) the person experienced, witnessed, or was confronted with an event or events that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury, or a threat to the physical integrity of self or others (2) the person’s response involved intense fear, helplessness, or horror.

So, when I first heard of PTSD, I think I was about twenty. I was in college, learning for the first time about things that could throw our psyches into an state of disarray. I didn’t quite buy the diagnosis, it seemed too convenient an excuse for soldiers to come back to our country as slackers. (No rotten tomatoes yet, please)

Then, Chris got sick. Those of you who have been with me for a while know that I’ve written about this topic quite a bit, you can look in the category list for various essays on that topic. Frankly, I’m a little tired of the whole ‘cancer journey’ and I’m sure Chris is too. He’s not sick anymore, after all. Then Emily Berkeley fell from the sky and died, Tom Seedroff lost his cancer battle, Micky Krupa’s bone cancer ate him alive, and seventeen year old Spencer’s raging lung tumors suffocated him to death. Finally, my own dear mother blew an artery in her brain and leapt into the arms of Jesus in less than ten minutes. Pretty rugged year and a half.

So, PTSD came and lived in the spare bedrooms of the Lierheimer house for quite a while. This unwelcome guest would invade my children’s dreams, interfere with my concentration, and rob me of sleep for months. It would walk with me into movies, frightening me at unexpected times with loud noises and strange people. It dangled this unexplained feeling of doom in front of me at all hours, assuring me that something else awful was sure to happen soon. What was next? Something was sure to come. Perhaps I was going to lose a child, and as Dickens would say “You’d have to ship me off to Bedlam.”

For quite some time, I was quite certain I was coming unglued.

Jeff Mackleby entered my life the month after Mom passed.

Mack was an understanding sort. He was a teacher nearby, and like most of my friends, is musical. We met through a church event, and I was drawn to Mack over time. He was sharp and stimulating, with an advanced degree in comparative theology. We had wonderful talks over chamomile tea, and soon were seeing each other regularly.

As the months went on, Mack and I got to know each other better. He confided in me some of his own considerable internal struggles, including times where he seriously considered ending it all. Depression, a search for significance, a stalled job, all of these things where serious detriments to Mack’s mental health. I wrote Mack often. Writing, as those of you who have been with me for a while, brings a lot of clarity and peace to me. I wrote pages and pages, detailing the horrifying helplessness that would wash over me often as time went by. Mack was a saint to put up with all the words, and he would often reciprocate over coffee, a concert, or dinner. We would often go into great detail, me more so. The great linguist Debra Tannen observed the women simply have a greater ‘word bank’ after all.

As I grew to trust Mack, I revealed more of my own internal struggles related to the PTSD associated with such a depressing cluster of loss. Mack was the first person who treated me like a normal human, who didn’t gasp with simulated despair or mouth the platitudes that Christians often articulate.

In short, Mack didn’t treat me like the freak I thought I was.

God was good to me, I thought, providing me with a friend that was a respite, a soothing break.  I honored Mack with the same. Never would I speak about Mack’s thoughts of suicide, never would I speak of his issues with his troubled life, I would hold those as close to my heart as he held my troubles. Mack was safe with me.

As the months went by, Mack and I grew apart. Nothing too dramatic, ‘dating’ in middle age is often ridiculous territory to negotiate. Mack went his way, I went mine. I missed our talks, but was sure that Mack would remember them with as much fondness as I did.

Mack and I still travelled in the same circles, and it came to my attention that he had started dating a woman named Christina Cruz.

There was no love lost between Christina and I. It’s a funny thing, people. I learned a long time ago that ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’ does not mean “Be Best Buddies with Everyone You Come Across.” It just doesn’t work that way. There will always be rough edges, always people that you just don’t click with. Christina was like that for me. I had reason not to trust her, and simply stayed out of her way as much as possible. Conflict in the Body of Christ is an ugly thing, anyway, and best avoided if possible.

When Christina found out that Mack and I had been seeing each other, a giant target appeared on my back. A ghastly dynamic began to unfurl in all places, the church. About a month ago, one of the church members actually came up to me and said “I don’t know what Christina’s problem is with you, you don’t seem crazy to me.”

Crazy?

Another church member: “I don’t know why Christina keeps talking about you. It seems like other people’s personal information should stay personal.”

Personal?

A third, previously unknown church member: “I’m so sorry for all the loss you’ve endured. Christina has taken me into her confidence, and I’d like to pray for a healing over you.”

A Healing?

What in the name of all that’s holy is going on here? I would never have shared such personal information with Christina. She’s just not trustworthy.

How did she know about my PTSD related issues? I could count on one hand the number of people I trusted with these things. Medical people, mostly. Gifted folks who sit around all day trying to figure out how to help traumatized people like me and my kids.

Mack. Jeff Mackleby. It had to be. Everyone else, except my family, was bound by professional confidentiality.

“Withering” isn’t strong enough. “Humiliating” is better. Mack had utterly violated me by making those issues available for public consumption. My kids, too.

Christina was a vicious gossip, and Mack had handed her enough ammunition for a lifetime.  How severely I had misjudged him. Why on earth, why would one human being would violate another like that is completely mystifying to me.

I spoke with the pastor about it, and we were both stumped. Gossip is such an evil, Jesus, and Jesus’ half brother James warn against it continually.

One of the well meaning friends in the church informed me that Mack had allowed Christina to read everything I had ever written to him. (Really, even then it would be so much better if people would just keep their mouths shut. I appreciate that people were just trying to be kind, but I didn’t need to know the depth of Mack’s betrayal.)

How pointless to know that Mack had bared my soul without my permission. Besides, was I really that interesting? I think not. What would the point be?

At any rate, the situation is a stumper. Christina is right, I was crazy. So were my children. Trauma dreams are enough to mess with anyone’s head. But who’s business is it?  I’m not sure how anyone could get more intimate, barging into my family dynamics like that. Especially since the story is lopsided, and the redemptive side of it, the side where the Lierheimers actually heal, is completely left out.

How about a testimony? How about the completed story, where God reaches down into the mire and uses these horrible experiences to bless other people going through the same ordeal? How about incredibly uplifting stories like my kids walking beside other young adults experiencing similar loss?

And what to do about Mack and Christina. Jesus asks us to forgive ‘seventy times seven’ which a lot of people interprete as ‘eternally.’ He forgave us, after all.

Nothing I do will stop Christina or Mack. The only strength I’ll have is to keep healing, keep relying on the the God of my fathers to continue to provide me with the friends, love and strength to be the best Victoria I can be.

Fortunately, our God is constant.

A picture of healing

Thank God for that.

Much love, Victoria

Addendum to “Mackleby” Which Victoria Never Does

Fellow Visitors, I edited “Mackleby” several times before I sent it out. Even after this went live, something about it niggled at me, and I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. So, I called my good friend and fellow blogger Bird at everyonehasastory.me for advice. Bird is delightful, and one of the most honest, blunt people I know.

“Victoria, this sounds like a pity-party. Are you still hurt by this?” I thought about it, and the honest answer is no. In fact, the most honest answer is “HELL, no, I am not still hurt by this.”

When I found out what Mack had done, I lost about a day over it, mainly because I thought Mack had more respect for me than that. To tell someone else’s deepest, darkest secrets without their permission is a wretched, sick person thing to do.

My story is mine. My children’s stories are theirs. I wrote “Mackleby” because too many people of faith go around sharing other people’s stories, concluding with “We should pray for them” as disguise. I am convinced that even people of no faith persuasion realize this for what it is, shameful gossip, and there is no excuse.

I work as hard as I can not to gossip, and often fail. I hold up Mack and Christina as counter examples. Do you find yourself doing this? Then stop. Now. Today.

By the way, both Mack and Christina are composites. This story is true, but names and characteristics are completely unrelated to who the characters actually are. In fact, in the spirit of a little fun, I’d challenge anyone except those of you in my inner circle to write me privately and actually name Mack and Christina, and I’ll take the essay down immediately. Don’t want to gossip, after all.

Much love,

V

On Best Friends, Boy Friends and Bitter Betrayals.

This has been the week for relationship stories around the Lierheimer household. I thought that since three of the kids moved out to go to college, my life would become relatively drama free. Such is not the case.

Now, as far as my children are concerned, the Bible says that “Children are a Gift from the Lord.” Psalm 127:3. I have found this to be, hilariously, the case for twenty years. My kids just crack me up.

I wish I could figure out how to post the pictures, but Christopher is wild about living off campus at college. He’s cooking, and keeps sending me these food pictures. Last night was a plate of steak, baked potato and string beans. Caption” I’m moving up in the world, Ma, you raised me well.” Ridiculous, and funny. The very first one was the “Cheeseburger of Independence” when he moved to CSU. It was a lumpy little thing, with two strips of bacon sticking out like antlers. He shot a picture of it for me : “Mom, you know why this cheeseburger is so good? It tastes like INDEPENDENCE!” I need a poster of that one.

So the girls call me, and tell me about all their adventures. Great shots of very friendly young men and women, and all kinds of tales about college. One of my girls actually admitted it was on her ‘goal list’ to perhaps find a husband! Yikes! Ha, it’s all good. My children have excellent judgement, and aren’t yet burdened down with truckloads of baggage that cloud their vision.

I have discovered that excellent judgement is not always the case in middle age. Most of you who have been with me for a while, know that I’ll do anything not to stay ‘stuck’. Stuck in grief, stuck in loss, stuck in negative thinking, anger or other poor choices. Toward that end, I have felt the need to increase my friend circle as my children get older. You know about Mission Hills, my dance coaching, my other various classes, and of course, life at Evergreen Academy. I am also evaluating the possibility of a doctoral program at DU.

It was during one of these venues that I met a young lady named Chandler Proditor. She was much younger than I am, but Chandler and I hit it off quickly. We had similar interests, drive, goals in life, and I found her to be hilarious.

Grrrl power

As the months went by, I grew to love Chandler like a sister. We would chat almost every day, and the interest was quite mutual. At the time, I was dating an older gentleman named Terrance. Chandler and Terrance were in the same class and knew each other.

After a several months, I realized eventually that Terrance was not the man for me  .  Nothing particularly dramatic, just various reasons, the usual suspects, the usual baggage that middle age brings. I called a time out after about four months, and when we came back together, Terrance and I agreed that there were parts of the relationship we really liked, but that romance was out of the question.

What would it be like to love each other platonically, to look forward to the occasional coffee, to support each other’s life endeavors as heartfelt friends? Terrance was up for it, and so was I.

As I struggled to make sense of this new phase, I confided every step to Chandler. Chandler assured me that she was utterly ‘safe’, had zero interest in Terrance, and that I could confide everything to her without fear of judgement or reprisal. Beside, said Chandler, it was “Girl Code.” Best friends simply don’t date each other’s exes. Period.

Best friends, forever?

What a relief. Chandler was a completely safe haven that I could tell all of my silly middle aged  hopes and dreams to. Early  on, questions like “Maybe Terrance would work out. Maybe his issues would diminish, maybe he would accept the feelings I was developing for him, maybe his expressions of appreciation and support were genuine.” Chandler was one of the kindest, most easygoing women I knew. It was a fun, very  mutual relationship.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that Chandler had been dating my soon to be ex, a month before Terrance and I decided to move into another phase. I couldn’t believe it.  Everything, every single thing she said about relationships turned out to be false. I felt the  the bitterest, most foolish kind of betrayal. What a moron I was to place my trust so easily.

Oddly, I found it hard to blame Terrance. He deserves it, as it turns out that he has Chandler convinced that starting over at midlife is a desirable thing for him.  Hoo, boy, it’s like a trite storyline to a bad chick flick. Lord, what fools we mortals be.

I confronted Chandler. I had to. Strange, because at that point, I had realized with utter certainty that being romantically linked to Terrance anymore was just some place I didn’t want to be. Some issues are too entrenched to conquer without divine intervention. Seriously. Not to say that I didn’t wish to have Terrance in my friend circle, when he’s emotionally available, he’s a great guy, and a sterling example of a good friend.

But who was this woman? Who was this person I liked to see coming? Who’s calls I looked forward to picking up?

What kind of woman says one thing to your face, and turns and does the most betraying,  damaging thing she could think of the next moment? I was simply dumbfounded. I viewed Chandler as a giver, a kindhearted soul who was good with children and small animals, and eminently trustworthy. I still can barely find the words. Everything important I believed about her was false.  Now I had the crushing burden to forgive her, or live in Anger Land forever.

Well, that depression lasted a few days, and I am over it. I am blessed with a very protective circle of friends all over the world. I relayed this story to my Chinese sister.

“Vickey, I think these are friend jerks. You need to discard them.”

“Victoria, don’t beat yourself up to much. You knew her for a few months. I had a friend in college for four YEARS who ended up sleeping with my boyfriend.”

“Vic, my good friend sc***** me over for 500 bucks. One minute I was her best friend, the next and evil b****” who wouldn’t share. People are unpredictable.”

Wow, true the last one, especially. I discovered through the loss of Chandler, that constancy is critically important to me. Chandlers excuse was that she had ‘changed’, “Terrance made her laugh” and she was ‘human’. Wow, if being a trustworthy friend is so easily discarded, what else will Chandler discard? She was actually the opposite of ‘safe’.

Losing Chandler has made me reexamine my own commitment to the character God wants us to have. It’s found it the verses describing the fruits of God’s holy spirit:

Against these things there is no law. Paul’s letter to the Galations, chapter 5, verse 22

That’s what I want to be, if that’s what will help me forgive Chandler.

Much love, Victoria