Blog

A catfish tale, and why they matter…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay1 Comment

{I’m giving this song back to you–it has always been true, in unconventional ways: I Knew I Loved You by Savage Garden}

Roughly a million years ago, back in the stone-aged time of the internet being relatively new, I was catfished. This was well before Nev Schulman coined the term, back when no one knew what to call it. I was fairly new to the likes of AOL, chat rooms, and all such things. I was also terrifyingly religious and lived in a constant state of inadequacy and shame. This was the late nineties and these were not such precious times for me.

It began as an argument in a Christian chat room. My husband worked the third shift, had moved us to the middle of nowhere, and had our only car with him in the city. He was also having an affair with a coworker, though I was pretty ignorant of that fact at the time. What I was painfully aware of was that I was lonely.

So lonely.

So there I was, attempting to navigate a chat room culture that I did not understand. On my second visit there I encountered a twenty-one-year-old guy named Blake. Blake’s girlfriend had committed suicide a few months before and their six-month-old daughter became his sole responsibility. The argument (about something so stupid I don’t even remember it) led to him apologizing a few days later. My heart broke for this kid, who was only a year and a half younger than I was. (I should point out that in addition to being lonely I was deeply depressed and wanted to be a mother more than anything in the world, but my body couldn’t allow that.)

Weeks of chatting and direct messaging led to emails, and eventually my very first late-night phone call with a stranger. The three-hour call met such an untapped ache in me, and that conversation will forever live in one of the top ten moments of my life. I had felt invisible and irrelevant for so long, and then for those three hours, I felt seen and heard.

It wasn’t romantic. I was married and I took my marriage very seriously. I knew the church wouldn’t approve of me growing in a platonic friendship with a guy, but I also knew he lived all the way in Iowa. What harm could come of it?

By the time I learned about my husband’s infidelity, and that he wanted to divorce me a pursue a life with her, things were heinous at home. Blake felt like my closest friend so it was in him who I confided in.

The day that I learned of the affair, I called his home and an old man answered. When I asked for Blake the old man very apologetically told me there was no one there by that name. This was when I first felt stupid that I’d been lied to, but as our relationship oddly continued, it didn’t matter that he was lying. When we’d speak, I would beg him to be honest, and over the years the stories changed to seriously ridiculous levels. For a tiny blip, somewhere in there, Blake told me that he was in love with me and I knew how I felt about him ran deep–despite so many lies. I cared about the most consistent person I had in my corner, and let me tell you this guy was not consistent.

For the most part, though, we were friends. Occasionally low moments would take conversations deeper to how we could have a life together and there was no love out there quite like ours. To be honest, it all felt so shameful then. We hadn’t fully gravitated, as a society, to online relationships yet. It felt foreign, a little forbidden, and super embarrassing. There were also levels of intimate conversation (not sexual) and depth that we were able to go–the sort of vulnerable conversations I had never allowed myself to have before. There was an actual connection, even amidst so much deceit, and I wanted the way that connection felt to be what my life one day felt like too.

Despite the lies, and eventually falling out of touch after years of on and off-again friendship, a part of me will always love Blake. When I look back at the VERY damaged and broken girl I was I cannot deny that this relationship led me through so much healing.

The lies… (Just to name a few)

  • witness protection program.
  • his daughter was kidnapped.
  • his daughter died.
  • he was in a debilitating car accident that left him disabled.
  • he was a computer programmer and firewall expert.
  • his father was the editor-in-chief of a major newspaper publication in Chicago.
  • I found him chatting under the name Jamal once, claiming to be dying of cancer. People sent gifts to him and then I busted him when I went into a chat room under a different name and he eventually sent me his phone number. I called him and said, “busted”. He lied about Jamal being his cousin. It was a whole ridiculous thing… But it never mattered really. Maybe it’s selfish but I needed the friendship he gave. I needed his humor, the occasional distraction of him, and the undying belief and support he had in me. I needed those things, and in turn, I told myself that I could love him unconditionally.

So, I would remind him often that I didn’t want lies or details anymore, when we would make time to catch up it would just be us. I was there for him no matter what.

I am a very different person than I was those years ago, and I’m so grateful that the start of that growth was made possible by a pathological liar from Newton Iowa. This has been a mystery I long ago surrendered myself to never solving. How do you find a liar when you have a multitude of details, but no idea which ones are real and which ones aren’t?

It is because of Blake that I became a lover of the documentary, and eventually the series, Catfish. I love it. I love the mental health platform it takes regarding these people who lie, and the deeply empathetic journey into exploring why. So many times it is the same story: Lonely people. Broken people. Rejected people who don’t matter to others like they should. Sometimes this is their own doing, but often it isn’t. These stories remind us to see the people… I like to think that partly because of Blake I became empathetic toward others.

By complete accident, this weekend, information found me that may have solved a large part of the mystery of Blake. There were two people who lived at his address and phone number after his father died in 2003. He always told me it was him and his roommate. I’d heard the roommate’s voice and name spoken in their conversations many times… And then suddenly unsolicited information landed in my lap about a person born on the same day he’s said he was (only a decade earlier) who lived at the same address, who had recently passed away. Her name had appeared on my caller ID for years, to which “Blake” had said she was his cousin. Today I am fairly certain she was Blake. She had lived her whole life with her brother (roommate’s name) and their father until he died. Photos of her came up, confirming other little details, though I could never know for certain now that she’s gone. Her obituary both broke my heart and filled me with an immense sadness I hadn’t expected.

Today I’m grieving the life and death of a friend. I didn’t know her, but also I guess I did. At least in some ways. I’m sad she never told me the truth because I am such a champion of women and a believer in the magic of female friendships. I hope in recent years she was happy and felt so deeply loved.

One of the last phone conversations we’d had is around the time I’d started my memoir. It got quiet and then, almost inaudibly Blake asked if it was about him. I laughed and said that someday I’d write that book, but this one wasn’t it. I long ago suspected I’d never really tell the story at all because it made ME look desperate and a bit pathetic, but now I’m realizing it only makes us both look normal… human…

Sadly, lonely people are normal people.

Rest, my friend. I hope you’re at peace and that you realize how completely grateful I am for you. You sang this song over the phone for me once, as I sat on the front step of a friend’s house. I’m returning it back to you. Knowing you, and essentially loving you, truly changed my life. Thank you.

July moments…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

I have procrastinated this July lesson post because I’m just not in the mood. I’m tired. I’m stressed. In these two ways, I am just like the majority of us… I get it. This month felt long, short, and like it dragged on forever while it also somehow sped by in a blink. My biggest adult lesson may eternally be that the passage of time makes no sense. I thought I was getting the hang of it until 2020 hit and messed us all up.

  • I learned that I may get super tired of drinking water so often, but when our water cooler died I became a woman who has never craved water more… make it make sense.
  • I took our dog Elenor and our cat Darcy to the vet this month. They each needed vaccinations and our vet is a bit of a drive. What’s the big deal? I thought… The cat is in a carrier. It will be fine. It, in fact, was very barely fine and I’m still regretting the decision days later. I learned never to do that again. Separate visits and making the drive twice are the new way to go.
  • I’ve been planning my book launch event, in another state. It seemed easy enough, but it turns out it is very complicated and the next time I plan to travel home, it will not be for an event. I’ve learned my lesson.
  • I released a small number of book boxes for my up-and-coming memoir Girls, Assassins & Other Bad Ideas. I am obsessed with this activity–it’s safe to say it is bringing me life right now… BUT while I figured I’d planned far more than would sell, it turns out I didn’t plan near enough. I am deeply touched, ecstatic, and humbled by the whole thing. I’ve learned not to sell myself short and to not be afraid to go for it. (May we all learn this lesson!)
  • I’ve learned to do the spontaneous thing sometimes. I have practiced spontaneity in several areas of my life this month and haven’t regretted it yet. In fact, it made the best memories!

July Bests…

  • Movie (New): NOPE
  • Movie (Older): Red Dawn
  • TV Binge: Stranger Things 4:2
  • Read: Every Summer After by Carley Fortune… Pretty predictable but also nostalgic, fun, and a great summer read.

Fun, Mid-week bits…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

Hey there!

  • Did you know that on Wednesdays, in the Rainy Day Space Facebook group, I pop in for a Mid-day, Mid-week, Moment? In this weekly few-minute live I share something that can help our members live more mindfully, connected, or all around better!
  • Have you had a chance to catch up on the summer issue of This Inspired Life? There’s an essay in there by yours truly and I’d love for you to read it!
  • Are you all caught up on the Rainy Day Collective Podcast? I am LOVING these summer conversations we’ve been having! They are hands down some of my favorites!
  • Lastly, did you know that you can read the first chapter of my memoir Girls, Assassins, & Other Bad Ideas for FREE by clicking this button?

Ink…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

In what feels like another life, I hated writing in pencil. I hated how the tip felt, whether sharp or dull, as it glid across the page. I’m unsure what my issue was, or exactly when it changed. One day I was a devoted pen user, cringing with the equivalence of nails on a chalkboard at the very thought of using a pencil, and then one day it seemed I could only write in pencil. To say writing anything in pen spurred a sense of anxiety wouldn’t be a stretch.

Maybe you’re reading these words and thinking this all sounds pretty unimportant, but I can tell you that isn’t how it felt.

I belong to a doodling community and our beautiful leader is always encouraging us to doodle in pen, focussing on fun over perfection. Listen, I get it. I take every single one of these workshops with my pencil in hand and I guarantee perfection is still the farthest thing from my outcome. Is it fun? Cathartic? YES! This is why I stay in the community… Even so, every time we gather together, I’m the one lone creator not using ink. To be honest, I don’t see that changing… Sometimes I have tremors, sometimes my vision is so wonky, and sometimes there seems to be a foggy disconnect and everything I draw out is so grotesquely unsteady. In this setting, I don’t mind being the mechanical pencil-carrying odd man out. This is where I’m comfortable…

Comfort.

There is an odd sense of comfort in the ability to erase. Back, those years ago I perhaps lived within a confidence that disregarded room for error. Looking back through old notebooks and journals I see so many black ink (always black) scratch-outs. I didn’t care. Sometimes still, even with a pencil, I will scratch through an error, out of habit, rather than erasing it.

What brought the change?

This morning, as I sipped my cup of tea and engaged in my morning quiet time, I chose to boldly journal in pen. (If you’re wondering where the deep, thoughtful pondering of this very boring personal preference came from–now you know.) Ultimately my question became one of searching for when this changed and why. Maybe you’re one who just jots things down with whatever instrument is near, so the very idea of talking this out seems asinine. I get it. As a writer, I remember feeling far more intentional purpose with my pen in hand than I’ve ever felt with lead. Something shifted in me, years ago, and I want that girl back…

Or at least the inky version of her.

Sometimes habits shift so subtly that we aren’t even aware of the depth of the shift until much later. For me, it feels important to understand it, to understand what moves these shifts in me… On the surface, a change in us can feel trivial, but sometimes when we dig deeper we may learn something that ties to a much larger issue, aching, or need. One way to practice self-love is to spend intentional time connecting with ourselves, giving the type of attention to detail we often hope others will have.

Dreaming…

Published on by Mae @ Rainydayinmay

For several weeks now I have been having intense and realistic dreams. Many of them were taking place in my grandmother’s home–a space that held the majority of my happy moments growing up. Her home was more my childhood home than my address on file with the school.

When I was twelve and went into the group home I’d spend the rest of my adolescent years in, roommates would often ask each other to describe what home looked, smelled, and felt like. Countless nights had me drifting to sleep, her place whose memory I conjured. When the rare, annual trip home would happen, I’d trace my fingers on walls and shelves, seeing what I’d remember well, what had changed, and memorizing everything else.

In that context, dreaming of her house may not seem out of place, but it is the vivid, all of a sudden, every night venture that has caught me off guard. Every morning I wake, a swirl of sadness that the moments weren’t real, and gratitude that they lived in my brain somehow.

Last night’s foray into vivid dreams had me somewhere I’d never been before, with my mother. She was frail and partly Alzheimer’s riddled, while also somehow still present too. All over this series of rooms she seemed to be living, were boxes, binders, and massively stuffed envelopes filled with photos and papers. There was no rhyme or reason to the packing and I became consumed with the quest of finding letters I’d sent to her when I was a teenager. The interactions with her were guarded (on my part… old habits and all) and sporadic. I knew she couldn’t know I was searching for anything relating to me. I was consumed with my hunt, but began to notice that I still kept my eyes trained on her… on how she seemed to morph, changing in subtle ways, minute by minute. I would pause my rummaging to stare at her–absorbing the fluidity of her presence. Eventually, I came upon a series of photos of a little girl with her red-headed cousin. I knew they should have been me and mine, but the faces were very wrong. When I couldn’t stay quiet any longer I asked her who they were.

“My baby girl and my nephew.” she answered flatly, as though this were the obvious answer and I was an idiot. This response aligned with the truth of her, but her words were not who we were at all.

The more photos I found had the same child–not me.

Never me- me who is her likeness in so many facial ways.

Finally, returning to the search for letters, I came across a bulging manila envelope with “Nora’s Memories” written on top. I looked around at the stacks and piles of snapshots mixed with chaos, and asked her “Mom, are these your memories?”

“Yes, ma’am. Everything I know.”

I had just pulled out my phone to record her, an interview I think, when I woke up. I was mad that I’d left that bizarre place, but also sad over how time there had left me feeling.

Are these strange, nightly ventures happening as my psyche processes the release of my memoir? Is it tied to the grief of losing her? I feel like I’ve been processing this book for so long, that answer doesn’t seem right… but also, then why?

Here’s to hoping a nap later has me dreaming of resting seaside. Peace-filled.