I have never been much of a writer, but I could fill volumes of college-lined notebooks with small, neat script proclaiming the wonders of Jane's eyes.
It's interesting how she can be completely focused on having a conversation with someone else, yet instantly dart her eyes away from them mid-sentence to meet mine to give me a brief gaze. That gaze is my lifeline, and in a nanosecond it conveys everything that I need precisely at that moment. The gaze she just graced me with was filled with promise. Of what, I can't be certain, but I have a few leads.
It was roughly a few minutes ago, and exactly thirty-two seconds after that gaze, sitting across the table from Jane in a crowded bar, surrounded by our co-workers and friends, that I realized just how much I don't like myself.
The realization came as a shock, so much that as I raised my glass to take a sip of my cranberry margarita, I took a much larger sip than necessary in order to try and force the feelings down. Instead, I choked on the tart liquid and had a coughing fit, causing Korsak to roughly slap me on the back.
After being certain that I was, indeed fine, Frost continued his humorous story of his neighbor who enjoyed walking around sans pants and how it resulted in the purchase of some heavy-duty blinds for Barry's living room. Everyone is having a lovely time; no murders on the holiday, and the homicide department agreed to meet here this evening to celebrate. We were all concerned there would be a repeat of last year's carving knife incident. An elderly man decided to show how thankful he was to have been put into a retirement home a month earlier by stabbing himself with the family heirloom carving knife in front of his children and grandchildren. It was a shame, not only for the family, but for the knife itself as it was a beautiful museum-quality piece. What a waste to have it sitting unclaimed in the evidence room. Obviously no one in the family had any interest in using it ever again.
Plastering a smile on my face, I turned my attention back to the table and once I was assured that I could unobtrusively pretend to be focused on the conversation, I allowed my thoughts to wander back to my previous realization.
My self-hatred was certainly not something I had wished upon myself, and I don't think it was born out of an intentional cruelty. As passive about affection toward me as my parents were, I honestly feel like it wasn't a choice for them. They were so enraptured within themselves and their social events; that there was just not enough room left for me. I believe they chose to adopt me with the good intentions of broadening their horizons, yet instead I created a chasm between them. Their solution was to bridge that chasm by spending more time together, and less time with me. This resulted in them allowing me to become independent, and their solution was a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts. I was already inherently an independent child, and when they noticed that I didn't seek out affection from them, it became easier for them to withhold it.
I am not certain where the tiny seed of self-hatred formed within me. Perhaps it blew in one day, unobtrusively, by a slighted comment or action from my adopted parents, another child, or even a complete stranger. It's also possible that it was always there, hidden deep within my gene makeup, and was created with my conception.
Regardless of how it arrived, as any good seed will do, it flourished with the nurturing that hatred thrives on. Poor self-image, low confidence in social experiences, high levels of anxiety, and a genuine lack of affection surely all have contributed to my negative connotations about myself. All of these factors, combined with so many more, allowed the hatred to blossom so quickly that it had become possible to ignore.
I've been able to hold it at bay for so long, but sometimes I feel like I am losing control. It feels like what I would assume sinking in quicksand feels like. When my self-hatred takes over, I panic. Struggling internally, I list off everything in my mind that I feel is positive about me. I am intelligent, I have great fashion sense, I am compassionate, and I am genuinely a nice person. However, as fast as I can list anything and everything that is positive about myself, I can counter with something negative.
When you are in quicksand, if you remain calm and abstain from moving your limbs, you will allow water to settle into the sediment below, thus resulting in the ability to free your limbs easier. It's not possible to actually drown in quicksand, and most people who are stuck will be able to free themselves easily by making very small movements and trying to float back up to the surface. If you panic, however, you will find yourself surely stuck and will most likely die from starvation or thirst unless a lifeline pulls you out.
Sometimes, I feel as if Jane is my lifeline. She is everything that I am not, confident, bold, and vibrant. And I've come to the realization that despite my full intentions to play "house" with her and be the perfect wife, I still don't feel any better about myself. She deserves so much more.
"Earth to Maura." Her voice stirs me out of my stupor. I glance up at her, embarrassed for being caught not paying attention, and meet her eyes timidly.
She narrows hers somewhat at me as she tilts her head to the left slightly. She is trying to assess why I've been so quiet since returning from shopping with her mother earlier this morning. I shrug my shoulders and put on my best "I'm fine" face, but she's not buying it.
Standing up, Jane removes a few bills from her wallet and puts them on the table. "Maur, let's head out. You've been up since god-knows-how early." Before I can argue, she crosses over to my side of the table and gives my arm a gentle tug.
"See you boys on Monday." She tells them, ignoring their groans of disapproval.
I politely say goodbye and follow Jane outside, the icy air a comforting contrast to the thick bar atmosphere. It turned chilly this afternoon, and the dark sky holds a promise of snow to come. She entwines my hand in hers as we walk a few blocks to the car.
"Everything okay?" She asks, her voice deliberately light. "You haven't seemed yourself today."
"I feel a little down." I tell her truthfully.
Jane doesn't respond, instead gripping my hand a bit tighter and shouldering against me. I'm grateful, as I'm feeling the effects of the three and a half margaritas I've had tonight.
After Angela and I finished shopping, I dropped her off at her house. She said she was going to make Frank a delightful lunch, her eyes dancing merrily with the anticipation of serving him her new pasta. I couldn't wait to get home, and found Jane adorably still in her pajamas, watching reruns of Law & Order: SVU on the DVR.
I dutifully told her how much sexier she was than Benson as I proceeded to show her all of my purchases, sans a few special items for her. I was having a great morning with her, sitting on the couch and sipping coffee with Jo on my lap and Bass thumping around by my feet. Everything was picture perfect, and I even got Jane to take a nap with me after lunch.
I'm not certain what was processing in my mind while we were asleep, but when I woke up, I felt different. At first I couldn't put my finger on it, but something under the surface didn't feel quite right. I chalked it up to my obnoxious wine-induced behavior from the night before, and subsequent early morning. Unable to convince myself, I was unable to stop myself from falling into a quiet funk for the rest of the afternoon. I was actually relieved when Jane mentioned that a bunch of the guys were getting together tonight and practically begged her to go, thinking that a change in routine would be helpful.
Once we were out, I found that after my first margarita I felt relieved and after my second, I felt downright silly. The third one was my downfall, and my little bubble of self-hatred that had been bubbling under the surface since this afternoon finally popped.
"I'm sorry, did you say something?" I break out of my reverie as we reach the car.
"Nope." Jane answers simply. She helps me in, and I'm thankful that she didn't have much to drink. While I'm certainly not intoxicated, I am in no shape to be driving.
Before she starts the car, Jane locks the doors and glances around to make sure we are alone on the street. "What's going on?" She questions gently, those eyes boring into mine.
I shrug again, not sure of what to tell her. I am not sure of how I feel myself, so how can I explain it to her? It's not fair to treat her this way, however, or be so moody with her. My mind racing for an explanation, I say the first thing that comes out of my mouth.
"When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state."
"Come again?" Jane asks, clearly confused.
"It's Shakespeare." I answer. Clearing my throat, I close my eyes and continue.
"And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, with what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising from sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings."
When I finally open my eyes, I fully expect Jane to be staring at me like I have finally lost my mind. She will drive me to McLean psychiatric hospital and have me admitted, and I will complement on her choice of facilities as it is a very highly-regarded mental institution. Perhaps she'll even bring Jo to visit, as they have a lovely botanical garden that she'd enjoy.
Instead, I see her eyes, the very eyes that Shakespeare himself would have written hundreds of sonnets about. They are as calm as the sea on a tranquil night, but as I study them I can see tiny little glints of concern bobbing at the edges. She doesn't respond right away, just continues to study me, ever the detective.
When she finally speaks, her voice is as low as I've ever heard it.
"What does it mean?"
"Sonnet number twenty-nine. One of his more popular sonnets, actually. I first read it in grade school and it's always been my favorite." I answer quickly, my composure regained.
"Okay." She presses on. "But what does it mean?"
I sigh, fidgeting my hands around the oversized ring I wear on my middle finger. I hate to fidget.
"Shakespeare felt upset about several events taking place in his life at the time, unconfident about his work, and had poor self-esteem. He allowed those feelings to consume him when he was working on this sonnet, and his insecurities affected his writing; he felt everything he wrote wasn't nearly good enough. This resulted in him constantly second-guessing himself and being unable to enjoy what he used to enjoy the most; his writing. However, when he thinks of the person that he loves, the thoughts of that person brought him so much joy that he was unable to wallow in his self-pity, making him appreciate that love. " My personal analysis comes tumbling out hurriedly.
"Maura!" Jane barks swiftly. "Not the cliff-notes version, what does it mean to you?"
"Hey!" I object. "That is not a cliff-notes version. It is my own personal analysis for this particular sonnet."
She puts her hands up. "I didn't mean to offend. I guess I'm confused, and I just want to know what's going on inside that big brain of yours." Smiling gently at me, she asks softly. "What does it mean to you?"
I swallow loudly in the silence as seconds tick by. I've never revealed this to anyone, and am generally uncomfortable with the notion of sharing this last part of myself with her. There is a good chance she will react with the classic 'you're fine, there's nothing wrong with you' speech that just will result in further insecurity. Perhaps she will be upset with me, telling me that I'm crazy to feel like that. Lastly, she could laugh the situation off, making my feelings seem trivial. I am not sure which circumstance would be the worst, and the speculation of her reaction is worrisome. However, Jane never fails to surprise me, and I trust her with so much that I might as well trust her with this. Garnering up my courage, I try to put into non-Shakespeare-words exactly how I am feeling.
"I don't like myself. I never have and I probably never will. I love you, and you make me happy." I realize that often the most simplistic sentences are the most difficult to say as my hands continue to fidget despite my best intentions to keep t hem quiet.
"I like you." She answers quietly, the hint of a smile forming at either side of her mouth. "A lot."
"That's good." I tell her, fighting back the tears that suddenly threaten. "Can you like me enough for the both of us?"
"Definitely." She responds easily, the smiling overtaking her entire face. "I'll like you enough for everyone, meanwhile, we'll figure out how to make you like you." Placing one hand behind my neck, she pulls me to her for a gentle kiss. "Deal?"
I nod against her mouth. I don't deserve her, but I'm so thankful that she's mine.
One more chapter to this tale, folks. Then you probably won't hear from me as much, as work is getting busier and busier and our show season will be starting. I will try to post a few things however throughout the spring/summer/fall….as I will miss you all very much. Reviews will make me want to write more, so keep 'em coming. I feel like I have the greatest fans in the world, and that makes me happy.
Speaking of, I'm a little (okay, a LOT) unhappy about some of the R & I script leaks for Season 2….seems like they've casted new love interests that are of the male persuasion for both Jane & Maura. Ick. Why can't TNT live in the fantasyland that thrives within my head? Sigh. I guess I was hopeful that the HUGE lesbian fan base of this show would have some type of impact on the show itself…not that I'm expecting them to live out my stories (though it would be nice, and I could use the money), but I don't really want have it turn into General Hospital with all the hetero love affairs taking place of the actual plot!
