by Carre Otis
I knew I was challenging him. But the fact of the matter was, I wasn’t at all interested in playing games. Boundaries were clear to me now; I had worked my ass off to be able to create and honor them. After all the work I’d done, I wasn’t willing to be around anyone who couldn’t be in alignment with that.
But Mickey placed his hand back on mine. He stroked it fondly, testing my words. Again I pulled away. “Mickey . . .” I said in a stern tone. This was going nowhere fast. And just like so many time before, I saw the telltale signs that he was ready to blow. His eye began twitching. He tapped his nose a few times. He didn’t like to be reprimanded. Or rejected. He couldn’t handle the fact that I had changed while he had not. He could no longer control me, and he was pissed off.
Mickey suddenly snapped. He slammed his fist down on the table and looked at me. “You know, Carré, you are a fucking piece of work.” His hostility was escalating fast. “You are a fucking bitch. A real bitch.”
I stood carefully and started to back away. I didn’t have to sit there and listen to that anymore. I could just walk away.
“No, actually, you are a cunt. A fucking cunt.”
I didn’t even blink. Step by step I backed out toward the door. Customers were starting to move out of Mickey’s way, as he looked like a bull ready to charge. Then he stood up and flipped the table onto its side, sending our glasses crashing to the floor, where they shattered into a million pieces. I thought, That’s us, our relationship. It’s done. Shattered. You just showed your true colors, Mick. Good-bye.
“C-U-N-T! Fucking cunt!” he bellowed, raging on to no one in particular. And in a flash I turned and ran through the doors, out onto the Promenade, disappearing as fast as I possibly could into the sea of people.
I was out of breath. I was stunned. I felt shell-shocked and blindsided. I raced around a corner and stopped, grabbing the side of a building to steady myself. And I began to sob. I wasn’t crying from disappointment or shock. I was crying from pride. I was so proud of myself to have walked away. It was over at last. Whatever final little test I needed to pass, I had. I wept because I knew in every fiber of my being that I never needed to go there again. Not in any relationship, not with anyone.
I reached into my purse for my ringing cell phone and saw it was Mickey calling. I hit “ignore” and instead dialed Jeffrey’s number. I wailed into the phone, trying to tell him what had happened.
“Can I do anything? Are you okay?” he asked quietly.
“I’m scared, Jeff,” I sniffled. “Not of Mickey. But of moving on. Of moving away. I’m scared right now. I think that’s why I agreed to meet with him. I was hoping that somehow something about seeing him would make me less scared.” I knew that Jeffrey understood. He knew my fallbacks. He knew what I’d been through. He had actually been with me almost every step of the way.
Jeffrey told me that he didn’t know anyone stronger than me. He told me what I needed to hear and what was true. That I’d worked incredibly hard, that I’d made bigger changes than anyone he’d ever seen. And he told me that I was ready and able to make this move. He added one more thing.
“Don’t take his calls, Carré. Be done with that. You don’t need to learn that one again.”
After I hung up with Jeffrey, I checked my messages. There were several from Mickey. My ex-husband was frantic, and the sequence of messages he left progressed predictably, from abjectly apologetic to furiously threatening as he realized I was not going to take his calls.
Walking back toward my car, I laughed out loud. I felt exhausted yet victorious. I knew I had just passed a very serious test, one that would allow me to leave Los Angeles at last. And I was reminded of the old saying that a leopard cannot change its spots. I’d changed mine. But Mickey hadn’t changed his, and at last our story together was finally, completely, and utterly over.
Chapter 5
A New Beginning
COMING HOME, MEETING MATTHEW
Just two weeks after my last meeting with Mickey, in January 2005, I found a place in Northern California. “Acting as if” had worked. It was a rental in a small but lovely Victorian, set in the hills of Sausalito, overlooking the bay and a harbor full of sailboats. It was so picturesque that it was ideal, as were the owners. For the year I lived there, I would fondly call them my fairy godparents. They had appeared at a time when I’d needed an easy and wondrous transitional space, and that’s exactly what they offered me. From the moment I walked into their San Carlos Avenue house, there was a sense of comfort. It was within walking distance of the little town and some great restaurants. The area felt like a small village compared to the vastness of Los Angeles. It also had a perfect room for practice. As I was unpacking, I created my shrine with the knowledge that this was where I would finish my Ngöndro.
As he had promised, my father flew to Los Angeles early one February morning and made the journey home with me. The preciousness of that did not escape me. Ten years earlier I could never have imagined a day when my father would caravan with me back to the Bay Area. It was quite the testament to all the work we’d each done on ourselves during the many years we were out of touch. We had each wrestled with our demons and were making incredible strides in our sobriety. Forgiveness was sweet indeed.
I drove my black Jaguar filled to the brim with two Chihuahuas and one pug. My father followed close behind in the U-Haul into which I had fit everything I was willing to take home with me. The weeks before I left had been a free-for-all, as friends and neighbors came by to score the loot I was giving away in an attempt to lighten my load. I didn’t need much at all. I wanted very purposefully to let go of my possessions. I wanted a fresh start in every sense of the word. I had learned to live happily on the basics, even though my basics were still so much more than what my spiritual teachers needed.
After a few weeks of solitude had passed, I began to wonder what the hell I was doing. I didn’t have my busy Los Angeles routine. Being in Sausalito reminded me of the first few days of a retreat; it took some time to unwind, to let go and quiet down. I hadn’t anticipated how intense and emotional it would be, returning to the place where I’d grown up and to be in such close proximity to my family. It was what I wanted and where I knew I needed to be, but at times it was also excruciating. So many memories resurfaced.
Slowly I began to piece together a routine, including practice sessions, walks through the hills with my dogs, and short but fulfilling visits with my family. I was becoming a part of the fabric of their lives again and they a part of mine. And just as Jeffrey had promised, clients didn’t blink an eye when they were told they had to fly me in from San Francisco.
Some days when the fog rolled in, I would watch as the dewdrops gathered on the spiderweb outside my window, and I’d listen as the foghorns I remembered from childhood bellowed outside on the bay. It was a magical time, filled with discipline, courage, and isolation.
Just before the full moon came in May, I realized I might finish my preliminary practices on Saga Dawa itself: the day Buddha had been born, had reached enlightenment, and had also passed from this world. For some reason the coming culmination of my many years of practice sent me into an odd panic. What would I do then? I had been so singularly focused on this one task of finishing my Ngöndro, and I was now beginning to wonder what it all meant. I knew that my doubt was just another obstacle presenting itself, my ego’s way of trying to sabotage the feelings of accomplishment and joy.
The evening before Saga Dawa, I finished my practice and calculated that the next morning’s session would indeed bring me to the one-hundred-thousand mark of accumulations. Standing up to stretch, I saw the clouds gathering, a menacing dark sky on the move, and a single bolt of lightning illuminating the hills across the bay. I remembered the story of the night before the Buddha had attained enlightenment. The maras (Buddhist demons) had thrown everything they could at him to attempt to distract him from his dedicated focus. A chill ran over me, and I knew I had to try to get in touch with my teach
er and ask him to please pray for me, to be thinking of me. I knew that it was a long shot, but I ran to my computer and e-mailed my friend Lisa, who was his attendant in Tibet at the time.
“I am just about to finish my Ngöndro, and I feel all of these obstacles coming up. I am scared.” I pressed send, and, astonishingly, there was a two-word response in my in-box less than five minutes later: “Call NOW.”
I picked up my phone and dialed Tibet; Lisa answered seconds later.
“Tashi delek!” she shouted at me in Tibetan.
“Hi!” I screamed. I began to cry from gratitude and apprehension. I knew that I just needed to hear my lama’s voice, or at least have him know how I was feeling. But a part of me also knew that was ridiculous. He already did.
“Wait just a moment, Carré,” Lisa said. “He’s here. He wants to talk to you.” And in a flash I could feel him, his presence, and his blessings. A moment later I heard his precious voice.
“Carré-la! Osel Wangmo!” He sang my Tibetan name to me, and in an instant I was reminded of all that I was, my true Buddha nature. Just hearing the name he’d given me was inspiring and reassuring. “I love you! I love you! I love you!” He laughed as he said this, full of joy, full of knowing, full of prayer. He couldn’t speak English, nor could I speak Tibetan, but those were three words he knew. Tears streamed down my face. I was so grateful. And I knew that in the morning indeed I would, without any further obstacles, finish my Ngöndro.
“I love you, too! Thank you!” I wept.
“Tashi delek,” and he hung up. I sat for a moment, watching as the clouds parted and the last rays of sunlight touched my face. “Thank you,” I whispered.
By seven the next morning, I had completed my first Ngöndro. It was a mighty accomplishment and had carried me through several years of my life. The changes that took place on every level of my being during that time were remarkable. I’d learned to steady my mind, find the courage to face my memories, see what was in the deepest crevices of my heart, touch all that was there, and then let it all go. Slowly and painstakingly, I had liberated myself, taken responsibility for my life, cleared out the blockages. It was the most extraordinary thing I’d ever done.
I decided to celebrate that monumental day by taking myself on a hike, one that I’d been going on since I was a child. I headed out to Tennessee Valley Road, first deciding to stop at the Whole Foods Market in Mill Valley to get some water and a tea. The day was already warm, and I had on a pair of orange shorts, a white tank top, and sneakers. I skipped happily into Whole Foods and placed my order for a yerba maté latte. I waited at the coffee bar, watching the traffic coming in and out of the store. It was a Saturday, and people were moving slowly and going sleepy-eyed through the motions of their morning routines. I, however, had been up since before sunrise and felt unbelievably energetic.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a tall man with dark hair scanning the shelves, a confused expression on his face. I watched him for a moment as he fumbled about. He seemed uncertain about what he was looking for. There was something familiar about him. It was uncanny. Had I met him before? Did I know him? But it wasn’t that. It was something much subtler. As he turned down the aisle toward me, I turned away. I wasn’t yet ready to engage with the opposite sex. I wasn’t yet ready to end my celibacy. Though saying hello to a man wouldn’t necessarily mean the end of my sexual hibernation, I reminded myself of my boundaries. I knew how powerful energy could be. I also didn’t want anyone to mistake my friendliness for sexual receptiveness. I was aware, from experience, just how often that happens.
But when I turned back around to grab my tea, there he was, right next to me, watching. He scratched his head and flashed a wonderful, open smile.
“Hi,” he offered.
I looked away, then back at him. “Hi,” I replied, my voice strangely tight.
“Do I know you?” he asked innocently. It was a line I’d heard so many times before from men who I knew perfectly well recognized me. But I sensed at once that there was something different about this guy. He hadn’t a clue as to who Carré Otis was.
“Nope,” I said with a laugh, turning to walk away.
“Wait!” he tried again. “Wait a minute. Is it too early to ask for your number?”
I looked back. He was really adorable, undeniably handsome. I looked into his big eyes and saw something striking: One eye was black and the other a stunningly bright blue. It reminded me of David Bowie. But this man was better-looking.
I couldn’t help but play with him a bit. He was too fascinating not to. “Do you mean too early in the day or too early in our ‘relationship’ to ask for my number?” I shot back at him, my grin letting him know I was teasing.
I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he wasn’t going to let up. I knew that we were both powerfully attracted. And I also knew I wasn’t at all ready for it.
Before he could answer, I spoke again. “I don’t give out my number.” And before I could think through what I was doing, I followed that with “But I’ll take yours.”
I was blown away by what had come out of my mouth. For so long I’d been on my guard with men. I hadn’t been cold or rude, but I knew how to keep my distance. And at that coffee bar on the morning I finished my Ngöndro, something was happening that I didn’t entirely understand.
He happily handed me his business card, holding it for a pause while I held the other corner, capturing me in his gaze. And then he let go.
“Thanks. Have a great day.” And with a quick wave, I walked out of the store as nonchalantly as I possibly could. Oddly enough, there in the parking lot, before I even reached my car, I had a hand in my purse searching for my phone. And as I climbed behind the wheel, I was dialing his number. It was totally unlike me, but something was driving me to connect with this person. I needed to know him.
Every bone in my body already knew I wouldn’t let him go.
SEXUAL HEALING
Mysteriously, since the first days of my celibacy, my menstrual cycle had ceased. It baffled the doctors I went to see. And it puzzled me, too. I was no longer unhealthily thin; this wasn’t the amenorrhea that often accompanies anorexia. Yet there was something perfect in this as well, something I recognized. A doctor of Chinese medicine I consulted had a theory that due to my gunshot wound and the excessive blood loss suffered, losing more blood on a monthly basis was not high on my body’s agenda. Of course, that shooting had happened years before I chose the celibate path. Whatever the reason, I felt a sense of divine peace about it; I trusted that my body knew exactly what it needed. I intuitively knew that the absence of this cycle was linked to my sexual healing. After several consultations with different practitioners of both Eastern and Western medicine, I decided to stop trying to fix what clearly was not broken.
During my celibacy I’d learned to quiet my need for validation; I’d unlearned all my old unhealthy behaviors. So when I met Matthew, I saw it as an opportunity to deal with my sexuality differently than I ever had before. With Matthew, I challenged myself to have a healthy, spiritual, truly intimate sexual relationship.
We courted for months, talking easily on hikes up Mount Tam, walking along the ocean’s edge, watching the wind rustle the trees and the sun set from his home in Mill Valley. We listened to each other’s stories with rapt attention over wonderful dinners and bottles of red wine. As I got to know this unique and gentle man, I allowed him to get to know me as well. Not the me that existed at any time prior, but the woman who stood before him then. I didn’t hide my past, as it was no longer who I was. My career neither impressed nor intimidated Matthew, and we rarely even spoke of it. Sometimes he asked me, teasingly, “What was it that you used to do?” I would just laugh and shrug. From my new vantage point, my past and my career seemed irrelevant. I loved that I could be the amazing and strong woman I’d worked so hard to be in recent years. And that’s exactly who he saw.
Throughout the summer we met almost every day. A feeling of never want
ing to be separated from him washed over me. I knew I was falling in love, but a part of me was still unsure that I was ready for that step. I wasn’t certain anymore what “love” meant. I had redefined most of my old ideas about love and intimacy, and I had actually become quite comfortable with platonic relationships. What I hadn’t been able to see up until that moment was that I was now on the opposite end of the spectrum from where I’d once been, and I was finding it difficult to move back to a healthy and happy medium. Whereas earlier in my life I had known no boundaries sexually—my behavior had been wildly inappropriate—and whereas more recently I had focused on nothing but boundaries, living a completely celibate life, I was now left wondering how I could still feel safe and experience intimacy at the same time. Achieving that balance was an essential part of my growth. I knew if I could find that place, I would reemerge into a sexual being who could love another as I loved myself, with consciousness, integrity, and radical honesty. It was such a terrifying but necessary leap to take.
While I sought the path to that balance, I kept Matthew at arm’s length for months. We would regularly have early dinners at great restaurants, and after a wonderful time together I would ask to be dropped off outside my front door by 7:00 P.M. To me this seemed a normal request. I’d neglected my boundaries so much in the past that I was now overcompensating with strict rules that I knew would keep me safe. To his everlasting credit, Matthew didn’t press me. I’m not sure he even realized that his growing fondness for me was actually reciprocated, because of how coolly I felt compelled to play everything.
I wanted to share my life with him. I felt an indescribable urge to love him and let him in. But as much as I felt those things, other frightening feelings arose. I wasn’t sure I could be with him. I was no longer sure of how to physically love someone. The thought was agonizing, evoking memories of abuses I’d suffered. Sex in the past was always equated with either violence or a disconnectedness; neither was a place to which I ever wanted to return. I’d always been a performer in bed, acutely conscious of what I was supposed to do and how my body looked and felt to my partner. I had no idea what real lovemaking was like; I’d never done it. I was afraid that if I were sexual with Matthew, I would slip back into old patterns of disassociation. “Checking out” was how I’d endured the acts that I mistook for intimacy. And even after all my years of spiritual work, I had only reframed the concept of intimacy to the point of realizing that it wasn’t something you “endure.” I hadn’t defined it beyond that yet.
