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[Sorry in advance for the typos--I gave my editor the day off for his birthday and I am terrible at proofreading!]

My Love Story Begins at 8 Years Old.

Ok, that sounds a little...off, but hear me out.

As I mentioned a couple weeks ago in an earlier newsletter, there is an event from my childhood that continues to have a profound impact on how I relate to the world. I was 8 years old and Omma was cleaning the house, which didn't sit well with me. She'd been working so much lately (she was a nurse in the Emergency Room of a local hospital) and I hardly got to see her. Moreover, that night, she was scheduled to work "PMs," which meant she would be leaving the house in the mid-afternoon and coming home around midnight. I would have to take care of my little brother by myself, since Daddy went to bed around 6 pm (because he worked the night shift). I loved my mother and she was my favorite person to play with; but, more importantly, I just needed my mom to be around in those hours before she left us alone at night, instead of spending that time cleaning the house (my mom kept an immaculate home while also working around the clock).

I concluded that the most expedient way of getting her to pay attention to me was doing something that would make her mad. In this case, it was taking all the rolls of wrapping paper she kept in our coat closet, unfurling them onto the living room couch, taking the naked cardboard rolls and using them as "oars" as we sat on top of fresh sheets of unused wrapping paper while hollering "Row row row your boat" at the top of our lungs. To be clear, Jaesun was truly an innocent conspirator, as he was only about 4 or 5 years old, had no idea what was happening, and was just excited to play with his older sister.

I knew this would make my mother angry, but that was the idea. If she got mad, she would be forced to direct her attention to me. And sure enough, as if on cue, she stormed into the living room in seconds, her hands still gloved from cleaning the toilet. But instead of yelling at us, she grew really quiet. She didn't rip the cardboard tubes from our hands or tell us to stop singing. Instead, she turned on her heel and disappeared beyond the hallway that cut through to the back of our Skokie house. It seemed my plan had failed. I abruptly cut off my 3rd rendition of Row Row Row Your Boat, dropped the cardboard tubes to the carpet, and sat there for a minute or two, examining the growing sense of unease inside my belly. Then, I turned to my little brother and we moved on to our next game: FORTS (i.e., building a fort out of couch cushions, of course), while sheets of now wrinkled wrapping paper littered the floor.

Around 2:30 pm, my mother, clad in a blue-green nursing uniform, entered the foyer with a suitcase. She stated quite calmly that she was not coming home after work (hence the suitcase). That she would never come home again because she was tired of being our mother. Alarm bells went off in my head. Jaesun started to cry and I scrambled to remove any and all evidence of the wrapping paper campaign and even began dismantling the couch cushion fort, but it was too late. She walked out of the screen door of our Skokie house, her suitcase trailing her petite form. She got into her brown Nissan Sentra without once turning back.

Ultimately, after many tears, apologies, and promises, my mother did come home that night.

But, for the next two decades, even when I was a practicing lawyer, every few months, I would go into my mother's closet.

Just to make sure her suitcases were still there.

Attachment Theory.

My therapist is unusually good at simplifying seemingly complicated things. She reminded me last week that my past with my parents is like archeology. The fossils reveal something important about the past and perhaps some insight regarding my present. But they are just that--fossils. They don't need to be brought back to life with resentment or bitterness. Putting words to the things that have shaped me continues to facilitate intentional steps forward, but, as I've stated before, I harbor zero resentment towards my mother for what I truly believe was the manifestation of her own trauma.

Speaking of putting words to the things that shape me, several years ago, I discovered a series of articles related to something called "attachment theory." In a nutshell, attachment theory is "is a psychological, evolutionary and ethological theory concerning relationships between humans. The most important tenet is that young children need to develop a relationship with at least one primary caregiver for normal social and emotional development."

Generally speaking, depending on the relationships you build with those around you during those critically formative years, you will fall into one of four loose categories of attachment: (a) secure, (b) anxious, (c) avoidant, and (d) fearful. Adults who possess an anxious attachment style are typically plagued with a crippling fear of abandonment.

BINGO.

It doesn't take Freud to figure out that I ultimately developed a very intense fear of abandonment from "Wrapping Paper-gate," one that would manifest in confusing ways that sometimes led to self-sabotage. For instance, anxious attachment styles often lead to codependent relationships "if they are paired with a partner that takes advantage of the people-pleasing tendency of people with this attachment style. People with anxious attachment styles will often bend over backwards to make their partner happy or to avoid conflict. This can lead to an unhealthy relationship dynamic in which an anxiously-attached person does everything for their partner in return for validation, but in the process enables their partner’s bad behavior."

This pretty sums up my first love--one that I essentially disappeared into, with the hope that if I deleted all of my own desires and interests, it would guarantee that he would never leave me. The fear that he would abandon me was so all consuming that I tricked myself into believing that all the things I did to ensure he stayed, to try and fill the void that cracked apart in my heart when I watched my mother's shrinking back through the screen door of the Skokie house, that all these things were acts of "love." I once told a colleague of mine, "Don't worry, Ellen. I've determined that my love is strong. So strong that I can handle anything he does to me. Even when he loses his temper."

The blindingly acute side-eye Ellen directed my way as I wrapped up this pretty little idea was one of the most loving things she has ever done for me.

I Like You. Wait, No I Don't. Wait, Actually, Yes I Do.

Anthony, aka "MilesAhead" slid into my OkCupid DMs on May 2014.

I wasn't interested.

At first.

He just wasn't my "type," I thought. I wanted someone a bit younger (Anthony is 7 years older than me). But...two things caught my attention--the fact that he not only enjoyed but played classical music (Anthony is a concert pianist), and, the picture of him running a half marathon! I responded to his message with "What is your favorite Ravel concerto?" hoping to tease out a potential catfish. He responded quickly and enthusiastically with two whole paragraphs on his favorite concerto, his overall philosophy on music, and snippets from his experience as a music professor. In other words, he passed the first of many tests with flying colors.

Later, he would tell me, quite kindly, that "Ravel only has one piano concerto, babe," something he neglected to mention in his reply because he didn't want to embarrass me.

Our courtship over the next four months was pretty typical. A newly minted divorcee, I was extra guarded. Anthony, on the other hand, remained as exuberant as he did in that first message. I remember on Date 4, he confided, "I can't get you out of my mind," to which I said exactly nothing. A few seconds later, he filled the thick silence with "Ok....usually there's some response when you say that to a person." I smiled. And once again, said absolutely nothing. I gave him a peck on the cheek. Of course I wanted to say something, but I wanted to say only truthful things. And, at the time, I wasn't ready to be vulnerable to any man, even the Piano Guy in the South Loop. I left early that evening, telling him I had a big client meeting the next morning. The following day, a bright bouquet of flowers showed up on my doorstep, with a small note: "Good luck on your big presentation!"

When my sister-in-law saw me placing the cluster of flowers into a vase, she muttered, "hopefully, this time, you won't throw them away in less than 24 hours." She was referring to another gentlemen caller who had conveyed his equally amorous intentions with a floral gift--humongous sunflowers. I'd oohed and aahed at them and also stuck them in a face. But, within 24 hours, my feelings for the man who sent me the huge, yellow bouquet suddenly soured and I chucked the whole thing into the trash because the sight of him only made me feel distinctly ashamed.

Ashamed?

This weird habit of mine--falling for a man, then abruptly hating the man's guts--was something I noticed about myself back in 6th grade, when I had a crush on Kyle Fuller, who sat behind me in Latin. Kyle had huge, round hazel eyes--fawn brown during the mid-day, but pale blue-green in the late afternoons when the sun slanted across his face. He had curly brown hair and a mouth full of braces. He was, in other words, the perfect boy to have a crush on at 12 years old and for three whole days, our romance was a whirlwind of friendship bracelets and surreptitiously delivered notebook paper missives disguised as mini cranes.

And then, all of a sudden, I was disgusted with him.

This pattern repeated itself with just about every boy I "liked," until I met my first husband.

In retrospect, the "disgust" was actually a projection of how I saw myself. I was ashamed of anyone who liked me back because I was so intensely ashamed of myself. Only someone as unworthy as I am could possibly deem me worthy of affection, and therefore, my initial infatuation would quickly dissipate into contempt. In many ways, the feeling I had was very similar to the one I would later experience as an adult after sleeping with a man--intense shame, guilt, and self-loathing, all because I had the audacity to bare myself to someone who would inevitably find me unworthy of sticking around.

Although I didn't know why I acted this way, I knew that I did. As a result, even after Anthony sent me those flowers, I stepped cautiously with him, revealing myself in bits and pieces, as much for his sake as mine.

Bean Curd and Mozzarella Cheese.

Ok, before you get excited, this is NOT a new, delicious recipe involving tofu and vegan mozz.

Rather, I am referring to a turning point in my relationship with Anthony.

One evening, we were walking back to his car in the parking lot, discussing tofu, something he admittedly did not enjoy eating at the time. He asked, "What is tofu anyway?"

"It's bean curd, I told you," I answered.

"Oh yeah. Maybe I stopped listening after you said 'bean curd,'" was his immediately reply.

And something about the way he said it--so drily--had me throwing my head back as we continued to walk, the sound of my laughter echoing at us in the underground parking lot. It was the first time I'd allowed any real emotion to climb out from behind the wall I'd erected and it was, in a word, electrifying. Maybe not to him (because he probably doesn't even remember this interlude), but to me. The ability to walk side-by-side at such ease with this man was intoxicating. Later that night, we made dinner for ourselves--slices of fresh tomatoes topped with sweet basil and torn chunks of mozzarella (which is just a different kind of curd, my love). And once again, the act of preparing a meal together disarmed me in a way I didn't anticipate, in a way I thoroughly enjoyed.

Before I knew it, and before I could help myself, I was falling in love.

And Then... He Dumped Me.

On October 6, 2014, I asked Anthony to be my boyfriend.

He said yes.

About two months later, on December 8, 2014, he dumped me.

The following morning, I asked him to drop by my condo and he obliged. I presented him with a 4-page single spaced written essay, the thesis of which was, "We are better together than we are apart." When he refused to read it, I threw my arms around his waist and started to beg, but, he pried me from his body, put his hands on my shoulders and repeated, quite firmly, "Joanne, you need to stop."

And then...

He walked out the door.

So, what led to my worst nightmare coming true?

Anthony used to say I did this thing that drove him batty, what he called "looking out the window." It referred to random moments--usually in the car--during which I'd shut down, respond with only one-word answers, and stare out the window. These spells were always preceded by things he did that disappointed me. For example, early on in our relationship, Anthony once declined to spend the evening with me at my condo and instead said, "I'm going to call it a night. I'm a little tired." By that time, I'd taken for granted that he would be coming home with me (which had been the case without exception until that point). When he didn't, I grew frigid and aloof instead of simply saying what I really thought, "Oh, this guy is growing bored of me and will likely dump me in a few days."

Any time Anthony did even the smallest thing that had me questioning his affections for me, instead of saying something, I'd pull away--both physically and emotionally. In this case of our break up, it was the fact that he'd been talking a little too long, with a little too much enthusiasm with another woman--one who had been on the track team in high school (unlike me, who was in dorkestra). We were at a bar in New York City, having drinks with some old friends. I pulled his hand into mine while he continued to discuss running with this woman, but he remained oblivious to me. I dropped his hand like a dead fish. In the cab ride back to our hotel, I refused to sit next to him. I rolled down the window and gazed out at a city that purportedly never sleeps while he remained quiet. For the remainder of our trip, I treated him as if he'd already left me.

At the time, I hardly understood what I was doing, but looking back, I realize I was searching for reassurance. My default position was one of fear--that he would, of course, abandon me, because, of course, I wasn't worthy of his love. In some ways, all the tiny little things he did to confirm this default setting was soothing to me in its familiarity, and the act of pulling away from him, drenching our interactions with a self-inflicted stillness made me feel safe.

But, paradoxically, I wanted him to prove me irrefutably wrong. To emphatically dismantle the forts I'd build around my heart by pulling my hand into his own every time I tried to pull it away, by holding me to his chest even when I tried to dislodge from his embrace, by asking me just one more time "what's wrong?" even if the answer was always, "Nothing, I'm fine."

Anthony just wanted me to be honest. To say what I really wanted. But it wasn't as simple as that, because, as I've described, I wanted two different things simultaneously--I wanted him to stay, but I didn't want to want him to stay, because I'd learned that wanting anyone to stick around was dangerous and usually led them to leave.

By the time I finally grew brave [desperate] enough to say, "Please don't leave me,"

It was too late.

But Then...We Made Up. And Lived Happily Ever After?

We did make up.

After a month of therapy, lots of chocolate, and excruciating levels of introspection followed by reading lots and lots and lots of stuff about attachment theory, Anthony and I decided to give our relationship another shot. In Round 2, I committed to being more upfront about my insecurities--every time I had the urge to look out the window, I forced myself to verbalize my discomfort. But changing one's personality overnight is basically a fool's errand, even armed with all this new information regarding my own psychology. Moreover, it takes two to tango: Anthony's prickly communication style and unfiltered way of describing his previous relationships ("I usually get bored of women in a couple months") didn't always make it easy for me. Moreover, Anthony wasn't exactly great at revealing his innermost thoughts and feelings either. I remember once having a chat with Anthony's late father, who marveled at my ability to sustain his son's fascination for so long, remarking,

"My son is...hard to penetrate."

Both of us were taking a gamble.

But only one of us (i.e., the lawyer) hated gambling.

Over the next several years, there were a lot of "stop-starts" in our relationship. Things would be going great, he would make me laugh and love effortlessly, and then, all of a sudden, he would say something too sharp, too blunt, or not at all, and I would take that as a sign that he didn't love me after all. I would recoil, freeze him out, and refuse to engage in any meaningful way. Small things would set this off--sometimes things that Anthony had little control over. For instance, as I've talked about here, a photo he took of me, one in which I felt I looked decidedly unattractive, triggered one of these "cold spells" on the final night of our honeymoon in Rome. This, understandably, led to a not only bewildered new husband, but a knock down drag out fight at the airport right before we hopped onto a plane destined for Chicago. It remains one of the most frigid plane rides of my life.

At the time, I sought out the assistance of my therapist. After I told her how I felt upon seeing the picture my husband took of me, how I pulled away and stopped talking to him on the final day of our honeymoon, I asked her, "Why do I do this?"

And she said something I'll never forget for as long as I live:

"You're checking Anthony's closet."

Repairing My Love Language.

One of the things my ex-husband used to do when he got angry with me was to ignore my existence. By this, I don't mean becoming cold or aloof. I mean he would literally pretend I didn't exist for days. He went on with life as though everything were normal--eat his fast food dinner on the TV trays we liked to use back then, watch Everybody Loves Raymond on repeat for a few hours, before turning on his xbox to play video games until it was time to sleep. Meanwhile, I'd be sitting in the corner of the room crying, begging him to look at me, begging him to forgive me.

He knew that this was my Kryptonite, that depriving me of attention was like depriving me of oxygen, that the longer and longer he kept me drowning, the more likely the "lesson" would stick. He would often tell me when he was mad that he wanted to hurt me, that seeing me in pain made him feel better, and unfortunately, in my rush to please him, I gave him all the tools to wound me in the most irreparable ways imaginable.

So, it was not without a little trepidation that I disclosed to Anthony the details surrounding Wrapping Paper-gate. After my therapist's bombshell of a revelation, I figured it was best to share the insight with him, because I needed his help. But I also knew, implicitly, that by doing so, I was getting more naked than I'd ever been with any man, and that he could just as easily use what I shared to hurt me.

Anthony's immediate response was... very Anthony. He said very little (kinda like the time I said nothing to his "I can't get you out of my mind!") and I wondered if any of it really sank in with him at all. As I said, his own father called him "impenetrable." But, as is often the case with my husband, it's not that he doesn't take in what I'm saying, it's more that he takes it in so deeply, I may not actually observe its impact until much later.

In fact, I didn't really notice it, at first. But one night, after a horrible fight (we still have them, of course), he turned his back to me to walk away, saying "I can't talk to you like this."

"Don't leave!" I spluttered, rage and fear threading my voice.

He turned around and said, "I'm not leaving. I'm just getting something to drink."

In the years that followed, if he ever got up in the middle of a heated discussion or argument, he would always look at me and say, "I'm not leaving. I'm just going to [get a drink, stretch my back, grab some food]."

Instead of weaponizing my vulnerability, he uses it to prove me wrong, to reassure me that I am and will always be safe with him. It is a profound act of faith and service, a repeated stake in the ground that allows us to build trust, partnership, and a future.

I am now finally able to believe, once and for all, that Anthony's suitcases aren't going anywhere.

At least not without me.

A Conversation with Anthony.

In lieu of an Ask Joanne this week, I invited Anthony, who is celebrating his 50th birthday, onto the podcast to discuss his career as a concert pianist, as well as his second passion in life, running. Anthony's description of the path towards artistic achievement overlaps often with his discussion of running, so much so that regardless of whether you have a background in either, you will find, as he says, that the lessons derived from the struggles and triumphs in his concertizing career could apply to "so many things." Undoubtedly, one of the most powerful parts of our conversation was the emotional recounting of his pursuit of a dream that eluded his late father--running a "Sub 3" (a marathon under 3 hours). Nearly as inspiring, though, was his description of how he prepared for the life altering piano competition that launched his career, what, in many ways, amounted to a profound "leap of faith."

Now that you've had an opportunity to read about how I fell in love with this man, listen in to this week's podcast, starting at 28:46 to hear for yourself just why I fell in love with The Piano Guy from the South Loop.

Also, for those of you who want to hear my husband's music?

I suggest you tune into the whole thing.

Updates/Random Things.

Spicy Gochujang Braised Potatoes on The Korean Vegan Meal Planner

EVENT POSTPONEMENT: Sadly, the U of I (Urbana-Champaign) event will no longer be going forward this month. However, the University is planning on rescheduling the live event for sometime in April. If you've already purchased your tickets, please reach out directly to the ticketing agent for further details.
What I'm Watching: Despite being coerced (sort of) into watching the US Open, I did enjoy one aspect of the tennis tournament: John McEnroe. My mom hates him, btw, and my dad is sort of "meh" about him, which only intensified my intrigue. I read an article the other day on a documentary about him and thought it might be fun to make a movie night of it. NOPE. I fell asleep midway and not because John McEnroe's story is a snoozefest. On the contrary--his tale is extraordinary. It was the film-making around his story that made me want to turn off the TV and read a book instead. The movie gave off such "trying too hard" vibes and left me hoping that someone else would come along and do John some justice.
Recipes I'm Adding to the Meal Planner: This week, I added more toast a la the #30DayToast Challenge, as well as the recipe for Stuffed French Toast, Extra Long Baked Fries, and Spicy Gochujang Braised Potatoes. If you want access to these recipes and thousands more, check out The Korean Vegan Meal Planner!

Parting Thoughts.

For this week's Parting Thoughts, here is an excerpt from the 4-page single-spaced essay that I wrote for Anthony when he broke up with me:

"What is tofu, anyway?"

"It's bean curd, I told you."

"Oh yeah. Maybe I stopped listening after you said 'bean curd.'"

Day 4 and I am finally laughing—heady, giddy, thoughtless laughter, the kind that drives you into street signs and sewer grates at odd hours, when hand-holding is optional but trust is not. A vague distance springs up between us, a sprig of rosemary or a spoonful of fermented soy paste.

We are driving to Batavia, Illinois, so that you can participate in a half-marathon. Ultimately, of course, the goal is to complete 26-point-something miles, but today, a decent time to secure a decent start will do.

I am fidgety in your car, my legs are too short to reach the floor with any comfort, and I begin to kick my legs up against your dash but stop (for the millionth time) because you're leasing and I don't want to leave a scuff mark with the soles of my flip-flops, and I know you notice things like that. I'm staring at my toes, relieved of the pedicure I wedged into my morning yesterday; a frothy candy-pink: “ballet slippers," the girl called it when she insisted against a French.

You're 41 years old, going on 42, and I feel like I'm 35 going on 15, with my discussion of discontinued jeans and the lack of female inseam. You don't ever reach over the driving console to quiet my hand or graze my thigh while I lament the loss of Madison flare. Perhaps there is nothing yet proprietary about me to you; perhaps there never will be. Perhaps this is what it means to be an adult, now—respecting personal space to such a degree so as to be impersonally personal. Flirtation is a mediated art, punctuated doses of triviality amidst polite conversation.

Yes, somehow, I have wandered into an adult relationship, I tell myself. And I don't know where to go from here. Shall I begin talking about the Middle East or the economy or the quality of certain brands of laundry detergent? I turn the ring on my middle finger, watching mile after mile of pavement disappear beneath us, wondering whether it is too early to reach over the console myself.

Later that night, I fall into bed, lightning darts across Sunday night like a churlish game of Chinese checkers. Regardless, regardless, I reassure, I can press the heel of my too-small hand against the side of your face in a way that no one else can, to snatch your breath and place it in my back pocket, to blunt your perpendicular words with an endless reservoir of seawater. My still-black hair and persimmon mouth floating down a dream, but I will take your secrets, the ones you cannot speak, your b-flat yesterdays, and I will come to know them better than the flat of your back, the precise angle of your jaw, the slant of August sunlight that captures the Amalfi in your eyes.

I've a lifetime carving shoulders that look too frail to carry much more than funny jokes and errant kisses. Day four, and I am finally laughing, a bursting grapefruit, its pungent tears soaking the rough sunlight of Halstead and the tender scent of basil leaves.