November 2017

The compulsion is back.

It never really left.

Panda has gifted me with some time alone and this new chair I have for my desk is not comfortable.
I have to get up and drag my sad ass to the couch.
I have to buy a new chair.
Also I am sick of looking at my clothes.

I have been home for days and the remnants of my trip, the unpacking, has yet to leave my bed. Chipping away, slowly.

I am on auto pilot.

I have written probably 6000 words in the last few days. I cannot stop, I don’t really want to.

I met a boy.

When my ears heard Swain, my mind said Wate.

A quiet bell of recognition rang out. Took me a few days to place it.

Ethan Wate: There’s no way that what Lena and I feel for each other is going to turn into something wrong and evil. There’s no way.

Macon Ravenwood: As long as I live I will never understand you creatures. You have no real power, you live at the mercy of forces outside of your control and yet you believe that what you feel, will somehow make it alright.

There it is.

Anyone following up until this point knows I have a rather embarrassing and prolific love for supernatural teen romance. Warm Bodies, City of Bones and ya the evil that is Twilight.
But in reality, I simply have a fondness for movies wherein they figure it out at the very end.
Garden State, Silver Linings Playbook and Notebook come to mind.
They wait, they miscommunicate and then suddenly everything is okay.

Wait.

Wate.

I watch these movies. 90 or so minutes for one moment. The end.

I have a few that top the rest. Where lightning strikes at the end and after a maddening build the promise of happily ever after begins and the credits roll.

If you haven’t seen Beautiful Creatures and you want to, now is the time to stop reading. There are 400 other posts in here without spoilers, read them instead.

It’s a star-crossed love story, aren’t they all?

I mentioned it to him when we were lying in bed. “There was a boy and there was a witch”. I didn’t say any more than that, one of us smiled and the other came in for a kiss. We must have kissed a thousand times in one day.

I watch these movies that I have seen one hundred times before and I know the moment is coming. I feel the build, my synapsis stand at attention, my mouth curls up or down depending. It’s like a rush really. Funny how I can see something over and over and it still elicits the same response, the same rush of emotions. I am addicted to feeling things. With the ones I mentioned before, it is almost always at the end. But in Beautiful Creatures there are two such moments.

In the middle when everything is a mess and they have been forced apart, he comes. Breaks through a barrier meant to keep them separate delivering an eloquent speech about everything he has been through to get to her and poof, blockade gone. It satisfies me. I like the idea of someone trying instead of giving up. As he holds her, a witness says “It’s not us who protect her now. It’s the boy.”

Thunderpunch to the heart.

I want to feel that safe, that wanted.

And for a while, everything is alright. Until it isn’t. Wouldn’t be a very watchable movie without some kind of conflict now would it?

A curse has to be broken.

She makes him forget everything about them, to keep him safe.

“There are many ways a person can die.”

“We don’t have words for all there is.”

And in the end, when he has been forced to forget her, he breaks through a spell again and remembers.
Calls her name and she hears him.

My chest is forced to expand and my heart just grows you know?

Ethan Wate: Most people spend their entire lives waiting for a moment that’s gonna change everything. It never happens.

I disagree.

It happened.

Now I am in the vexing part where I don’t know what to do or what is going to happen next. I haven’t seen this movie before because, despite all the beauty and the moments and the damn fine dialog, this isn’t some neat and tidy thing that gets wrapped up in a satisfying bow after 90 minutes. This is my life.

Amma: Close your eyes, say with your mind what you’re looking for as if you’ve already found it.

Ironically I only go dark when I am shut out.

The Last One smiled and I saw a future in it.

The one who might have seen my future and knew I had things to do that didn’t involve him.

He who went dark and I can’t say his name because he won’t hear me anyways.

He is no longer listening. Even though my voice soothed him too.

It soothes them all.

I have seen various versions of varying futures.

No often. I usually know they are not mine to keep. Just to enjoy.

But those rare times I do see something that looks like staying, when they go, it about kills me.

I’ve found rib cages I wanted to crawl into and call home because their heartbeat was music I always wanted to listen to. Because I felt safe behind the bars of those particular cages made of flesh and bone, not trapped at all, just safe as houses.

Three times I wanted to go home, and stay there.

3 times I saw a smile with my future in it and 3 times I have been denied.

Each one a little more magic than the last.

“She was the kind of girlfriend God gives you young, so you’ll know loss the rest of your life.”
― Junot Díaz

Two of them were young. One exceptionally so. And I am turning over in my mind this bit of grit, polishing it until it becomes pearl. So what if he is young? He isn’t forever but he could have stayed a while and still been young when it was done. And yes, it would have hurt less later.

That hardly seems fair when it pains us both. I love them, I don’t want to be the thing they miss in the night when they roll over next to whatever girl didn’t scare them.

“The Uses Of Sorrow

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.”
― Mary Oliver, Thirst

I have been turning this over in my mind too, trying to interpret, understand, glean what I can and I think I am the box of darkness. When my light goes out. When they shut me out.

I am a gift. I prove what is possible. Then they wander off and try to find pieces of me in another. But they come up wanting, and look for me again and again.

I have to remember/process/understand/believe this new thing I have just been told…
“It is not a punishment to love me or be loved by me.”

I think I have stumbled upon some answers on this third time of getting so close to the sun, melting and then plummeting back to earth, all feathers and wax and failure.

My heart is a clumsy child. She doesn’t know fear. She uses others to gauge the extent of her pain. She is innocent, wild and a dork really. You would think that they would see this vulnerable wonderful beautiful thing and want to scoop her up and protect her, keep her safe.

But nope.

They never see it, they don’t look.

They only see a challenge to be a better man and it scares them, they don’t see the reward on the other side for just trying a little. Just one step up is all it really takes to look over the wall and see into Eden.

My heart has a body guard and that is me. Grown strong from rebuilding over and over with the bricks of houses that collapse. Throwing back the stones that were thrown at me. Basic survival in harsh climates that were never meant for us. I am hardened and hard. And that is all that gets seen. This warrior made out of titanium wielding a sword, wayward wolves at her feet. Surrounded by a fortress of friends who are loyal; who protect and love me and suddenly I become work.
Indestructible, impenetrable.
Too much to bother with.
But the door is right here. And it’s open.

My heart is an unmade bed
It may look messy
But I swear it’s a safe place to rest

~Moriah Pearson

Mama Susan is probably not going to like this. She’ll call me monkeygirl and tell me to buck up. I am trying mama, I am trying so hard.

She dislikes it when I think the sky is falling, it usually isn’t really.
Unless it’s in that good way where the clouds come down and fog wraps itself around me like angel wings and home and solitude.

I can’t stop crying.

I want to.

But right now, I don’t have a choice.

Tried to contain it. It is a beautiful sunny day in November. My car is working again. I am home, puppers is here. I am heading back to the ocean soon. I have been writing and writing and writing. But something is wrong.

Maybe if I could name it I could logic it out.

The closest I can get is I am homesick but I am home.

It’s no secret that I watched the Secret, probably 1000 times. Not exaggerating. I would put it on before bed and fall asleep that way. Like learning a new language subliminally. Eventually it worked.

I also believe in souls and chakras and energy and auras.

Something is fucky.

My alignment is off.

The Secret says to listen to your body when it’s in a state of discord, you are doing something wrong. But I don’t know what it is. I am not fighting but I can’t float.

“Tell me teacher what’s my lesson” (Gary Jules), fuck, please just tell me. I will learn it, write it 1000 times until my hands ache.

Anything but this godforsaken limbo.

Where am I supposed to be?

Am I supposed to fight for something? I gave up fighting years ago.

Maybe there is a balance I am missing. Somewhere between letting go and holding on.

I spent 7 years on and off married. Mostly crying. Out of the 7 years there, 5 years sad.

And fuck. I am back there again. No earthly reason for it.

I was on the porch, absorbing the sun, content in the warm and I just couldn’t contain the flood. I cried without trigger or thought. Panda told me to just be in the moment, just get it out, but it’s hours later and I still feel sad.

I’ve had a low grade depression since October 6^th. I am not drowning in it, but I am walking through water. Except for the magical times I walked on it. Maybe that’s it, maybe I am having magic withdrawal.

I feel out of place out of time and like something is wrong.

This isn’t the time for it. I am not ovulating or bleeding. My hormones are as balanced as they ever are.

I keep thinking maybe if I masturbate I will feel better. But my bed is full of the clothes I dumped out of my suitcase against my will and something in me is refusing to put them away. And it feels like betrayal.

I need to make a list of the simplest tasks today, like plant the bulbs and hope that in 121 days things will make more sense. “I know where the cupboards are, I know where the car is parked, I know he isn’t you.” (Tori Amos) that reminds me, I have to pick up the car. Pay the bills. Take out my contacts, order new ones, these are full of salt and grit and they hurt. Everything hurts. I am tired even though I slept like the dead. This isn’t a sickness of the body, although my body is on board with my brain and the ache is somewhere in my soul.

Everything I am feels battered and bruised and I am lost as to how to fix it. Other than rest and write and hope. But I don’t even know what to hope for anymore.

I am enough of an empath to wonder if maybe all this angst isn’t mine, but I don’t have the energy to sort through. I helped a girl today and it was the best I’d felt in a bit. Same thing happened last month. Random message turned into bonding and soothing, and with it came some relief for me.

She asked me how I could be so calm. How could I let logic come through the rowdy tea party in my head full of wailing angst and feelings of abandonment and unworthiness.

I sound calm and I type these words and I mean them but inside my chest my heart is having a fucking 4 year old hopped up on mountain dew and pixie sticks tantrum.

Some of these men I have loved left indelible marks on me. I have a scar tissue paper heart.

I have been home one day.

Not unpacked.

Not showered.

Written 3 articles, working on this and another.

I have “have to’s” tomorrow. I am on a roll. Set my alarm for 7, I will probably shower and not much else.

I messaged Giant to tell him I am home. He texted me last week. Thought it was sweet he couldn’t wait to talk to me. In retrospect I think he had something to tell me and didn’t spit it out. I spooked him most likely. I do that sometimes.

I said “I thought I’d come home and you’d be moving her in”. “Her” being his version of hot neighbor.

This one has a name, but I won’t speak it. She is not a traveling waitress, and she is rather lovely. She has good hair, just like Becky.

He invited me for afternoon tea, and I just knew.

I think I knew last week. Had a thought that soon he would be with her so it mattered not what I was doing or feeling, which happened to be a lot.

I knew about her because he told me. Just like I told him about the Last One.

Never did come up with a nickname for him, as ominous as “The Last One” sounds, it suits him. He with the freckles and the dark eyes and the ridiculously beautiful hair. Did I mention he was a ginger Italian? I didn’t know they made those. Like unicorns or other mythical creatures, he has disappeared into the woods, leaving me to question whether he ever existed at all.

He predicted the future, maybe he was more psychic than I knew. Maybe he was saving himself and freeing me to go away. I am glad I did, even with the withdrawal I am experiencing at this moment.

Away was good, so good I am going again. I decided to base this next trip to Florida on how I did on this last trip to Newfoundland. Then changed my mind and realized I get this one life and I will not pass up a chance to be by the ocean. So that’s that then.

Had I stayed with the Last One, I wouldn’t have gone anywhere but to him. I know this to be the truth and I said so out loud. I think I only went to Newfoundland because I was so sad about him. I needed reprieve from this house I built for his return.

What’s really gonna cook your noodle later is would you have still broken the vase had I not said anything? The Oracle, The Matrix

Did he know something I didn’t? He very specifically said I was going to fuck a fisherman. And I did. And if you have been reading up until now you know it was so good I can’t find the words for it, that’s how good it was.

You might even be disappointed that this isn’t about that. Suck it up. I said I’d get to it and I will.

Sarah Connor said there is no fate but what we make. Carved it into a picnic table. And I think she is right.

I think I was so sad for a while there because it wasn’t my destiny to be broken, barely able to get out of bed.

I spent years at the farm having my hand forced by the whim of a man. I decided on the Last One, but the universe had other plans, and I was to launch no matter what.

It was like a bow and arrow, I got pulled back through immense pain and stretching, nestled into my most comfortable and hurled into the literal future. I touched heaven and have now began my long decent back to earth.

While I was gone, things reset again.

I remember the grieving that never ended when the Giant went away the first time. As easy as I remember the elation when he returned.

This time I just asked if it was “time to exit quietly, stage left?”

“What’s the protocol?”

I answered “second verse same as the first, you’ll have to drop my movies off here and I will try to be good.”

No drama. Just falling leaves. Seasons changing again.

He went on to say my pussy is magic. Yep, some kind of rabbit in a hat that makes men vanish.

Silk scarves of neverending bullshit pulled from their mouths.

Wow, I got bitter there for a second.

I am back now.

And I am grateful.

Grateful for knowing how to love these men who come to me.

And for finally having the grace to let them go.

I do not subscribe to the cult of celebrity.
Never have, beyond teenybopper crushes on Corey Haim and the New Kids. But those feelings had no basis in reality, I knew I wanted them, but what I wanted? No idea yet. Just whispers and ideas in the dark at slumber parties. Kissing and then…and no and then.

Being famous doesn’t make you a good person.
Let that sink in
These people on this list and everyone in Hollywood or political office or police force or any other positions of any kind of power are still fucking human…and just like any other human they can be angels or monsters or any shade of grey between the two.
Fucking athletes too.
We glorify these people and somehow expect them to behave better.

Then we have these two, very opposite reactions when they do fuck up. We pounce and celebrate their fall from grace, or we rush to defend them.

Huh?

You do not know this person. You have seen them on a screen, that is not who they are. Wake up buttercup.

I was working in a strip club far, far away the day Robin Williams died. I plugged my phone in to charge for an hour or two and heard the news when I logged back in. That hit me in the childhood. I will admit, I cried a bit when I got home. Difference here being, a lot of his work was His, he improvised a lot of dialog, and by all accounts he was a good man.

Carrie Fisher, same note. Except she had a great life so I did not mourn.

I will admit I had never heard of Harvey Weinstein before the news broke a few weeks ago.

Was I shocked that a man who wielded that kind of power abused it?

Nope.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

He had their careers in his pocket. Used his (presumably) micro-penis as the key to the kingdom.

The average dude walking down the street has no idea the kind of power he has over me, late at night, dark street, walking my dog. My heart beats in my chest I look for weapons and escape routes, street lights, people…anything really that gets me away from the perceived danger.

He could be the nicest man in the world but in vulnerable circumstances, my brain immediately switches to fight or flight, and until #metoo became a thing, I don’t think all men knew this. They were quick to dismiss ‘but I’m safe’, not all men though’.

Maybe not all, but a fucking lot.

I slept with a man for almost 2 years, casually, we had an agreement/arrangement and it suited us just fine until one night, I wasn’t feeling it and he didn’t care how I felt. I did the thing almost all women have done, which is just give in, grin and bear it until it’s over and it’s safe to leave.
Then never go back.

That was just once out of countless times I forced back my rage to stay safe. I am tired of choking on it.

That is the problem, too many times to count…

I have lost count of the number of women who were assaulted by Bill Cosby, and for months after the fact, even now, there still exists people who say “no, he couldn’t have”. Mind you there are flat-earthers and those who think dinosaurs are a hoax too. The ignorance of man knows no bounds.

I have a short list of celebrities I would sit on a park bench with.

Tom Waits

Keanu Reeves

Russel Brand

Last week, it got shorter.

I had a grown woman crush on Louis C K.
I jokingly said I would fuck the shit out of him, never wanted to marry him as he seemed like that was something he would never do again, but ya, I was sexually attracted to him. I mentioned it to a friend of mine and he thanked me for giving hope to smart, funny gingers all over the world.
The difference between Jeff and Louis C K, I have been alone with Jeff many times and the only time I ever saw his dick is when I asked to see it. I feel like had I ever met Louis, it could have gone a different way.
Louis won me over with his logic, his delivery, his humility and how he just seemed so human you know?

And therein is the answer.

These golden calves up on the hill in Hollywood that we bow down and worship are human, and thereby fallible.

Obviously.

But we airbrush them and put them on pedestals so high we can’t see the bags under their eyes or the filth in their hearts.

“Are you not entertained?” Maximus, Gladiator

I was, now I am grossed out.

I can walk into a theater and leave this world for 90 minutes, enraptured and transported by whatever is on screen, but when I walk back out I know that whatever character whatever actor just played for me is not who that person is in real life.

It was different with Louis, he never pretended to be anything he wasn’t…except when it mattered.

He stood up on a stage and said “historically speaking the number one threat to women is men.” Then he did the thing.

I threw up a bit.

Felt like betrayal, not gonna lie. What you say in public doesn’t count for jack shit if what you do in private is the opposite.

But we see this phenomenon over and over. Regular Joe and Jane on the street being positively destroyed by the death of someone they have never met.

And now this.

It is a type of death really. The death of perception.

Like having a soft chewy oatmeal cookie in front of you and taking a bite only to discover those are Not chocolate chips, but raisins instead.

Which is basically how much this has affected my life. Its just raisins and a little bit of disappointment.

These women who are coming forward to tell their stories of how men have treated them in private have the real battle to fight here. Starting with public opinion, which, guys…really means jack shit.

I see a reckoning coming.

I see women getting more powerful by the day.

I see men being afraid.

They should be, this is a witch hunt and the witches are the ones coming for them this time.

Two lines from Hollywood movies keep running through my head…

“We are not things” Mad Max Fury Road

And

“This is all man’s bullshit, they make the weather then stand in the rain and say ‘shit it’s raining’.”
Cold Mountain

Every day this stays in the media, every new parasitic worm that gets dragged into the light and exposed, the more powerful I feel. Kinda like I did walking out of Wonder Woman.

I feel something changing in me and hopefully in other women.

Personally?

I’m done.

No more pressure sex

No more benefit of the doubt

No more rape jokes

No more giving guys a chance.

Burden of proof is on you now.

Prove to me you aren’t guilty

Prove to me you don’t condone and perpetuate rape culture.

There is no earthly reason for me to entertain you.

I pay my own bills and get myself off just fine.

No more getting away with it.

Get used the word NO said loud and often.

And no…its not a challenge.

I keep seeing those advertisements for those weighted blankets. Grey, heavy and that insanely soft microfiber made in a government lab somewhere by cloning kittens and angel skin. Sounds like bliss to the stressed and lonely.

I do have a body pillow I jokingly refer to as bae. It’s all I have right now, let me have my fucking pillow.

James Franco got to common law marry his Japanese body pillow Kimiko on 30 Rock, this is where I am headed people.

I am exaggerating for dramatic effect.

I have more than the pillow, I have ghosts and memories to keep me warm at night.

Ha…more jokes.

Ever been in a room when a ghost walks through? It’s just like the movie Sixth Sense, it is cold and a lil scary. Try sleeping like that every night. And living like that every fucking day. Haunted as fuck.

More truth to be told, I have slowly but surely began to navigate towards the middle of my bed.

Sacrilege! I’ve held that space for YEARS, decades, eons.

I don’t even know who I am anymore. Who is this girl who dares sleep in the middle of her own bed, wrapped around pretend pillow bae and a tiny dog all night long?

Me, she’s me.

I climbed the beanstalk a few weeks ago and slept at the house of the Giant. I am always allowed to sleepover but I use this privilege sparingly. Also, I love love love my own bed, even though he makes really good omelettes, good strong coffee and his sleepy morning face is the cutest. We slept bum to bum for most of the night, except the few times I rolled over and he took my hand and wrapped it around himself, and it was warm and good until it was hot and not so I rolled back over.

I love my mornings at home, I’m not alone, but Panda sleeps past me by an hour or two and knows not to talk to me too much too early. I love her for that and a million other things.

Where was I going with this?

Oh ya, people pillows, cushioning and bad sex.

I bet you thought I would never get there.

So, after Cruz and I broke up t’was Mercury retrograde. And I have learned the hard way, specifically the loss of Gelfling, that nothing good comes of tryna date during retrograde. Especially no one new.

But, I decided to remind myself. Wide eyed and with zero expectations.

Drove to London and had hot, high school-esque make out half sex session in a park with a guy we now refer to as the Biter. He left teeth marks for weeks on my inner thighs because he liked hearing me squeal.

He skipped leg day and was a little too domineering for my liking. Dominant, yes, bossy, no.

No great loss.

Then there was the one who I shall now refer to as Coach.

He had been gently asking me out for I dunno, like a year on Instagram. I said no for a few reasons. He was 22. He was associated with someone I had been with previously and then there was the work thing.

But he wore me down and took me out.

And it was a fabulous fucking date. There was tacos and late night walks and he picked me up and dropped me off like a gentleman. He was bratty as fuck in a way that pleased and teased me. He bought me ice cream. Like seriously…one of those dates you see in movies.

A week went by, he was busy with work, all good. But I had an itch that needed scratching, bad.

Remember, I was used to getting fucked at least twice a day for months, and 6 times on Sundays.

I knew I was not myself and I needed a Snickers.

So, despite our having to get up early and getting home late, over he came.

And we fucked, and it was bad.

Like real bad.

Like I haven’t had sex that bad since somebody’s parents couch in a basement after a party in high school.

And we knew it.

He laid in my bed after and I not so politely said ‘you gotta go, I gotta sleep.’

I didn’t even walk him to the door.

Took myself to the porch instead for a smoke trying to make sense of what happened.

It was only then that I realized I was covered in blood from my navel to my knees.

I knew I could not possibly have been that wet.

So I texted him. Told him to not pass go or pass out and get directly into the shower. We had a good laugh about it aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I never heard from him again.

Since we are telling all the truth, I was worried about running into him.

I had shame.

I haven’t had bad sex in 4 years and I knew some of the blame was on me. I was cranky, tired, out of practice and had been with one person for 8 months, I had gotten lazy and I knew it.

4 years of brilliant sex with these young uns, starting with Young Un the first and his incredibly talented tongue. Reaching out and touching the cosmos with Giant between my legs. Gelfling playfully putting out a smoke I had just lit because he wanted more. Wolfling and Drogo with their raw power and finesse. The Hulk with his playfulness that matched his size and a rhythm that matched mine perfectly. Even the epic liar that claimed to be a virgin proved he was most definitely not a virgin when we banged.

Then this.

I didn’t even know what to do with this.

So I kept quiet.

Until yesterday.

He posted something on Instagram and I said “hey”. Not expecting a response. Not expecting anything at all really.

And he said hi back.

And I said no hard feelings for anything at all because “good god damn that sex was bad”.

He said “I know right!?”

We agreed that it really sucked extra balls because we liked hanging out. Which led to an invite for Netflix and chill.

“Started from the bottom now we here.” Drake

And here was a good place to be. New house, new couch, new bed and no pressure.

We talked, snuggled, ordered pizza, and to fill the time we fucked.

So much better. We had nowhere to go but up. He praised my blowies and kept saying how sexy I am, and I’m inclined to believe him for the simple fact that he’d already told a hard truth, and he stayed blissfully hard.

Grey sweats.

The suit and tie of our generation.

Not exactly, but still…

I still remember my first pair, second hand and oversized. They had served some husky dude for what was probably 4 years before they lived in my closet until this last move, I finally had to let them go, but oh how I used and abused them. I bought them with the intent of wearing them to paint the house but the minute I pulled them on it was love.

Felt like being home, being held by a cloud. So warm, so roomy. I finally understood all those women in the grocery stores wearing something similar. Liberating to be drowning in soft grey jersey, all my curves hidden from view.

I became a collector. I have sexy sweats and ones that feel like home and hugs. A whole laundry basket full. It’s hard to pry me out of them now.

Wearing a pair right now actually, although not the big ones. And I have a boy coming over, he will invariably be in sweats too. Because we discussed this.

Seriously. There is something about a dude in a pair of grey sweats, clean of course, with a spotless white t-shirt.

I hit a new level of smitten with Lumberjack way back when he invited me over out of the blue. I was exhausted from a long day and although I REALLY wanted to see him, I did not feel like dolling myself up at all. Said I would come over but I was in comfy clothes, and wanted to stay that way. He messaged back he had just put his on.  “Just get over here dork”.
I melted and the visual matched the fantasy upon arrival.

I switched from my ‘bumming around the house’ pjs and showed up wearing my cutest grey sweats, the ones that hugged my butt just right and are oh so soft to the touch.

I spent many a happy moment on his comfy giant sized couch with the jersey of his sweats caressing my cheek, my head in his lap and his hand tucked in said pants, caressing my ass.

It can go the other way too.

In a little known movie called Extract, Jason Bateman knows he isn’t getting laid the second the drawstring is tied on his wife’s track pants. It becomes a running joke throughout the movie.

Personally? I like the ease of access with a drawstring instead of trying to wiggle out of a pair of skinny jeans or the seam marks left by leggings. The only thing better is a skirt or a dress, but that denotes going out, and I would rather stay home.

My first date with Young Un the first he told me a story wherein he had gotten catfished by a girl he knew from high school. She showed up carrying a 6 pack of Coors Lite and about 60 pounds more than she showed on Facebook. She was wearing what he described as “I gave up on life a while ago” sweat pants.

I know them well, I have owned them, mowed the lawn in them, bled all over them and yes…when life was too hard and I had pretty much given up, they became my sad girl uniform.

I always joked that one day when he showed up at my door I’d be wearing them. He didn’t mind, he knew what was underneath.

He never did see me in them. Although, he did publicly state that I was beautiful no matter what I was wearing, even my man jeans. I have a pair of worn in dude jeans too that I adore.

Only one man saw me in them, Moon Face. I pulled them on to walk him to the door one chilly morning. Asked him not to judge me when he gave me the once over. Instead he smirked in his maddening way and pulled them down half over my ass and snapped this picture of me, messy in the morning, holding onto him like he was a headboard and the Titanic had just sank.

I was as comfortable with him as I was in those pants. And for a time, he saved me.

Giant came over to pick up some bookshelves after we had split. On went the slightly too small sweats, waistband rolled down so just a little lace peeked out, messy bun, not there but there make up. I knew what I was doing, calculating my cuteness to be casual and accidental.

He mentioned it the other day, 14 months later. I admitted what I did and he just smiled and kissed me. He knows what a brat I am, we can smell our own.

And what of this one wandering over tonight?

Well, as I am writing the rest of this the morning after, it is safe to say that grey sweats were the way to go. Easy on and off. Just easy.

He had been in my bed before and it went badly.

But we stripped away the stress and pretense.

Zero expectations and a pair of grey sweats.

The universe listens you know. Good or bad. We decide our truth and the voice of God (who sounds like Patrick Stewart) says “Make it so.”

I know I did this to myself. Had perfection in front of me and said ‘there’s no such thing as perfect’.

Universe replied “okay baby” and poof, gone.

I have never been that girl who didn’t know what I had til it was gone. I have spent almost 5 years being present and aware.

Until I wasn’t.

Many’s the time I’ve been mistaken, and many times confused
Yes and I’ve often felt forsaken, and certainly misused
Ah but I’m alright, I’m alright, I’m just weary thru my bones

Paul Simon
American Tune

Like right now.

I am in a permanent state of confusion. Reeling and dealing with a loss that has no explanation other than the words he said that last day, which were in complete and utter contradiction to the words that came out of his mouth every day before that.

You will be my wife without the ring.

Begat “I need to be alone”.

Something was changing in me. I saw the dynamic we had and the girl I was once, who didn’t want to get married ever again or feel that weight and I suddenly found it comforting, like one of those blankets for people who have anxiety. He was my thundershirt. My person.

One could argue that if he was indeed my person he would indeed be here instead of leaving me alone to wander, go on bad dates and crave sleep above all things.

I mentioned briefly that I went to a secret wedding, so secret it can never leave the private room in which it occurred. It was officiated by this tiny woman who was made entirely of good vibes and sass. Five foot nothing but larger than life. She believed so adamantly in the idea of marriage that I started to believe in it too.

I shouldn’t say that, it isn’t entirely true.

I have changed my mind but it was an amalgam of things that changed it, not just her, she was the last tumbler in the lock before it opened. That whole night was. Sitting with 2 beautiful couples, watching the love flow across the table. Watching two people agree in earnest and certainty that yes, they decided on each other and it was for good, for sure, for real.

But the key had been found before that.

When I saw in him things that reminded me of my father. When the dynamic we had was reminiscent of the love I had been raised around and witnessed my whole life. My mother and grandmother ruled their houses. Sometimes I saw it as too dominant, not that the men were weak but the women almost too strong, how could the men be happy that way? Then he came, and I saw that with his whole heart he wanted me to be as strong as I could possibly, in my way and this made him strong in his way.

He said words like forever and perfect and I balked. There are no such things right?

I denied them for years.

But those are the thoughts I have when my mind turns to him. Infinite, like the sky at night. Milky Way galaxies in his perfect freckles. The sound waves of his laugh like something cosmic and inexplicable, other worldly, the perfect circle of us holding each other and how complete I felt next to him.

I seem to have made an accidental covenant with the universe to settle. Settle for less. I thought I was doing the right thing, to lower expectations, put a lid on what was possible. And I fucked it up.

I would get married and promise forever to the right man. I just hadn’t met the right one before him.

The universe always knows what is best for me, and I promise from this day forward, not to question or squander the gifts I am given.

At least now I have an idea of what is possible. Perfect circles and contentment.

With my body I thee worship.

Forever and ever, amen.

Its Scorpio season.

I saw a fairy ring around the moon, the sexy kind, not the one that says a storm’s comin’.

Although, I suppose they are one in the same. Bring on the wet and the boom.

I love the wet and the boom, or I did. I am not myself it seems.

Scorpions shed their exoskeletons. I wonder how pinched, agonizing and constrictive those last few moments are, before they become new again.

Its Scorpio season and I am wasting it.

Refusing to go outside. To look at any man or entertain them.

I want only one and he isn’t here.

I got dressed up, and I left the house.
On my way home in the dark after witnessing something sacred, I heard a new song.
It’s been forever since I let anything new in.

But this.

I scribbled lyrics on the back of my hand on a dark highway in the rain and disappeared into the melody.

Can you be slow for a little while?
Widow your soul for another mile?
I’m just the same as when you saw me back then
And we’re bound to be reconciled
And we’re bound to be reconciled
Too long swinging in the night
All will wash over you in a night so unending
Not long now to the rising
Not long now to the rising

Fleet Foxes, a song called “Kept Woman”.

Universe sending me messages in tattooed wings peeking out of dresses, numbers and new songs on a long dark road.

I kept speeding up and over reaching my headlights, a lot of curves in that stretch.
It’s been a long time since I drove it at night, and that was before Hamilton was home.

I should keep going right?

Universe says so…

But, there is always a “but”…

What is the universe if it isn’t him messaging me back, or even acknowledging my existence?

To the point where I don’t even want to be.

I can’t keep writing one side of a love story that never happened. I am bleeding out.

It’s killing me and I need my power back. I let it out in echoes and tendrils trying to wrap around him, but I am blocked and I am tired.

I went to a wedding, unconventional, something I didn’t even know happened outside of books.

A secret wedding. Officiated by a tiny woman with the same name as my mother. Who said she thought she knew me and my first response was, I wish you did. She was soothing.

I watched the couple (and others) interacting, so full of joy to be with each other. The gentle back and forth and teasing, the comfort.

I want that. I decided this.

Weddings never did anything for me, but that love, that conviction to stay together and try.

Star crossed love. A plague on both our houses.

Romeo and Juliet is often labeled a love story, it isn’t. It’s a tragedy and selfishness and miscommunication with a body count.

Together twice and then death, like literal death. That isn’t okay.

I should know, it just happened to me. And if he is poisoned underground, I have no way of knowing.

One miscommunication and I was locked out of the mausoleum.

Maybe people romanticise this story because they never saw each other get old, or dirty, or sick or a mess, or how they behaved when the internet went down.

Maybe that’s my problem too. Why I can’t break out of this.

I saw glimmers and glimpses of darkness in him. His eyes for one. I mentioned I had never dated anyone with dark eyes before, he said I was Wiccan and I ought to know what it meant, dark eyes, dark past. I just thought they looked like the night sky. Felt like night swimming, naked and unafraid in the heat of August. Not unafraid, but scared in that exhilarating way, like rollercoasters and unknowns.

The night before he left Panda said I was jinxing my own love karma. I don’t think she’s wrong. I was scared.
I was bargaining.
I’ve said many times out loud that I know I don’t get to keep the giant but I’m grateful for this time with him.
Trying to find the silver lining in this pit I’m in.
And I don’t want to seem like a brat to the universe.

But NO.

This isn’t what I wanted.
I’d put him to ground many times over.
Mourned him thoroughly.
I didn’t need to go back.
I knew he loved me and I’d found absolute contentment in his absence.

I did this and I don’t know how to undo it. I’m scared to use magic because I don’t want to hurt anyone.

But everything I held back the whole time was out of fear. Fear of spooking him. Fear of being vulnerable. Fear of actually finding the one after wandering so long. All I know is nomadic. I cry home all the time but when I had it I dropped it.

This full moon coming is in Taurus. He’s a Taurus.

I have to wash the green blanket and let him go.

All will wash over you in a night so unending
Not long now to the rising

I am a child of the universe and I am  Bound to be reconciled.

For a few weeks now I have walked to the corner store to fetch the milk for my coffee. Been going there for over 2 years now. They always rotate the stock.

But for the last 3 weeks it’s been the same 3 cartons of 3% all dated October 24^th. Yesterday.

2 days ago I was waiting for a tow, for the second time, 10 feet away from the time I was waiting for a tow 2 days before that and Hotel California started playing on the radio.

It is déjà vu all over again.

I have been here, maybe 10 feet away.

My whole life is feeling like this. Down to the brand new cold sore and my crippling period.

Seriously, I was just here 2 months ago. This isn’t supposed to happen like this. My body betraying me and not my own. Just trying to get through.

He never saw me shiny.

I showed up to our first date and apologized about an hour in. Said I would normally get my hair and nails did but life was so hectic I figured it was better to just show up, considering he drove 5 hours to see me for 5 hours. I was right and he forgave me. Looked at me like I carried the grail in my hips.

After he left, I woke up feeling like I was getting sawed in half and got the worst cold sore I have had since 2005. I had barely recovered from either when he came back. And yet he looked at me like I was spun from gold.

I miss him.

Frieda Khalo said two things

1. take a lover who looks at you like you are magic

   and if he leaves you…

2.  change the locks even on the house he’s never visited.

He did look at me like I was magic and I cannot lock him out of anything.

Everything is just spinning in circles, like the tight part of the spiral of time. I know it goes in and out, and loops back around, fresh perspectives on old occurrences.

There is so much new in my world. Too much almost. I can’t figure out which way to sleep in my old/new bed. I finally got my bed back. Had to trade with Panda for just over a year, her room was too small for her big bed, so my room became all bed…her bed.

The Last One slept in her bed with me.

I asked for a fresh start. I painted my room. I pouted and got my bed back.

So I am not even sleeping on the same mattress as I did with him. Maybe that’s it. Maybe my body misses whatever molecules he left behind.

I still can’t wash the green blanket. It guards the end of my bed now. Keeps my toes warm and the monsters at bay.

Margaret Atwood said its strange how we decorate pain.

It is.

I tend to water it down, color it with pale hues, translucent like it was never really there, just a hint of itself. I don’t pretend it didn’t happen, I just dilute it and take all responsibility for the butterflies I thought I felt, like I made it all up in my silly little head and heart and he never really said those things. He was imaginary and my imagination is over active at the best of times.
Hush now, its fine babygirl.
We can do what Jane says and try again tomorrow.
We’ll just be realists this time instead of water colored wisps of shapes and ideas.

Then the inevitable happens and I open that message thread or that box.

And its déjà vu all over again.

And again.

And again.

I see the words he said and I cannot believe he left.

But here he isn’t.

I open old posts on here and see pieces of the girl I was. I study her to see how she got through. But it is different this time. My body is recovering, my heart is not.

Everything and everyone says it’s time to move forward. Go out into the world and find new things. But I want to stay in my tight spiral. I don’t want to leave.

I finally got everything put away enough in the house that I feel I can rest a bit. Everything is in its right place. The closets need some love and that table has got to go. But I can move without tripping over boxes.

The wings finally made it into the house, on the mantle where I can see them. More bed guardians.

I finally dyed and cut my hair, haven’t since before I met him, it was on my list of things to do before he came back and when he disappeared I had no desire to look any kind of way for anyone. I wanted to be mousy and unappealing.

Last night, this house finally felt like home and I cried because he can’t see it.

Maybe at some point I will have cried enough to wash all of this away.

I have to force myself to get up, get dressed, go out into the world, leave this nest and start living again.

But not today. Maybe I’ll do what Jane says and try again tomorrow.