January 2018

I am sorting a packing, in between sorting and editing wedding photos.

It’s kinda the same thing.

What is a treasure, what needs tweaking, what stays what goes.

Everything in folders or boxes labeled various things.

I have an excessive amount of clothes.

When I need to find my Zen it comes to me quickly in thrift stores, touching things people used to love. I can’t bear to leave them behind. I am getting better. I used to own 17 white tank tops, back in the Milton days of the walk in closet. It was glorious. I had never been out of a relationship before and so I had all my money and all my closet to myself.

I went a little crazy and only ever wore a quarter of it.

Then I once said it out loud, this confession of the 17 white tank tops, and it felt kinda gross. Not something to be proud of at all.

So I set about purging. I haven’t stopped since.

I am getting better at letting go, and not hoarding. Quality over quantity.

Not just with clothes, with people too.

I had my cards read a week ago.

First was sacrifice.

Done and done, well almost.

The minute I leave my girl’s house early one February morning, kiss my puppers goodbye for 6 months and start the journey east, leaving all of my people, my safety nets and 90% of my things behind it will be complete.

Then comes love.

Well then comes 3 straight days of driving, one night asleep on a boat, one more day driving, 2 days of painting and unpacking, then 6 straight days of work.

And at some point, love.

It’s in the cards.

I am leaving love behind as well, and it’s alright.

There are 2 kinds of things I pick up at thrift stores. My precious, the ones that elicit butterflies in my belly because I am so happy to have finally found them and I cannot wait to wear them. And the things I pick up that find their way to others, because they are perfect for them.

I am not always a keeper, just a waystation sometimes it seems.

I love the same way. I can enjoy and adore things that I know are not mine to keep. I can hold them safe until they find their way home.

It is easier when things get tied up in neat little packages of completion. The regret is lessened.

And we were almost there.

Until Giant’s new girl tried to make him a baby daddy way too fast and he had to leave. Leaving him available once again.

The circle must be closed. Probably at the diner with the circus mural one cold morning before I go.

But what of these pocket panties?

Once upon an October, when Giant had expressed interest in his hot neighbor we had an inside joke wherein if she caught me leaving the house I could be explained away by being just a friend, a gay one at that. I dressed accordingly with more than a splash of plaid.

She did catch me one night. I was walking to my car and she was walking her dog. This is how I knew what she looked like. Pretty little thing. Prisoner of her hormones, but pretty nonetheless.

It’s been warm and he has come back to me. And in my sorting packing and purging I found my buffalo checked spring jacket, last time I wore it things were so much different and yet kinda the same. With panties in the pocket. I was looking for those.

Just as I am a keeper and a waystation for wayward things. Sometimes things and people find their way back to me. Sometimes they take the long way around, like panties in a pocket, waiting for a warm enough day to wear that jacket.

I am reminded of the idea that if you really love something you should let it go. Let it find its way back.

The ex of that Swain boy messaged yesterday, telling me they were trying to work things out and to leave him be.

I acquiesced. Who am I to argue? She’s just a little girl full of spite. I let her win this one.

A large part of me doesn’t believe her.

Even if it is true, I am not worried.

I know what he is and I know it will be alright. I will find him again one warm night and I won’t lose him again.

One more month.

One more song.

One more smoke.

Lovely lady lusty eyes when he said something sweet. I forget to turn them off sometimes.

And there go my panties and my legs up around my head.

He couldn’t wait until we got downstairs.

Said panties were placed reverently across the armchair. Whomever came first had to go back upstairs and get them.

I knew it was going to be me.

Sometimes I know.

Some days I can predict the future.

When I was in my funk of last week and my heart was as heavy as the clouds and as cold as a witch’s tit, I knew it would end.

That I would feel warm and happy again at some point.

I always know, but sometimes the sads hit so hard they steal my memories of any happiness and hide them away somewhere in my room that I don’t have the energy to leave or clean.

But deep down I know.

My survival rate for all the bad shit and the bad moods and the huge mistakes is 100%.

Sometimes life is a waiting room and you forget why you are there until your number gets called and you move to the next room.

I was the kid who wanted to stay up late so I didn’t miss anything.

I stopped doing drugs for the same reason.

Somewhere in my marrow is ingrained the idea that something new is always around the corner.

Good or bad, at least it’s different.

I figured Friday would be a good day and it was.

Weather Network said sunny and warm. That always helps.

I have been re-watching True Blood and I found myself in dire need of a forehead kiss. Some affection, human contact, you get the idea.

I have been chipping away at the monumental amount of things I have to do before I go, even though it was like trying to run in the water with weighted feet dragging the corpses of my exes and a lot of baggage behind me. Both literal and figurative baggage.

I am doing this thing called reverse packing. Pretty much everything that is going with me is already packed. Clothes, jewelry, the scarce few knickknacks and witchy things I am bringing for beauty and comfort.

Panda and I went shopping. I got secondhand Free People clothes. My favorites. And I packed them immediately.

Reasoning that they will be my reward for getting there, painting the walls, settling in. I think that red suitcase won’t make it out of my trunk for a week or two while I get settled.

It is weird to be living in a half room, with a half life. Just waiting to run away. Chipping away at the things that need to be done. Everyday I’m shuffling.

But like I said. I knew Friday was gonna be better. Even before I had a dangling carrot.

Friday was approximately my 2 year first date anniversary with Giant give or take a day or two. Who now makes up 10% of my posts. One would think I had a thing for him.

I do.

It’s called love. Unconditional, all-encompassing love.

Love without ownership and no rules.

He is not mine. We joked that when he was 35 he might wander back to reclaim what he forgot to claim in the first place.

But it won’t be like I imagined. He is selling the house I had once fantasized about having a room up in the attic to write, the same room we sat in where my panties were reverently removed while John Mayer crooned about something or other. My life changing inspired him to do some of his own it seems. I also joked about having nowhere to come home to if he moved, the guest room should have been sanctuary. Or more realistically his bed.

I remember the first time I saw his room. It is navy and white and pretty much perfect. Dark wood everywhere. He exposed one of the brick walls and made a headboard out of reclaimed wood. I have spent many hours holding onto that headboard for dear life. When he fucks me so good I forget my name and eats my pussy like it’s the last supper.

Friday was good for a few reasons actually, Panda got a 60 inch TV for the living room and was not home so…Pornhub in high def instead of on my old little phone I keep for such things. I hadn’t been masturbating as much as usual, but I started again this week. It did elevate my mood in a noticeable way.

I used to jerk off before I would see him, to try and keep my libido from screaming at me the whole time he was geographically close. I did it yesterday because I could.

So when he went down on me I immediately pulled him up for a kiss, just to check that I didn’t taste like toys.

I didn’t.

I haven’t had sex since November. I was saving myself and he was otherwise occupied. But how could I not. He is my lightning Giant.

Would be an affront to the Gods if I didn’t take my peace when it was offered.

I think I will always fuck him like it’s the last time, because it could very well be.

When I come back from away in August who knows where we will be. No more bedroom with the brick wall.

We fell asleep in soft, tangled bedding touching just enough to acknowledge the other.

I was woken up at 5am by the loudest of purrs. He has 2 kittens, Gary and Larry. They found me a warm and cozy thing to sleep on, and I fell back asleep to kitten kisses. And woke up a few hours later to forehead kisses.

He drove me home in the dark of the morning, John Mayer still playing on the stereo in his big black truck.

I said “I’ll see you soon”, and I will.

As per usual I am either early to or late to the party.

Never did get my timing right. But I suppose if it is indeed MY timing, it has to be right.

37 days until I leave and I haven’t packed a thing.

Been home 2 days and I have barely moved. I walked the dog, I got the milk, I tidied the house, but that second load of laundry is still damp in the dryer and I have yet to shower.

I got my period the day we were to fly out. Went from a hint of pink in the morning to Carrie at the prom in about 6 hours, just as we were finishing dinner and getting on the buses to the airport.

Pain level was about an 8 by the time I got settled in on the plane. Settled is a nice lie for being crammed in like sardines with one of my ribs folding under and pain shooting through my back, knees, everywhere.

That was my Blue Monday. Friday night until…now kinda.

I decided yesterday was going to be my last non-productive day. Woke up at 6:30 this morning and went back to bed for 2 hours. S’okay. 8:30 is still good. Baby steps. And considering all I want to do is sleep till Friday when it is supposed to get warmer here for a couple of days, 2 hours is a tiny compromise.

I was scrolling back through that wonderful/awful Facebook feature ‘on this day’, I realized something. I spend a lot of time waiting. Especially in the winter. Waiting for it to get warmer, waiting for spring, just waiting.

Still kinda doing it now, 12 days until I see my vacation peeps. 37 days till I hit the road.

What a massive waste of time.

Life is happening right now whether I choose to participate or not.

I saw a Tumblr post about how Tumblr posts about self-care are kinda bullshit. And I have to kinda agree. The cult of “Unable to Even” advocates it being okay if you don’t shower, eat bad food or none at all and stay curled up in a blanket fort coloring and or binge watching fluffy tv shows on Netflix.

And it IS okay. To a degree and for a time.

I am not here to tell you how to deal.

But, for me, it feels better to actually DO something. Even if it is just to make a gentle list of what needs to be done. I have a running list next to my laptop. The one thing I did yesterday was important but I can’t even cross it off because I forgot to write it down.

I wish I had saved this video I saw. It’s about changing your life with the miniscule decisions you make throughout the day. Starting with waking up in the morning and not hitting snooze. That is where I am at right now. I can feel it, I am hitting snooze on my whole life. Time to wake up, drink coffee and kick my own ass into gear.

I had this divine energy and motivation before I left for Cozumel. Just need to find it again.

I haven’t heard from the boy since before I left and I know this isn’t helping my mental state at all. This isn’t the longest we’ve gone without talking, and I do have to remind myself I am not moving for him. I am moving for me. There is money to be made and a life to live out there, and it is where I want to be.

It’s funny because I can see my life here, I am in it. And I can see my life there. The room I will have, all my things put away. I can see going to work and writing in my new space. It’s the in between. The chasm between here and there that seems impossible.

All things are possible.

Time marches on whether we want it to or not.

It is time to start moving forward.

After one more coffee though.

I managed to do laundry yesterday. Felt like Hercules.

There is an interesting and assorted pile of things to deal with next to my laptop. Tangled jewelry and receipts. I need to head to the antique market and find jars for my shells both from Cozumel and still from Florida, they are sitting in the Tupperware I brought them home in.

I leave here in 40 days and 40 nights, so the shells are really the least of my worries. I have a whole life to sort out pack up and move. I have 500 wedding photos to sort through and process, a book to get published, bills to pay and 3 piggy banks that need to get dumped into one of those change sorting machines. I might just have more than enough to pay off my parking tickets so I can get a new sticker before I go.

But for now, here I sit, in the pajamas I pulled on at 6am yesterday after a very long day of traveling back here.

My closet door is ajar and the aforementioned clean clothes are sitting in mountain form at the end of my bed.

I can’t turn around or look left or right, all I see are pesos, and empty pack of gum I doled out to the kids before we got on the plane, Danielle’s silver elephant charm once lost and now found and that giant pile of laundry.

I am not ready to deal.

I spent yesterday listlessly wandering the main floor of the house, half-heartedly tidying. Not writing, not looking at the photos I took. Just browsing the internet and when it got dark I watched a few episodes of True Blood. On season 4 now. It is my favorite.

Taking too many breaks in between to smoke my Mexican Marlboros, my lungs hurt a bit. My whole chest hurts and it isn’t just the cigarettes.

My heart hurts.

I talked to Danielle last night. She asked how I was, said the girls were weepy. Me too mama, me too.

“Reality sucks” she said.

No shit mamabear, no shit.

My reality? I had 4 hours sleep after sleeping for 2 on a plane, sick and in a lot of pain. The long walk to customs. Fight at the baggage claim. And then having to say goodbye to my new weird and wonderful little family.

I miss all my other kids from other mothers.

I’m a high functioning introvert so, being at a resort on an island with 60+ strangers just in our group, as well as staff, and other guests, made me twitchy. But the kids made it better. Long walks on the beach with Katie looking for shells and sharks teeth, having a purpose, dealing with the crazy neighbors the night before the wedding or wiping ice cream of Lexi’s face made me feel better.

I would disappear for an hour here or there and just sit on my tiny porch and invariably Cass, Haley or one of the boys would walk by and check in.

I know this is post vacation let down.

I miss the sun and the sea. My eyes have returned to grey. My tan is already starting to fade and the sun, although out today and warming things up a bit, seems weak by comparison.

I’m home in a house that has never felt quite right. I have been gone for exactly half the time I’ve lived here. In my head I am already gone again.

I came back to chaos. I haven’t heard from that Swain boy since before I left and the air hurts my face here.

I know everything is going to get better, probably sooner than later.

I will tick a few things off the to-do list and then it’ll be time to go.

And before I go I get to see everyone one more time.

At least there is that to look forward to.

Never have I ever.

Never have I ever been to a destination wedding.

Never have I ever shot a destination wedding.

Never have I ever been to Mexico or anywhere far really.

Never have I ever been in the Caribbean Sea.

Never have I ever been bitten by a cockatoo.

But that is another story for another day.

Also, never have I ever slow danced with a boy at a wedding. It was extra amusing because on the other side of the pavilion Danielle was there and for a minute I was transported back to all the school dances where I sat alone (or sometimes with her) when the slow songs came on.

I felt like I was getting some kind of closure or cosmic do-over.

It was a really beautiful night.

I wanted to stand up at the wedding and say things, but my shyness stopped me.

I am both better on paper and terrible on paper depending on the context.

This is better.

6 years ago at a Lodge far, far away I sat in Muskoka chairs next to a rather lovely fire pit and hashed things out with a girl I met when I was 7 years old.

Through the magic of Facebook she found me.

And when she mentioned coming to the place I was working for a weekend with her man, I agreed, but with panic. I was at the beginning of my becoming…panic was a daily occurrence. But I agreed.

We didn’t have the easiest go in public school. I have long described it as a totem pole with Kim at the top then the 2 Christine’s, then Elizabeth with one spot left at the bottom, which I fought her for as often as the opportunity presented itself, otherwise I was alone on the playground.

And that really sucked.

What sucked even harder was how I treated her.

I bullied her and I knew it.

I told her so the minute our asses hit the chairs around that fire pit.

She said she knew and she forgave me.

And in doing so she allowed me to make peace. I am forever grateful.

That was also when I met her now hubby, I will get back to that in a second.

It is hard to put into words the women we have become. Polar opposites from the shy outcasts we were. I had the added joy of being here with 50+ of their closest friends and witnessing how loved and accepted and valuable she is to everyone around her.

She is the center everyone gravitates to and she is loved beyond measure.

She also lives a life that makes me tired just hearing about it. Involved in everything, never sits down and manages to hold it all together. She is fearless and motivated and it is starting to rub off on me.

I still panic sometimes. This very trip is something that would have quite easily had me spiralling out.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t because Danielle was in charge. She has grown into this fierce woman who has the ability to make everyone feel safe, entertained and cared for. I am blessed to have her in my life and to be here.

Back to Brian.

When I met him my first thought was ‘why is she with him?’ he seemed like he was made of stone, I couldn’t glean the slightest bit of personality out of him at all. I didn’t understand, but she seemed happy and I am aware that no one really knows the real intimacy between two people except the two people in the relationship.

Then I met him again, and realized he is made of stone, but in the best of ways. He is solid and strong and for as ‘in charge’ as Danielle is, he is her rock, she is stronger with him and it is a joy to witness.

She reads the blog to him. I wrote the Scorpio post a million years ago. She read it to him and felt understood. He is of that tribe and they are not easy to love, but so very worth it. She told me it made things ‘easier’ for her and it is the most sincere compliment I have ever received on anything I have ever written.

That goes for every conversation we have had.

We have so much history. It’s comforting.

We met at the age of 7, parted ways at 15 and came back together at 37.

The way she says my name sounds like home. And if you have been reading up until this point you know how precious that is to me. That feeling of belonging and acceptance.

Her life mirrors mine, all the mess and the muck and finally the becoming.

We fail and we fall and we get back up and keep living and loving.

In her I find support and validation for not becoming bitter.

In them I see the potential of two people to mesh so completely and beautifully together that you cannot imagine them apart.

Thank you for letting me be here and showing me what Is possible.

I saw this a million years ago.

It struck me. I wasn’t sure how, but it did. Enough to save it.

I did not like the idea of being half of anything.

In the time called before I disappeared into men. Carved off chunks of myself to fit them.

I never knew who I was outside of how I belonged to other people.

It made me a ghost girl and a pretty shitty partner, because the parts of myself I sliced off were never really gone and they would come back kicking and screaming to be recognized. So I would pick up my pieces and leave, just to do the exact same things again.

Until I stopped.

I took my time in the cabin in the woods and put myself back together.

And I really liked it. I actually quite like myself.

Had a few crushes here and there and fought against my old ingrained habit of molding myself around them, and mostly succeeded.

It came with the realization that I had lost everyone I had deemed important up until that point, and not only had I survived it, I had thrived.

Also, they weren’t important. I wasn’t myself, so the girl they loved was just a reflection of what they wanted me to be.

That isn’t love.

In fairness I didn’t love them either. Covetousness is not love, nor is dependence.

Lost in love is still lost and loss.

When I started tending to my own soul, really listening to what I wanted and needed and actually doing those things, I met a new manner of men. Men who would get excited when my eyes lit up about something I was excited about. I felt heard and appreciated, more food for my soul.

And I thought, wow, it doesn’t get better than this.

Once my soul was healed and whole, her mates began to appear, and it was good amen.

But they wandered off one by one. Still in my heart, kicking the shit out of it late at night (Mark Harpur)

Which always made me think, if they were really that important, they’d be here.

So I learned my lessons, figured out the color red when it came to flags and just learned to enjoy them while they lasted.

And I figured Plato was full of shit.

I wanted this to be true instead.

I felt whole and good and I was happy being alone with myself.

I am alright being wrong.

Once upon a time, on an island far, far away, a voice in my head demanded I kiss a boy before he left the bar I was in.

I complied.

I closed my eyes for a minute and saw us together in a big white bed.

We were smiling and naked.

2 days later I learned the true meaning of compulsion. There was no force nature nor I possessed that could keep my hands off him, they flew on their own. So did my words.

2 days after that, the vision of the big white bed came to fruition and it was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before, and I have felt a lot of things.

He feels the same.

The absence of doubt.

The ecstasy of perfect recognition ~ S.K.

I didn’t know what it was beyond magic.

I posted a lot of articles, trying to remember, trying to leave it where it was, just some magical night and a new experience.

But I couldn’t.

Neither could he.

I posted an article about that night, and another about the crushing feeling of loss when he drove away and I flew home.

Someone, and I wish I could remember her name, said “this is the most accurate description of a twin flame meeting that I have ever read.”

I panicked.

I’ve long rejected that term and idea as new age bullshit propaganda.

I have met soul mates, and that was good enough, amen.

It’s funny because I have long recognized the old gods as my gods. The myths were my bible to be read and decoded and followed.

I love those gods because they are fallible, somewhat human and tricksy as fuck.

I did some research, just out of curiosity, and as i was reading I thought to myself, “oh fuck, this is exactly what happened.”

No one wants to acknowledge only having half a soul. It’s not an easy thing to admit. Until I realized my half is full as is.
This is just some kind of cosmic bonus.

A gift from my tricksy gods.

I have no idea what the future holds, except I am heading back east.

He asked me to come home.

I had a rather painful conversation with the Last One, on New Year’s Eve.

In retrospect, it was absolutely perfect timing.

Everything is, I just forget sometimes.

I’d stayed home that night to finish the final edit on the book and totally did that very thing, kinda proud. Panda ordered pizza. I was watching Suicide Squad when the clock struck midnight and drank a glass of pink champagne in my favorite pajamas.

I managed to make it to the end of the movie without falling asleep. Apparently this is the year of finishing things. I like that.

When Harley Quinn made her sad face and said she ‘lost her puddin’, it didn’t make me feel any kind of way. Every other time it had hurt my heart, so much so that I wrote an article questioning what kind of love story I am writing for myself if a blatant case of Stockholm Syndrome made me weepy and heartsick.

I think I am better now.

That particular conversation started with him sending me a pic of lobster. After a week or two of no contact.

He is not my lobster. I figured that out while he was away and I was away and I did the thing he was worried about me doing and I fucked a fisherman and my whole life changed. But I didn’t tell him that part. Seemed unnecessarily cruel, and just unnecessary all things he mentioned since he’s been back.

Felt like a suckerpunch when he messaged me in Florida he let it slip he started dating someone mid-November.

Said he didn’t want to dump her over the holidays and ruin Christmas. Old Me kicked in and I said I understood. And I do to a degree. Understanding is my curse gift.

Then he asked for nudes.

I would love to say I was a responsible adult and didn’t send them, but I already had, before he let mentioned her. I wonder if her name is actually Becky. Except I don’t really care, good hair or no.

The pics I sent BEFORE he brought her up catapulted him from emailing to texting, there was a dick pic involved.

He said he was sad he lost my old pics when he deleted everything. Which should have elicited the response, “well you shouldn’t have deleted me and everything then should you have?”

But I didn’t.

I have a hard time being cruel even when it is warranted.

He immediately and magically ‘found’ my number.

I think the phrase “well that escalated quickly” applies.

I tried to be patient, but seeds of doubt grew like kudzu, which is to say rapidly, covering everything.

Then there was whole thing that happened with the Swain boy, who just so happens to be the absolute absence of doubt.

I wrote https://www.ourladyoflustandgrace.com/echoes.html November 6^th and sent it to the Last One. He started dating her a week later. He knew how I felt. That fact in itself was painful enough. But there’s more.

He also came to town recently and respected my no contact request. But I feel like if I was that important he would have knocked on my door.

These are the things I told him on New Year’s Eve.

Fuck it sucked. But I had to rip all the veils off and really see what was happening. It wasn’t pretty.

Nothing about this was pretty. Ghosts and ghouls rarely are. I’m done being haunted.

He showed back up when I was in Florida. I emailed him, my monthly check in and said I went to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter, it made me think of him and I hoped he was well.

A few hours later, as I was getting ready for dinner my computer made a bing, and lo there was the last one, and my heart got happy because he wasn’t dead and that was good because I had been worried for 62 days that he was. No one would have thought to tell me, I knew this. It was all too new when he vanished. Almost like it never happened.

Which, in the grand scheme of things, now that I have all the information, it didn’t.

He threw around words like ‘wife’ and forever.

Then reminded me I can’t have kids, as if I didn’t remember.

Kids that we had talked about and he didn’t want when he was with me.

I am past the point of arguing. I shouldn’t have to bribe or convince someone to be with me.

My girl Mia read my cards when he left, said he would come back, but he wouldn’t be the same.

She was right. She always is.

Good thing is, I changed too.

I am saying my goodbyes as they present themselves. Not forcing anything, just letting things fall away as they may.

I know the horror and pain that comes from being ghosted, my heart was once a haunted house. But the ghosts are slowly checking out and making room.

Giant got his goodbye in the attic room where we have spent day’s worth of hours listening to music and talking about life, the universe and everything. He said he was happy sad about me leaving. I reminded him it’s okay to feel more than one way about something.

Big Spoon popped up in my Instagram and I offered to write him a reference letter for the next girl. He really is a good man. He deserves a good woman. He will find her.

I think maybe the gift I give to the young ones is a jumping off point on how they could/should be treated.

We show each other what is possible.

And then I say goodbye.

My google homepage is in Spanish, kinda cool.

Also my word is being fucky and I can’t fit my mouse on the tiny table in my room.

However, it is 50 degrees warmer here than home and this is good.

I am at an all-inclusive resort in Cozumel Mexico. Never done this before.

5 hour delay getting here due to -33 degree weather at home, plus a broken conveyor, lost luggage and oh ya, two planes had a little fender bender and there was flames and stuff right next to us on the tarmac, so ya. We got in late.

I am feeling kinda uncomfortable in my skin here, not sure what to do with myself.

So I am in my room writing and waiting for the rain to pass.

I have dipped my toes in the Caribbean Sea which is a new body of water for me, so that’s good.

He who shall not be named because of bad behavior had a whole bit on the ingratitude of airline passengers “did you fly across the sky like a fucking bird?”

Ya buddy, I did. I refuse to complain. They should have given us a meal for having us sit for almost 4 hours on a plane right before a 4 hour flight. I needed a smoke something fierce by the end of it.

But it is what it is. And even though I was woken up by a screaming child at 8 this morning, I woke up in fucking Mexico, with an ocean 100 feet away.

I have found that as my gratitude grows so does my list of things to be grateful for.

But what about these boots I was talking about?

They have been with me through many airports and on many road trips.

I bought them a fairly cheap place 5 years ago right before I left for Arizona.

First adventure alone, Miss Missy picked me up at the airport and drove me to Joshua Tree to see a fiend from public school, named Joshua.

I had a stopover in North Carolina and met a surfer boy who had a perfect circle of shark teeth scars on his torso. “It wasn’t that big of a shark and he let go as soon as he realized I wasn’t dinner.” I asked if he still surfed, he said “all the time’. A little bit of fear left me then.

After Joshua Tree, we, I should say she, drove 3 hours into Los Angeles. I fell asleep in the car and woke up cranky, cussed out her uncle as though I was possessed by some evil demon. I apologized the next morning and he let me stay. We argued about cantaloupe and we are still friends.

That was the trip where I accidentally swam with dolphins.

The boots went into a box of dirty clothes I shipped home to myself because I bought so much stuff I couldn’t carry all of it.

I have learned to pack better, bought a bigger suitcase, and brought those boots everywhere I have been.

Psychic camp in Cassadega, through the mountains in the Virginia’s. Way out east to that beautiful island. To the hotel room with that beautiful boy. They walked me out of his car and to the most easterly part of my continent and I looked over at the ocean and felt humbled.

And now here.

My first destination wedding, first all-inclusive resort, first time at a new salty body of water, and we know how I love those. So many first and so much brave for a girl who used to overthink pushing on a pull door.

They have conformed to the shape of my feet, almost as good as barefoot.

But they are on their last legs.

I bought a new pair in Florida, these ones lasted 3 years longer than I expected a $50 pair of boots to last.

But I am not excited about them yet. I haven’t put them on past trying them on. They are taller, almost too black, and they don’t hug my ankles the way these ones do. Almost too new.

But I think it’s time to break them in.

Time for new adventures and new things and new boots.

When I was in Newfoundland I had a raggedy old stripper purse that I used for superstitious reasons, the manager saw the safety pins holding it together and suggested I get a new one. “Leave one here and take a new one home”. And he gave me a random good luck peso to put in it. So I did, and I made money, amen.

There’s a shoe tree on highway 48, on the way to the old farm house. Always hated that thing. People pulled over on the side of the road desecrating mama nature and slowing down traffic. Sisterwife took pics of it so I knew where she had been.

I might, weather permitting, take a side trip to ye olde shoe tree, with a hammer and nails, and put the final bit of closure on the last few chapters of my life before I make the 38 hour drive into the new one.

Or I will let them take me home.

I love these boots, all the places they have been with me, all the old fears falling away sharing a smoke with a cutie patootie and his scars outside a strange airport. Lacing them up on a hotel balcony in West Virginia, watching the sun come up, knowing I would be back in flip flops by the end of the day. Taking them off and slipping them back on at so many airports. 4 different addresses, about to be 5.

Those old boots were made for wandering. Maybe these new boots are made for staying.

I did.

So be it.

It was the best of times it was the worst of times.

Half of that sentence is a lie, it was just the fucking worst. I have seen scenarios where this works, and I adamantly believe to each their own. But I am not that girl anymore.

I am enough and sharing was not my strong suit in kindergarten, still ain’t.

November 2010 to September 2011. She lived in my house.

But it was never my house.

I left him/them in September of that year, but by November we were sneaking around to varying hotel rooms a few times a week.

On February 15^th 2011, I woke after a bad sleep, broken by her blowing up his phone, and him snoring after some bad sex and I thought “I’m done, it is never going to get any better than this.”

I said goodbye politely in the morning and drove away. I never went back.

I am only bringing this up now because as the 7 year anniversary approaches, I am planning on driving into a new life again, on February 15^th of this year. The anniversary of my actual emancipation and I want the last bit of poison out.

Cells regenerate fully after 7 years, and in 41 days, in my 44^th year, I will be a whole new girl that they never touched.

It’s time to talk about the pink elephant in the room.

And how does one eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

I’ll try to begin at the beginning, but…if you have been following me at all, you know my mind wanders.

And my hindsight makes eagles seem blind.

I got a random message years ago from this woman I used to know. I can’t call her a friend, she only uses people, and calling her a woman makes women look bad. She is one of those non-magical assholes that pretends to be magical. A false positive. Not sisterwife, someone integrally linked to her. Seems sisterwife had thrown her donated kidney and was on dialysis. Apparently this was something I just HAD to know.

She wanted a place to curl up and die, I know this now.

Wait, lemme back up.

Approximately 3 months after I met the man I call ex hubby, he was sleeping with the one I call sisterwife.

They were sleeping together before we met, which I didn’t find out til much, much later.

He presented her to me as a friend, and for a while I fell for it, she played the single mom card like a pro and I had no issue with him popping over there to build a bookshelf or help with this or that. I even naively mentioned maybe we should get a bigger place so she and her daughter can stay with us, seemed like it would help everyone.

A month after that he co-signed on a loan for her to get her boobs done and she blew him in the truck to say thank you.

This went on and off for the duration of our relationship. I liken it to a revolving door, one of us pushing and ending up either in or out of favor.

He left her for me and I really wish he hadn’t.

I shouldn’t say that, not exactly.

I have no love for him and never did. Not real love anyways. Codependence, passion, jealousy, competitiveness, and claws yes. Love, no.

I have immense gratitude for all the things I learned when I was in perdition. Fixing cars and flooded basements, keeping a house running, warm and fed on virtually nothing. What battles to fight and what to walk away from. The feeling of discord in my soul that could no longer be ignored. And finding the strength to leave. That was HUGE.

I survived a hell of my own making.

He had left her for the umpteenth time and come back to me after I had run away and found someone new, but as the girl who lived with her hand on the hot stove, I was expecting to get burned again.

Could he have stayed faithful? Unlikely. He had a hole in his soul he stuffed full of women.

But during the time he was “mine” again, I proposed moving her in. Thought she could help with chores and bills, and at least I would know, you know?

It was my best and worse idea.

After being promised an assured they would listen if I couldn’t handle it and break it off, I couldn’t handle it, made that abundantly clear and she stayed.

She was also as useless as tits on a bull. The horses got out on her watch, things died, she couldn’t cook or clean or fix anything. The garden remained unplanted for yet another year in a row.

I made a valiant effort to make it work, but within a year I was done and he was sleeping upstairs in her room 99% of the time while I screamed and cried in mine.

I tried going to bed with them, but she was a self-proclaimed ‘performance sub’, which is as gross as it sounds. Presenting herself to be fucked and degraded while making the worst fake orgasm noises I have ever heard. All the while I was thinking, “He left me for her?” that only happened the once.

I locked myself in my room, and honestly I wanted to die.

It killed what was left of my self-esteem.

She was high most of the time and no one saw it but me. And at some point I got my hands on some hillbilly heroin and figured if I couldn’t beat her I might as well check out too.

I started cheating with an ex. Felt justified in doing so. Felt better actually. Not better enough to actually leave, but enough to keep living.

By the summer I had gotten a job and adopted into a strange little family at the Shallamar Gas Bar and Grill. Without the support of those people who loved me no matter how fucked up I was, I couldn’t have left.

For the majority of my life I have been the girl who has to jump in and try things. The kind that learns just as much from the things I don’t want.

I have said before as well, she saved me from that place. That farm that was perpetually falling apart, never clean. I get those Facebook memories, and that chunk of my life was a perpetual state of busy work and bullshit.

The things we survive teach us and make the good times so much sweeter by comparison.

I am happier than I have ever been and I know it feels this good because of what I have been through.

When Lana Del Rey croons “I’m a ride or die” I always heard “Ima write or die”.
Me too Lana me too.

Write or die.

Never did quite get ride or die, do we get snacks, can I get out and swim?
Why do we have to die again?
I would much rather live.

It is a fucking book.

All about sex. Lots of sex with lots of people.

I am scared to publish it lest people think I am a turbo slut, but I am. Just not in the way the main character in the book is.

I am not putting my name on it, not my real one anyways.

My author’s note is hilarious if I do say so myself.

Author’s note

This is a work of pure fiction.
Any resemblance to any person, living or dead (to me, or otherwise) is coincidental.
Except Nelson, but he knows about this, so it’s okay.

Also, the sexual practices outlined in this book are not even remotely safe.

Like, not at all. STI’s exist in real life, they’ll kill ya.

Even I wouldn’t do most of this.

This is fantasy only.

Do not attempt any of it.

Don’t try dating a writer you meet on the internet, the unprotected sex, the random hook ups, none of it.

Seriously, just don’t.

Really, do as I say not as I write about. Some of this shit is downright dangerous.

I was trying to reconcile with someone that didn’t exist. These were his fantasies, not mine.

I took it to the extreme, because, have we met? This is what I do. Or what I did.

I am feeling remarkably more centered lately.

I am mine before I am anyone else’s Nayyirah Waheed

There’s also that whole thing where I found the other half of my soul in human form, but we will get to that at another time, when I can find the words for it. Or maybe I will keep that for myself. I haven’t rightly decided.

I am so fucking glad it’s done.

I started the godforsaken thing 2 years ago, my best day writing I got down 10, 000 words and then it would sit for months on end.

I got it back from my editor in October but I kept telling myself, I will get to it tomorrow. Tomorrow never came.

Bring in the New Year.

I decided I was not walking into another year and a new life with this thing sitting on my shoulders.

Its time.

I don’t even know if it’s that good.

And I honestly don’t care anymore.

It’s done, its porn, sex sells, time to let it go and see what it does.

Best case it goes half of 50 shades and I can use that money to write better things about better character. Worst case, it’s over and that is enough. I am anticipating something in the grey area between those two things.

I am no longer attached to it in any way. Which is a really good feeling for the record.

I feel like Elsa, all frozen and letting shit go.

I am however excited about the next things coming. Think I might write that cougar handbook after all and maybe some version of the little mermaid where she gets to go home to the ocean.

I will be posting links like mad, I have found some comfort in selling myself.

I did a thing!

It’s a dirty filthy thing but it’s mine.

And for my faithful readers, a random excerpt. One of the more tame things that occur in the 375 pages of smut.

Thank you for being with me this long. Letting me talk and listening to what I have been saying.

5 years ago I started a new life. No idea where I was going, but I like where I ended up and where I am heading to.

“Can I open it?” I ask. Still confused.

“Of course.”

I wiggle the lid off the box and peel back the layers of tissue paper.

“Is this what I think it is?”

“Yes baby.”

In my hand I am holding a rather sizable clear glass dildo. The mushroom shaped tip takes up most of my palm. It is almost as long and thick as my forearm. There are perfect glass circles spiralling up the shaft, sticking out in smooth, pronounced ridges. It is huge and beautiful, I can only guess at the weight…a pound of solid glass, maybe two?

“Look through it.” You say.

I am not sure what you mean. But I hold it up to my eye like a telescope. I can very clearly see my fingers wrapped around it even in the dim patio light. My imagination starts spinning with the idea of this new thing.

“This is perfect. Can we play with it?” I ask, just now thinking to keep an eye out and my voice down for neighbors.

You laugh, take another drag and stub your cigarette out. Your hand reaches back and snags a handful of my dress, a makeshift leash, but I don’t need much coaxing, if any. I allow myself to be led to the bedroom. You have tilted the lamp on the bedside table to create a perfect spotlight. I lift my dress up over my head, getting caught in the straps…I am rushing and excited. You untangle me. You have slipped out of your clothes while I was snagged in mine.

I lay diagonally across the bed, grab a pillow and put it under the small of my back, tilting my hips up. I wiggle into position, letting you adjust me so the light hits me just right. You ask me if I want to watch too, I nod, too worked up to make words. You prop me up on more pillows so I can see what is happening between my legs.