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I killed my angst.

Always hated that bitch. She hated me too, she hates everything.

Okay, well, I didn’t kill her. Logic did. T’was I who sent Logic into the fray.

Fucking Angst, born of Panic and Worry. Sliding into the light, covered in afterbirth, so slimy I could never quite get a good enough grip to choke her out. She would slip away laughing, just to be born again of some new paranoia.

Angst popped her head out simpering, mewling whining, cajoling in that pathetic high pitched voice of hers…”he’s going to leeeeeeeeeeeave us”.

Logic stepped in, wearing the shining armour of truth and slayed the twit with two words.

“I know”.

Logic flashed that diamond bright smile, confident and infallible, and Angst just keeled over and died. It was a bit of a letdown. She was lèse–majesté after all. Committing treason against the sovereignty of me. And as an interloper, never really belonged here. I expected at least a gnashing of teeth, an attempt to bite and claw, to survive. But Angst was never really real to begin with, just a by-product of a misused imagination. I buried her deep, in a lead lined casket, just in case.

Everything is temporary dear hearts.

You will now be divided into two teams.
Team A, the ones who hear that statement and freak the fuck out, and clutch their baggage tightly to their chest, heaving and screaming NOOOOOOOO.
Then there are the rest of us, Team B, who breathe a sigh of relief and wrap that thought around us like a security blanket. All the good, all the bad, this too shall pass. It’s alright, we are molten and moving. Everything evolves and adapts, and we with it.

Here is what is going to happen, why it’s okay if he leaves, (and he did). Everyone does at some point or another. Forever is a myth spawned by sparkly vampires.

By murdering Angst, I have freed myself to enjoy the time I do have with him. All that is left here now is Gratitude, Surprise and Awe. Gratitude for when he is here, Surprise that he actually wants to be with me, and Awe that I get to touch and be touched by such a beautiful creature. It’s exhilarating, this constant state of not quite believing my luck.

The shock of it all with fade in time and metamorphosize into a sense of Belonging which brings Comfort. And it will be better than anything I can possibly imagine.

I wrote this a long time ago.

I may have posted it as part of another thing, if so…I can’t find it. I looked.

3 migrations of this website, sometimes things get lost.

Lockdown in my documents means nothing is ever really lost.

Everything morphs and changes, getting closer or farther by time and physical distance, but it’s never really gone.

Events are remembered, tinted by our own perception, I like my crayons rose-coloured.

Even if it was previously posted, I’m changing the ending.

The person I wrote this about left a year ago. Resurfaced, then I found this.

I needed to be reminded. Dwelling in the past, I would be angry. Worrying about the future gives birth to new angst. Neither of those things serve me in anyway.

I hope it wasn’t as simple as “I wonder what Sarah is doing, she was really nice to me.”
*Checks bridge for scorch marks, takes a few tentative steps…waves hello, I wave back.

Maybe I hope it was exactly that simple. My bridges are bomb proof, I built them that way.

It’s comforting to be thought of as comforting.

Hello Kitty is my power animal. I wave back then sit silently, listening to what anyone has to say.
Just don’t try to bring old baggage across with you. There is a weight restriction and a trap door.

I have no idea what will happen when he gets across.

All I know is that he called me Sanctuary once.

I still am.

I write for a lot of reasons.

For a catharsis, getting things out into the world makes them easier to bear sometimes.

So I can remember, I have had a wonderful life and it keeps getting better.

I write to forgive others and myself.

I write to leave myself markers on this path I walk, in case I end up back there.

And I write on the off chance that someone out there will read these things I have done and feel that ever so comforting ‘me too’.

I wrote The Dress. Mentioned having Poland syndrome, not for the first time or the last. It is a huge part of what I am. I got a private message from a man whose daughter has it too. My heart leapt. I got to say the words I needed to hear as a child. Tell her she is not a burden, tell her she is whole. Tell her she is an Amazon reincarnated. Tell her she would have been worshiped and revered in other cultures way back when. Give her power, make her brave. Lord hear our prayer and my emphatic hallelujah to be given this chance to make something right.

Part of me writing is saying things I am ashamed of, out loud, so I can laugh at them.

My head is a decidedly odd place to live in, or even visit really. But 200+ people a day wander over and peek in the windows or walk through the door. It’s always open, come on in. You hungry? I’ll feed you. Been walking a long time? Put your feet up.

Just don’t point them at Buddha. It’s bad luck. You can’t anyways, all my Buddhas face east, none of my chairs do.

Forgive me Father, but for like an hour out of two months I spent time, thought and energy trying to get the throw pillows right on my bed so a boy would come back. I see now the error of my ways. Time is a precious gift and that is some weird OCD superstitious bullshit.

In my defense, I was sad. Never really been able to think straight when I am sad.

But it feels like sinning or squandering my magic powers and wishes on something silly.

Sorry about that, so sorry.

It happened again.

I have those Indian cotton throws for bedspreads. I change them and my sheets every Sunday. I had bought a new one with a mandala design and caught myself thinking “maybe this one will work”, remembering my prior folly. Kinda chuckled at myself.

The photograph attached is actually my actual bed. I have an up-cycled fireplace mantel with an OPEN sign above it for a head board. I have a pillow that says “leave some room in your heart for the unimaginable”, which always reminds me of a Stephen King quote “it became the unspeakable”. Told you my head is a weird place. So is my bed apparently. Weird and wonderful. Things unspeakable and unimaginable.

My head is also a mess of movie quotes and song lyrics, constantly tangling and folding themselves to make sense of things. Tiny mantras and theme songs.

Here is what it sounds like right now…

“Brian:  See, we had this assignment, to make this ceramic elephant, and um…and we had eight weeks to do it and we’re s’posed to, and it was like a lamp, and when you pull the trunk, the light was s’posed to go on. My light didn’t go on…

I’m a fuckin’ idiot because I can’t make a lamp?

John:  No, you’re a genius because you can’t make a lamp.

Brian:  What do you know about Trigonometry?

John:  I could care less about Trigonometry.

Brian:  Bender, did you know without Trigonometry, there’d be no engineering?

John:  Without lamps, there’d be no light.” (The Breakfast Club)

Here’s the funny thing. The open sign is supposed to light up. When I mounted it one the brick wall with those 3M sticky things, the nubbin got pushed back just far enough in that I can’t turn it on. Houston, we have a metaphor, or a psychic block…it’s a problem.

There is one more reason I write. I write to create. Words are literal magic. With my words I create my thoughts and my world. It’s called spelling for a reason. These are my desires, laid out and sent into the ether. I have seen them manifest beacuse I have faith. I always get what I ask for, or something better. All ways, all days, without fail.

Kidlet popped his head in the bedroom the other day and said he wasn’t coming home that night, hinted that it would be a good time to have a boy over.

I realized, I have had this brand new bed for 8 weeks to the day. Never had a boy in it.

One of my favorite lines ever is from the show Weeds “You made your bed, go fuck in it.”

This too comes to mind as I am fluffing pillows and straightening throws.

I make a damn fine bed. I want a damn fine bed fellow.

I’m fixing the sign and there will be light and it will be good.

“You were the light and the way…” (Maynard James Keenan)

What I want or something better.

Lord hear our prayer.

Amen

I can never leave the past behind

I can see no way, I can see no way

(Florence and her glorious Machine)

Imagine yourself gripping a jagged rock so tight, fingers changing colour from the strain and blood trapped in there.
Now imagine how good it feels when you finally let go. That relief.

Good, Weird, Bad shit happens and I just write about it. Life feels like an elaborate maze and I am enjoying it, even the stuff that really hurts, the heavy, sharp, cutting things. Turn them over and over in my mind until the edges becomes smooth and the lesson understood. Like a rock tumbler, bringing out the shine.

I was just on the phone with an old friend who is going through some serious relationship trauma. He asked “how do you date after this?” I rhymed off the tiniest list of shit I have been through, and I stopped dead in the middle. Wait…seriously…How DO I do this? After all the pain, the trauma, the cheating, the lies, the ghosts and I still go out and try again? And not half-assed neither, lately I am all fucking in.

I’m trying to solve the labyrinth, but not so I can get out of it. I want to live here (it’s made of magic). I’m learning, exploring. I am pushing my long held boundaries of what I think I am allowed to give and what I thought I could take. I’m starting to freak myself out a bit with this actual enjoyment of the strangeness. I supposed it’s some kind of survival mechanism or, maybe I just know I’ll live through it.  Or maybe I am home.

Apparently I am not allowed to bring any of my past into the future. I have to be a Terminator. Come in naked, lightning crackling. No fate but what we make (Sarah Connor Terminator 2).

I like that.

Monday.

I stumbled upon some pre-summer beautiful boy messages that made me physically ill. Not because they were mean…because they were so fucking sweet. I had to forget how extraordinary he was so I could wrap my head around him leaving. Didn’t help. He escaped the oubliette. Truth is, I never locked the door. I thought of him every time the sky turned red.

I think it’s like covering a tattoo. The original ink will always show through from certain angles. I am doing that too. Covering all my old tattoos. Everyone asks what I used to sit for it. Nothing. Caterpillars don’t take painkillers. I’m altering what I was, I am becoming something.
Ya, it fucking hurts, change often does.

Tuesday.

So I was in the proverbial desert (see The Nothing). Yes, there is a desert in my Labyrinth, Terminators too, just roll with it. Feeling like I was getting close to the end. Ha, the Gods are funny fuckers. Car broke down. First instinct, grab everything I could carry and walk. Well, no. first instinct scream like a banshee, cry a bit and then do the thing.

Too much weight, so I LET IT GO.

Texts from another ex

Him: “please stop telling me I bettered you and changed you, I have read enough of your blog to know everyone you ever fuck, which is apparently a lot of people, help you and better you, I feel fucking unclean now.”

I forgot how awful he could be.

Midnight until 6 am. We held a palaver in the desert. He doesn’t like the blog, said I painted him a villain, so he turned back into a monster, the monster I forgot about, never wrote about?

Well that hardly seems safe now does it?

“Because you did it is why I think you did it.” Paul Rudd

I know better than to engage but I was so wired/tired from 3 hours of 1 am driving. I let him mash his fists into the old control-panel that held ALL my buttons. Oh honey, I’ve upgraded, I’m not wired that way anymore. He said I would end up old and alone, all I would have are memories.
I seriously thought (but didn’t type) Do you promise? That sounds amazing!!!!

I know I’m not dumb. I know I am not ugly. I’m okay with my whoreishness.

You have no power over me (Sarah in The Labyrinth)

He hasn’t for years. He exists only in the past. I could see the fight like I was watching an old home movie, detached. Safe in my present perspective. Stop.

I didn’t vilify him. I checked. I offered to let him edit, tell me what I did wrong and I’d fix it. Offered to print a retraction. Tried this exit and that one. I think he was looking for a fight and I drew the short straw.

I washed my memory clean of this behaviour ages ago when I forgave the both of us. But that night he came dragging a dead horse whose name I forget, and showed his true colours when I showed him mine. I’m too much whore and not near enough Madonna for him. Always was. Illusion shattered. I’m not sorry.

I suddenly and fully remembered why he is my ex.

Wednesday

I realized something. I had a full mental breakdown about the boy of pre-summer.  I wept, hard. That deep soul sobbing. I wrote this whole big article, posted it and everything. As of today, it’s the only post I have ever deleted. He didn’t ask for revisions or retractions. We just talked a bit and I realized it wasn’t the truth, he was something lovely I’d painted over so I could forget. I couldn’t stand by it. He was sweet to me.

Angry ex? All posts stand. “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” Anne La Mott. Eyes are desert dry.

Yes, my memory is selective. I can only carry so much and I want the things I bring to feel light and right and good. Smoothing over is a good thing, makes it easier to walk on and hold onto sometimes.

My girl flew in from the real desert the night this started. I picked her up after Burning Man. She spoke of the Haboob.

I know I’m in it right now. Fine grains of sand in storm form, forcing me to drop the last of my past, hands free to cover my eyes. I need those where I am going. This grit and dust isn’t getting me dirty, it’s the final stage of polishing me clean. I won’t look back, I am not going that way.

Never go that way.

I have said before, my suspension of disbelief is incredible.

Stick me in a movie theater and I am IN it. Whatever movie IT happens to be, some more than others obviously. Makes readjusting to the world 90 minutes later a little weird, but it’s okay.

It’s actually a superpower. I love it.

It happens conversationally sometimes too. I was on a rollercoaster a month ago, it was taking a while to get going, my friend and I were chatting and I actually forgot I was on a rollercoaster, yep, that happened. Now he tries to distract me every time.
That might be less of a superpower and more early onset Alzheimer’s.
Oh look a plastic castle.
I really don’t want to be a goldfish.
My memories, no matter how shitty, are precious to me.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand there I go…teeny tiny attention span.

Movies, we were at the movies.

3 movies jump to mind when I think the words “ugly cry”.

I have 4 best friends. 3 outta 4 are the only people on the planet that I would consider allowing in the room when I am watching THOSE movies. The 4^th would mock me and ruin my catharsis, but she knows absolutely everything about me, they all do, but she was with me for some of the really gritty shit, and had best be keeping her whore mouth closed. I say that with love, and some fear, but mostly love.

There are things I will not do around a boy I like, even after we have been together awhile. Watch THOSE movies, or go to the bathroom with the door open EVER, fart (awake) sleeping? It’s beyond my control. Eating chicken wings used to be on the list, I am over it.

Holy fucking rants Batman.

No, Batman is not on the list.

The list is

1. The Notebook (shocking, I know)
2. Schindler’s List (those kids in the outhouse get me every damn time)

And

3. The Green Mile

I have a long term love for Stephen King, mind, I have not read The Green Mile. I have a feeling it would kill me a lot a bit.

The scene with Melinda, I bawl. I bawl HARD. The Warden’s face slays me, my tear-ducts don’t stand a chance.
“I dreamed of you, we found each other in the dark”.

But that is not the one that is haunting me.

It’s John Coffey and those two little dead girls. Blonde hair streaked with blood, making them look like ginger ragdolls. He is holding them, cradling them, inconsolable, wailing.

This is how I feel right now.

Michael Clarke Duncan’s voice ringing in my ears “I TRIED TO TAKE IT BACK. I TRIED TO TAKE IT BACK BUT IT WAS TOO LATE.”

I quite literally said the words “if I sleep with you too fast, you will get bored and bail”

Of course he said “I’m not like that”.

He is exactly like that. Or appears to be, no idea really, he hasn’t messaged in ages. Ha.

I ain’t even mad at him, I’m mad at me.

I am mad at me because I fucking knew better. Pun most definitely intended. I gotta laugh at something or I will ugly cry.

Not mad enough for a time machine, I saw the guy twice ever. But it still hurt.

Redemption seems unlikely. I just need to crawl through 500 yards of shit and come out clean on the other side*.

John Coffey: I know you hurtin’ and worryin’, I can feel it on you, but you oughta quit on it now. Because I want it over and done. I do. I’m tired, boss. Tired of bein’ on the road, lonely as a sparrow in the rain. Tired of not ever having me a buddy to be with, or tell me where we’s coming from or going to, or why. Mostly I’m tired of people being ugly to each other. I’m tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world every day. There’s too much of it.”

There is and I am.

I am learning, much faster now. These things I say, manifest. I could have stopped it, I could have taken it back. But it was too late.

I wish it had been someone a little bit less spectacular for me to prove that theory on. It was a risky experiment and it blew up.

S’okay.

Lessons learned.
‘No’ is a complete sentence.
I am rarely wrong, even when I want to be.

And life is a series of closing doors and opening windows.

(*I know that’s the wrong movie, I’m grown, I do what I want.)

When I say Sunday, you think…?

Football?

Nope.

Fun-day?

Kinda.

Dinner?

Getting warmer.

Church?

Yep.

I don’t praise Sunday enough.

I mean I do, to his face, or on my knees almost every Sunday. Or more recently into the pillow or blankets on the memory foam bed. But he can hear me, he is close, behind.

We go to amazing restaurants, have grown up conversations, offer advice on each other’s respective businesses. It’s my day to Adult. I need it, want it, crave it, and him. He knows the difference between when I say ‘I’m hungry’ and when I say ‘I’m hungry.’ He knows I am sex-eater and he enjoys it and me. Just as much as he enjoys watching me smile and roll my eyes in bliss at some tasty tidbit of food.

2 dedicated blog posts. Sunday Sex Selfies and The Cold Open.  So many honorable mentions, 100 metaphors for him, I called him my favorite hat, my safety net. Hardly seems fair when he is my Sunday hat, my Sunday best and not just the net that catches me when I am walking the tightrope, but the bar that keeps my balance. He has also set the bar and held it.

That feeling of being ‘allowed’. Allowed to be strong, to be weak, to say what I feel, always. He does this. Even when it’s something he doesn’t want to hear.

On paper I have been single for, good god. A long while now. 2011ish.

In my heart, it’s been just over 2 years, longer. 3, heart says 3.

Wait, lie detector determined that is a lie. There were 2 men I wanted to belong to but it didn’t work out, single status remained intact, but only on paper.

Belonging. That is the key word.

Sunday’s belong to Sunday. Have for a while now. I cannot call it habit, habits take 3 weeks to break. I have broken it off with him for longer than that, more than once. I can stop if I want to. But I don’t want to.

I have left him. Said the words ‘I’m dating someone and I want to see where it goes’.

I tell the men I date about him. ‘There is a man whom I have been seeing every Sunday for a while. He knows about you and now you know about him. I don’t feel safe enough to give him up just yet. I’ll let you know if anything changes.’ They tried to mock him when I explained why only Sunday’s. We have tried to see each other more, but it just doesn’t work. “How could anyone want to see YOU only once a week?” they say, I feel safe for a bit, leave Sunday and then they leave me.

So I have come back, tail between my legs, crying on the phone when I get hurt. He gives me stoic advice and just opens the door when I knock. Picks me up and brushes the dirt off my knees, kisses my forehead like I never went away.

When I fall, he catches me. No questions asked. And I fall, it’s kinda my thing.

This isn’t going to be one of those movies where the girl realises she loved him all along. I already know I do. But it’s different, it’s not ‘I gotta lock that down’ love, its friendship and acceptance with some primordial lust thrown in.

It’s Sunday, if anyone needs me…don’t. On the seventh day I rest.

 This dress.

If you have been reading up to now, you know my boobs are weird.
If you have eyes you can see clearly in the above photo, they look a little weird.

I have a congenital deformity called Poland syndrome. Just Google it.

I’m trying so hard to be okay with it, but I am not there yet.

I have/had body dysmorphia.
I have bouts where I think/believe/see myself as deformed. Because I am.

I am also anorexic, in the same way even a recovered alcoholic will always be an alcoholic.
I’m currently able to eat, but things could change, as they tend to do and imbibing a blueberry will feel like a Herculean task.

I am also medium to heavily tattooed.

Neither of those things have to do with my body dysmorphia nor my deformity. My anorexia is stress related. I would rather look in the mirror and see curvy/toned but when I am sad, I can’t bring myself to chew or swallow. I don’t even get hungry.
My tattoos are pretty, no great meaning behind them except the 3 that are words, and mean what they say. I just like them.

I am currently recovering from a 5.5 hour tattoo session wherein 80% of a full back piece was outlined. I am endorphin crashing like mad. It’s okay. Holding the vision, trusting the process.

What is not okay is I cannot at this moment, wear a bra. I am self-conscious about my boobs to the point where it is crippling sometimes. Like right now, wherein my body is in a weakened state, my mind is preoccupied with lack of sleep and pain management and I can’t get happy nor comfortable. Comfortable clothes has become a contradiction in terms and my bedroom floor looks like a hurricane hit my closet.

This too shall pass. I’ll be Pollyanna again by tomorrow, but right now I hurt, and I am naked because I can’t hide my boobs in a bra, so I am unable to even at all.

My heart hurts a bit too.

I changed my profile pic to match my cover photo, I do this every day, usually without consequence. Today however I looked at the date and comments. Flashbacks galore, on a day where I can barely exist in my current hurt, much less deal with old ones.

I have a collection of dresses and shirts that I feel comfortable in without a bra. They are my favorites.

Once upon a May 18^th, I had a market day with friends. I wore one of said dresses, my favorite one in fact. It had always made me feel like I was wearing butterfly wings, silken flowing. I wandered about running my own errands to spare their 4 year old my meandering. And lo, what to my slightly teary eyes should appear? Mind Fuck. I finally remembered what I named the Twinkie Ghostling Young Un Three Point ohmygodyouareadorable, with that glorious mouth of his, noms. He looked at me like I was made of magic, bit his delicious bottom lip, asked if he could draw me, gathered all my information and we parted ways. Me flattered and happy.

3 blocks away, I meet up with my other family, go for dinner…Wee Miss Memphis has nothing to do so I wander out in search of crayons. Some potato shaped girl across the street remarks to her friends “Her boobs look weird in that dress don’t they?” in reference to me and LOUD AS FUCK. Immediate shame, I slunk back to the restaurant, trouty-pouty mouthed boy forgotten, the love, warmth and acceptance of my non-biological family, wasn’t enough to erase what she said. I wrapped my sweater around me and stayed covered for the rest of the day. Until Wee Miss Memphis got chilly and I wrapped her up in it. Children trump everything, ever and always.

I can accept that there will be days when I simply feel yucky, it’s normal, it’s human, it’s inevitable…
What I cannot abide is when that feeling is pushed on me by outside forces.
I am ultimately in charge of this.
This is commonly know as giving no fucks.
I’m good with that.

The next day I spoke to the trouty-mouthed-mind-fuck and we had a thing for a few weeks. He was lovely until he lied with his purdy mouth, to my face, about pretty much everything. Goes to show can’t trust even the prettiest words from the prettiest boys, but whatev’s. I had a little meltdown and got over it.

That dress didn’t make it through the next purge, I toss a lot of things that hold less than spectacular memories. I sold it. But not because of the boy who lied. Because of the girl who told the truth. I know that their opinions of me are none of my business but I couldn’t shake it off. I still can’t, I am writing 1000 words about how I let 2 strangers both make and break my day. I don’t know how to stop this but I have to try.

I wrote this this morning.

_______________________________________________________________

Ode to Hot Neighbor

Oh hot neighbor,

Why you gotta to be so hot.

How is it that every time I see you

I am a mess

Sleep in my eyes

Hair wild, but not in a good way

Sweaty sweats

Tiny dog straining at the leash

She wants to say hi

I know how she feels

But I smile and drop my head

I’m always carrying trash

Late for something

And yet,

You look at me as if I am in my Sunday best

Carrying the grail or a cool drink of water

Salome down to her last veil.

Thank you hot neighbor,

For being so hot and so sweet.

____________________________________________________________________________________

Perhaps one day I’ll say hello, and instead of asking for a cup of sugar, I’ll borrow his eyes and see what he sees when he looks at me, hopefully I will be in one of those dresses that I love so much, feeling and maybe even looking like a butterfly.

“How do we first begin to covet Clarice? …
“We covet what we see every day.” (Silence of the Lambs)

I have very clear and very personal ideals when it comes to relationships.

When I hit a certain level of emotional commitment to someone, sleeping with other people starts to feel…wrong. So I just don’t do it.
There are exceptions to this rule of mine, but they are rare and consensual.

I operate on a case by case basis.

I am a monogamous creature by nature.

I do not believe that everyone is.

I also don’t expect my partner to be.

Stay with me here. I know the cult of jealousy is a strong one, I once drank that kool-aid every morning with breakfast. This may or may not make sense to you by the end, and that is okay. I am not asking to be your girlfriend…I’m just showing you my guts.

I know there will be nay-sayers who say things like “well, you must not really love him then”. To them, I say “nay”. My body, my heart, my love, my life, my choice. Jealousy and love are not the same thing. Love is not control, love is acceptance. This is my opinion, I have no desire to sway anyone else’s, in fact that is the entire point of this post.

I don’t consider casual sexual contact outside of my relationship cheating.

I know emotional monogamy without physical monogamy exists, I have been in it. I quite liked it there.

What I cannot abide is lying.

I have always felt that being lied to is the kissing cousin to “hey, do you know how stupid I think you are? So stupid that you will swallow this bullshit I am about to feed you, don’t choke on it though, I really do love you.” (no, you don’t)

I am not now, nor have I ever been side-bitch material. It just ain’t my thing. I am the first wife, the goodwife, the primary or I walk. I am worth more, and I know it.

And if someone else’s husband approaches me. I send him home. That’s not my pain to distribute or deal in. Not my circus, not my monkey.

I was not always this way.

I used to see the Ashley Madison commercials and an anger and rage most horrid would well up inside of me to the point where I felt sick.

I have been having an ongoing debate about whether or not jealousy has an anthropological precedent. I said no, it was invented when we humans, started having free time.

Anthropologically speaking, and there is logic here, humans covet other humans, for companionship and genetic material. Way back in the days of yore, the only time a woman was not self-sufficient was when she was towards the end of pregnancy or with the subsequent newborn. Makes sense to lock the other half of the DNA down. It’s survival.

Biologically, men have taken this to a weird level wherein, if they feel like the mother of their children is not being faithful, their bodies create soldier sperm to kill off any other swimmers that might get in their way. They are hard wired to propagate their own genetic material. All animals are. It’s just science.

So, I was wrong. I am wrong often. Like when those commercials used to make me throw up in my mouth a bit. The ‘they’ that decides these things would air those commercials with alarming frequency during episodes of Maury and Jerry Springer. At one point in my life, I was on a constant diet of those shows. And just like everything else. What you absorb, you become. I was wrong to be in that house, I was wrong to be watching those shows. To feed on the pain of others (real or imaginary) just to make myself feel better about myself and my situation. That is not how it’s done. 
THAT my friends is a self-fulfilling prophecy wrapped in a conundrum on a downward spiral.

I was technically married, I got technically cheated on.

I had every right to be jealous…or did I?

He was hard-wired towards polygamy. I didn’t get it. Granted there was some false advertising on his part, but I am a smart girl. I knew better. And yet, I clung to the idea of him I had created in my head instead of learning who he really was and making decisions based in reality. I fought for the fantasy version of him so hard and vehemently, I pushed him (the real him) into the arms of another woman, who does indeed accept him for exactly who he is.

I go back and forth between ‘yes, we indeed are all unique snowflakes’, to ‘no we are not’ like a pendulum swinging depending on the circumstances. In this instance, when I consider a new partner, yes, yes we are all unique. This person is deserving of being explored thoroughly and without prejudice. I have criteria, I want to be intellectually challenged, I prefer my men fuck like monsters, I want to touch and be touched without thinking/feeling permission must be granted, I want to be accepted. So, I have an obligation to BE those things and give them and myself, freely.

And this shall be the whole of the law, do what thou will.

Just love each other as is.

Within the span of 24 hours I got crowned two titles.

Someone I know called me ‘the sister of all women’.

A random woman on the internet called me a ‘baby killer’.

I am both of those things.

I almost launched into a grand explanation to justify why I have aborted twice.

But really? It is no one’s business but my own. I made a decision, I have no time machine and if I did, I wouldn’t change those things.

On my Facebook page I have come out as Pro-Choice. I am pro-choice because I AM the sister of all women.

I post memes and articles that reflect this. There are subsequent kerfuffles. I block, ban and delete anyone who shows aggressive slut-shaming, pro-life or extremist religious views. For every person who comes down hard against something, there are a thousand that need comfort and support.

Send in the one baby I managed not to kill. My son jumped immediately to my defense. Messaged this woman who attacked his momma and tried to educate her. Suggested she consider gender reassignment if she hated women so much. Then proceeded to list the reasons why abortion should remain a legal, safe, open option to all women. The alternative is sharpened coat hangers in back alleys and death. We all saw what happened to Penny in Dirty Dancing. Explain to me how her life is less precious than anyone else’s.

There will always be women who just cannot have a child right now. Just as there will always be women who have children for the wrong reasons, I have met those children. I have fed, clothed, housed and loved as many of them as I have met, and I have met plenty. Taught them that family is not about blood, but about being with people who love you unconditionally for who they are, and who they are is important.

My son’s father quite literally told him that he ‘never wanted kids’. This was sperm donor’s response to my child asking to spend some time together. THIS, this is what I would use a time machine for, to cut out that man’s tongue before he got to say those words to my child. I kept them separate for years, I knew the man who knocked me up was capable of this kind of cruelty and I did my best to fortify my son against it. We got through it, together. My child does not bow down to false idols. DNA is just 3 letters and they do not spell GOD. I have gone hungry to fill my son’s belly that isn’t genetics, it’s just love.

A boy I care about immensely was dropped on his paternal grandparent’s doorstep around age 2 with the words “I don’t want this” as the last thing he heard his mama say. This is not a lullaby any child should hear.

Parents do this all the time. Fuck, people do it. Cast aside other human beings like they are nothing. This breaks my heart. Not any woman who has the bravery and self-awareness to say ‘for reasons of my own I am unable to give this potential person the quality of life I believe she/he should have’.

It doesn’t need to go any further than that. We are not struggling to repopulate the planet. There are plenty of sentient beings that need food, shelter, love and acknowledgement.

My door has long been open to any child (or being really) who has been abandoned, neglected, abused, unloved.
So is my page, my heart and home are safe places.

I don’t judge. Everyone’s life and decisions are their own. My place on this plane is to love, nurture and protect.

It’s been over a month since the car wreck. I was supposed to go pick up new truck and…I am in some sort of weird vortex wherein no one is getting back to me. I am sending out SOS and SMS and…nada.

I am scouring the interwebz to find out what the moon is doing, or where Saturn is.
Anything but taking any responsibility for how I am feeling right now which is abandoned and lonely and hurt.

I don’t think it’s the moon, I think it’s me.
I want things and I don’t have them.
Buddha would be disappointed, this is not very Zen except Buddha doesn’t get disappointed, because that IS Zen.

Talking to Saint Anthony this past week. I tend to do this when I am panicking. I am panicking.

It was a mistake, until he started sending me Adventure Time links.

He is like Vanilla Ice, if you got a problem, yo, he’ll solve it.

I ended up saying “your logic is flawless, but I just wanted some comfort.”

That is not his forte.

He needs to be needed, but in a practical, tangible way.

I get that. I find satisfaction in easing burdens for others.

I am that girl too. Probably why we didn’t work out. That and his penchant for polyamoury.

I didn’t get it a decade ago.

I get it now.

Love someone how you find them or let them go be loved by somebody else. He always had a harem, they were part of the package. Ignoring it didn’t make it go away. Screaming like a harpy and throwing epic tantrums didn’t help neither. In fact, I made it worse. My job was to be the goodwife, he gave me the pedestal to sit on, forged it with his own hands a hammer and an anvil. I kept climbing down to fight these imaginary women that held no place for him, I lost my spot.

His current, whom I have referred to before as many things, let’s just call her Sisterwife, is sickly and needs him. She also accepts him for who he is. Something I couldn’t do.

I am a monogamous creature by nature. My Heart is a focused thing and it takes all of me with it, Vagina included. I have found a focal point, and … let’s just say I spend an exorbitant amount of time talking myself out of it, equal to, if not greater than the amount of time I spend fantasizing and turning over every morsel of every minute I have had with him so far.

My adventures in Relationshipland over the last decade have taught me however, that I am adaptable, resourceful and accepting on a level that rivals sainthood.

Fuck whomever you please, I know there is nothing I can do to stop it and plenty I can do to cause it.

I have been having a debate for the last year or so wherein I believe jealousy to be a man made invention. I have been proven wrong. The male of the species has a biological need to ensure his bloodline is continued. A new male lion takes over a pride and kills the cubs of his predecessor.

So why are women like that? Why do I get twinges that make me feel like my lower intestine is hooked up to a low volt battery? Like I have an imaginary hand wrapped around my throat, and not in a fun way.

I’m having that last jealous bone in my body surgically removed. But please understand, I am way too rare to be a side bitch and I have had enough of war to last me the rest of my life. I will fight beside you. I know my worth.

I crave hearing the words “good girl” and “she is mine”, in reference to me. My want to belong to someone is so much greater than my want to have someone belong to me. That seems like a lot of responsibility. I didn’t even learn how to drive until I was in my 30’s because I was afraid of hurting someone. Seriously.

But I still get those jolts of fight or flight and (shudder) ‘mine’. Phantom limb throbbing on a rainy day.

And it is a ferocious ‘mine’, not a whimper.

I have no right, I know this. Love is not ownership, I know this too. I date way too many boys to ever think about anything past next week. I know this. Enjoy what you have whilst you have it.

Logic will prevail, everything will be it should be and that will be all right.

Once upon a couple of young un’s ago, he said, ‘this place is sanctuary’ in reference to my house, he corrected himself a few hours later and said, “it’s not this place, it’s you.” I glowed from that compliment for months, in fact, the memory of it just made the sun shine from my face again.

My purpose here is to be home (sweet home) for someone , not a prison. The door is always open, “here is yes, here is you may”*, here is always warm and you will always be loved.

That is where my satisfaction lies, to be chosen over and over. Not because of some moral restrictions but for who, what and how I am, and I will happily make you feel the same way.
Chosen.

I’m lost.

I want to come home now.

(*Stephen King)