Gypsy Heart and Home

February 25, 2017

Went to Toronto to see my Drogo.

Remarked in the car that even though I am not all the way up to snuff, my current existential dilemma wasn’t near as crippling as it had been in times past.

Good omens.

I am getting better.

We haven’t seen each other in a year come May.

I get to look back on the times before, reminisce and see how far I’ve come.

Pretty fucking far.

I could barely see that far.

Before the pilgrimage to castle Drogo, I stopped in the market and ended up seeing oh Gelfling my Gelfling.

He cut his hair, lost his majicks a bit. S’okay.
Made him easier to swallow and be around, or I just got better. Little from column A, a little from column B.

This is me healing.

I had to go to the Chinese Hoodoo store. We had some bad juju up in this house.
The runes have been drawn, mirrors washed in holy water, I exorcised my bedroom and we are back to only letting love in this house. I bought new bed covers too. Out with the old.

Gelfling said ‘come back and get tattooed’ so I ran my errands at light speed. I was going to get him to put a bird on it…he wasn’t feeling all that great so we rescheduled. Not a bird now, a deer on my leg. Originally was going to be a deer skull with flowers, but it’s been overdone and I am over and done with the dead things.

I finally got to Drogo’s and met a direwolf, named Katie of all things.

We talked. I spoke of my ghosts. “I still don’t understand why they” run I said.

“You aren’t easy to leave, but you aren’t that easy to be around either.”

I am paraphrasing a lil bit.

Broken record of me being intimidating.

I get it, I truly do. I have been intimidated by men before, Drogo included and kinda topping the list. What could he possibly want with me when he is consistently surrounded by the most beautiful, talented, tattooed models in the world?

Yet, there we were.

I was sitting in a hockey arena watching the Zamboni, waiting for him to come out and play. Nerdy me scribbling all this down in a notebook so I didn’t forget.

It’s been 2 years of us knowing each other. We’ve had adventures and epic sex, he has taken my picture just like I was one of his other girls that I look on in awe.

He tells me what I need to hear, in a way that doesn’t hurt.

Here I am thinking I am not enough. He says I am too much. I’m inclined to believe him. He should know.

I forgot to put water in my vodka last night but I drank it anyways. I don’t want to be watered down either.

He listed all the reasons.

I am fiercely independent. I really don’t need anyone and that lends itself to a lack of control.

I am surrounded by a fairly impenetrable fortress of protective friends and exes, himself included.

I am highly intelligent and articulate.

He said I am a spectacular fuck, which, coming from him is a compliment of the highest order.

And, I just let people be themselves.

Herein lies a problem.

Most of the men I choose have no idea who they are. There is a pressure here to evolve.

The wiggle room I give them is …all.

It’s too much.

I’ve spent years exhuming and examining everything that I am.

I have forgiven, accepted and celebrated pretty much everything I have been and done.

It’s an ugly process, terrifying really to be this open and exposed. Vulnerable.

I should know.

And what I have learned and practice is unconditional love.

I don’t keep score.

They do.

I don’t think anyone owes me anything but that doesn’t mean they don’t feel like I am putting them into a debt they couldn’t possibly repay.

It’s easier to run than to step up and into this space I give them.

We had a talk about love the next morning.

What is it to me?

It was funny, I write about this almost every day and when put on the spot I stuttered and sputtered trying to define it.

I’ve long held the belief that to be loved I had to behave a certain way, to earn it. I know that isn’t right, so I give it without strings. I want to be loved the way I love, just because but this eludes me. I still feel like there are rules for me and no one else. If I was less loud, more damaged, more needy, less me maybe someone could love me. Maybe it would make them feel useful to fix me. But I am not broken anymore.

As far as I can figure…

Love is a warm safe place, like home, where you can just be yourself and be accepted.

There are pockets and places and people that make me feel that way, he is one of them.

I flit from house to house. I build, I get torn down and I rebuild again anyways. I have to.

I am a gypsy girl with a gypsy heart. I take home with me.

It’s in my bones.





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