Be brave, share a journal entry!

04/05/2006, 3 weeks after my initial breakout...

first, to Nirvana, take care, love...

begin entry ---------------->

So where am I with all of this - besides depressed? I would tear out my cunt, bleeding and infected, and hand it to you as a trophy. Are you proud? And what would you do then? A part of me that has always given me such joy, I am now afraid to even share with myself... So take it all, it is yours and it is useless...

I keep on picturing it - the hesitancy, the sore, pain, the infection, the moment i could have said no, the moment i could have declined the moment i could have saved my sexual soul. I did this to myself, I did this out of a lack of wholeness and I do not ever know how to get that back.

Mourning, mourning, mourning...

I was mourning my loss - loss of father, loss of pat, loss of darren, loss of love of consistency of being and definition, of people i opened myself up to totally, scattered pearls falling off the edges of the world, nothing that i ever did would have ever been enough so why should I wonder... I make bad choices, i let people hurt me, even though ultimately I know that i am worth more. now i have no choices left, i am dead and dying and i don't know where to go or what to do... i hurt and i have no "where" to go i would die and take you with me, i would announce to the world your crime but i suspect that it would make no difference.

martin says write, just write with stream of consciousness... and i think about hiv, hiv, hiv, hiv, hiv, hiv - how could i possibly have escaped it during the past 3 days and yes, i am wounded so i open myself up to wounds...

the tattoo is a call - be careful of what you ask for. i am tempted to ask kali for revenge. i am tempted to ask her to cut out off around your genitals to take it all from you and hurt you with it....

what would i do should i have both? i imagine suicide cancer take me... i would not want to live because that would indeed be the death of all sexuality. i must wait two months and i cannot stand the wait... i cannot stand, i cannot wait, i cannot i cannot i cannot take those baby ant steps and dig up to the 5th world, above the ceiling of the 4th...

i will not allow myself to live in that way. i will run away, i will find myself anew...

what do i want spiritually? what does it take? how does one define an unbidden spiritual quest? why do i want to be more than i am when i am less than i was and how do i find that part of myself that loves again? how can i love when i cannot trust?

i am not a good friend, you know? i am talent wasted, love wasted, being wasted, hate wasted, i cannot even be good at that... i wish to disappear and start over so that is what i bring myself...

and i leave colin, hurting him in the wake of my own hurt - what responsibility love carries with it. and i cannot bear the burden at the moment and i cannot tell him that i cannot bear it and i cannot keep talking to him about all of this...

i would leave it all if i could but i can't because i am loved despite the darkness of my soul, the self-concentration which i cannot leave i cannot shake off i cannot leave behind - i still WANT to be a fully sexual being and i cannot think of how to define myself as anything else...

no one in the mailing list has answered my question about concomitant hsv and hiv viral shedding, no one wants to think of it because they have already reached an accommodation with their disease and don't want to make it more complicated or painful than it already is...

i want to write more honestly but am afraid so how can i do this for publication?

Kenneth says I cannot blame myself for seeking connection but can't i blame myself for seeking inappropriate and self-destructive escape? Why why why why why why i drown myself in whys and wherefores and how could i's how could how could i not have tears for myself if not for you...

i wish i were not alive, not alive not alive i cannot find the spark until i look at another and leave myself but the way that i am most likely to do that is no longer open to me...

i will go the way of all bad souls... of all lost souls - not bad enough for hell, too bad for purgatory, i will take care of the unchristened babies that exist at hell's gates... perhaps, perhaps, perhaps...

so I will never feel that sense of connection again - didn't i live without it for 7 years? what is 30 or 40 years more? perhaps, perhaps, perhaps these alternative treatments will work, perhaps perhaps perhaps i will not have the other, perhaps perhaps perhaps hope springs eternal and i have so many blessings but more will be taken away should this out... i need to talk to my sister i am so afraid so afraid so afraid and i cannot let anyone touch me because of how i could hurt them in my quest for connection...

i leak pain out the edges
it slashes inside
and out - others
feel it cutting
away for relief

i leak pain out my edges
it falls from the tightness
of eyes shut wide
it etches rivulets
on well-worn cheeks

i leak pain out all edges
entrances and exits
it smells of sulfur
and burns like acid
from piece to piece

i leak pain where
once was hope
i leak dark where
once was light
i leak dank deep night

My God. Wow.

April 19

Spent most of the day agonizing over this journal entry. Nothing new to say. Considered skipping a day, but couldn't go through with it. (Discipline, symmetry, etc.) So I've decided to borrow a couple of journal entries by someone else:

"I cannot marry W. She still refuses to tell me the other letters in her name."

"Hope is not the thing with feathers; the thing with feathers is my nephew, Erich. I must take him to a specialist in Zurich."

~ from the book, Without Feathers by Woody Allen

lilredjammies said:

Pride really truly goeth before a fall. I was feeling very clever last night and proud of myself for making my friends laugh.

Large bit of the conversation in question:



So, I was all amused with myself (and Friend was laughing to the point she got the attention of her dog) and I was making a couple other friends laugh in other convos, and life was good and I was smug.

But back to my post-pride fall. I got home from work tonight, took out the trash, toured the yard to gloat at new growth and cuss out the weeds, and wandered into the backyard to see if there was any further progress in the plants growing up against the back of the house. I'm not sure how I missed these plants last spring--they're definitely not grass, as the leaves are much fatter and slicker. Nevertheless, I did miss them last year, and let Josh cut them down with the mower. I told Mom about them, and speculated that they could be some form of daylily, too early for glads, etc., etc., etc. I do remember saying, "They're a lot like grape hyacinths, but larger."

*blushes bright crimson*

That's because they are actual hyacinths. Cost-the-earth, smell-like-heaven, you-can't-afford-'em, a-purple-color-you-adore, you-let-Josh-defoliate-'em, a-lot-like-grape-hyacinths-but-larger hyacinths. I have absolutely lost all of my garden cred. I shall go smother myself in the compost heap out of shame.

Click to expand...

I HATE it when I do shit like that!

They are gonna grow back, right? And you will properly worship them?

Herpes journal entry 2, 4/18/06

I am infectious to myself. I went out with a new friend tonight – another queer woman with herpes. Seeing me rub my eye, she reminded me that I must be more careful – I must learn to NOT touch or rub my eyes or nose or mouth lest I spread the virus.

I am infectious to myself. During a breakout, after I pee or poop, I don’t wipe myself from front to back. I don’t wipe myself at all. Rather, I press wad after wad of toilet paper on each area separately until I am dry and clean.

I am infectious to myself. During a breakout, I cannot wash my genitals for fear of spreading the lesions to another part of my vulva, perineum or anus. I soak the outside of my genitals in a cup of Epson salts mixed with sea salt instead.

I am infectious to myself. During a breakout, and after my salt-soak, I dry my vulva, perineum and anus with several paper towels. I don’t rub. I press them against the infected areas, being careful that I don’t allow the infection to “crawl” further/

I am infectious to myself. During a breakout after my “paper towel dry” (recommended by the American Social Health Association: a blow dryer), using a mirror I carefully apply acyclovir cream, using a separate q-tip or latex finger cot for every blister.

I am infectious to myself. And I never thought I would become so frighteningly familiar with the feel of a facial itch left unscratched, or with the appearance and feel of my genitalia – vulva, perineum, anus.

Neon: Sympathies. Can't even imagine what that's like.


Evolution - overrated

Evolution's overrated. I've mentioned about the fact that a toothache that debilitates you completely isn't much of an evolutionary advantage and now I've discovered another flaw that shouldn't've got past it.

I came back from rugby and my head was aching so much that it wasn't true. I was driving at 20mph, cause I didn't trust my reactions at any higher speed and struggling to keep my eyes on the road. I got in and lay on the bed, feeling heat rushing off me in waves, blood pounding in my skull and my eyes vibrating at every movement. Vertical wasn't even remotely a possibility.

Yet, I knew exactly what the problem was. I woke up late today and didn't have time for more than a rushed breakfast, and then went and played rugby in baking heat, running around like a tamade shen jing bing. I was dehydrated and underfed; my body needed water, carbohydrates and possibly some protein. And then some more water.

So, how did my body choose to communicate its dire need for me to get up and find food and water? Through a headache that prevented me from standing and nausea that made the very thought of food turn my stomach. I managed to crawl far enough to get to a packet of crisps for quick, cheap energy and a paracetamol for my head. Then I just about staggered to the kitchen to organise the cure.

I'm fine now, but I've got to wonder what would've happened if I hadn't known that was what was wrong with me. My instinct wouldn't've been to eat or drink, but just to stay exactly where I was and cry. In evolutionary terms, I would've either starved to death, broken open my skull to try and release the evil spirits or been eaten by any predator that happened to be passing by. The laziest sabre tooth could've caught me. And I would've thanked him as I died, for putting me out of my misery.

How our species survived, I have no idea.

The Earl

I used to journal alot, I have a few notebooks full of letters to myself and people in my life. I called them "letters I've written never meaning to send" I've never sent one of them and never will. I like to read them every now and then to see how far I've grown over the past 10 years. It amazes me sometimes that I used to be that frightend, sad person and today I am confident and strong....I'm working on the happy part.

These days I use Live Journal to write things that amuse or frustrate me, as well as an outlet for my anger. Often I write things down because if I don't they roll around in my head until I do. Still, other times I think that my thoughts are just so brilliant........LOL!
____________________________________________
Here's an entry from a pretty good day:
March 13th, 2006
Chuck E. Rocks!!
3/13/06 11:48 pm

Tonight we went to Chuck E. Cheese. It was our son's reward for completing enough chores during the week. We got our pizza and salad and tokens and were ready for winning those tickets to trade in later for prizes!! Woo Hoo we're livin' large now!!!

While I was at the table eating my salad I was diggin' the tunes that Chuck E. and his friends were "playing". You know, that fake band they have on stage is really dumb looking. Anyhow, these are the three songs I heard and nearly fell over upon hearing: (mind you, they are bad covers done by Chuck E. Cheese!)
Big Country by Big Country
I'll Tumble For Ya by Culture Club
What I Like About You by The Romantics (yes, I knew that one, didn't have to look it up!)

Alright, I lied. Back in the last paragraph. I was dancing in my seat. I was loving it!! I'm just a sucker for a good tune! I can't help it. My foot gets to tappin' and before you can say Holy Fred Astaire I'm dancin'!

I found it amusing that these songs were chosen for a kid's place! Now I know why people think that Brittney Spears is talented. We feed our children bad copies of everything and wonder why their sense of exellence is faulty.

These days it seems that anyone can have a TV show, anyone can be a pop star. Where is all the F-ing talent? Where are all the dues paying talent? That's what I wanna know. Where is the performer who has played the small, dirty clubs and made just enough to have gas money to the next gig? The actor who has been in more bad productions than good ones and still loves his craft?

Oops, I feel a rant coming on.......didn't want to go there. Must be past my bed time.
_______________________________________________

A pretty silly thing to rant about, really... but it was bugging the ever-loving crud out of me at the time.

This is just my comtemplative, fairly amused ramblings. If it offends anyone, I'm sorry, but this is the most appropriate forum for it.

SO, I went to the House of Blues show in Orlando. And I walked out, while HIM was still on stage. I will probably never go to another HIM concert, unless it's something in an outdoor venue with age restrictions.

It had nothing to do with the band, they were actually very good live, and what I heard of their set was wonderful. I left because of the fans.

Maybe it's just the fact that I've been going to concerts for so long where it's over-18 only that I'm spoiled, or maybe I just learned a different set of rules for the pit, but I was whole-heartedly disgusted with the audience and their attitude.

The average age seemed to be sixteen, and a snotty, irritating sixteen at that. They were incredibly pushy, and rude not just to other people on the floor, but to the opening band, Aiden. Aiden is not my cup of tea, but I was raised better than to shout OVER the lead singer "HIM, HIM, HIM." These guys are doing their job, it would be the equivalent of someone repeatedly slapping you while you worked. The audience was also extremely physically pushy. They managed to knock people down, and then CONTINUE pushing while other people tried to help up the person who had gone down. The moshers would aim themselves at people not moshing, attempting to knock them around, and I feel sorry for the poor bastard who tried to grab my arm and swing me like a wrecking ball- just because I'm little doesn't mean I can't hurt you if you offer me violence.

My friend and I had finally had more than enough of the idiots on the floor, and went up to the secondary level. You'd think it would be more relaxed up there, right? The girl behind me, who was standing on a riser six inches above where I was, and was a good three inches taller than me in the first place, continuously kicked me behind the knees and attempted to shove her way through me to the railing. (She would have had to throw me OVER the railing to do that, but she didn't seem to care.) Why? She had a better view than I did, for the love of smelly socks!

So, yes, I walked out of the concert, gladly. Went back to the hotel with my girl, sat around drinking until 3, got up at 7 and came home.
[/end first rant]


On the way home, I heard the best song to describe my opinion of last night. No idea of the title or who it is, but the chorus is "Hot Topic is not punk rock!" I died laughing, had to pull over and catch my breath, because it just tickled me.

Us old people (you know, the ones who grew up in the late 70's an early 80's and remember who started the whole thing?) commonly call Hot Topic "Not Gothic." Yes, I have a couple items from Hot Topic, bought over the last few years, but my wardrobe doesn't center around it. And what they call "goth" this days makes me pull out my pictures from high school and wonder if we were just really snobby goths, or Eurotrash rejects.

Maybe I'm just old... but gothic, and punk, have gotten royally fucked over the last few years. Oh well... life goes on.

So, yes, basically, this whole rambling thing is to say shame on fans who have no manners, and that there will be at least one more ticket available for HIM concerts in Florida from now on... I won't go to another one.
[/end random, sarcastic musing]

I probably wouldn't have even gotten off on the Hot Topic tangent, except that I was so (and there was a little flushy person icon here, which didn't copy) about the show that I was ranting in general.

The thing is, I've been to everything from Christopher Cross to Disturbed, and everything in between. Hell, do you know how many popular punk/goth/emo bands are from my area? Presence, SR-71, the Cruxshadows, The Cold After, etc, etc etc... I'm not inexperienced with the crowds and insanity of the pit. I wouldn't havae been upset at all with the average age of the fans in the pit if they had followed the pit etiquette rules. (Yes, Virginia, there are MOSH PIT rules!) Here, I'll show you what I mean:

Normally, these are unspoken rules. Experienced moshers run over them with first-timers on the way to the concert (usually very sternly in my experience) and its just expected to be followed. Or rather, these are the rules that my generation apparently grew up on...

1. Spectators are not to be touched, unless they decide to join the mosh. You may verbally encourage them to join, but you don't force anyone into the pit. If you hit a spectator, make sure they're steady and okay beofre you bounce off. (The moshers were grabbing spectators and throwing them into the pit. That's how 14 year old first time concert goers get killed, you dumbfucks!)

2. If someone goes down, the people closest stop and get them back on their feet. The other moshers don't collide with the fallen or the people helping them up. (If someone fell in the pit, people were walking over top of them trying to get into the place where the person who fell had been standing.)

3. If someone shouts OUT, AIR, or HOLE, you let them out immediately. Help them move through the crowd so that they can get somewhere safe. (This one was the one that worried me most, considering the girl who passed out in front of me)

4. Crowd surfers have right of way. Get your hands up and help them stay up, help them get further on. Don't duck sideways and let them drop.

5. If you're the one surfing, use your body to help lighten the load, and if you haven't moved forward, sideways, or backwards in a few seconds, let them know to put you down. Otherwise, hands give out and you get dropped.

6. Protect yourself, and protect the people around you. If you're with a friend who doesn't know the rules, stay with them, or find a really big person and ask them to help you keep your friend safe.

7. Don't start fistfights. If blood is drawn, there had better be a damn good reason. Bruises and nosebleeds and split lips do happen, but come on, folks, don't grab the guy across from you's nipple rings and yank them out! IT'S RUDE! (and considering HIV infection rates these days... stupid.)

To be fair, I broke that rule, because NO ONE grabs me and starts using me as a battering ram, but I didn't actually start a fistfight, I opened the asshole up from elbow to wrist with my thumbnail used razorblade fashion. And then I spent the rest of the night scrubbing blood off of my hands, my clothes, and my mind. I hate having to hurt someone to get the point across that I am not a victim.

Public | May 04, 2006

Tuesday, May 9th, 2006
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12:48 pm - Breaking Away

I've just announced in my thread that I'm taking a break from the Lit forum, and as soon as I pressed the "Submit" button, I felt a lot better. Why? Because the forum, in addition to being a great place where I met many intelligent, nice & talented people, has lately been a huge distraction for me. I've got all these works in progress open in Word, yet I can't help but cruise the threads.

Enough is enough.

Maybe this was what my boyfriend had in mind when he decided to cut off the home DSL connection (as well as the cost issue he stated), because my brain is literally stuffed with ideas for stories and books, yet I can't sit down at the PC without checking my email or wanting to see if someone replied to my previous post.

It's time to take a break. I don't know for how long (hopefully not TOO long), but I'll still have IM running in case anyone wants to get a hold of me.

I'm not sad about this at all. I'm eager to write my ass off the way I know I can. Let's rock.

(posted August of last year)

Shaun's gone.

There's no mischievious spirit, no quiet shadow, no familiar ghost, in my house anymore. And I don't know why. He promised to never leave me, not as long as I needed him there, did his promise just become too weak to hold him to this plane? Or did he see something I didn't and decide I'd finally grown up enough to quit talking to the dead? Then again, maybe one man's derision and disbelief finally overwhelemed the over one's love and loyalty, and drove him away. Or maybe I'm just crazy and I was always alone, as I'm alone now.

And I am alone. I've been so effectively isolated that I don't even see where it began. My friends are a matter of static on a telephone line or the quickly passing conversations through letters and email, text messages and IM. The last time I saw anyone, actually had someone to sit down and talk to, was Ivy. Other than that, my conversations are with children, Jehovah's Witnesses, and myself. And he -still- manages to make me feel guilty if I want to take some time away from this thing I'm accepting as my life.

More than anything else, that makes me angry, at him, at myself. When did I become this silent little mouse who just accepts everything and doesn't fight back? When did I become a doormat? And more importantly, why am I staying a doormat? Someone stole my writing, plagiarized it, for the fourth or fifth time this year, and I just stepped back and let everyone assure me it was a good thing. I was mad as hell, granted, but I let them get away with it... BECAUSE I WAS TOLD TO! I don't remember who I even am anymore, except when I step into character and vanish into roleplay.

What's sad is that I'm not even making the character up. I just slip into the skin of one of the only two men I've ever really loved, throw a bit of fantasy into the story, and become my favorite mistake. Self-destructive, neurotic, confused as hell gay man with a smart mouth and a penchant for raising hell, craving something he doesn't even know how to want, even while he lets others (especially his male relatives) determine who and what he is and does... sound familiar? eh, the ending will be the same too, locking himself away with a double-barrelled shotgun and a prayer for forgiveness before he exits stage left and becomes just another forgotten drama queen.

Why am I doing this again?

FallingToFly said:

(posted August of last year)

Shaun's gone.

There's no mischievious spirit, no quiet shadow, no familiar ghost, in my house anymore. And I don't know why. He promised to never leave me, not as long as I needed him there, did his promise just become too weak to hold him to this plane? Or did he see something I didn't and decide I'd finally grown up enough to quit talking to the dead? Then again, maybe one man's derision and disbelief finally overwhelemed the over one's love and loyalty, and drove him away. Or maybe I'm just crazy and I was always alone, as I'm alone now.

And I am alone. I've been so effectively isolated that I don't even see where it began. My friends are a matter of static on a telephone line or the quickly passing conversations through letters and email, text messages and IM. The last time I saw anyone, actually had someone to sit down and talk to, was Ivy. Other than that, my conversations are with children, Jehovah's Witnesses, and myself. And he -still- manages to make me feel guilty if I want to take some time away from this thing I'm accepting as my life.

More than anything else, that makes me angry, at him, at myself. When did I become this silent little mouse who just accepts everything and doesn't fight back? When did I become a doormat? And more importantly, why am I staying a doormat? Someone stole my writing, plagiarized it, for the fourth or fifth time this year, and I just stepped back and let everyone assure me it was a good thing. I was mad as hell, granted, but I let them get away with it... BECAUSE I WAS TOLD TO! I don't remember who I even am anymore, except when I step into character and vanish into roleplay.

What's sad is that I'm not even making the character up. I just slip into the skin of one of the only two men I've ever really loved, throw a bit of fantasy into the story, and become my favorite mistake. Self-destructive, neurotic, confused as hell gay man with a smart mouth and a penchant for raising hell, craving something he doesn't even know how to want, even while he lets others (especially his male relatives) determine who and what he is and does... sound familiar? eh, the ending will be the same too, locking himself away with a double-barrelled shotgun and a prayer for forgiveness before he exits stage left and becomes just another forgotten drama queen.

Why am I doing this again?

Click to expand...

Fuck!

Friday, June 02, 2006

Progress

A few hours ago I had a major brainwave concerning the novel's plot & character development, and I was shocked to the core from the realization that I'm really going to give this a shot. I mean I was always serious about this project, but now I'm getting closer to finalizing the details of what I want to happen in the story and it is scary as hell.

I'm also incredibly excited, so excuse me for just a moment...

Jesus fucking Christ, I'm going to do it! I'm almost ready to go, oh my fucking god! Holy fuck! Shit!

*hops up and down, throws dishes on the floor*

Whew! I feel much better now. So after I had my literary epiphany (and took extensive notes as usual), I searched for my writing software so I could finally get the ball rolling. Couldn't find the disk to re-install the program because it's been donkey years since I fooled around with the thing (Dramatica) back when I was only toying with the idea of a novel, and after a very short time I had decided that I preferred Word a lot more. So the disk went off to obscure CD spiral hell and has since disappeared. Sigh.

So now I went and downloaded RoughDraft (thanks Ted & Abs!) so I could see what all the fuss is about. I'll have more time to experiment later today, I guess. I hope it's good.

I really want to do this. I can do this. I WILL do this.

Sunday, June 11th, 2006
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3:22 pm - The Truth is Out

Colly is gone forever.

We will all miss her kindness and rapier wit, her great sense of humor and her enormous talent.

If I had to sum up my emotions from this weekend in one word, it would be: RAW. I feel like I've been run through a meat grinder, from the very moment that Rob told me about what had happened. As we fought to keep silent until the situation was confirmed (Rob, Jammies & I), together we prayed that it was all just a sick joke. But it wasn't; the nightmare was real.

I still can't believe that she's really gone. It will take me a good long while to accept it yet, even though I knew deep in my heart that Melissa's messages were the truth. God, why did you have to take her so soon?

I wrote this for Colly. Goodbye, my friend. I know you are at peace now.


Numb - For Colly

I cannot laugh
I cannot cry
I cannot feel the wind
Nor see the sky

I am numb.

How is it possible
For the sun to shine
Or the world to turn
Without her in it?

I am in denial.

Cruel fate took her
In the bloom of youth
Robbing us all
Of her presence.

I am in a rage.

Such a sweet person
Equaled by no one
Unique in every way
We will love her forever.

I am honored.

Home Comforts

Ahhh, home. The place where you're always welcome, where you feel warm inside and where you know you can always go for comfort. It's so nice to be home, arriving back to some of my stuff dumped unceromoniously outside my bedroom door, along with a snitty note about my window.

No, wait. Home was where I just left, when I came here via train. This is some place different. "I remember this place," he says as he picks up the cushion that he donated to the living room, which is now looking significantly the worse for wear. "I thought it looked familiar. This is the seventh circle of hell."

Yes, it's true. Being in this house gives me warm fuzzy feelings akin to those you get when you stab yourself in the eye with a hot poker. Most of it is filled with people whom I don't particularly like. Their presence is oppressive and they seem to own every space that is not my bedroom. More often than not, they make every effort not to interact with me and the atmosphere is discordant like a broken bell. They're always in the living room or the kitchen and I can't leave my room without feeling like I'm intruding on their space. It's delightful.

So, here I am, in my room, surrounded by a load of junk that I've got to start sorting out and rationalising for my moving. This room has so many great memories in it. Like the thing with the sad music and kitchen implements. And that time when I felt so overwhelmed by the work facing me that I curled up into a ball and cried and cried and cried until it felt like I would turn my lungs inside out. Those were some good times. I wish I'd taken more pictures.

Home with my family is warm and comfortable and quiet. I can sit down on the nice leather settees and watch mindless crap on television there's not someone I dislike constantly sitting there, already occupying the room like a Black Widow. I can sleep on a bed that doesn't bow in the middle, in a room where there are far more good memories than bad. I can take a break from university, from work, from organising my stuff, from worrying about money, to worrying about my love life, from all the shitty, horrible things in my day-to-day life. And I can spend time with people whom I love more than anything in the world and who love me back, whose company I enjoy and who will always, always be there for me, no matter what.

God, I hate being back in this fucking city.

The Earl

From my normal journal, not the online one, written one day in the past week.

I'm supposed to be enjoying this trip with the man. It's supposed to be a reconnection and a rebirth, because he's finally clued in and realized that I'm already putting on my shoes and tightening the laces to walk. And he's being wonderful, warm and loving, witty and talkative, in general, he's the person I married nearly eight years ago again. It's amazing, and touching, and wonderful- but something once broken can't ever really be mended, and he destroyed so much of my trust, my self-confidence and my love for him, I'm never going to be able to truly forget. Forgiveness was passed a long time ago- what's left now is this uneven truce that will keep us together, and a certain knowledge that, because he gave me my greatest joy along with my greatest sorrow, I will never truly stop loving him either. I can accept that, and enjoy the rest of it as bonus tracks, right?

But all I feel is a dragging misery, because, part of me is already gone. I've always been- shall we say- selectively bisexual. I like women, specific women, now and then, but it has to be a woman I know, and have grown to desire, not some pretty thing that falls off the nearest bimbo tree. I'm not enough of a guy for that, I guess.

But there's someone dancing along the edges of my reality, someone who A) doesn't even know that I'm even in this turmoil and B) would probably be more inclined to be amazed, amused, and sympathetic in turns, but not feel the same in return. Fuck that, I already KNOW she doesn't. And that is breaking part of my heart.

I'm miserable without her around. And I know, having her on the phone or IM or talking via webcam isn't the same as having her in my house, my car, my bed and oh gods let's not go there, or I may go mad, but it's enough because I turn into the awkward, shy 13-year-old schoolboy when I'm this wrapped up in my emotions and desires and fumble all over the place when the object of such obsession is in the same room.

At a distance, I can be myself, the self I used to be, before life sideswiped me into this fucking hole. I'm quick and bright and sharp and clever and fun, the girl I used to be. Before the depression and I started fighting a long slow slide into alcoholism, before I was no longer something that occasionally even stopped me as I passed a mirror and made me wonder "Is that glowing thing -me?" Before my eyes went from striated gold and grey and green to this hopeless shade, like dirty fog, that they've turned into, before I went from what and who I was to this shadow.

I don't regret the choices I made. But now I have another set of choices, and either way I go, I'm going to end up cutting myself to ribbons. I can't/won't ever have her in my life the way I wish I could, so I'll settle for the deep friendship and easy banter we've laid the foundation for over the last six years. I can't/won't tear my babies apart because I suddenly realized "oops, Mommy's in love with a woman." THEY deserve better than that, more than that, and I would fight, and kill, and die for them if I had to. This.. this is nothing.

I keep telling myself that. And I believe it. When my baby looks up at me with those eyes that hold the entire sky in their depths, and smiles through them at me like I'm a goddess, it's worth every tiny rip inside my heart. When my oldest walks through the house singing, high and hoarse and clear as an angel, the voice I threw away with my own stupidity reborn in him, everything else dissolves. And when my Viking, my troubled boy with all of that rage and all that incredible depth, with his ironclad sense of justice and determination, lays his fierce head on my chest and puts those pale arms around me and says "Mommy, I love you," my world is suddenly at peace, despite everything else.

So I'm still walking the road I set for myself. My mother, bless and damn her soul, told me once that I'm a perfect martyr because I love the role. Bullshit. I hate this place, this twilight world, but I'm not a good enough liar, or a strong enough stone bitch, to break either side of the walls I'm stuck between and turn off the path. I can't have one without destroying the other, and compromise is becoming one of my finer skills.

I really wish I didn't feel this way.

FallingToFly said:

I really wish I didn't feel this way.

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You have all my sympathy.

The Earl

FallingToFly said:

I really wish I didn't feel this way.

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Holy fuck, sweetie.

This evening ...

50% Cotton, 50% Polyester, 0 Thread Count

lilredjammies said:

Let me say that my beloved friend Snicker, by whom I am forbidden to get mushy, is nonetheless the sister of my heart, the older sister who spoils me with birthday pressies from Lush to feed my jones for bath products, and who does things like change her MSN status to read "Hoping it was at minimum a 400 thread count date."

Unfortunately, it was more of a poly/cotton, NASCAR-print, 0 thread-count date. When your date walks towards your house and pauses to spit, that's really not a good sign. When he has a "spit bottle" in his car, that's an even worse sign. Chewing tobacco aside, we had a good time at dinner with Amy and Josh. Part of that was just eating at my favorite Mexican restaurant, which has incredible food for a decent price, but part of it was the company. I did manage to spill a small amount of salsa on my shirt and a drop of white chile con queso on my skin just above my neckline, but I otherwise managed to convey the food from my plate to my mouth without incident. I had to let a lot of the conversation swirl past me, not being a NASCAR fan, but I managed to get most of the jokes.

After dinner, Amy wanted to go to the XXX bookstore, so we did. Unfortunately, twice within the ten minute drive, my date used the "N" word, immediately followed by the excuse that he's not really a racist. Right. Non-racists use that word all the time. We did have fun at the bookstore. We were wandering around looking at everything, and of course one of the guys had to pick up and wave around the Great American Challenge. Thankfully, it was Amy and not one of the sleazies heading for the peep show in back who noticed the dried white flakes on my chest and handed me a tissue. Then, while we were looking at flavored oral sex gels, I made Amy almost collapse to the floor laughing. She was looking reading the flavors off and commenting, and when she got to "bubble gum" I answered, "Put that back, it's for Michael Jackson" The very best line of the night, though, came as I was standing at the counter looking at the glass dildos. I pointed to an absolutely beautiful one with bluish iridescent swirls and a rose in the knobbed handle end and asked the price, unaware Josh had come up behind me. Almost as soon as the words were out of the cashier's mouth, an outraged bass voice behind me bellowed, "One hundred and nine dollars for a GLASS WIENIE?" *snort*

After examining pretty much the entire inventory of the store, we headed back to my house, where we sat around and read the book of X-rated shots Mallie sent me, making sure to add "with MR. DICK" to the end of each drink name. I did notice that my date flirted with Amy and not with me, so perhaps the non-attraction was mutual. I do know that everyone, myself included, had fun, and sometimes, that's enough.

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What did I say the other day? Move to where S-Des lives.

Off the wall side-note: In my day the really gorgeous consumer sensual goods were found in "head shops" - bongs, hookahs, etc. Those still exist in dwindling numbers in a few places. Now the amazing and sometimes beautful cornucopias are in sex shops.