Tag Archives: present

Home

I looked at the calendar a couple of days ago and realized, with some surprise, that I have lived in Florida now for nearly three years.  I can still remember what it felt like to get off of the plane that carried me from Kentucky to Atlanta, with three thousand dollars in my checking account, no job, no apartment, nothing except a car that I’d bought that was waiting for me in Florida.  It was still more than I’d had seven months before that – seven months before that had me sitting, freezing, in a basement, playing World of Warcraft so that I didn’t get too bored while I waited, desperately for a phone call for a job.  I’d gotten the job in Kentucky.  It had given me enough money to make a fresh start elsewhere.  I took it.

Three years later, I find myself sitting in a fairly large apartment, with vaulted ceilings, in the land of eternal summer.  The beach is at my fingertips (though I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve been there since I moved here).  The sun shines the majority of the time.  I have a job that pays better than I ever could have dreamed (or ever could have had if I’d stayed in Kentucky).  I have, essentially, everything I ever wanted – at least materially – and I found it all within a couple of months of moving.  Moving may not solve all your problems (case in point, I am still single, with no legitimate prospects), but sometimes a change of scenery certainly helps.

That’s not to say it’s not hard sometimes.  I am, essentially, down here by myself.  When I got very sick this time last year, I had no real support system – aside from Gatsby/3.0 who made me feel as if the proposed tumor was more of an inconvenience for him than a serious issue for me.  My parents, family, sister, everyone lives 1000 miles away.  A two hour plane trip, yes, but a sixteen hour drive.  Some days I like it that way.  Other days, like when I’m sick, or on the holidays when it’s not so easy to just fly home so that I don’t have to sit here, alone, it’s hard.  And while I don’t let it show, I do get homesick sometimes.

Kentucky was not, by any means, all roses and daisies for me.  But still, there are roots there.  Roots that go deep.  And they’re undeniable.  I sit here, in Florida, in front of my television, in front of my computer, with my cat.  I sit here and I talk about these menial things that I’m doing in my life.  I sit here and I chat with my friends (most of whom still live up north) and I Skype with others.  And fairly frequently, I’m asked why I don’t just move home… or at least to Nashville… or maybe back to Louisville.  The fact of the matter is, I simply don’t want to.

Truth: visiting there is fun.  Going house to house, seeing people I don’t get to see very often, it’s like a big party all the time every time I get off the plane and get in my rental and drive the two hours to the little town.  It’s a nice change – a welcome change, really… to go from almost constant solitude to having people around me all the time.  There’s home cooked food.  And the air there is clean.  There’s no smog, the stars go on for miles, and when you go outside you can hear frogs and crickets… sometimes a coyote.  You see deer literally everywhere – which can be a bad thing if you’re driving.

And of course there’s my family, too.  My mother who loves to cook and who swears up and down that she never gets tired of me visiting.  And my father whose laugh is the best sound in the world to me sometimes (even if it’s from 1000 miles away, on the phone).  I do my best to get them to laugh.  When my father laughs… my little corner of Tampa gets a little bit brighter (if that’s even possible).  There are my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my sister, my best friend.  Lots of catching up to do, and it seems like we never really do seem to get completely caught up before I have to get on the plane again – though we certainly try as we work through the multitude of restaurants I absolutely have to hit up when I am there.

There is all of that… but then there’s Florida.  So many years I wanted to move here.  I can remember sitting in my house as a teenager, snow on the ground, wishing I could live somewhere that wasn’t so cold.  I can remember asking my now ex-husband time and time again to move here (he never wanted to move).  I finally got here.  And I did it all by myself.  And I’m ridiculously proud of that.  And financially, materially, it has been the best move of my life.  Yes it can get lonely sometimes, but, then, I wasn’t NOT lonely in Kentucky either.  I didn’t spend the last decade of my Kentucky life in that small town.  I spent it in the city… and I didn’t know anyone there either.  I tell myself that it’s no different.  And in many ways it isn’t.  But in most ways, in the majority of ways, I’m still happy here.  Happier in Florida than I can remember being in Kentucky – at least for the second half of my habitation there.  I know that if I did move back, that I’d no sooner settle in than I’d find myself unhappy again – and this time, unhappy and shivering in the middle of winter.

And yet, the rolling hills of Kentucky still call to me as I sit here, on my couch, listening to the mid-summer Florida thunderstorm outside my window.  Innately, I feel them drawing me in.  Beckoning to me to come back – to visit the family I grew up in.  To visit the graves of the family I never knew.  To spend time walking around the high school track where I can still feel the awkwardness of those stupid first dates in the bleachers, still hear the kids outside the school waiting for the first tone to sound.  In my mind’s eye, I can see the endless expanse of the corn fields down the highway and I can see the way that the sky, and the stars, seem to climb into the sky forever and ever – layers upon layers of eternity.  Kentucky calls to me when I am in Florida.

And yet, Florida calls to me when I am in Kentucky.  Surrounded by the clean, fresh air that I love, amused by my friends, comfortably pampered by my family, Florida beckons to me when I’m there.  It wants me back.  Tampa, the seductive city that she is, seems to throw out her arms and grab my hand, reminding me of the palm trees and the sound of the waves crashing into the beaches at night.  She sends me visions of the downtown areas that I love so well.  Palm Harbor, too, wants me to come back – the shops I love, the friends I’ve made there, the community that’s growing right before my eyes.

It is as if some days, I cannot win.  Some days, I feel myself being pulled into two opposing directions; the one where my history, for better or worse, is so deeply entrenched.  Where I will likely return, one day, to be buried with the rest of my family.  And the other where my present lies… possibly also my future, though, being the restless wanderer that I am, I’m always open to suggestions.  And then I realize… it’s not that each location, each life, is pulling me in two different directions.  It’s not that at all.  The truth of it is this: neither is pulling me anywhere.  Because I have something that not everyone has… I have two places that I can call home.  Whether I am here in Florida, whether I am there in Kentucky, I am home no matter where I go.

And, knowing that, I feel truly rich, indeed.

Karmic Debt

With the acknowledgement that the past resonates, the question, then, becomes WHY does it resonate?  If one believes in past lives, that we live again and again, learning things, making up for things we did incorrectly the last time, with the goal of becoming something better with the passage of each lifetime, then one could argue that the past resonates because those are the life lessons that we failed previously.  A second chance, per se.

But in my life… in this one… the past resonates often.  And it’s not the past lives… it’s this one.  Things echo.  People walk in and out of my life, more people come in to take their places, and the replacements resonate the way that the other ones do.  It’s like déjà vu.  I told someone not long ago that time is a funny thing.  It echoes.  It throws itself up in the air time and time again, the pieces get re-mixed, and then they all fall back down again.  In a new order, yes, but still the same old pieces – a reflection of what was.

I’m beginning to understand that now, particularly with what I’m doing with the men in my life.   Where two have now left, two others have taken their places.  Not in the same sense, no, but let’s start at the beginning.  I have only ever been madly in love with a man three times in my life.  There was my first fiancé, years and years ago.  When that ended, it took me months to recover.  There’s Buttface.  Who built that one up for a decade.  Getting over that, over it entirely, took forever too.  And then there’s Botboy.  Who I never really truly met, but it’s hard not to fall hard for someone when you speak to them daily, for hours out of the day, and when (whether they’re being real or not) they are everything you’ve been looking for for forever.  They have these things in common:  I was smitten with each of them in their time.  It also took an inordinate amount of time for me to recover from the fallout when it was over.  From the first two, I have recovered.  From the third… I’m mostly there.  It still pains me now and again but I am taking the pieces of that that I can salvage and making those mine.  Letting everything else go.

But that isn’t enough for Karma.  At least not for me.  See, she’s a bitch.  When I do something wrong, when I fuck something up, she makes me do it again.  And since, apparently, I am on my last life before I get to do “something else”, that means that whatever damage I do in this life, I have to fix in this life too.  So the past resonates.  Hard.  I have lessons to learn and no time to learn them in.  It’s like crunch time for finals.  It’s extreme.  But I’m dealing.  Anyway the two in question this evening are Buttface and Botboy.

I am not a bad person.  But I do like control.  I do like stability.  I do like to plan.  I like to know where things are going, what I am doing, and while I realize that you can’t plan for everything, christ, I try anyway.  So we’ll start with Buttface.  Ten years.  We waited to meet for ten years.  When we met, we tried to make it happen.  I believe he wanted it as much as I did.  But we were also both freshly divorced.  Things fell apart.  I don’t have enough words to go into detail here, but suffice it to say that out of a need to control, out of a need to understand, I suffocated him.  I was much younger, of course.  I didn’t realize what I was doing and I didn’t understand that I was killing from the inside what I was trying so hard to protect.  Things ended between us nastily.  My friend that I’d had for a decade was suddenly gone.  I was left to recover.  That was painful.  An impossible task, really.  But I did it.  We had one more small affair, casual that time, and then decided that we were better as friends.  We are friends to this day.  But it’s a hard won friendship.  There were years where we did not talk.  Long years.  I learned some things.  Hard won lessons, but I learned them.

Buttface = Metalhead

Enter Metalhead.  One of my best friends.  He’s had a blog… anyone who doesn’t know about him can go back and read about Rule Breaking.  But we’ve been friends since I moved to Florida.  He’s been one of my best friends through all of this.  We’ve had our periods where we didn’t talk, too, but that’s been more out of business than out of anger or frustration.  However it’s been interesting, at the very least, since we started sleeping together.  I’ve gotten to know him on an entirely different level, which is normal when you go from one level of friendship to another.  But it’s been bizarre too.  He doesn’t look anything like Buttface.  They are opposites right down to their height and hair color.  But their mannerisms, the way they approach life, the way that they respond to things… those things are exactly the same.

At first it was funny in a way, but then, as things progressed, as Metalhead started distancing himself, I started seeing things happening again.  I wasn’t controlling him… not at all.  I was keeping a lid on that, because after Buttface, I know better.  Hence the Karmic test.  Or part of it.  But I realized something else, too.  That I did not want carnal desires (I’ve always wanted to use that phrase!) to disrupt my friendship.  He was gone for a week, taking care of his kid.  I missed him, I missed the company.  I do not want a relationship with him, but I don’t want to lose my friend either.  And so, over drinks last night, we talked.  And we sorted it out.  He understands I’m not looking for anything else (because apparently he was worried about this), I told him that if this was going to fuck up the friendship we’ve built then I’d rather just stop it, and then we agreed to continue on for the time being with the way things are.  Airing out dirty laundry, communicating, that’s what friends do.  They don’t sit around and wonder… not communicate… not grow a pair and just ask (the way I refused to do with Buttface).

I apologized to Buttface for the past.  I squared things away with Metalhead (who still stays over, hangs out, is accompanying me on a trip I’m taking in a few weekends, yes we’re still having an affair because neither of us want to stop right now).  Everything is good there.  Karmic debt paid.  Hopefully this is a lesson I don’t have to continue to do over.

Botboy = Jesus

But there’s another one.  Botboy.  And it’s not the same lesson this time.  Not one of control.  Because with deployments, you realize you have very little and you learn to be okay with that.  Or you move on.  Deployment (his) taught me patience.  It taught me that I can’t always do things my way.  I am good with that.  What it did NOT teach me was not to jump into things headfirst without looking at what I’m jumping into.

And so, I’m doing it over.  There’s another overseas boy.  This one I call Jesus.  Because he physically looks like Jesus.  Same name as my first ex fiancé (the only other one of those).  Different country, but a similar situation.  The food sucks, the smiley faces are the same in the chats, the boredom is apparently the same, the movie watching, all of that is reminiscent.  And all of those things are minor.  Very amusing, but minor.   He doesn’t play with TransFormers, but in the midst of all of this, TransFormers are everywhere… on billboards.  On the freaking television.  On the back of vehicles I randomly pass in the road.  And then there is the girl.

I wrote about her.  I wrote about the girl that at least played some sort of part in the Botboy breakup (The Bot is the blog to reference for that one).  His ex wife, the one he said he did not want, but who wanted him.  The one who kept stalking him.  Torturing him.  Who had made his life more difficult than it needed to be and who, by proxy, made mine difficult.  With Bot, I chose to jump in anyway, knowing she was there, knowing he wasn’t over her, knowing that there was likely to be some baggage (though not knowing how much).  I made that choice.  I made that choice and then what looked like it was going to be okay, ended up not being okay.

Jesus has another woman in his life, too.  The same age (roughly).  And she looks just like her.  I mean these two women could be sisters (though they are not related to my knowledge).  And she says she loves him.  Red flags went off.  Immediately.  Because we learn, don’t we?  We learn from the past.  I had my heart stomped on, I wasn’t expecting it to be stomped on, because I trusted Bot.  It’s not that I don’t trust the new one… Jesus.  I have no reason not to trust him, but I don’t have a reason to trust him either.  And that’s the point.  We’ve not met face to face.  And we won’t until he gets home.

I’m not getting invested.  I can’t.  I’m intrigued by him.  But the girl may be a dealbreaker.  And what I have to learn this time is to let it go.  To let it develop in its own, if It’s going to develop, and leave it be if it isn’t.  I say this isn’t a lesson in control, and it isn’t for the most part.  This is a lesson in patience.  In waiting to see what happens.  In not jumping the gun out of desire.  And I’m learning it.  While it is a painful one to learn, because it is so reminiscent of what I’ve just gone through – what I just began to get over – over the last few months, I’m doing it.  Because I have to.

I have to learn to stop putting the cart before the horse.  I have to stop jumping the gun, I have to stop trying to make those choices for him.  Did we talk for six hours?  Yes.  Did I have fun?  Yes.  But that’s all it is right now.  And that’s all it’s going to be right now, because everyone has free will.  If he wants the other woman, he should have her.  Botboy did not want the ex wife… but I believe he did find someone else, much as I did not want to admit it for awhile.  So this lesson… this one is just letting time play out.  Let the chips fall where they will… let time do its rearranging and just to be okay with whatever design it chooses until it decides to throw them up again.

Karmic debt isn’t completely paid on this one… it’s a work in progress.  But I got this.

Salvaging

About six months ago, after Botboy decided he was going to move in with me when his deployment was over, I began to make preparations.  I cleaned my house from top to bottom.  I made room for all of his toys and clothes in my closet.  I made numerous trips to Goodwill, especially as his arrival got closer and I began to realize, with the arrival of each and every package, how imminent (and real) it all was.  By the time he arrived, his soap was in my bathroom.  His toys were in my closet.  The closet was half empty with empty hangers in the back anticipating the integration of his clothing.  My room had been redecorated and rearranged to better accommodate a second person.  I’d bought new lamps, new pillows for the other side of the bed.  I was ready.

And then things fell apart.  All of this is well documented here, I’m not going to go through the trouble of reliving it again.  But for weeks I looked at my apartment in disgust.  Yes, it looked better than it ever had.  Yes, it was prepared to take a second person if it needed to.  But that second person was gone.  And all the time, all the money I spent getting things ready seemed like a waste.  I didn’t have the heart to even touch the place to clean it for awhile, preferring to sleep elsewhere, to eat out.

So I spent my days at work, my evenings in classes for the psychic and witchcraft stuff I’m doing, my weekends exploring Florida, coming home only to sleep and watch TV occasionally.  The bed I kept clean, the couch I kept clean, the laundry I’d do.  But everything, including Bot’s things, stayed largely where it was when he walked out – his keys on the keyholder, his papers, his notes, everything right where I’d left it that day.  And then I was told to put it away… box it up… put it in the closet out of sight, where the negative energy wouldn’t be able to get out and I wouldn’t have to look at it every day.  It was imperative, my guides said, to do this if I were ever going to be able to properly move forward.

I did that.  And I started to move on.  As I said in a prior post, Metalhead’s living situation is a little questionable right now.  And by questionable, I mean he sort of doesn’t have one.  Up until recently, he’s been spending his nights and weekends in bars, drinking as he tried to find someplace to stay for the night.  Luckily for him, he’s had plenty of military buddies to crash with.  And this had been going on since his two-week drill a month ago.  With the recent developments, he’s been staying at my place most nights.

Here, he has a bed.  He doesn’t have to surf couches.  He doesn’t have to sleep in his car.  He’s using the Botboy’s soap that was left behind here.  The pillows I’d bought for Botboy are being put to good use.  And the company is nice for a change.  It’s been awesome to have someone to walk with when I take a walk at night, it’s been nice to have someone to cook for now and then.  And while my kitchen table looks like something out of a frat house right now since, thanks to him, I’ve revived my love for partying, we’re having a good time together.

Best of all, my life hasn’t had to change much.  Granted, I still stay up late some nights waiting so I can let him in the door, but even that’s not such a big deal.  I’m writing more and I’m getting things done.  He’s motivated me to get my life back together – back to what it was before it crashed down around my ears.  Are we still having our affair?  Yes.  I’m sticking with my original plan to not overthink it.  And I’m happy.

The reasons for that happiness are twofold.  First of all, because I get to hang out, very frequently, with one of my closer friends.  Second, though, and probably even more profound: I’m doing something for someone that needs it.  I’m giving my friend a place to stay while he gets his shit back together.  A place to shower.  A place to do his laundry (though I did some of it for him tonight – I enjoy laundry).  Something other than beer for dinner every night.  Stability, in the limited ways that I myself am able to provide it.

While all of those preparations I made before weren’t made for Metalhead, he’s getting the benefit of them.  “Everything happens for a reason,” he says.  And I agree with him.  I didn’t understand why, after doing all that work, it seemed to be for naught.  But now I wonder if all of that work was never for Botboy in the first place.  Maybe it was for Metalhead, who needs it more than Botboy would have.  It’s not permanent.  I know that.  He knows that.  But for now, he knows that there is always somewhere to lay his head.  And he knows that, next weekend, when he gets back from drill, there is a place to take a shower and get clean.

And for my part?  He’s giving back more than he knows.  I’m not lonely anymore.  This house isn’t empty anymore and I don’t feel like I’ve wasted my money.  Or my time.  Because it’s going to the benefit of someone else.  I can still go to my classes, but there’s someone to talk about it all with later.  “Life turns on a dime” as Stephen King writes.  He’s not lying.  It does.  This doesn’t fix everything, but he’s given me my confidence back.  He’s making me feel wanted again.  I’m having a good time and I’m finally able to take myself back for what I was, the parts I didn’t want to give up, before January.

And you know, I’ve realized something else.  I’m exactly where I am and I’m doing exactly what I’m doing, because that was what I was supposed to do all along.  If things had worked out with Bot, I wouldn’t be able to be here the way that I am for Metalhead.  I am a catch.  Metalhead reaffirms that frequently.  Whatever happened with Bot was not my fault, it’s not on me.  And I’m learning, slowly, not to ask questions.  To just take things as they come, appreciate the days for what they are.  I’ve always done that to some extent.  But I’m realizing the value of it now.  Because I don’t know what tomorrow will bring – perhaps something good, perhaps something less than good, but all of it for a purpose.  And I’m making it count.

And for the first time in months, I’m really excited now to see what happens next.

Rule Breaking

When we date, we set standards for ourselves.  Codes, if you will.  What we like, what we don’t.  What we will accept, what we won’t.  And I’m no exception.  A long time ago, I made up my own code and I continue to live by it.  I rarely break it… that happens only when the code is outdated, or when I find something worthy of breaking it for.  And that code has been with me for so long that following it is second nature… I don’t even really have to think about it anymore.  When it comes to dating, the rules have always been simple 1: Older than me.  2: Must have a job and a car.  3: Must be legitimately single (not hooked up, not married).  4:  Don’t shit where I eat (ie: date people I work with).  Other than that, it’s fair game.  And I’ve been successful at it.  Relatively.  I mean I’m not quite where I’d like to be, but at least my regrets have been minimal.

And then there was last weekend.  The setting?  A military ball.  A military ball I very randomly fell into.  I am not in the military.  I have a lot of friends who are.  And one of my best friends from work is included in that number.  He was going.  He asked me to accompany him.  I sort of owed him (since I couldn’t make it to his Christmas party last year), and so I went.  And I was excited about it.  He’s not a dancer.  Truth be told, I don’t know that I would have wanted to dance either.  But I rarely miss an opportunity to wear something fancy (and equally incredible shoes) and this would be something I’d never done before.  A good healing exercise, if nothing else.  I’d squared away the Botboy issues.  I’d made my peace.  Now the healing time was mine… and part of that healing was learning to be okay with being out there.  Going out with The Metalhead (a nickname he’s given himself for the purposes of this blog, stemming from his love for Metal) was safe.  We were friends.  Nothing had or would happen.  And he’d spent the last two and a half years watching my back… I knew this would be no different.

“I’m not drinking,” I told him.  I’d stopped doing that weeks ago.  He knew that, and so I was made the designated driver, because he’s no stranger to his alcohol.  I was fine with that.  He’d spent so much time watching my back that I didn’t mind watching his and making sure he got back safely.  And, since he had nowhere else to go after (his housing situation is a little questionable right now), I’d told him he could crash on my futon.

So, we drove to Orlando.  It was like the old days – the days before 3.0, when Metalhead and I used to hang out all the time.  I’d missed him.  At seven years younger than me, he’s been like the little brother I never had and because we like a lot of the same things, there is never any shortage of things to talk about.  We arrived.  He got suited up, I looked fantastic in my little red dress (and my rockin heels), and we went inside.  Two hours early.  I met his friends.  I stood back quietly while he did his thing… I can be shy in social situations at first.  No one even guessed, unless I told them, that I was considerably older.  It was flattering.  I don’t care how old you get, it never gets tiresome to be mistaken for a twenty-something.  Metalhead started drinking, his friends started drinking, then he asked me if I wanted something.  I thought about it.  Hard.  Wrestled with myself.  Then decided a glass of wine wouldn’t be a bad thing.  After all, I was going to be there for hours.  One glass wouldn’t do much to me anyway and it would at least make me look a little less out of place than I did.  So I got a glass.  And I drank it.  Then I had another.  I still didn’t feel much.  Maybe a little lighter, certainly a little less shy.  I started socializing with his friends some.  And then we took the shuttle over to the dinner (and the ballroom).

This is where things got interesting.  I bought two more drink tickets for myself for wine and sat down at a table where there was another glass of something quite blue (which, upon tasting it later, tasted a lot like blue raspberry kool-aid, like the stuff I drank as a child, but this was absolutely NOT Kool-Aid).  We sat through the ceremony, and then between the ceremony and dinner, decided to go outside so that some of his friends could smoke.  I’d been talking to his friend’s wife quite a bit that evening, and started talking to his friend as well.  They were cool… I liked them.  The wife and I were closer in age and got along famously (she was actually older than me).  Four drinks later (this puts me at a total of eight glasses of wine) and I’m feeling fantastic.  Metalhead is next to me, his friends are there, we’re chatting, we completely forget about dinner.  They’re sharing their cigar-strength e-cig with us, I’m taking a drag or two off of Metalhead’s cigarette, rules one and two (the no drinking, no smoking rules) broken.  And I begin to realize that we’re going to have to get a hotel.  Metalhead is shitfaced.  I am not in any condition to drive – I must be the worst designated driver ever.  But it was okay.  The couple offered to let us have their other bed, but I’m not one to bum things off of people and I wasn’t sure I was quite comfortable with that anyway, and so I began calling around to the hotels on International Drive to try to get a room.  There was nothing. 

At any rate, I needed different shoes, I decided.  The heels, after several hours, were killing me.  And so we began a quest to find Sebastian (my car).  We must have walked around the parking lot there three times, the second and third laps completely barefoot, before someone realized that the car would be in the other lot across the street.  We’d taken the shuttle over, after all.  That meant four lanes of traffic.  And my feet hurt.  Metalhead was behind me, taking care of his friend’s wife, who was also tired of walking barefoot.  Her husband picked me up awhile and carried me, though I insisted on walking across the street myself.  He held my hand instead, propositioning me the entire way to the car.

“Thank you for holding my hand,” he said. 

“Oh, it’s nothing, I wouldn’t be able to walk anyway,” I answered.

“You know what I’d like to do… I’d like to take you back to our room and give you the best head you have ever had in your life.”

I looked at him, mortified.  Yes, I was holding his hand (a cardinal sin for me, really, since I knew he was married) and now he was propositioning me?  I decided to use the same argument on him as I’d used on the Professor a year ago, “You’re married.” I said, pointedly, still holding his hand.

“But we have an agreement and she would be okay with it.”  At this point I looked behind us, Metalhead was escorting her through the parking lot.  I felt funny about it.  Something wasn’t right about it.  And even if I let him do that, I couldn’t reciprocate.  Even like this I have my limits.  And I told him this as we reached Sebastian.

“I don’t want you to reciprocate,” he said.  “I just want to give you head, and that will be that.”

“I don’t know,” I said as I opened my car door and threw my shoes inside.  I picked up my flip flops and began to put them on.  Metalhead had caught up and was standing next to me now… I wasn’t sure how much of this he’d heard.  At any rate, it was a little embarrassing.  I could barely stand and I asked for his shoulder.  He obliged and I held on as I stepped into my flip flops.  We’d never been this close before.  I mean we’d stood closely together at times, but never like this… close enough to… and then we kissed.  I don’t know if I went for it or if he did or if it was a mutual thing.  But we kissed.  And not just a little, it was a virtual makeout session. 

After putting on my shoes, finding a gift store, walking hand in hand with Metalhead to another bar where we ordered yet another drink, I decided I wanted to be outside again… I was feeling a little unwell at this point.  Shouldn’t drink anymore for awhile.  Metalhead and I exited the bar, the hotel, I didn’t see his friends for the rest of the evening as we walked around and around the hotel, stopping here and there to kiss again.  “I’ve wanted this for two and a half years,” he informed me during this hiking session.

“You have???” I said, incredulously.  “I had no idea.”

“Well, you were always with someone else.”  That was true.  I’d never spent any legitimate amount of time at work, or with the people I worked with, when I was single.  “And anyway, I had no idea what you would have done if I’d just gone for it.  I was going to wait until after we didn’t work in the same building anymore before I made a move.  That way if you tried to kick my ass we at least wouldn’t have to see each other.” 

I laughed.  Metalhead and I didn’t work for the same company anymore… not since the buyout.  But we were in the same building.  And we did see each other every day.  Third and Fourth rules broken:  He’s seven years younger, and this definitely classifies as shitting where I eat.  And for whatever reason, I just didn’t care.  He doesn’t act twenty-three.  I suppose deployment does that to you.  And if I were going to shit where I eat with anyone, it would be him… he’s not like the others.  He doesn’t talk.  I’ve known that for years, I’ve trusted him with a lot.  Long story short, he sobered up enough to drive and we headed out to the La Quinta by UCF to stay – the same hotel I’d stayed at with Rocketman at the beginning of last December.  And while we kissed, and while there was some heavy petting (and a bj), we didn’t have sex.  Mostly because there were no condoms available that were latex free in the vicinity, but also because I wasn’t ready for that yet.

But the funniest thing of all… I didn’t even think about Botboy.  Not much, anyway.  When I was rebounding with 3.0, all I could think about was him.  He was in my mind constantly.  It was impossible for me to bounce back from that.  I didn’t have time to wonder why, then.  I was much too comfortable right then and there, making out with my friend (who I felt like I was getting to know all over again) and later resting as he nursed me through my wine hangover the next morning.  Looking at it now, I think I understand.  3.0 is nice… and we’re friends… but repeating the past is not healing from it.  It’s just tearing open the wounds again, trying to patch them with a band-aid.  Metalhead is new.  At least in this way.  And even if we never did anything ever again, I knew it was possible to do that with someone new.  And that he’d wanted ME all this time?  Me?  The girl who spent six months waiting for a soldier who left as soon as he walked in the door?  It was an ego boost.  And it was something I needed to hear.

They say we are given what we need when we need it, if we just wait for it.  The universe has a really strange way of delivering sometimes… and especially this time.  But it delivered.  Yes, I broke all my rules.  I’d do it again (I HAVE done it again)… Metalhead and I are conducting our little affair quite quietly.  And it’s great.  It really is.  But I feel better.  I’m not dating right now… I don’t have the time, and I don’t have the interest.  The metaphysics (which Metalhead shares) is still very time consuming.  And I am still learning a lot about who I am and what I can do.  But to be able to say I’m okay, and to really MEAN it, and to not spend hours out of my day thinking about someone I cannot have… this is what healing really is. 

And I did it.  Thanks to wine, cigars, work, married people, a really good friend, and, the US Military which provided me with the setting for all of the crazy debauchery. 

After all, rules were made to be broken.

An Open Letter to the “D”.

D,

There never seems to be enough time to say what I need to say and when I do it always comes out wrong.  So I’m writing it here, knowing (from your quote last Friday) that you do, at least, sometimes still read the blog.  Maybe you’ll see this.  Maybe you won’t.  I think I prefer it that way.

I do not fully understand what happened in those days before your homecoming.  I know that whatever happened is not my fault, and that it is a product of events that transpired long before you walked into my life.  I know that whatever battles you still fight as a result of those things are yours to contend with and that there is absolutely nothing that I can do, save for what I am already doing, to make that any easier for you.  I cannot fight for you, I cannot help you unless you want me to.  I did not reach out because I did not know whether you would want me to.  I do not want to smother you.  I do not want to impede what you have to do in order to allow yourself to heal.

I wanted so much to join you, but because you do not seem to want me to, I left you alone.  Maybe that wasn’t the best tactic.  And that’s why I reached out and invited you to do something last Friday.  And it’s why on Friday I asked you to come watch those Dexter episodes and have dinner on Monday.  But I can only extend myself so much.  You don’t have to meet me halfway right now, but I do need you to meet me at least part of the way.

I cannot fix what is broken.  It’s not my fight.  But I can be here for you.  The way I have always been.  You are silent now, where you used to talk to me every day.  I miss you.  I miss what we had.  But I understand that this is the way it has to be.  You have to fix yourself.  I get that.  And we’ll take it slowly while you do.

I do not pretend to be the expert on everything.  But I do know what love is.  I know that love does not try to hurt anyone.  Love cannot hurt anyone.   It is not angry.  Someone that truly loved you would let you go.  Someone that truly loved you would, at least, let you be happy.  They would want that for you.  And they would not continually come back to haunt you, to torture you, to play games of emotional warfare.  I have never done that with you, or with anyone else, and I am not going to.  Love doesn’t hurt people.  People hurt people.  We both know who I am talking about here, and I want you to think about this:

After a weekend on a binge, you decided to stop drinking.  I told you then that I wanted you to be whole, and I told you I wanted all of you.  I meant it then.  I’m saying that again now.  I do want you to be whole.  You deserve to be whole, in every essence of the word.  But more than that, I want you to be happy.  Out of all of the people I have ever known, you deserve that the most.  I believed that I could make you happy.  I still believe that I can make you happy.  But you have to be ready to let yourself be happy.  I think you are getting there.

You aren’t looking for anyone else, you said.  I am not either.  And the ones that show up, I simply do not want.  There were two others.  One was from my past – and while it would have been easy to run back to that, I knew (and know even better now) that after having what I’ve had with you, I could not go back to someone who does not appreciate me for who I really am.  I could not be with someone who tries to change me.  The other is new.  He’s nice enough, but I can think of a hundred reasons why I do not want to be with him either.   I did another housecleaning last week, like the one I did when you and I met.  And with all of the other garbage, I threw those two out as well.  One went easily.  The other may fight a little… but in the end he will realize that there’s no chance.  I simply am not interested.

Because I meant what I said… I don’t want to see anyone else.   I know what I want, I want you, I want the D******.  I have never laughed so much or so hard with anyone else the way that I do when we are together (and even when we’re not).  I have never felt so comfortable with another human being so quickly in my life.  I told you on Friday that I believed that we could have done this, that it would have been easy.  I still believe that.  There is something here.  I know it.  So do you, I can tell.

I told you, when things began to fall apart, that I am here.  I meant that.  I am right here.  I am caring for your things as they arrive with the same dedication that I employed when you were away (though those two boxes you sent from before have still not gotten here).  My feelings for you have not changed.  And I am holding on, for the time being, because optimism, and my voices, tell me that I should.

You have not asked me to wait.  You have not told me to move forward, either.  You have only said, dejectedly almost, that you knew I would see others before telling me you weren’t looking for anyone else.

I do not know what to do.  But I remember, in those situations when I would ask you, you would always tell me to “do what feels right.”  It does not feel right to move on.  I do not want to move on.  And so, for the time being, I am waiting.  At least for awhile.  Partially because right now, with your boot-prints so fresh in my memory, I am not fit for anyone else.  But mostly because I believe in us, and moreso, I believe in you.

If you want me, though, I need you to act like it.  That does not mean I need you to run over here right this minute, but, you know as well as I do, the phone works both ways.  The Gchat works both ways.  I am waiting because I know what you CAN be, I had it for five months despite the massive distance, and I saw it for a few hours on Friday.  I believe that it is still there, even if you are afraid of it.

Truth be told, I, too, am afraid of it.  I am afraid of you.  I am afraid of someone who can possess me so completely that I am spoiled for anyone else.  But while I am afraid, I am also mesmerized.  For once in my life I am not looking over the fence.  I am in my own backyard, and while the grass may be dry and brittle right now, I have faith that it could be green again if we want it to be.  It’s the Law of Attraction, the “fake it till you make it” concept.  I believe that it can work, and I hope to science that I am not wrong.  I’m kind of in a vulnerable spot here.

Because things are so up in the air right now with my aunt, I canceled my vacation.  Unless something with her changes, I will be here before you leave.  I would like to see you before you go.  I would like to know, for certain, that there is something, however small, worth waiting for.  But I cannot reach out anymore, I have done that enough.  I will carry you, I will hold your hand, I will do whatever you need me to do, but I cannot do all the work.  I want you.  But I need you to want me back.  And I need you to show me that you do.  I have reached out twice.  Now it is your turn.

And so, unless you tell me otherwise, at least for the summer, I am here.  Skype is online again.  My phone is working.  Gchat is always available.  And when you are in town, if you want me, you can find me.  For the summer, these avenues are yours.  For the summer, I am waiting, occupying my time with my projects, taking it easy, trying to heal in my own way.

Once the summer is over, I’ll reevaluate.

 

Mesmerized,

V

Patience

I am losing my patience.

I never had much to begin with.  I’m the girl who wants what she wants, when she wants it, and if she can’t get it easily, she fights for it.  And while you might say that that is a form of patience, I disagree… fighting for it is my way of making sure I get it.  It’s progress.  It keeps me busy.  I am DOING something about it.

I am a control freak.  A control freak that has no patience.  A dangerous combination.  At least I’m not short tempered anymore.

It’s really quite interesting what goes on in my head.  On any given day, it’s full of plans for the things that I want and a strategy for making sure I get them.  Those plans float around alongside knowledge of all the things I DO NOT want to do – and ways to get out of having to do them.  Those swirl, clockwise, around a layer of frustrations I’m repressing because I do not want to lose my temper.  All crowded around a nexus of recognition – recognition of things, circumstances, situations I cannot control.  And the nexus often feeds back into my desires.  It’s a vicious cycle.

I can identify it.  I can’t navigate it sometimes.  My third eye can weed through it… at least it can see the eventual outcome of some of those uncontrollable circumstances.  But, as any sensible person knows, the third eye is fallible in the sense that it can see what IS and what WILL BE solely on the basis of current circumstances.  She is awake, and she is talking, and I am listening, but I am ever-aware that things change, and they change often, and that sometimes the things that change are changing due to circumstances beyond my control.

And having no control frustrates the hell out of me.  I don’t need full control.  I don’t need to have my hands on the steering wheel all the time (and I really do hate driving).  That said, if I’m not the one driving and I’m not the one navigating, I at least need to be able to call the shots on when I get lunch and when I get to have a pee break.  And when I don’t get that, though you’ll never see it, on the inside I’m the annoying little kid that kicks the back of your seat while you drive screaming, “Are we there yet?”

“Oh but you are navigating, and driving, it’s your life after all,” you’re probably saying.  But am I?   I am not a hermit, I do not live in this world by myself.  And because of that, I do not have utter control all the time.  On a more simplistic viewpoint, I don’t control the flow of traffic… I sit in it, just like everyone else, for some unknown reason.  More personally (and more complicatedly), some of the most intensive situations that I want to know the most about, and could really use some foresight on, are not solely up to me.  “If things stay the same, they’ll end up here,” she says.  But things DON’T stay the same.  That’s not how it works.  She doesn’t have an answer to that.

I live my life, but I also sit on the sidelines as an observer.  It’s like being the lifeguard of my very own swimming pool.  I am in the middle of it, swimming, but I am also in the chair with a whistle in my hand, ready to call it if I see some sort of infraction.  I should stop being so paranoid.  But then on the other hand, if I fire the lifeguard, and shit happens, there’ll be no one to tell me to get the fuck out.

The third eye has been restless lately.  I’m reminded of a quote that I read about the pineal and the third eye… someone who had awakened theirs described it like this:  “When it’s good it’s wonderful, when it’s bad it’s horrid, when I turn it off I am lost.”

I don’t know what it would be like to have a pineal that is not working.  Mine never turned off.  It’s how and why I can see what I see and do what I do.  But she’s been bad lately, and it’s been horrid, and it’s not even PMS week.  Which is why I’m paying a little more attention than I usually do.  I can’t turn it off… when it’s off, as I’ve said in an earlier post somewhere, it’s like being out in the middle of a crowded room, completely naked.  And anyway, likely it’s telling me that something is out of whack somewhere, or that something big is coming, and I need to prepare myself for it.  It just won’t tell me exactly what.  And so, blinded by the vagueness, I don’t know what to identify.  Though I have a few ideas.

I need patience to try to figure this out.  I need patience because I think a lot of it will turn right side up again very soon, in one way or another, and the only thing that is going to be able to rectify some of it is time.  But it’s gnawing at me in the same way that my once broken ankle gnaws at me when it’s getting ready to storm outside.

And my patience is wearing.

Crazy

There are voices in my head that tell me things.  They tell me what to do, they tell me what is, what was, and sometimes what is coming.  I’ll begin this entry with that, and also the affirmation that I am not crazy.  Not entirely.  Most of the time I trust the voices.  When they are at their peak, they have never steered me wrong.  They fuel my perceptions.  Together we are spot on.

There is one week out of the month, however, that I do not trust the voices.  I call it PMS week.  And during this week, they will say anything, ANYTHING, it seems to make me sabotage anything good that I may have going for me.  They will do ANYTHING to keep me on edge so that I lash out and yell at someone who is laughing a little too loudly.  During this week I am a mess of nerves, panic, anxiety, depression.  The conversations going on in my head are so ridiculous that I’m ashamed even to verbalize them and yet, what we make true in our minds becomes true whether we want it to or not.  And so it is a monthly battle to keep those demons at bay.  I certainly do not want to bring them out into the open.

I can’t really tell if it’s demons that take up residence in there for a week or if the voices just go on some kind of monthly hiatus and come back all amped up from their vacation, ready to wreak havoc on their usual digs.  I used to lose my temper a lot during PMS week.  My previous marriage, if it taught me anything, taught me to control my temper – at least better than I used to.  That’s not to say I do not get on edge.  When people laugh a little too loudly or when noises filter into my training office while I am working (and while it seems no one else is), I have to remind myself to stay calm and resist the urge to go out onto the floor and start screaming at the offender.  I keep my temper because I don’t like feeling guilty about things I would say or do at the height of it all.  That is enough motivation not to lose it.  My coworker’s laughter isn’t the only thing that gets me on edge, but it’s minor.  It’s a good example of how very extreme it can get.

But it manifests itself in different ways, too.  I am generally not an insecure person.  I’m not arrogant.  At least not most of the time.  But I am confident.  I model.  I write.  I do calligraphy fairly well.  I’m smart.  And I have a startup business.  I’m proud of all of these things, and I have every reason to be.  PMS week comes, though, and it doesn’t matter – none of these things, no matter how well I do them, are done well enough.  Last week I shelved the book I’d been writing for the last five years.  I did it because ultimately I had decided that going back and reliving the past, even fictionally, was more of a detriment to the person I was trying to become than I’d wanted to admit.  Like I said before, you can’t move forward if you have one foot stuck in the past.  I picked up the pen again and took up a completely different project – one based on fantasy, totally fiction, no basis in reality whatsoever.  (Because magical dwarves, demons, gargoyles, and gods/goddesses, and dragons don’t actually exist  – and people don’t travel on wooden ships either.)  I started writing it, the first few paragraphs… and then the voices started up.  They didn’t criticize the story.  They never criticize my writing (unless it’s warranted and in those cases, no matter what week it is, they are usually right). 

They got critical of other things.  Things I really can’t even be critical about because I do not know the whole story or have a full picture of the circumstances.  Logically I can’t make a judgment, but try telling them to be logical.  If they could jump around and laugh maniacally, they would do it.  Because for awhile, they were winning.  I got moody, depressed, insecure, anxious.  I panicked.  I stressed.  I hate the way that feels.

Worst of all, though, it fucks with my perceptions.  I felt distant this weekend.  Moreso than I have in months.  I don’t know if it’s perception or if it’s real.  The voices say it’s real.  If it were any other time of the month I would trust the voices.  And since I habitually trust the voices most of the time, it is difficult to tell them to shut up right this second.  I’m used to having perception.  I am used to being spot on about shit.  When I can’t be, I grasp for it because I can’t stand for it not to be there.  Without it, it’s almost like being naked in public (though probably worse for me, since I sort of enjoy being naked).

That’s why this weekend, particularly, was a struggle.  When less than favorable news came on Saturday, the voices went mad.  I tried to compensate for their madness.  I over-reached, and between their incessant screaming and my overcompensation for the fact that my instincts were way off, I did some damage.  I don’t know how much damage.  I’m not even sure if the damage I did was perceptible.  I hope it was not… damage that is imperceptible is much easier to fix than damage that is evident.  Irreversibly, though, things are different and once again, I’m in the dark.  I do not know if the difference is in my perception or if the difference is in the actual circumstance.  Logic and reason and the small tiny voices that are still in there that still have any kind of sense tell me to give it time, be patient, wait it out.  The ones in the forefront that seem to have taken speed or something over the last week want it NOW, NOW, NOW!!!  And when they don’t get it NOW they start pulling similarities between what is and what was – and what was is not a factor here.  I cannot, and I will not, apply the past to the present, even though they tell me that this is exactly what this is.  I think they lie.

It’s a waiting game.  I’m sitting here, because I called in to work today – I needed a mental health day, a day to get my shit together, a day to figure out what is and what is not.  I am taking steps to get this under control, once and for all.  I made some calls, things are getting done, but that will also take time.  Everything takes time and it is never my own time.  I sit, I wait, I observe.  I trust that sense will eventually be made – things will become clearer, because they always have before.  And whatever it is I blew out of proportion is probably not even remotely as bad as what I made it out to be. 

Patience is not one of my virtues.  It never has been.  I want what I want, when I want it.  My supply of patience has been anorexically thin most of my life – though it’s been gaining some weight lately out of necessity.  It becomes critically thin during this week of the month.  I’ve been doing better with it lately.  I slipped a little this weekend, but I am attempting to get a handle on it.  And praying that I didn’t fuck things up to irreparably.

Someone who read my blog once said that the reason they liked it was because it was honest, I take what is wrong with me, I identify it, and then I fix it.  Life is a learning experience, there is a learning curve here, though many times I have broken that learning curve, lost everything, had to start over.  I wonder sometimes how many second chances I’m going to be given.  And how many times I will take those second chances, do really well with them for awhile, then tear them to shreds and laugh at them while I watch them burn, only to look regretfully at their ashes once they are gone.  And then I realize that the only person who has any control over that is me.  And I laugh… not maniacally, but I laugh.  Because I am a doer.  I may not be able to have what I want right this second… the time for that may not be right now, though I cannot fathom why.  I can’t control the circumstances, but I can control how I react to them.  I may need some help this time, but even that is up to me.  So I’m making my calls, I’m getting this under control, and like everything else, I’m making it mine.

And, of course, praying that the voices will win this stupid mental battle sooner than later because I miss my Tarot cards.