Chords.

 Something nudged at me to look you up today. You'd done it recently too, liked a couple of my posts. I saw you'd posted about a new love. I waited for an ache, a moment. There was nothing. I waited a long while to make sure. 

I remember how hard it was now, loving you. You weren't out. I was. I was older, more established. You less so. Fire and ice, day and night, yin and yang. True opposites. I wanted you to be proud, claim me as yours- not as property, but as your person. You were so afraid back then. It looks like you're less so now.

It's easy to see why we didn't work out now. Of course that's what time does, doesn't it? Spreads out like threads, making it easier to distinguish one thing from another. Tug on a chord, and track down a memory. Follow it, and if you've grown at all you'll see the subtle differences. 

I like to think we learned from each other. All the anger and hurt is gone from me now. It's crazy to think I met you six years ago...

Then why am I writing about this? You were the last woman I loved. I ponder often if that will always be the case. Others tried to win my regard, and I just wasn't ready for what they had to offer, nor wanting of them. I know I won't be the last for you. That doesn't make me sad though. Just a wondering. 

I wonder if you look back on our time with fondness now. If you see the good rising above the bad, especially with everything that happened in the end. If being with me helped you in any way, maybe taught you a thing or two. Maybe not, I'm not going to reach out and ask. I doubt we could be friends. 

I think one of the things I realize the most is how much I've changed. You were the last person I tried to wrap myself around. The last I tried to do everything for. Trying to fix in you what was broken in me. 

The scars still show, of course. From you and the ones who came before. My partner sees them- the battle scars that define my insecurities and past heartbreaks. Will they just give me lip service, like you did? Pour honey into my ear, and tell me what I want to hear rather than what they truly want? Will they not understand my queerness, my blackness, my hopes and dreams like the ones before? Will they ask for all of me, and not give back in return? 

I don't think so. I'm a different human now. They are too. Now I wonder how much of myself I actually gave to you, because this isn't the woman you claimed to love either. I'm sure you'd recognize bits and pieces, but the truth is- I don't entirely recognize myself. I like me, love me more. 

I hope you find her, who brings out the best in you. Yourself.

I wonder if I'd want to be friends with her too. No, not more than friends. That time is long gone. 

Maybe, maybe not. A happy fantasy maybe. Do we ever fully cut the chords of the people we gave ourselves to? I think that's another time question. I'm still younger than I think I am. Maybe that's an old lady question. 

I think I'm done tugging this chord. Cheers to endings, and beginnings. 

Less and less words.

 This is the longest we've gone since I've known you. You're not one with words, but you spoke more than we do now. 

And I hate it.

I know this was my call- I know what I want, what I hope. It doesn't make it any easier. 

It feels like a gamble, one I could lose big on. You could too, come to that. 

Gamble on me. Bother me. Choose me. Earn me. 

Or don't.

I'm gambling on you.

But let's be clear. No more grey. No more guessing. 

For all the missing, I'm less anxious. Not sure what that means either. 

This is where I can't be afraid of my dreams. Are you a part of them?

2020 piece of mind.

 Protecting my peace has come in forms I couldn't foresee. As a planner, it was downright frustrating.  In a year of challenges to everyone I know, we had to learn, adapt, decide.

For me, that was recognizing I am more than my job. I am me. Just me. 

Recognizing relationships that no longer serve- ones lacking empathy, and don't have my respect. 

Recalibrating my dreams to what I want, standing here and now. Not my past, or possible future self. 

Appreciating I'm flawed as I'm built, and loving the flaws that help me remain imperfect. They give me something to strive for. 

Reaffirming my reality is full of uncertainty. To hold the important ones close, to tell them, show them I love them. 

Crying is a superpower- emotional intelligence and awareness are gifts. 

After it all, I'm proud of who I've become, where I am. Even more excited about what comes next.

Finally, that Peter Pan has nothing on me. I plan to continue to cause good trouble. Good, memorable trouble. 

"She was already the sun and the moon, all by herself." -Up close and personal

A helpless romantic.

     I'm a helpless romantic. I know people usually say hopeless, but no- I mean helpless. As in I cannot for the life of me help my damn self. I have been all my life. In love with love- the idea, the act, the falling, the songs, the films. So here I am again, subjecting myself to another show about love. In particular, Modern Love on prime. I can't help but cry my little eyes out. 

    I've had all kinds of love- unrequited, fireworks, even the kind that just simmers. I've broken hearts, and had mine absolutely shattered.Yet here I am, bawling my eyes out watching these differing stories unfold. I can relate to many of them, others I can only empathize. Of course in moments like these, I can't help reflect on my loves, and trysts.

    The first girl I kissed, and slept with. The ones I snuck off and kissed because I wasn't ready to tell everyone I was a flaming queer who preferred the ladies. 

     The time I actually at one time was a borderline child bride, (alright I'm exaggerating. I was all of twenty one). Still, that's the longest relationship I've had to date. Wrapped within the same story is the high school sweetheart who was also an alcoholic, who happened to step out on me as well. How I allowed that to take up space through being twenty six... the amount of learning of good, and absolutely poor habits that came out of that one. Woof.  

    Or the gallivanting I did afterward. The rediscovery of my love for women, my putting that on a shelf for the guy who looked good on paper, and I almost moved across the country for. I was such a mess after my marriage, I let that one think everything he said and did was gold. Anyone who thinks silent treatments are a good idea to punish their partner can just fuck right off. Then when we were faced with the idea we could become parents, he ran for the hills. With finality,  and complete certainty. 

    The real heartbreak after that one because I almost gave away the damn farm, to more cavorting again to distract myself from the fact I realized I wanted to be a mum. To meeting her. 

    Oh man, she really almost ruined me. She may or may not deserve for more to be said, but really she was the final straw before I realized I couldn't just love them harder to get them to love me back. Maybe I should pack it in, get some therapy, and sort out myself.

To more trysts- the first lady after getting my heart properly stomped on, another one who said I love you too damn soon, to a guy who did the same. Between the people who do that, or the ones who continually try to get into my pants even years after we fooled around... still not sure if I should wear those moments as badges of honor, or wonder what I'm putting into the ether. I can't decide if it's flattering to still be considered fuckable. Being a woman is weird. 

To now- having an unnamed lead who may or may not remain unnamed. Ah well, I did say I was a helpless romantic. Fucking helpless.

Watching, reading, and listening to every kind of love story, looking at mine and wondering what any of it means, or if it means anything at all. 

Wondering if I'll always be helpless. If its still me taking myself out at the knees by choice, or the universe reminding me I don't control shit.

Back to these stories though- reminding me I'm not the only one. 

    

empathy.

"we're good right?"

 I respond in a manner complimentary to you.


You leave, and I'm torn.


Because you see, this isn't just a discussion. This isn't just a differing of opinion. I haven't had too much to drink, and you're not wrong. This is a constant state for me. This is living, and dying in my skin.

But the instant violation I feel. The having to tamp down on my emotions, because somehow emotions negates everything I'm thinking and feeling...you don't understand this is triggering for me, and I don't know how to help you to understand. You'll never stand in my shoes, nor me yours.

Just because you don't get it. Just because you cannot fathom my fear, my distrust, my entire existence... why does that cancel out all I am thinking? I'm feeling? Because in the moment I can't quote statistics for you? Because the overwhelming feeling to double over, to make myself small, to retreat... it's less real, because you do not understand it? Empathy.

And you don't see it.

I'm left in a painful place. A place I always have to live in. Don't express too much. Don't open up, because I do in moments of an extra drink, a vulnerable place- and it doesn't count. It never counts. Don't you see, I feel safer here. the loosening of my tongue... but you don't want that. Keep it an even keel.


So I self soothe when you leave. I excuse. While I'm torn apart.

All whilst you sleep. Because I told you we're good. And I'm not.

Behind the smile is bleeding.

How do I tell them?

I'm the one who slays the dragons. I'm the one who quells the fears. The fixer. The planner.

What happens when my capacity lessens?

I'm not good at it, you see. Being other than all those things.

Maybe it's fear of being let down. Maybe it's trust. Maybe they won't stay once I tell them. How do I tell them?

I'm a wreck more regularly now than ever. I'm doling out my anxieties in chewable bites, because I don't want it to be indigestible to others. I'm good at finding sunshine in the cracks. A gift, or a curse.

People can't seem to imagine I have an in between. My gray doesn't feel allowed. "But she's so happy..." I can be happy. I have my glimmers. I have this too.

What if they can't handle it? People are starting to see it though. I'm bleeding, and I can't stop it. I'm not alone.

They all have enough on their plate though- I feel so selfish ruminating on me and mine, and they don't ask. They don't ask. So I don't tell. They don't know the rule of three. Ask three times. The truth is in the third.

Falling back on acting skills honed over a lifetime.

Waking from nightmares. Crippling anxiety attacks. Crying in corners with my fist in my mouth- even I'm unprepared for the emotion being released.

I've protested all my life. In my mothers arms, then walking, running. Being the voice my father couldn't be. Screaming from rooftops, carrying signs. Being spit on, hearing slurs. Knowing I could die for this. Being in a place now I barely have the capacity to go out.

Can you imagine the warfare someone must feel to ask for basic common decency? What a privilege it is to not have the supreme court of a nation to decide you are valid- and you have rights too? Don't be mistaken- the women's vote, the civil rights act, the freedom to marry... things others took for granted. A past gone assumption for a few. Yet I wait for when my rights will be torn away.

I have never doubted in all my days my life is considered less valid. My country tells me so.

Don't tell me otherwise. In today's climate, it would make you a liar.

It doesn't help when people tell me they're worried. You think I'm not? I don't want to carry the burden of your worries- I'm tired enough. So I don't. Keep them to yourself. Stop telling me you're worried.

I'm tired. So tired.

 Losing people close to me, to a preventable illness. What if my father has another stroke from all the stress? When will I touch my mother again? As if it wasn't enough, watching society catch up to something I've known all along- I'm a second class citizen in a world I have to work twice as hard for half as much, and this is an epiphany for all of them. Then they keep piling up. The possibility of losing a business I've built all by myself... This is my reality.

I don't want a pity party. I don't want to bleed so people can see. Rationally I understand it's not weakness, but how is it not? To break in all the places that can break.

"Find solace in others". I'm not entirely sure I want your solace. They want to tell me we have these things in common- do we? They tell me they understand- do they?

I'm far from special- but imagine people who can't understand- socioeconomically, or by skin color, or gender, how I feel...

No- you fucking don't. It's okay, just don't pander to me. Please.

My nightmares are not yours. My fears, my torments. My coping mechanisms. Even as they break.

Goddamn it, don't you see? How can I ask you to hold space? You could be gone tomorrow. So could I.

How do you comfort the planner? The fixer? The slayer of dragons? How do they quell my fears?

a breath away.

How do I create it?

Space between our bodies? Separate myself from you?

I struggle to make space, to push you away.

What is it you want from me? I wish you'd just say it.

But I know you won't. You never really do. Just talk in lazy circles.

I swear I want to break away, I want you out of my head.

Then you say the word, and I'm lost again.

Goddamn it.


I don't like my thoughts being entangled, but yours are not.

How do I create it?

Space from you?