How do I know I love you? You scare me. I could tell you it’s because I would die for you, which I would, but dying‘s easy. If I were dead I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit anymore, and, quite frankly, that doesn’t seem so bad. The reason you scare me is because you make me want to deal with the shit so, maybe, I’ll actually live here, not just exist here. I don’t know if you’ve got demons like mine, but they can be a bitch. So you scare me because you make me want to face my demons so maybe I won’t lose you in their masochistic self destructive frivolity…and that’s real.
In a second floor office trying to determine if a bill matched the bid making it payable I got a text. It said “I love you”. Kids say that. Especially if they are 10 and you are still the center of their world.
The rest made no sense. She said she was sorry, but she had to go. She promised she’d be safe and she would see me in a few months. That is not shit a 10 year old should be telling you!
I called. Five times? Ten times? A hundred? I only remember that she wasn’t picking up. Two employees and a contractor now existed in a completely separate world I could only register as incoherent noise.
I retreated behind my office door with no explanation. I was to powerless to even speak. It took her voice to give me that much back. I didn’t scream. I checked my tears.
“I don’t understand, baby. What do you mean? Florida? Please go back to the school.”
I had to catch my breath and reign in the flood.
“Please go to Nana. Nana is going to be sick with worry. Please. I love you. Please go back to the school.”
I honestly couldn’t believe she agreed to go back. I had her put Nana on the phone just to be sure. Then I raced home. Longest drive of my life. Best hug at the end.
My daughter wanted to go with her friends to another state make money so we could get our own place. Immediately after a painful divorce I lost my job. I had a new one but it takes time to recover. It was a rough time. I’m not sure how far a group of run away 10 year old would get. The horrifying possibilities still make my throat raw. They’d planned. She’d stolen supplies from her Nana. She told me she didn’t realize it would scare me so much. Obviously I missed…a lot.
She told me she was sorry. I changed. We left it at that.
I wish I was a bear
Wrapped and warm in fur
Hidden away from winter wear
In sleep I would confer
I find that I am bare
Naked without my faith
Exposed and retreating where
Sleep becomes a wraith
I wish I had a bear
Stuffed full of love and hope
With button eyes so fair
Stable against this tightrope
I have all these wishes
And the warmth of friends that care
Full of love their dishes
My heart beats as the bear
I got the kind of news on thanksgiving day that you keep thinking you’re going to wake up to find it was just a bad dream. Mostly. I knew the possibility of it all. It shouldn’t come as a shock, but when it happens to someone you love very dearly, someone who affects so much of your life, it’s hard to get out of that denial.
Now it colors every aspect of my thoughts and I’m not sure what to write about.
If this was just a diary I would write any drivel that seeps across my addled brain. I’m kind of glad I have an audience…however small. It discourages me from wallowing in my own self pity. It still makes interesting topics difficult however.
So the answer is…write. That’s always the answer. No matter what. Write.
I’ve heard this phrase followed by “what the hell does that even mean?” a few times. It means you either keep the cake or you eat it. You don’t get to have it both ways. But why would you want to keep the cake? In the words of Kaylee Fry (Browncoat for life!): Cause I’m pretty.
I use this phrase when I want two things that contradict each other. I want to be rich, but I don’t want to work for it. I want to be paid to write, but only what I want to write. I want to be a kinky girl and a mom/accountant. You either get one or the other right? Well, I’ve been trying to have the last one both ways anyway.
I didn’t write last night because I’m unsure how my daughter meeting my boyfriend went. She’s not talking to me. I can’t believe I’m sharing this stuff publicly, but I have nothing else to write about otherwise, and I’m seriously trying to make this writing thing a habit. Anyway…teen not talking. Typical right? I started re-evaluating why this guy is in my life because this maybe the first honest roadblock I’m up against….and it’s a doozy. Is it worth it to try to work through my daughter not caring for him if that is the case?
First…seriously…is it just the kink? If I take that away do I still like what I have? I’m left with a guy that buys me stuff that I never have to worry about paying for in other ways. A guy that takes care of himself to the point I don’t have to worry about him at all…but I still do. A guy that remembers things about me like I don’t like pink (which he has fun putting me in pink because he’s a sadist, but I digress), or that I can’t eat gluten so he finds places I can eat, or remembers when I take my daughter to the doctor and asks how it went. Oh hell yeah I want to keep that shit for as long as I possibly can. Who has that?! No one I’ve ever met. He could never buy me another thing and I’d still walk barefoot through broken glass to stay with him because of the little things. Of course we are only coming up on our fourth month together. I’ll see where we are in four more.
As it stands right now I’ll not badger the girl on how she feels about the subject. They’ve met. He can actually come to the house once in a while instead of me trying to plan my life around the two of them separately. And in four more months maybe she’ll be like…yeah mom he’s cool and I’ll still have my little things. Then it won’t be a contradiction so I won’t have to worry about keeping cake, storing cake or eating cake….because you know what?
The cake is a lie.
“To trudge: the slow, weary depressing yet determine walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on.”
That’s me…tonight….with this stupid writing project.
“There’s nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein.” -Hemmingway
That’s all wrong. First…Hemingway did not say it (that I can actually find….someone named Red Smith might have) and second…no…no…it’s not fucking easy at all. Some days I look at the white space with its flashing cursor and the damn story or poem is actually written for me. Other (most) days I look at that same space and the little blinking line just sits there mocking me like the smug little shit it is. I could decide to write 365 days a year on how I love to write but I can’t, and then suddenly I would be able to write about that either.
The problem with the opening a vein routine, for me at least, is that I don’t want to fucking hear about it. It’s all daddy issues and fuck my childhood bullshit. And if I don’t want to hear about it than you certainly don’t want to hear about it. Well…you might want to hear about my daddy issues. Not the ones that happened when I was kid…no fuck that. I mean the aftermath. I’m dating a guy 30 years my senior who fucking rocks my world. Not sure if this is daddy issues or just a girl…standing in front of guy….waiting for him to beat her in the fun way because he’s fucking amazing at it. Heh heh.
Ok…I wrote. Fuck all this shit. Diablo 3. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have a little more to write about.
I remember a little way into my first year at college in 1996 I wanted to go home so I pack my shit up and I went. I want to now so bad today, but there isn’t one to go to. I don’t think there was back then either, but at least I didn’t have to worry about bills and grades. Life as a teen wasn’t so bad, but there was always an underlying dark yuck that followed me everywhere I was. Seems it still follows me. Everything is an almost…well almost everything. What do I have now?
- A wonderful healthy daughter
- A full belly
- A full tank of gas
- Rent will be paid next month at least
- A Car I love
- A man I love even if I haven’t told him that full out yet
- Friends that I love and love me
Life is good even if it isn’t perfect. One thing someone with a rough past can almost always say is that things have been worse. And if you are sitting where I’m sitting now you can say they tend to get better.
Home isn’t where the heart is or where you fall back to when you have no place to left fall. It may be for some people, and I guess home is something a little different for everyone, but for me home is where you make it. Just some days it’s a little harder to make than others, but that’s why I’m the Battle Raven.
She held her pieces in her hands
The way that only broken can
Looking up with pleading eyes
“Help me make it through the night”
When the last one broke her tether
She put herself back together
Looking in with beauty bold
She painted in the cracks with gold
Learning not to be afraid
Understanding what life has made
She holds herself in her hands
And no one needs to understand
“What to do if you find yourself stuck in a crack in the ground underneath a giant boulder you can’t move, with no hope of rescue. Consider how lucky you are that life has been good to you so far. Alternatively, if life hasn’t been good to you so far, which given your current circumstances seems more likely, consider how lucky you are that it won’t be troubling you much longer.”
It is my personal quest to find all the silver linings. I think it’s the bonus points in this game of life.
There’s this guy I like because he makes my heart race and that happens so rarely.
Fuck! If I’m afraid this shit won’t work.
Dear Guy I Like,
Here’s my freak flag. I didn’t have time to wrap it. If you like it, yay! If you don’t….::sad panda::
Being someone you’re not for a feeling may seem like the most appealing path. It’s an exhausting waste of time in the long run.