​“I wanted everything I never had…” ~  ‘Alive’ by Sia

They played that song in my ballet class and I began crying. Softly, in the corner so perhaps no one noticed. Even now, just thinking about it…”I’m still breathing…” yes, but is breathing enough? Existence, survival…

“I saw my life in a stranger’s face…”   Is this akin to seeing your future in another’s eyes? Connecting so primally, at least for me, and you can only pray it’s mutual. I found myself asking “How soon is too soon to know?” To know in your bones that you want to nest under the skin of the one who crept in on their own, your heart like a dark, unlocked bedroom and they slip quietly under the covers and make you the ‘little spoon’. And you want to stay like that.

Or is it a reference to happening upon our Mirrors? Not our literal mirrors but a stranger who reminds us of ourselves. Recognizing ourselves in strangers? I saw a woman days ago who was built like I am right now. And I still thought she was beautiful, which is a thought I don’t apply to myself. And evidentially, from her body language –tugging at her shirt, shoulders hunched as if to hide her generous breasts—‘beautiful’ was a thought she did not apply to herself either.  

“You’re taught to cry in your pillow…”   Have I mentioned that sometimes I cry after I orgasm? Don’t worry guys, it’s only after sex-with-myself. It’s at that peak when you open your eyes and know that the person you just ‘used’ is not and will not be yours. That ecstatic moment which you fantasized about, possibly repeatedly, has never and likely never will happen. At the peak of orgasm, I feel acutely alone.

I’m leaving for my bucket-list trip to hike the Highlands for my 40th birthday this weekend. Note to self: Don’t get shit-faced at a pub on your bday. Not a foreign woman traveling solo, celebrating a milestone without anyone accountable to her, no ‘wingman’…could be a bad idea. I joked to my former roommate (still don’t know what to call him) “How do you say ‘Put on a condom’ in Gaelic?”

“No.” was his response.

I thought it was funny. He’s neutered so aside from swapping body fluids and risking the spread of STDs, he doesn’t use one.

Eight days alone, trekking and biking countless miles (I wonder if there is an app I can download on my phone to track my distance. Just out of curiosity). What is there to be worried about? “Are there bears in Scotland?” someone asked me. I said “I don’t think so. But there are sheep. Possibly rabid, blood-thirsty sheep. But I have a set of hiking poles which can double as Kali sticks. Yeah, I’ll just go Muy Thai on some sheep ass!”

“But I survived.”

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“I’m not alone cuz the TV’s on yeah…” Jimmy Eat World

I helped him pack out and he left at 3am. But he said “Goodbye” so that makes it okay. And maybe in a few weeks, months, I’ll really be okay with it, not take it so hard, so personally. Because my rational mind says it’s not at all personal but my heart aches for the friend that could have been. I wanted to help him, to hold him, to erase and shield him from all the hateful, hurtful abuse he’s suffered over the months from a poor emotional investment and in doing so, heal myself. Those who know and love me best have told that both my greatest strength and weakness is my heart.
I woke up alone in the house 7 hours later with the intention to keep to my usually peaceful weekend morning routine starting with good coffee and a breakfast. But the skillet sits cold on the stove because I’m not hungry. And coffee right now would only aggravate my anxiety, I tell myself. Because I am feeling anything but peaceful. I’m just feeling alone. And sad.
So I turn on the TV LOUD and give my dog a hug.

“Caring is Creepy” ~ The Shins

“Cardinals mate for life”, I recall him saying as I smile and watch the feathery couple bounce across my backyard, my dog and cat mutually disinterested.
And that is the word for him: Disinterested.
I thanked G-d for him too, literally. Just a few months ago, I thanked G-d for bringing a someone into my home who would be a friend, assist me with chores made difficult by my wavering health, he even said he would dance with me. I didnt ask, he offered. He set my expectations so how can I be at fault for believing? Innocent until proven guilty, truth until proven false. I especially trusted him because he also served and veterans generally dont fuck over other veterans. Be patient, my mother advised me. He was going through a divorce and a rough rebound. His head isnt screwed on straight, we agreed. Still, he disappeared for 2 months. Not a word to ask how I felt, how the latest surgery went. Nothing. I finally text him to ask “Do you still live here?” If I were a landlord, his shit would have been in the street. But I wanted a friend, not a tenant. He knew that.
He apologized, said I was “right about everything” and he would make it up to me, we would be friends. The first week, he did make an effort. We hung out, watched movies, talked, laughed, drank wine… but then he disappeared. Into his room without explanation. For two days, I hear his phone, text and email alerts, going off every few minutes at all hours. It’s maddening. As an empath (I dont know how to shut off the “give a fuck” no matter how often I read tips on Shielding) I continued to knock on his door and ask how he was, try to coax him out. He eventually got frustrated and “I’ll be out of here in 15 minutes” he announced as I stood there stunned. Later, he text to ask if he could stay through the month and be out in August. I”m not an asshole so I agreed although it’s difficult for me to share my pesonal safe space with someone who is not my friend, and I told him that.
Today he announced he’s moving to Atlanta, his apartment will be ready Monday. Total abandonment and a few months rent-free storage. He realizes it but just as my “Give a Fuck” wont turn off, his wont turn back on. So I wished him well and said if he regained his humanity later, to feel free to look me back up and re-friend me on Facebook. I’ll probably never hear from him again.
Less than 2 weeks between (what appeared to be a sincere, determined) “We WILL be friends” and “I’m leaving”.
I had a nightmare last Sunday night too. THe worst I’ve had in over a year. I went to bed happy after a dance and woke up 5 hours later screaming into my pillow, wishing to G-d I had someone to hold me. He was being reclusive in his room and I tried to coax him out. Of course, I’m too proud to call a friend or ask for help but here was this “friend” 10 steps away and I wanted him to come out. Hang out. Talk to me. Watch a movie, have a glass of wine and laugh like we did two nights earlier. A friendly distraction. But he only got irritated and left the house.
So I pushed him out. The “needy roomate” has a bad dream and wants a hug but I’m not on his short-list of people he cares about. But his phone goes off every few minutes with an incoming text or email to which he readily responds. That nightmare clung to me for two days. I hovered on the verge of a panic attack and was late to work, distracted, irritable, kept disappearing to the bathroom to cry. Granted, I’m surrounded by cohorts with some degree of PTSD but what do you say when they catch you red-eyed? I had a nightmare.
I feel so stupid. To be this upset, to feel so rejected and abandoned by someone who I hardly knew, even after 5 years of social media acquaintance and the shared venn diagram of social circles. Not “as advertised” certainly. But I was emotionally invested. Hey Empaths, how do YOU shut off your “give a fuck”? Can you? I’m not asking G-d to make me different in this sense, but some control would be nice. Like faucet valves, adjusting to a comfortable emotional temperature rather than being scalded or numb. Balance? Shielding? Advice?

Popular advice is to surround yourself with only positive people, cut negativity out of your life entirely. Isn’t that selfish? Everyone can’t be “up” all the time. Mother Teresa had bad days, years in fact. Would you cut a good person out of your life to save yourself? But because of this thought, I tell myself “Don’t call for help. Don’t bring anyone down with you.” So I hold it in (or spill it here, to an anonymous audience of none). Is that healthy? Somehow, I think not…

Hey but the good news is, I can return to walking around the house naked.

“This time at least I am not so cold” – Chvrches

Eclipse.

I made an agreement with myself that I would not write again until I had something positive to say.

In the months that passed, the last of my Zoo died (my sweet old sick kitty) , I gained back every pound (and then some more) that I had shed post-deployment, and yet, I am standing again at the mouth of the cave of depression. There is sunlight and there is hope.

What hasn’t changed is my relationship status. If I couldnt get laid for my birthday, I wanted to be having such a great time that I didnt care. So I traveled to Alaska for a blinding 3 day break to obscure the marking of my 39th year on this earth. It was too costly and circumstances prevented me from full immersion in nature but I hiked half way up a glacier, saw moose, and caught up with an old Army buddy, green beret-turned-Alaskan state trooper. So, worth it.

Still, from the moment the plane taxied back into my home state, the panic set in. The desperation. The loneliness. The paranoia. Things at work got worse (and that is all I can or care to say about that). I began cognitive therapy. Only a few sessions, unfortunately. I appreciate the theory of rewiring the brain but like teaching an old dog new tricks, it takes time and practice. Like writing, I did not dedicate my time and energy towards it.

Then another major disappointment from family. I am close to my family even if they are not close to me and this was the biggest blow to my heart to date. The brutal undeniable revelation that I do not mean to others what they mean to me. Not by a fraction.

Deeper I went. My anger boiled over and I lost control. What was worse is I didn’t care about the collateral damage of my rage. Fuck ‘em all.

I walked out of work.

I quit therapy.

I continued to make plans and never kept any of them.

I stopped dancing.

Everything full-stop.

Then my Jewish mother suggested I call a Catholic Priest. “There is something lingering from your last deployment that even a year later, you haven’t been able to shake. I think that’s why the cat still wont come near you. You need to be blessed. So does your home.” Why call a Catholic? Because I don’t know of any Rabbis who do this sort of thing. I still cant say the word ‘witch’ because that alludes to a power that I do not feel that I possess. Still, I have performed rituals to include clearing my home. I hadn’t done it since the Spring but even that, ‘casting’, ritual prayer, was something else I had stopped doing. As I have said before, my faith was long gone and if I prayed, it was only out of habit. And here may have come a point where perhaps, I required outside intervention.

I called the city Diocese (which oddly, is less than 2 miles from my home) to ask if a priest would be willing to bless my home, but he was out of town. I then put out a call to a couple of Wiccan witch friends of mine and asked if they might know anyone “but it must be done in the name of G-d and in Christ” I explained. Later, one of them called me back to say she knew of someone who was a “Light Worker”. A Catholic, ordained, a psychic, a Christian “witch”. I was skeptical. I truly don’t deal with psychics much and really preferred a Priest. But in the short span of a 15 minute phone conversation with this woman, I knew she was the real deal. More intuitive than any ‘psychic’ I had ever met–of course she ‘knew things’– but most importantly, she was a saved Christian and everything she did was in the His name. She confirmed that ‘nothing lurks’ in my home and the darkness came from me. So she blessed me and cleared the home regardless. But we spent over an hour talking before the holy water began to fly. We also performed a banishing ritual. It was one I had performed before: names on paper, people to forgive, painful events to release, we prayed over them, then burned them. Oils, sage, candles, holy water, a bible, a crucifix… The paper turned to ash in the space of a breath. I was ready to let go, she determined.

“You are a spiritual woman,” she explained later, “you are not of this world so why are you allowing yourself to be so burdened by it?” And stop projecting myself onto others then being let down when they fail me. Let go or be dragged. Brilliant words of wisdom from Pinterest.

I wont go into the details (too personal, too lengthy) but I was unburdened that evening and have been in the weeks since. Her first words to me when we spoke over the phone was “I see an Eclipse. G-d is still there. You don’t see or feel Him but he IS STILL THERE in your life.” I hadn’t even admitted to her yet that that was my intent, my wish. I didn’t need a husband, or a lover, or sex, or family or kids or a better job or body…I needed peace. I needed G-d back in my life. I was going to tell her that but before I could, she told me He had never left.

To paraphrase, C. S. Lewis said that we were never meant to be at peace in this world lest we never wish to leave it for something greater. At best, we would catch brief respites of peace, to leave us desiring more.

I am at the mouth of the cave and the sun is warm on my face…

“My tears dry on their own” Amy Winehouse

I quit the swing scene several months ago because it had gotten too Scene-y. Young men wanted to dance with girls their own age and men my age-ish wanted to dance with the young girls. If you stood us all in a line, it doesn’t matter who is the better dancer. It matters who is young and thin and cute. I’m pretty. But I’m also in my late thirties and covered in tattoos which can be a little intimidating I realize. I’m more of a pussy cat than a kat von D. Maybe that’s not entirely true either but I AM very nice.

But tonight was a big dance and I decided to go. I was having an “okay” time until a guy…lemme preface to say this guy hit me up on Match.com 18mos ago. He is a swing dancer, recognized me, a high school teacher,  a crossfit stud and looks damned fine in a kilt. He asked ME out. But for whatever reason, he changed his mind. Backed out. Made an excuse. But I still saw him at dances, sometimes alone, sometimes with an age- inappropriate female. I asked him once if he brought one of his students to dance. Har dee Har har. Yes he’s part of the Scene. Still, we would dance, joke, chat casually. Tonight he shows up, gives me a hug and introduces me to his fiance.
What. The. Fuck.

Again, it’s not like he’s the love of my life. It’s just what it represents. What was wrong with me? I’m looking at his fiance and wondering this. Like When Harry Met Sally: it’s not that he’s getting married, it’s that he didn’t want me.

I left early. The place was stupid crowded and smelled like a high school gym full of unwashed jock straps.

I’ve replaced Swing with Salsa and bachata anyway which I’m doing fairly well at and so far, the other dancers are more accepting and personable. If there is a Scene, I’ve been invited to be part of it.

On another note, have you ever heard that the grocery store is a great place to meet someone? With this in the back of my mind, I’ll drive out of my hood to what I refer to as the Fancy Publix. I’ll stop after work when I’m in heels and a pencil skirt. Likewise, I see men in slacks and collars recently unbuttoned. None pay me or my salad and hagen daaz any mind.
As I’m unloading my groceries into the trunk, a blacked out sedan rolls up and the window rolls down. Dred locks and a grill like Lil Wayne, he asks me if I could use a friend. I have a lot of friends already, I say. How about a Loving friend? I have one of those too, I lied. But I smile and say thank you anyway and have a nice evening.

I need a distraction. Desperately. Dear G-d and a wish on the waxing moon, please please please… I don’t want to be a sexual camel anymore!

“Take these lips, I’ll never use them…” F.Sinatra

I almost titled this post “Will someone just come over and eat my pussy now?” but I dont really want that. Yes, I want someone to touch me. All hands, lips, tongue and hair, I want to be naked and sweating and enjoying orgasm after orgasm while pressed against the body of a man but a PARTICULAR man and therein is the catch.

My life is a b-rated rom-com. Tragic becuase like Shakespeare in Love, the comedy is there all along but the tragic ending is unpredictable and leaves you sitting there like “What the hell just happened? He DIED???”

I was celebrating not being dead below the waist these last…4? 6 weeks? I think of him often but resist reaching out. Because I had a distraction. The first person I have been attracted to since ‘him’. But I dont like to poop where I eat so I just fantasized about this quiet, reserved man at work and wondered if he was a freak under the ties and proper button ups. When he powered through my spicy adobo pork at a work-place potluck a couple weeks ago, sweating without protest like Ben Stiller’s character in “Along Came Polly” (romcom sans tragedy), he endeared himself to me and I began to to brainstorm ways how I might ask him out, or at least elicit the infomration from a third party if he would be interested in going out with me. By now, he was working elsewhere, no longer in the same building and I thought “Fair game!” Finally, tonight was the night, I decided. I had plans to meet up with coworkers after work at the American Legion and decided I would ask a female acquaintance of mine, one who used to work with him, if she thought I had a chance and if so, would she pass him my number.
Turns out, she and I were the only ones who showed up. Perfect! Uninhibited girl talk ensued and for an hour, I listened enthusiastically while she told me all about her amazing new boyfriend who she had been with for three months and counting. He wasnt her ‘type’ because he was reserved but oh-so-affectionate and crazy about her. He even started taking salsa lessons because he knew dancing was important to her. I immediately chirped “Wow! He’s a keeper! I wish I could find that!”
Then I slid into the question I wanted to ask…about this guy. Ive always been interested but didnt want to date a coworker but now that we arent coworkers anymore…do you think he would consider having a drink with me?
She turned 30 shades of red and replied “That’s who Ive been dating for the last three months.”

A friend once advised me that a closed mouth never gets fed. You have to take a chance. Ask. What is the worst that could happen? He’s not interested? No. The worst that could happen is he recently started dating someone else, the person you just asked to set you up. With her boyfriend. And turns out, from everything she just told you, he’s every bit as amazing as you imagined he would be in your fantasy world.
Oh but wait! It gets better! I played it off and after the initial awkward moment passed, she was oblivious to the depth of my disappointment and continued for another HOUR to tell me more about how wonderful he was: how it all started, the romance, how he is surprisingly a freak in the sheets. (the quiet ones always are, right?)
She talked. I smiled. I screamed inwardly “Please G-d make it stop, just get me OUT of here!”

A storm rolls in and we call it a night. It’s an early night. I had a kitchen pass in the form of a pet-sitter but nowhere to go. I sat in my car and cried at my luck.That’s my luck! I didnt want to go home but I had nowhere to go. Plenty of friends but no single friends. I could go somewhere else, anywhere else alone to grab a bite and have another drink but my face was a wreck now.

So I drove home. Crying the whole way.

Get home and the dog and his crate was covered in shit and piss.
My elderly incontinent cat was also covered in shit and piss.

I clwaned the dog and his crate.
Then I bathed the cat.
All the while thinking “This is my life. Friday night. Alone. Lonely. Cleaning up shit and piss.” And what will I do tomorrow? Oh, I’ have plans and I’ll stay busy but I will clean up shit and piss again and go to bed alone again.
And the next day. And the next night.
And the next week. And the next month.

I couldnt decide if I wanted wine or liquor. So I’m drinking both. Cheap wine with whatever was left, about two shots worth, of whipped vodka in a 7-11 sippee cup with a lid.
And typing this.
I havent taken a Xanax in probably two months but the wind has been knocked out of me and I dont think I have the energy to do anything at all right now. Even if I had options.

I’m attending the Army ball next month with a few coworkers and invited my dance partner along (who’s super-cool girlfriend isnt the insecure, jealous type) to be… not my date but my wingman. We will be amazing on the dancefloor and he advised me to wear a ‘fuck me right now!” dress that would have every man in the place forgetting about their own dates when they see me.

Thankfully, my shattered crush wont be attending as my coworkers date but she admitted they woudl have a quickie before she leaves for the ball and then fuck the rest of the night when it’s over. He’ll probably just hike her sequined gown up and tear her panties off. That’s what he was doing to me in my mind these last two months.

But I will look amazing and still go home alone.

Did I mention he’s taking salsa lessons for her?

Fuck. You. Life.

Now who do I masturbate to?

“The beautiful people, the beautiful people…”

Or as Manson said it last weekend, “The beeeeuuuhhhfffuuuuhhhh…” before he fell off the stage. Whether he’s on his game or out of his mind with coke, he’s always entertaining. Last Summer, I saw him in a much more intimate venue and all he could do was Bitch about the heat. Then take off the fur coat, Huggy Bear. Last weekend in Charlotte, he went on after dark with makeup that looked like he had been attacked by a toddler with a blue sharpie. His first two missteps were mild and the band hiccupped to catch up but shortly into the set, Manson decided it was already time for an intermission, a refreshment break, as he snorted a bag of powdered sugar. No kiddies, don’t put the sugar up your nose.
He was done after that. Incoherent mumbling about aliens and his mummified cat, knocking over equipment while security followed behind, unsure what to do. So they turned the lights off and killed the sound so that all you could hear was my friend and I cackling. Awesome!

It was a 2 day dirt rawk fest in NC. Two days in a dusty field with 40000 rednecks. I didn’t particularly enjoy it but then a decade+ in radio spoiled me. I kept thinking about the last time I saw these bands…from the wings of the stage, usually after I just brought them on or interviewed them.

And I probably shouldn’t admit this but two days later, I skipped a Flogging Molly show so that I could crack open a bottle of wine, wax my legs and catch up on Game of Thrones. Yes, I’ve seen them (and met and interviewed them) and they are always fantastic live but I was tired gdmmit and at my age, require a minimum amount of sleep in order to function at work the following day. Because I don’t know what you do for a living but I’m a superhero trying to save the world daily and it’s exhausting.
And makes me miss radio.
But being a superhero (yes, little “s” intended) pays slightly better.
When I think about setting up my studio at home or even going back to work commercially part time just for the fun of it, I remember that I value my down time more than airtime now.
——

And dating is a chore. I haven’t bothered to go out with anyone in a few weeks. Better things to do. Yes, wiseass,  like wax my legs and watch Game of Thrones.
I’m amazed though at how many 20-somethings hit me up though. I tell them that I’m of an age to be their much older sister and joke that I am not prepared to play Demi to their Ashton. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before the novelty wears off and an age-appropriate Mila comes along.

Sheeeeee-it, Mila is hot! I’d go Black Swan for her.

“Looking for my sole mate”

“u cute” Yeah, me also literate. The majority of men who are messaging me on the other hand…I can’t tell if they are dumb or just lazy. Neither impress me.

“I love your eyes, your hair, your tattoos your smile. We should meet” Thanks but you forgot to mention a non-physical quality that you like. “Huh?” Did you read my profile or just look at my pictures? …delete.

“Do you date younger men?” You’re only three years younger, stud.

“This is a landline. When is a good time to call?” When you join the 21st century and get a cell phone.

“I know someone who needs to come see me to tonight” Yeah? Who’s that? Tooth fairy? ‘Cuz it sure as hell isn’t me. If you expect a woman to come to you, you probably also expect her to pay for dinner and open YOUR door.

“I like good food and I like to laugh…” Oh not me! I prefer to eat shit sammiches and be miserable.

“I served in the military. Well, I mean, I went to boot camp and everything but dropped out because my mom and girlfriend at the time didn’t want me to go”. You mean you washed out. Loser. And you’re blaming your mom and ex-girlfriend. Double loser. And you claim to have served in the military. Douchenozzle.

“Wait I think I just dropped something…my jaw!” (Forehead slap!)

“It’s a lonely road where the forgotten go…” ~Elle King

There’s a song for that. A lyric to compliment every thought, feeling. They come to me the way my brother quotes movies in place of conversation. But right now, I can only thing of two lines: This is the world’s slowest suicide & happiness is my writers block. I can lay claim to neither. They come from writers, bloggers such as myself, with a much larger following than I have. And rightfully so because of lines like that. I think “That’s it! That’s EXACTLY what I was trying to say but you found the words first”. Tipping my hat to “MyRedAbyss” here. Yes, this feels like a slow suicide. And yes, happiness, or really just apathy leave me too uninspired or tired to write. I also challenged myself not to write anything until I could spit out something lighthearted for a change. So I waited.
And still wait.
Depression sucks the life out of me slowly and yet…
I wonder if I’m getting better? Either the medication adjustment is working or I’m getting over him. Or maybe the medication is the reason I’m getting over him. The doctor tweaked the dose. Instead of the archaic formulary that the VA prefers, she wrote me a prescription to take to a drugstore. Because at least for the moment, I have health insurance and can afford ‘the good stuff’. I’m almost afraid to admit I’m regaining a sense of balance and control. Like if I acknowledge it, it will disappear. G-d is such a prankster. Ha!
But I’m also starting to hate him. Or so I tell myself. As pain ages, it turns bitter and black. Love gone rancid.
But I continue to get out of bed (most days), go to work, dance if I can muster the energy, go through the motions of living. Watch the days fall off the calendar and teeter somewhere between ambivalence and panic: three months since I saw him. I’ll never see him again. Four months until my birthday. I’m never going to have children now.
It’s always worst when I first wake and as I’m trying to fall asleep. That is when I feel my loneliness most acutely. During the day, I stay busy. Surrounded by living, breathing people. I am the walking dead among them. Then Im in bed, alone and the truth settles like mud around me.
I reactivated an online dating profile a week ago. Is it unreasonable that I ignore every message of “What up, gurl?” What. Not What’s. I could even accept ‘whats’ because I think punctuation is overrated. Maybe those gawdawful talk-to-text programs dropped the ‘s’. But even those programs do not spell “girl” with a ‘u’ so then I know it’s intentional. First impressions are important. Would you walk into a job interview and open with “What up, gurl?”  There are two men I have established some regular contact with…ugh, that sounds so alien and cold to put it that way: I shall establish communications with these humans and begin the vetting process to determine whether or not romantic relations should be pursued. Live long and prosper. I have a bad attitude going in though. Dating is a chore and I’m still unable to shake that feeling that there is no one else on the whole planet that I want or will ever want more than him. My Lightning Strike.
Even though he lacks integrity, used and abandoned me like I was less than nothing. I know this. I remind myself. I even wrote it down in case I ever ‘forgot’.
But back to feeling better.
I also caved and agreed to try therapy again. Cognative therapy is not the bloodletting like my past experience with counseling. Funny, we dont even really talk about him. Maybe she doesnt feel like we need to. What she is trying to do is train me to think differently. WHen I feel that trigger and the thoughts, which lead to feelings, begin the downward spiral, I hit ‘pause’, step outside myself and begin to dissect each thought by asking “Is this logical? Is it based on fact or assumption? …” I dont know if this is truly re-wiring my head or just putting it in ‘time out’.  This out-of-mind experience, if I keep it up long enough, is almost like counting to calm down. Re-direction, like making a loud noise to distract a dog whose hackles begin to raise and ears flatten.
Oh but it’s so poetic to suffer! I am a martyr! Am I no longer ‘legit’ if I put my demons to bed rather than dance with them?
I got my American Legion membership card in the mail today. Yay! Now I can karaoke in the middle of the day and get shit-faced for $10 alongside toothless Vietnam vets and my brethren spawned of this last decade’s fucked-upedness.
And I didnt go dancing tonight. I was half compelled to go. No, really less than a quarter compelled. I think I could have benefited from catching up with some friends there. I was even dressed for it. As if dressing the part would be enough to motivate me. But here it is, the time I would be leaving the dancefloor to come home and get to bed and Im alraedy there: in bed, wearing a teal swing dress and hair pinned up with a large flower. And typing. Exhausted but envious of the snoring dog beside me.
I anticipate a few restless nights as the moon fills up. Tomorrow is Passover. My mother said “Maybe next year…” when I asked if we would have a seder. Saturday is a blood moon and I’ll email him and ask him to think of me, of us, and the full moon illuminating the hills of Konar Province, Afghanistan. And I’ll burn stuff. And Sunday, Easter sunrise, I’ll join my family at my father’s graveside.
But here. Watch this. Like Taylor Swift’s Twerking Tunnel, this lifts my spirits:

Blood! And froggies! And lice all over their bodies!

“I am getting older. And it’s starting to show” The Broods

“I don’t want to wake up lonely
I don’t want to “just be fine”

A line in this song made me think of my father. My dad passed away in 2004. Just before Christmas. Suddenly. Three days after his 45th birthday. Ten years and I think I miss him more than ever. That was the mark of a real blow to my faith. Because I BELIEVED my father would be fine! Faith that should have moved a mountain, according to what I had been told.

My father reminded me of what I deserved. Better than what the men I had been settling for were willing to give. I try to keep his advice in mind but…

There is a new guy at work. Special Forces type of course bearing the mark of the recently retired: mandatory facial hair and a haircut that was now brushing the ears. He made himself known immediately. Alpha-male type who is looking for an in, like ‘him’ when we first met. I feel his eyes on me in meetings. And when we do talk in passing, there is an intensity—a predatory challenge in his gaze. It’s blatant to me. Does he sense the passivity and vulnerability in me? He doesn’t wear a ring but neither did ‘he’. It means nothing. With or without the ring, it means nothing. He remarked that he liked my ‘rockabilly look’ which I found odd because it has been months since I wore crinoline and victory rolls to work (too tired to bother in the morning these days). So I dress conservative out of laziness but he picked it up somehow. I laughed and told him he had a ‘look’ too. Pale blue collared dress shirt the same shade as his eyes, pushed up the forearms to reveal full sleeve tattoos. You can take us out of the uniform and dress us up but we’re not fooling anyone. He was exiting his truck when I rolled into the parking lot with the new Gerard Way album playing so loudly that his teeth were probably rattling like mine. He waited to open the door for me and in the span of a short conversation said (not asked. Said.) “We should go to lunch sometime”. I said “Not unless youre talking a sandwich from the base gas station. I only get 20 minutes for lunch.”

“We’ll figure something out” was his confident, off-hand reply. I almost want to tell ‘him’ about it. I tell ‘him’ about my other dates sometimes like “See? I’m not waiting for you” (WIN!) and then in the same email, admit that none of them stand a chance because he’s all I can think about is him (FAIL!). The SF community is so small, they probably know each other. So no, I wont mention names. Although I would love to say “You have some competition”. Except that he knows it’s a lie. I pray for the day that it’s the truth.

Because my dad told me I deserve better.