Musings

If you want to see a man dance, it’s pretty simple.  Just throw that look, we know the one, that look that is the equivalent of throwing a hand grenade in his direction.  Watch the chaos ensue as he realizes he fucked up.

Now rarely have I ever reached deep into the subliminal arsenal and pulled out the look.  It takes a special kind of fuck up to get that reaction. 

One time this happened encapsulates an interesting moment.  

For many years I was in a relationship with a man whom I absolutely loved.  I still do, but it’s not in a conventional sense.  We had been doing the long-distance relationship thing for years.  It was an abstract relationship, one of two people who loved each other but not in-love.  

Sounds odd right?  It was, it still is.

Wait what?  Still is?  

Well yes, but our relationship has never been a romantic one, it’s been an incredibly close bond.  More than friends, certainly not lovers, and definitely not something that would ever be ‘forever’. A defined platonic relationship to the fullest extent.

Both of us knew we were not going to end up ‘together’, and that has always been ok.  We can be soul mates without being romantic partners.  

He never wanted to get married, to me or anyone else.

I love the idea of marriage, I want that to be part of my life.

He refuses all physical contact believing human existence is vile.

I am a sexual and passionate woman.

He refuses to travel or go outside his own sphere.

I love to explore.

He refuses all concepts of self-improvement and learning.

I love to constantly grow and improve my person.

So you can see, we are not compatible in any fashion.  Except we have a magnificent friendship based on intellect, conversation, and this wonderful push and pull of debate.  

When the day came and he decided he didn’t want to do this long distance ‘thing’ anymore.  It was too annoying. He missed my cooking. He was annoyed being alone in the flat so he broached the unspoken subject.

“I guess we should get married.”  He flatly said.  

Arsonal activated and arming.

“Don’t expect a ring.”

And with that, ladies and gentleman, the grenades deployed.  

Motherfucker. 

I wasn’t just insulted, I was furious.  

Mind you we had been in this platonic ‘situationship’ for 8 years.  Yes, eight.  That weird number is between seven and nine.  And he picked this moment to make the most insulting attempt at an un-overture.

Mind you I am a romantic to the fullest extent, but I am also a realist.  I don’t live with rose colored lenses.  I dont attach unrealistic romantic expectations to the man in my life.

I am the kind of woman who would rather have a handful of weeds given with intent, than roses given disingenuously. 

I never expected a proposal to begin with, he was clear, and I was a realist.  I considered our relationship a friendship of the best kind, but never ….. That….. Never the thing that ends with the commitment, let alone a reluctant one.

So why was I mad? 

I didn’t want to marry him, and saying ‘no’ would be a blessing to him. 

So it should have been a win-win…. He does his ‘duty’ by asking, and I fulfill my role by saying ‘no’ and letting all this dissipate.

Only one problem, I couldn’t let it go.  

I could not let go of how insulting it was to be ‘not worth’ any level of effort.  It was telling me I was so insignificant that any level of tradition or nicety was too much.

Was I wrong?  Even the words used were cold and callous. 

And all I could think was…. You motherfucker.  

So the grenades flew.  And my answer was clear.  

But it also taught me a very important lesson.  

I realized I had given up on myself and my own self worth to ALLOW someone to say that, to see me as some insignificant part of their life, so mundane I was nothing more than a dust bunny in the corner.  

I was mad at him, and I think I was right.

But I was more annoyed with myself.  Realizing I allowed this to happen.  I allowed 8 years of my life to build into a crescendo of believing I wasn’t worth the effort.  

Well fuck that.

I realized this was a longer pattern I developed.  

I had always been the in-significant other, never the significant other.  

Now let’s be clear, I don’t need to be the center of any man’s world.  I fully respect his autonomy, his life, his dreams, and I actively encourage all those things. I believe that a harmonious relationship cherishes the dreams and aspirations of each partner, letting them bring out the best in each other, pushing each other to be better. 

My goal has always been to be a ‘partner in crime’, an equal in all aspects of life, love, and pursuit of dreams.  I want to help my partner reach his fullest potential.  I want to actively be part of what drives him, to be actively part of his achieving his dreams. 

Perhaps I haven’t found the right partner yet.  I think that is the obvious conclusion of this.  

I bring a lot to any partnership.  Seems I just haven’t found the guy who can appreciate that. 

I am certain when I do, I won’t need to launch any grenades’ in his direction. 

Sex.  Lust. Love.  Yeah, the title got you didnt it?  

So many people are so hung up about sex and all the words that surround it.  Everyone has this certain level of uncomfortable but taboo desire to talk about it, do it, watch it…. 

I think I must be strange, I don’t share this taboo.  I find sexual expression and passion to be one of the most beautiful things in the human experience.  Not just because of the biological aspect, but because it is a beautiful thing to want to express yourself in that way to another.

I don’t take sex lightly.  I don’t take relationships lightly.  I grew up in the casual sex era, where friends with benefits was the norm.  

I never followed that example.  

To be sharing one’s passion is something you do only with another you feel connected to, the person with whom you want to be completely honest, completely present.  

Perhaps that is weird.  Especially now in the era of Tinder and hookups that seem to be the norm.  I wouldn’t know what is considered normal anymore, I chose to live my life outside that standard.  I own my passion and sexuality and I am very selective on who gets my affections.  

So you think I am a bitchy snob?  Perhaps.  I have no issue with that.  

I own my sexuality and am extremely comfortable with it.  I am not shy about it.  But I don’t need to flaunt it either.  

I love all things feminine and soft.  I love being a woman.  I love that my gender is one of soft strength, endless comfort, and devoted caring.  I would not change that for anything.  

I love the fact that I get to wear lacy things under my clothes, things that to me are sexy, and nobody is the wiser.  Those thigh-high stockings I wear under my jeans, the bands barely visible against the denim.  

And I certainly love knowing how to get a reaction from a man whom has earned my affections. A good woman knows how to gently and discreetly slide her hand across her man’s thigh and watch the show.

There is nothing that compares to that glitch in breathing, the widened eyes, the glance of both panic and excitement….. and bonus points if you can pull it off in a socially inappropriate place.

No need to go further, I made my presence felt in the most literal of senses.

Discretion is of course the key, do it right and only the two of you know anything has transpired.

Oh that is delicious.

I don’t need a man to feel sexy, I don’t need another to be complete.  I am enough as I am, just as he should be enough as he is.  Sex and pair bonding is about being with someone.  Completely and totally in the moment.  

Men see sex as an act, it does not need to have meaning.  But women see it as entirely meaning without the need for the actual act.  For a woman it is a game of seduction, the act is just the finish line of the longer game.

Biology has its own tricks.  We all share it.

Regardless of biology, I think sex in itself is beautiful.  Not something to be shamed or hidden.  When two people want to be present in that moment, expressing themselves in the most truthful way, it is honest in a way that nothing else can compare.

So perhaps that is where I go wrong, I refuse to settle. 

I refuse to compromise my belief that there must be something incredibly special about that other person. 

I refuse to put my heart and soul up for sale to those who swipe right.  

Perhaps I am a bit too old school in my thinking, defaulting to a belief of a bygone era.  

Perhaps.  Or perhaps I just hold myself to a high standard.

So what’s stirring tonight….. Interesting question.  No definitive answer.  

I feel like if I had a magic 8 ball, which I really wish I had one… it would say Outcome Uncertain.

I feel like this is an open letter- but why?  What’s the point?  I do the same thing over and over and somehow expect there to be a different outcome.  

I sit, I write, I delete.

Ironically I write because I want to be seen.  Yet I write in a hidden place, and then delete it.  So what’s the point?  Really?  

I want to say a million things.  I want to pour my heart out and just let it bleed…. But again why?  Nobody cares, it’s not important, it doesn’t change anything…. Other than just purging a moment, makes people uncomfortable, and life moves on with just getting some weird side glance… the kind that says it all….. Bitch is crazy.

Ironically I am as sane as anyone can be.  I just see things differently and express it differently.  I fall outside the norm, I am clearly outside the lines of polite society.  Sadly I have to dance and exist inside the lines, even if I would be much happier living outside convention.

I used to keep an online journal, writing this out in the open, letting it exist.  But there came a point where I realized this became too easy to find me.  Not that I care, but I don’t want the threats.  I don’t want to have to hide again, live back under my rock waiting for someone to target me.  

Yeah, that happened more than I can count.  Stalkers are a strange lot, the laws won’t help you till you’ve been seriously injured.  I know.  It’s not something I want to invite.  

I probably would be braver if I wasn’t alone.  But alas, so be it.  When you live alone, nobody will hear you scream.  

Sad but true.

What is it that I miss?  

I miss everything.  I miss all of it.  

I miss every good morning and every good night.  Silly little things we take for granted.  

We never realize how important they are till they disappear from our lives.  

It’s almost a year now.  

A year since hearing someone say goodnight, or give me a hug.  

You can not imagine the depth of pain I feel.  

A year, without a hug, without a goodnight, without a good morning… those things that made the simplicity of life exquisitely beautiful.

A year since I got a kiss on the cheek, or an eager smile wanting to just go for a drive, anywhere, never mattered.  Just doing anything.

A year without a genuine smile or feeling joy.

A year without watching tv, or a movie, or just anything… because to do so alone is so wickedly painful.  

A year without music in my home, a year without hearing the piano or listening to sounds.  God I miss that.  

I miss all of it.  I knew I would.  I never imagined being left behind would be any fun.  I knew this was coming since I was a kid.  

It would always end like this.  

I remember everything, every fucking detail.  I can still hear the machines, still feel the heat where they were, still remember looking out the window waiting for the hospice nurse to come.  I remember everything.  

I will never forget it, even if I want to.  

It’s not some trauma, it’s my last moments, the last time I got to hold your hand, when it was still warm.  

You died so I could live.  I know how this works.  I’m not ignorant to why things happened in this order, it’s easy to connect all the dots about why now.  

I have no doubts.  

I know where I am getting directed to, and I am grateful for everything…. I actually am.  

You picked well.  I will be happy.  I just wish it didn’t come with this cost. 

I gave my entire life to take care of everyone.  I’m tired.  I’ve seen enough death, I just want to remember how to live.  

Jan would tell me all about what’s wrong, all about how I need to do ‘this or that’ to get over my complex grief.  

For fucks sake, you would think its some sin to just fucking say: I’m sad, my heart was ripped out and I am just trying to put myself back together again.  

I’m not broken in some horrific irreparable  mess, I’m  simply sad.  It will come and go, and it will last a lifetime…. But it’s just my own way of dealing with it.  

My life is not impeded by it, but I will always bear the scars of it, those will always be there.  I just add them to the collections.  

So I sit here, I can’t sleep.  I hate the quiet.  I used to love it, miss it, enjoy the moments of silence, but now they just pierce through me, reminding me of the tortuous solitude. 

And I write this- knowing full fucking well it serves no purpose.  

Resenting the fact that I need to even sit here and write it out.  Resenting the fact that I can’t just hold a conversation.  

I hate the fact that everyone important in my life, from this point on, will never know you.  

The most important person in my life, wherever he is, will never know the only person that mattered to me…. 

The children I will never be gifted with, would never know their family, all wasted, just fading memories, fading hopes, fading dreams.  

Just a voice on a voicemail that I can’t delete.  

The last time I will ever hear my nickname said out loud. 

I want to leave this place.  I look at every room and see the faces of everyone who is gone.  

Every room is another death.  

I sleep in the room Uncle Ed died in. 

I eat my meals in the room my Mom died in.

I work in the room where my family would sit and talk- the rocking chair my grandmother used now sits in the basement reminding me she is dead too.

My art supplies sit in the toolbox my grandfather used before he died.

I could go back further, but those family members I don’t know, even though I feel their deaths here too.  

My dresser belonged to Aunt Etta, my tools great-grandpa…. Lives I never knew, but who died in this house too.

Actually there is nothing here of me.  Nothing is really mine, except an old broken sofa.  That is the only thing that was ever mine.  Broken, seems fitting enough.

Every room is another missing piece of me.  I have nothing more to give. 

I listen to talk of celebrating your successes, envisioning your perfect future version…. And I think why?  

Nothing matters if the people who would have celebrated those wins are all under the dirt.  I mean who celebrates for me?  No one.  Not one soul.  

Only I can celebrate for me, and that is a hollow victory.  But it is a victory nonetheless, so I will graciously accept it. 

This all sounds so fucking depressing, and on some level it is.  

But I don’t see it that way.  I’m not depressed, I am not dealing with some enmeshment trauma, or some complex bullshit of some DSM classification…. I am simply sad, and tired.  

I am sad to face a life moving forward where I will always feel the sting of wanting to share something important and being reminded that I can’t.  

I am sad to know that my future, should it be happy and beautiful, will always have the reminder that I am waiting for my time to go home.

I promised that I would live, I would thrive, and I would pursue everything I wanted.  And I shall.  

I believe with unshakable conviction that you have already laid out a path for me, and I am eager to be on my way.  

I look forward to finding home, wherever it may be.

I look forward to finding my love, wherever he may find me.

I will alway remember all the wonderful moments, they are the glue that bound all the broken pieces of me together over a lifetime of hurt.  

I wish I could have been a better person, done more, no matter how much I did, I always wanted to do more.  

But all I can do is write these pathetic words, hidden in a place never to be seen or found.  

Just like another piece of me, a trail of breadcrumbs, leading to a soul best forgotten.

I will just keep walking my path.  

I have rebuilt myself more times than I can count.  And this will be no different.  

Start over again. 

But this time there is no one to call, no one to talk to, to tell about my day, or to remind me to eat… 

I don’t need someone to be whole.  

I need someone to remind me I exist.

I know this is ridiculous, but can you relate the concept of having an unshakable feeling- something so deep to your core that nothing, no logic, no argument breaks it?  

Probably a stupid question to ask.

I have a feeling so firm, so set, that I actually question my own sanity over it.  All convention would say this is irrational, but I have a feeling that is so strong, so loud it is deafening.  It is drowning all arguments, breaking all logic.  It’s a torrent.  

And yes, it sounds like my riddled brain, but this time this is a real feeling.  It is like the crashing of water, an undertow of current that I can’t fight.  

I’ve never experienced something this poignant.

I envy that you at least knew your direction- your compass rose pointed clearly.

I am getting pulled down a path I don’t feel prepared for, but I can’t decipher anymore than that.

I have no compass rose, nor a map.  I just know- it is.  And nothing more. 

It is.  Nothing I do, or say, or try, will change ‘it‘.

What the fuck is ‘it‘?  I keep asking and I just get the same reply. 

It is.

Normally I would just ask my Mom if I was going mad.  If anything just to hear a ‘no’.   But now I can only look at a picture and ask.  

I don’t like things I can’t understand or make sense of.  I don’t like unpredictability.

And I dont know why the fuck it wont let me go to sleep- it just keep drilling at me.  

And I dont know why the fuck I am sharing it.  Misery loves company?  And that bullshit?  Fuck if I know.

/*Burn after reading, please, spare me the pain of reading this later, aka: delete it*/