Don Draper Should Wear Granny Panties

Call me crazy, like that would be a first, but I had an epiphany watching Netflix.

Hell yeah epiphanies come straight from Netflix, usually after Mad Men or Samantha Who.

I used to hate big loud cinematic dramas with cars exploding and people running for cover, until recently. Suddenly, the man running from his captives, heart pumping adrenaline and face dirty with a hint of dried blood on his upper lip was no stranger.

I find myself nodding in understanding, laughing at the irony, and I admit, am even sometimes that fool yelling at the television to “Watch out!” and “NO, no, no, never trust an ex who needs information from the FBI, IDIOT“

Sigh.

I have been seclusive and paranoid, watching for people in the bushes if you will, always on guard for the next betrayal, and finding it hard to face that my experiences have shaped me into someone who is constantly on the edge, a person surviving, not living.

Barely surviving.

I have had huge gaping holes in my memory, at night I toss and turn, questions and thoughts burning loose, so strong my desire to be free of the darkness that has engulfed my very being.

One channel tells me to let it go, to wipe a new slate clean, to not be defined by what I was, to go live the life I dream of, to just let the hurt heal and let it be.

The next channel screams impossibility, not without answers, not with this sinking feeling in my gut that nothing is okay, and never will be if I don’t look back to move forward.

This part of me screams into the pillow at night.

I thought I would be most disturbed by my recent estrangement with my mother and yet, it was not her that I thought of, but him.

My father.

It has been an impossibility that I would ever be in this position, the scapegoat of a dysfunctional and Narcissistic Family, completely ostracized from a family after setting down a boundary. One boundary began the long fight into this cold war and sometimes I wonder if it was even worth it, unconditionally loved or not, I forgot what I even was fighting for or if it ever even mattered.

I do know without a doubt that the claims I know and God help the ones I don’t know are so preposterous, so beyond my personal understanding for not having a relationship with your own daughter and grandchildren that in this grief I kept wrestling and wondering over and over again.

What if this had been done to him too?

The answers all came back immediately that no, this is an impossibility, but still, I was sick, going over and over scenarios that made no possible sense and yet were the reason behind every bit of my motives for keeping him far, so very far away.

Did he lose his mind, quit therapy as I had understood, taken up a mistress, and had he loved us at all? The questions I have for this man are endless but the answers have never come, only more heartache and disillusionment than ever, a door I closed.

I wasn’t falling for that stupid trap door again.

But still, the part nagged me the most was over his stalking us, a terrifying period of time I did not want to ever revisit. But, did his visits and letters have everything to do with her and nothing to do with me?

She did live with me at the time.

And yet, of course not. She would never lie.

But she had, indeed lied about me, a part of herself, her soul, or so I thought. Wouldn’t he have received even worse treatment or am I just searching to be lost, too afraid to shut the door and start my life with the acceptance I am no one, from no family, and any attempt otherwise will only set me back years in progress?

Until I eerily saw him AGAIN, at the same damn QT, in the week he also ran into Divorcee and other coincidences that felt more like tin garbage cans being smacked against my ears, God telling me to wake the hell up.

This was dicey and secret and I could only imagine the repercussions it could have, and even though Thelma may not have ever spoken to me again, I had to follow my gut.

I had to go meet with my father.

I had unfinished business.

I have been waiting a long time now to write about this, always on pause until the epiphany arrives first, I have decided it is time to put that sleeping dragon to sleep, the one who can’t move on without going back, and it is time to face my fears.

It is time for me to not only write about him but this past six months as well, on how I came to live with my current boyfriend, the new found trials of motherhood and did I mention that yes, I live with a boyfriend? 

Strap on the Granny panties, Miss Obvious, no more hiding behind ridiculous Netflix movies and back into your own life.

If only Mad Men had an episode on this. In exception to the time I yelled Pimp or rolled my eyes every time you “fell in love,” Don Draper, I will remove all judgement of you in hopes my readers will be equally kind, and if not, I suppose I could always steal an identity, get filthy rich, marry my secretary and run from my past.

Hmm. Perhaps Don Draper should try Granny Panties himself.

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Today

Why Hello There, WordPress Blog

Bunkbed Breakthroughs

I have always been what I call the eternal optimist, and it is true, I do believe in the best of people, almost to a fault. While I have been often criticized for attracting the nut jobs, not allowed to walk into the store for my reputation to find a friend while sampling cheese is so common and distracting for most, I usually am told to wait in the car. Not anymore.

HELL NO.

I got sick to death of the leach energy stealing time and life draining emotional vampires that I had come to a good place, deciding to become a more balanced and aware person of where my time and attention went.

Then, a few facebook stalking fools and a psycho date here and there along with a family fallout made me discover I wasn’t that at ALL, I had been naive, an open target to all who wanted to dump any problem. When I found out from Thelma, who looked at me confused once, as I vented about how much I didn’t want to discuss this or that, she said something brilliant, or known, who knows.

“You do know you don’t have to tell anyone anything you don’t want to tell, right?”

What? What the hell is she talking about? I thought.

“Wait a minute, come on. You have to know that when people ask questions, even if I am uncomfortable, I know it is because I am so open, I mean my life is already a public blog so I rarely complain, right?”

She didn’t agree, which shocked me. She said who gave a damn, I owed nothing to anyone, and my life was my own, and this was a boundary problem.

Holy Shit. She was right.

I enjoy writing, and my own words, by myself, and I like looking back later and reading stories of my girls, my life is as surprising to me as a stranger, my memory of yesterday, is

Wait. What happened yesterday?

See what I mean. But, I don’t enjoy discussing these private issues or being distracted or feeling angry I wasted time on people who didn’t even care. This is the new me, I thought, glaring down the grocery clerk who usually tells me to put back items cause they were not on sale. Sometimes I do, just because it makes her feel better, and I don’t mind.

Not anymore.

I do mind.

I do have a filter, I just didn’t know I was allowed to use it.

Plus, the displaced anger is helping this, since finding out this past year that most humans appeared to be blood sucking vampires that would eat your heart and vomit back what they didn’t want, leaving you broken, hurt, destroyed, as they appeared content, as long as the next victim was lined up first, proving your love never even mattered.

I promised myself to protect the little girl in me that felt so unsafe and powerless to never believe she was entitled to anything private, or that would mean she wasn’t loving.

I thought having your own private life or dreams and experiences made you a withholding unloving fake, someone who lived a lie or a secret, so I offered up all information to anyone I met, so they would know how honest I am.

I have liked this but have been a little bit angry and more cynical than usual, my guard up, ready to put the “STRANGER DANGER” cross X with my hands, any person walking towards me for any reason was not going to be aware I wasn’t a fool, that I saw straight past their bullshit.

So, today I got up early for Jury Duty, the last crazy I attracted, recorded and blogged should tell you I knew this was the prime place to be prime pickings for the crazy, so I had a game plan folks.

It was kind of fun. I feel like a detective.

I walked in, scanned the room, full of people, a thrilling thought at one time, but that was the old me, you see. I saw the old nanny chatty Kathy’s in the back, the old man going on and on to a row of people about his many jury duties experience, like he was some expert.

I saw the young mom types and thought about it.

Nah, they will ask questions about the kids.

I saw the classic men cub with earphones in, eyes shut.

Damn, why hadn’t I thought of it?

I saw the old me, the few acting as if they had just been introduced to a soul mate because they found out they all lived right next to some school.

No shit, people. We are all here from the same county, duh. My cynicism felt like an umbrella, protecting me from a hurricane. Not too reliable, but it at least had a hopeful plan.

SO, I saw a woman quietly reading who looked as exciting as a librarian at a night club, picked my target seat, no one else would be able to sit on an end seat even better, so yes, this was it.

Is this how introverts work normally? I just wondered that actually and I find it interesting.

She didn’t look up. Perfect. Whew. I was doing great, especially without a laptop, which made me pissy, not knowing you could bring one, but being not a morning person and already grouchy helped.

Until that damn receptionist lady, who had been the same one for my divorce, who I wanted to scream “I KNOWWW YOU!!!!!” loud with enthusiasm, like she would give a damn, so I squirmed.

Didn’t even say a word. Getting good, people, getting real good.

Then, we were issued a seat number where the dude said we would have to make real close friends with the person on the left and right, and my stomach sank.

Shit. I got nervous. What if I got the crackhead in the back, talking non stop, asking questions, or the god awful lady at the coffee station, all nosy, telling people they needed to try her cream from home, which she brought in her purse.

So of course, I heard my name, told myself to focus not look up, watch for sudden conversation starters and look at book at all questions. Repeat, I thought, Repeat.

And yes, of course, I sit down look up and a man my age in a blue shirt tight around his muscles with a nice tan and pearly white teeth smiles.

Fuck.

Oh, look to the right, look to the right, I thought, and damn if the Universe isn’t a pain in my ass but there sat a man cub, emerald green eyes sparkling with humor, looking like his mom just dressed him, all uncomfortable and ADHD in his seat.

Fuck me.

I sat down, stone cold.

No one said a word, and I felt like I was about to explode from holding in about a zillion comments, jokes, thoughts, questions, all banging up and down, asking to get out, then pleading.

“Hey,” sexy blue shirt man said, in a low whisper.

“You think they would let a Government High School teacher out of this on his only break, ya know?” He was holding a phone with an adorable photo of his little boy.

I smelt friendly, nice, interesting, and harmless.

So, the bubble burst. “You teach High School? What grade? Do you love it? Did you always know?“

My natural curiosity led to many interesting topics and man cub entered in by saying, “Dude. My mom had to pick me up from Athens last night just to get me here on time.”

He listened to my recent adventure of the crazy woman and how I almost went to jail for missing (http://buddhathepig.wordpress.com/2011/05/04/jury-duty-and-my-new-nickname-miss-geraldo-rivera/) and laughed his ass off, and before you know it, we got dismissed but a few of us stayed behind to finish the documentary below, a great documentary on a underwater scuba diver, which I added at end for your enjoyment.

When we departed, I was a little sad, wishing we had exchanged facebook requests.

And now, looking back, as I read this, I am beginning to see the lesson.

I don’t have to lose who I am to not get hurt. That alone makes me want to join a Gospel choir, my joy and relief that I am growing, not drowning, the sad fact is while in the lesson, it is hard to know the difference.

And then, in my bunk bed, Lola who requested we share the bottom in the month of June and the top the month of July, is the best roommate I ever had.

Almost asleep, thumb in mouth, eyes closed, she whispered, “Mommy.”

“Yes baby?” I was reading a self help book with the lamp on.

“You can cuddle with me any time, okay?“

Broken hearts do heal, not over night, but holding her and thinking of my day reminded me of all that comes when you adhere to your own personal truth and convictions. It is worth all the loss, all the broken pieces, for the courage to be one’s true self is the battle, the hope that sits on your baby’s long gorgeous eyelashes, with the moon out, dolls on the ends of your feet, for if you just look, you will find it.

Hope is the ability to test all you know to become all who you always wanted to become. And if I find this is not the case, I at least know one thing for sure.

Next month I get to be on the top bunk, and if the Universe crumbles around me, I have already what really matters in life.

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The Second Funeral

I have several topics rick racking my brain today. I want to post about my first angry comment to a blog, and what it provoked, what changed as the result. I want to post about Lola and I moving in to bunk beds, no “roomie” is more comical, every day I have a better story.

 

Then, my job, my therapist, the first assignment of having to put my picture in a frame, to “say nice things” to the little girl within.

I have been assigned to bring her treats, people.

I want to draw a mustache, give her a bottle of jager, tell her to sleep it off, but even that I have been procrastinating. Thelma and I can’t let the jokes go long enough to be serious.

But, what lies in the pit of my stomach, aching to be expressed, scratching my inner thoughts like a claw to a kitty pole, is my sister by soul, Heather Murphy.

She asked I use her real name.

You see, this woman, a friend of mine by a year or so, although sorrow tells time in a different way, if you ask me. Time is measured by the stories we share, the pieces we let strangers see, the depth of us that loved ones may go to the grave never shown. They can know all our traits, but pass right by us, strangers to the stories we hold locked..

It is a key we share, and so time becomes marked by who is given a key, and who is hidden as we hide the key away, under the mat of our hearts.

Heather’s child, Olivia Garcia, at one years old, was murdered by her best friend, involuntary manslaughter, the details horrifying, and to make it even more ghastly, extremely public.

Her once dear friend, Oliva’s Godmother, Amanda Brumfield, is the estranged daughter of Billy Bob Thornton, so my stomach sickens as I watch my cursor spell his name, blink and wave, my thoughts on this blog run rapidly through emotions, on a time belt I can’t control the speed.

Olivia, who died the day before her first birthday, I revisited a year ago in a blog, “Olivia Maddy Marie, a “Tribute” for Heather Murphy“, being careful to not disclose any information that might affect her trial.

Now the trial is over, Heather’s reality is a hell not only she had to revisit on stand, not allowed to cry, having to see this woman who hurt her baby, witness photos no mother can imagine, swallow guilt that no person should have to endure, not by media, not for this.

I have a new outlook on life because of her, on what we read, on money and fame, magazines, news feed and journalists. It makes me sick.

Divorcee casually discussed the trial while reading People Magazine on-line, my knees giving out, blood rushing to my head, forcing me to sit down. I had not yet known the verdict.

“Wow. Thirteen to Thirty years for Involuntary Manslaughter,” he gasped.

I blurred the news with my hands, hoping to filter anything I could not handle in the moment, when one teeny thing caught my eye.

A fucking Facebook “Like” button, that’s what.

What have we come to? I could piss fire on this moment alone, much less the public misinformation, the reality of her nightmare, her agony that Baby Liv is googled, and all her name shows are Billy Bob Thornton photos and media accounts of this woman, this daughter of a celebrity, estranged.

Heather Murphy, a victim, is a person, real to me, your sister, friend, boss. To see her agonized if she should do “Inside Edition” for they will ask her God knows what, for news, while she worries she will be seen as a mother wanting her moment in the public eye. Then, she feels sadness and anger, Baby Liv is not even seen as a little girl, her girl, a sissy lost forever, and the sentence Heather received will never end, not ever. She wants her baby to be seen, her voice heard, to matter.

And so, she is asking me to help her with the day she does speak, to the jury, to the world, and so, “Will I take photos of her baby things, her little keepsakes only a mommy can cry upon knowing the importance, the ashes, the memory book?”

I cry at just the thought of what it must feel to be her, and fear it just as much, then my own wretched hope that she be heard is an aching tunnel, a hollow echo, a dark hall I know she walks every day, but will people turn, look, turn on the light?

I don’t know.

Maybe not, but I will light a torch, for Olivia Garcia, will use my keystrokes, my camera, my voice, my outrage. I will burn the hall behind me, no father or a platform, nothing of importance to offer the public, no dirt to offer the media to eat, a dry dust in my mouth is the Ribeye steak they drool for, and yet, always hungry, never satisfied.

No one wants to be famous for this, and Olivia is gone, a discussion for people over breakfast, her pain raw as an unbeaten egg in your blender, the details of her dead child a passing discussion, while passing the butter.

I do know what I don’t have, but there is one thing I got.

I have love.

In the end, it is all life is worth.

For Heather, I will always answer “yes,” her wedding to a man I saw her meet, I am so thankful to photograph, even if it is heartbreaking to watch her plan, the details Bridezillas go nuts over, she hasn’t the energy to even care.

While I was thinking of this, this song came on, chilling me, her words etched in my heart over the phone, “You know,” she said.

“It will be the sentencing, but really, it will be my arrival to her second funeral.”

If you will, repost, stumble, and most of all, pray.

I strongly believe prayer is the bullet on which our voice rides, and this woman needs ammo, the only kind love is made from.

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Granny Panties and Free Steak

Too much Panty, Not enough Granny

Since family members strongly oppose to me writing about my personal life, so much so that I get deleted off facebook, even by my auntie, and Divorcee too, well, one might take this as an opportunity to throw a pity party or if PMS could be blamed, could be fair gain for a smear campaign.

Not this chick.

No, I decided it is past due time to put on my Granny panties, a term I threw in by no accident since the number one search term to find this ridiculous blog is “Granny Panties,” which has me far more bitter.

Seriously guys?

800 searches for Granny Panties?

I don’t even know when or why I wrote about such a thing, and I find this far more disturbing for any future sex life I wish to have, until I looked farther and found the search terms “killing people and putting them in dryers,” “penis shaped rice krispie treats,” “vietnamese men and how to excite them,” and a SHOUT OUT now…
For the poor person looking for her lost dog, try Craig’s list or your neighborhood vet.
For a week now, “please help me find my puppy,” and “where is my poor doggy” and “what to do when doggy doesn’t come home” can’t be daily coincidences, so if this finds you person with lost dog, please go to Google or yell down the street..

You’re breaking my heart.

I can’t say much about anything shaped like a penis much less as tasty as a Rice Krispie, nor have I dated a Vietnamese man, but whoever is wondering how to kill people by putting them in a dryer, you need serious help.

Haven’t you ever watched “CSI” or “America’s Most Wanted” for Christ’s sake?

If you plan on murdering by dryer, which is probably tough, what are you going to do?
Throw in some Snuggle dryer sheets so the body smells like a powdered baby’s ass?

Why the dryer?

I loved all the Rob Dyrdek searches, the one lady who wrote “single mom of four needs Rob Dyrdek’s sex machine” which is a lot of words for a search, but if you have four kids, again, I suggest Craig’s list.

I wonder if Craig’s List has families in need of a writer, a Historian, a poet or a rapper, yes, I do rhyme, after a jager bomb or two. I was thinking of starting a Facebook Fan Page for all people who have been deleted off facebook, not by a friend or an ex, but an elite group for family deletions.

We could get matching tshirts and swap recipes and stories of when and how the deletion occurred, perhaps a prize or a week with an adopted family could bring tears to the eye, like that “America…”

Dang it. What is that show? It’s the Tye guy who remodels homes for poor and needy people?
You know, “MOVE THAT BUS,” and everyone sobs and cries, while the entire town cheers as families that lost parents and are law abiding citizens get amazing homes paid in full?

Yeah, just like that.

America can vote, the fan who has the most bad ass deletion story by family will obviously win, and maybe some generous Tye type, even though I heard he was an alcoholic by Divorcee, who knows these sorts of things..

will buy him or her a steak dinner somewhere fancy.

We’ll set up a webcam and maybe not yell ‘MOVE THAT BUS,” but something more like, “CUT THAT STEAK!!”

Then, the sky will open and Granny Panties will fall, Rob Dyrdek will come out with Rice Krispie shaped dongs, Vietnamese men will surround the building, and some poor woman will have found her dog.

Don’t quit your day job, Tye.
I kind of like the idea of making dreams come true, one deleted fan at a time….

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Annihilation

If words were a weapon, I just got dropped the nuclear bomb, the big daddy, the one our government would never let us know about, certain it is for our own safety.
A childhood friend and I are trying to reconcile our distant relationship, for the sake of our kids. She has always been everything I am not, or ever been. She runs her home like a well oiled machine, never forgets appointments, runs late, cancels plans, or forgets to send out a warm Thank You note.
She is Anne Taylor but without a clearance rack, something I marvel at with amazement, my dollars land on the Goodwill counter, the thrill of my life is finding the girls a steal with tags.
She is the woman who had so many clothes for her child they all lined the closet as big as my room, hanging, the tags I touched in amazement, her baby could never wear them all, even if she changed him ten times a day.
She is neat, orderly, and cooks according to her little weight watchers booklet, the teeny book she holds as she counts points, remembering with perfect accuracy what she has to do to maintain her perfect health, my mind blank in trying to recount breakfast, if I had it, a book that tiny would have been lost in seconds in my possession.
Ever since I have known her, I have wanted to be her.

She is the example of what a good wife, hard worker, and ideal mother represent.

Her child was in school at two, has had swim lessons and been passed around more adoring hands than I have known to exist in one country, much less one room, and he is so lovable and adored, especially by Kat and Lola, but most by me.

The things that she said to me were all true, Divorcee and I on conference call, both wanting to fight for the relationships we believe matter, for nothing is more thrilling than knowing your kids have people in life who love them.

She said I was a bad mother, and it is true. They have never deserved to witness divorce, have never been given the things they deserve. I never know if I am doing things the right way, feel guilt over all they have missed in my own search for wholeness.
I sob thinking of how I promised Disneyworld, a trip I starve hoping to save for, a fact I am 90 pounds, which is not true, but I am too prideful to admit my weight loss is from overworking my body, her child has seen the ocean more than I have seen bank account draft fees, which is a lot.

She said that I am selfish, leave the children so that Divorcee can’t leave if he wanted to, something he assures me is not the case but I did have a boyfriend that smoked pot, have been up for days and manic, and no one more than me wishes I knew how to manage life without becoming depressed or afraid, my regrets are bigger than my self help book shelf, all wrapped in every truth she gave, pointed out in exasperation.

She has never in her life woke up and wondered if she had been loved, her Daddy is at more functions of my own family than my sorry excuse for DNA, her parents are in 30 ish years of marriage, regular attendees of weddings, bearing gifts and kindness wherever they land.
I hear of her shopping trips with them and cringe, wondering if I can ever make it up to my own babies, who literally have no one but the tight circle in which we hold on to, for dear life.
She met the man she is married to in college and I doubt she has even loved anyone else. I doubt she goes to bed alone ever, her times away from him shake her, and I only dream of having a relationship, divorce and abandonment have never shaped her thoughts, a life I could only dream.
She has never had the threads of life ripped from beneath her, and how I am glad, to date with such fear and tread such waters of loss and destruction make me sure she is right. I can not know what she has always had without question.
She said she knows plenty of single mothers who do it better.
She says she does not use anxiety as an excuse for poor choices.

I have darkness lurking wherever I turn, and no one I can fully trust, am imbalanced, forgetful, late, selfish, and at the best imperfect.
What I am not is my father, a claim she said several times, in addressing my sick impulsive behaviors, a point I did get props for is in pursuing counseling, no doubt I need.
My father did not work at Chilis and slave all night to buy her Coach bags at Christmas, Divorcee shaking his head, my heart only desiring to see her light up, her face a sunbeam when she is given a gift she loves, my purest joy.
I see now that in doing this, what I have asked for is love.

“Please love me,” I scream.
“Please accept me,” I fall on my face in my offerings, a place I want in my deepest cracks to believe she does, but maybe if not, a Coach bag is what she really wanted, with her favorite color lined.

I was too ashamed to tell her I could not afford 30 dollar shoes for her child when given Christmas gifts, so I worked harder, and maybe, just maybe, one day she will see the symbols of love, to forgive all the mistakes, and I was certain my latest success, a job that would lead to real independence would impress her.
I hoped, like a child wishing to be adopted does, waiting for the right family to love and see them.
I see now adoption papers come to those who are doing it better, and I wonder if she knows I don’t want to be this, that I know I am broken, she doesn’t have to point it out to me. Just in being her, I am aware of all that I am.

I don’t understand why her husband can leave for days to do work in the world, important work, and he is a hero. Divorcee is the stable nurturer at home, a man who loves his children and keeps them in perfect regulation, cooks and cleans, but to be me, it is not acceptable because I am their mother.

That is considered selfish, unloving and unnatural, when I am just the same as her husband, the flip side of the same coin, but to be a woman, it is selfish and wrong. He throws his child in the air and is admired.

I throw mine and Divorcee is felt sorry for, praised and marveled at, his work in doing the laundry and setting up play dates makes him appear selfless.
But the truth is, we are in the roles we belong, just without the fish bowl, eyes looking in and judging, the two of us want what everyone else wants.

She regularly attends church, and I do not, but I must say, if anyone knows they are lost, guilty, or broken, it is me.
I AM the woman who threw herself at Jesus’s feet, asking to be healed.
I AM the woman who would adorn him with my most expensive cologne, in hope to be healed.
I wish this so deeply my heart might just break in half, and to be the seeker I am, I ask God to show up, to tell me, to reveal himself and I will go. I just haven’t found him, or at least she does not see that I have. I realize today, in my sorrow and tears, my shame is the very thing she does not carry, but real love is not conditional, is given times 70, is not earned, is not deserved. Loving people is what I do, no matter how they behave, and I only live by falling on my face and asking for grace.
I wept like a child in my bed last night and prayed that angels be posted to the doors of my mind. A little girl woke up, a little redhead named Lola, her fingers ran down my back scratching, her little intuition must have seen and felt me grieving, her love so big, the ocean can not contain it.

I want to love like the ocean too, like the man named Jesus claimed, but mostly, I want to be loved not because I did anything to deserve it. I want to be loved simply because I am.
I will go to the ends of the world to give my children the things they deserve but the only gift I know to be priceless is to love with compassion and mercy, that every mistake they make is already forgiven, that love and worth are not ever proven or earned.

It is free.

Now if only I can find it for myself….
Everything that matters in life is.

Post Break Up Realities

I remember my biggest opposition to being in a relationship was that if at any moment I no longer wanted to BE in that relationship, if you don’t commit, you don’t break up.
You don’t hurt.
You don’t cry,
No one cuts or abandons or cheats.
Everyone wins.
The Collector, the only one able to pop my boyfriend cherry, in his hopeful childlike beliefs, made me change my mind actually, an impossibility being the bull I am, friendly and sweet for a bull, but still a bull.
Not many people can ever shake my core, question my beliefs, pull out the raw power of a simple touch, a touch that altered my very being.

I kind of like the word “Bullshit” thinking of me before him, literally full of shit.

Love will stomp out any thought your mind can possess.
I wonder what he thinks now, for actually I was correct, the million reasons he denied possible are the blinding flags I waved, flags I threw on the ground, so I did commit to him, and here we are, broken up.
And it hurts.
I do cry.
And certainly being right didn’t make me win.

Neither one of us won a damn thing, which leads me to reevaluate my old way of thinking, the beliefs that had shaped me then should justify this heartbreak, renewing my lifetime commitment to single bliss, heart perfectly in tact, my feet in a brisk walk or skip out the door before someone breaks into anything real.

To have walked through the fire of such intense fear, such incredible abandonment issues that have suffocated me, the literal vision of a pillow on my face comes to mind when I changed my status on facebook, the old me so comfortable in “single” land was a stage that dropped with me standing, so I fell, not one graceful thing came of it.

Giving into fear without a clue of how to control or mask my insanities to a man who could walk out the door at any minute terrified me.
I thought I was broke.
My father left, with a long list of anonymous faces, which all compute my father left, which is not even fair. I left the faces first.
No one was going to do that to me again.

I was wrong.
He is gone.
In fact, the very thing I never wanted to feel is at my door, reminding me of the oath, asking me what I have to say for myself now.

I say to this feeling, this deep oozing wound that what I never wanted a real man or my own self to see, well, I guess the only thing I have to say is this.
“Thank you.”
I know broke all to well, the breaking in my soul, in my spirit, it is the ultimate price. To deny myself of love or trust, my own worth out the window but flying through single land, without a person to hurt me, well, is like trying to fix a bullet hole with a band-aid.
What I didn’t know however, is that broken comes in so many forms, so many layers of truths, that in fact, for me it is the only truth I had to face to be set free.
It is a transforming humility, this type of broke.
It is wild and strong, the vigilant energy of an oak deeply embedded into the earth, roots grown by courage and faith have not brought me the man on the white horse.
I have no illusions, deep sadness, an added failure, so perfect in its imperfection.

Imperfections have not given me the romance ending, but this broke has led me back to the only safe place.
It brought me home to me.

It is only when facing the thing we say we must not, that we discover the hidden power of the human spirit, become empowered by the truth of what we so bury deep in our hearts.
We are more lovable and beautiful than we know.
I thought I was unworthy of anything real showing up, failure stamped my forehead like a piece of meat being branded for sell, burnt flesh for the world to see, to smell, my scar I won’t even look in the mirror for fear I might see the horror of something so ugly, it would be a part of me for life.
I thought I must have been terrible at relationships, to have been through a divorce, to lose a father, in the worst way.

I was wrong.

I found I love powerfully, with total commitment and fierce loyalty, that I am sweet and melt like the best butter on a big pile of popcorn, the sweet warm sensation of watching a tearjerker in a crowded theatre on a rainy day.
I thought I would hate relationships.
I found I love coffee in the morning, feet can feel quite lovely rubbing against your own, the deep satisfying patterns of breathing while asleep, the comfort of a backrub, the desire to make him happy, to want to be selfless shocked me.
It was quite my cup of tea.
Or maybe he was the tea I liked so much.
I remembered what I hate about it too, the compromises, the irritations, the making up when you want to fight like a child, not a grown woman.
I found wild lust and even brutal angry fights require you to show up.
To woman up.

Walking away now free of damage leaves a bad taste in my mouth, these fists now have been in the air, fighting, loving, fucking, crying, living.

I fought for a man I love, and still love, but this has been my first experience on the other side of the fence. I have been one brutally pushing change upon men who never asked for it, a control I know too well, but now I can relate to myself.
The Collector wanted control too, just like me, and I remember Divorcee telling him with a hint of laughter to be aware, to be with me requires total release and acceptance, that I am what I am, that no man controls me.
“Trust me,” he said.
He was right. He tried the hardest.

I knew it would not be easy to be with me, a free spirit, a lover of people, all of my relationships are with men, that I forget places and time slips away with a story I had not ever heard, amazing details lost the minute I see anger replacing my boyfriend’s upset face.
I knew he would have to be strong, incredibly strong and secure, and he wanted to be the one in my life, not one of the ones of the ones, a list of people he felt replaced continually with.
I felt stripped and pulled and ashamed for this part of me for most of the time, the other outraged and betrayed that he knew this all along, that he couldn’t just love me for me.
To be asked to give up a dream, just this piece here and there, of course that never is enough. My dream obsesses my very core, my art, my desire to meet and chat and fly, to cut out time with my children, for him, was a deal I never signed. This passion was what made him supposedly fall in love with me was now being asked to be just his, the way he wanted it.
I do not blame him.
I do not ask him to feel sorry or bad for his feelings are his own.
He has a right to them.
He has a right to change his mind.

I on the other hand, have passed the ultimate test for my own peace, a peace that beats hand in hand with loss, the very truth I have been seeking.

I do not need a warning label.
I am packaged perfectly and I came here talking too much, to way too many people, loving business, making art, my little room was splatter painted at six, my closets are full of journals I came here to write, Polaroid photos included for emphasis on little girl handwritten poems, a thought that makes me smile to see a blog is no different.

I will make you jealous, bring up every insecurity, live with my own ex, travel in packs of men, but I am exactly what I have always been.

I see him in my mind. I see the man who is leaned against the back of a crowded room, sipping a beer slowly and with ease as I flirt and dance, laugh and talk.
He is waiting on me.
He knows that no man is like him, that I can be alone on the worst night after a bad fight with an ex and too many shots, but that I’m coming home.
I always do.
My heart can’t lie nor can my body and when I give this completely, he will smile, proud, and he will chat with me about all the characters I met, question little for his own life will be full and beautiful, and he will take me to the bedroom the way he should.
In total raw confidence I love him, that I fought for him, that I fought for me.
That in reaching for me, without losing hope, in my biggest defeats, I made room for him.
He will love my dreams and release me with a kiss not a jealous text, brag on my accomplishments, and be my best friend.
It will probably be me who whips my head around in jealousy.

The Collector is a beautiful man, but he was named this for a reason. He collects beautiful things, ornate lamps, interesting art, but I am not a part of a collection.

I am unique, one of a kind, not for anyone or everyone, but perfect, in the most imperfect disastrous ways.

This song came to me tonight, like it was written for me, just for this exact day, and this isn’t uncommon, but isn’t it surreal every time?

You must know life to see decay…
But I wont run.
Not this mind and not this heart…
I wont run.

I will find my way over the hill, I can see it, can almost touch it.
I will find love that wont break my heart, and I most definitely will wear flowers in my hair..
That’s just my style.

God is Nappy Roots Fo Sho

Grief is an eery thing.

I began the night first thinking of Thelma, and how much she has helped me in all areas but the financial as well, and I had been making her handmade stationary, the idea struck that I should package it inside a box I painted as a car, a symbol of so much worry and anxiety that she has supported me through. The girls got quiet after picking up my paints and begging to play, a promise for another day, the thunderstorm hit, and before I knew it, I was in a room that looked like it had been hit with an art tsunami, my tears had found their comfort zone and fell like water in sync to the rhythm of the music on my ipod, thunder, and my thoughts.
I am in a strange place tonight, and even though there have been two deaths in a month, a mistress appearing in a blog telling me I am selfish, a visit to a friend who has a murdered child she is about to go to trial for, I say this not for pity but explanation that even though my life is blessed, I feel strangely removed from it.

Thelma had mentioned earlier, laughing, about how she had removed herself from her office upstairs because she felt so lonely up there, and it triggered me, deep wells of sadness surfaced to show me that is exactly the way I feel, all the time, with or without an office or people I love. I feel strangely alone, the kind of alone that I don’t know how to put my finger on, but certain that I haven’t felt it before.

I have felt loneliness, as we all have, no one is stranger to wandering this human experience not lonely, and yes, life is a breath and to exhale is part of being alive, a hit I know too well, a mother in law who overstays her welcome and leaves a bitter taste to remind you, so it does from time to time.

I felt it after the divorce, in the marriage, with my father gone, with men I chat politely to on dates I don’t know why I am on. I know in my head that I could call many people right now, at 2 a.m., all that love me but it wouldn’t matter, lonely is inside of me, follows me and I have been making friends with it, slowly, like a new friend in the back of a classroom no one speaks to but I always wonder why.

My mind began thinking of death, the two particular recent ones, and why people seem to always mention the survivors, shaking there head in gratitude for it, and I know it is the “political correct” thing to smile and nod, seeing that grace is always offered in times like these.
What I really want to say is surviving is not the fate I hope for, it is to live and survive with the people leaving us behind that makes me shutter, a “survivor” is to me, the ultimate experience of finality.

Our loved ones are at peace and leave us here with war.

And now, I don’t know if this is war, but to feel strangely used to grief as if I picked it up at Walmart without even needing a list, makes me wonder if I am always here, if it is a disease I caught without a cure. Wisdom tells me different.

And so, the painting of the box became a bizarre circling of all these thoughts, my mind trying desperately to find its way out, my hand moving the brush as fast or slow as the tears fell, the room is not lit well and I sighed to notice red paint all over my hands at one point, but I didn’t even care.
I don’t know what occurred, but suddenly I forgot what I was painting, and just started painting everything, file folders, shoe boxes, black card stock, this was to me the best night ever, all my thoughts drifting back and forth, but I felt such elation that something about taking black and putting color on it made me feel better, and so I would get purple, then teal, rush to find my reds, my tears fell just the same, but with a purpose.

My room looks like a child got loose in kindergarten camp, but as I continued taking the black and replacing it with color, the satisfaction I felt in seeing every corner of a shoe box differently was like I just discovered candy, and so I would paint over and over it, not even aware that nothing was changing, but just that I was going to be okay, not even the dark thoughts really scared me now.

I thought about how when I had it “all,” as a marriage and healthy children and parents that appeared happy, I was miserable. I complained, with money, with a man who rubbed my feet, with children who I don’t ache from missing like I do today.
And here I am, in a teeny room painting every black substance in site, in the middle of the night, more at peace with absolute awareness that every illusion I thought had made life worthwhile, was gone.

It was kind of hilarious, this moment of truth, sobbing in my Goodwill clothes to the idea that my life, even with its loss, is exactly the way I want it, that I live every day doing what I love, and I did pause in shock at my own self.
How crazy is that?
Why are humans only empathetic and kind and aware when they are brought to their knees, the suffering in each of us really does save us from ourselves.

And, I don’t know really know why or how, but a song looped in that I don’t remember ever hearing, and lost in my circular grief ridden moment, I suddenly was aware of my brush, looked at it as if I had just realized I had been painting, confused, put it down slowly, strangely looking at this bedroom as if it were not even mine.

Then, the beat of the music made me smile, and I’m not quite sure why, but it did.
I put my volume on my Droid to max, my one lamp lit, next to my bed covered with art and piles of fresh wet ridiculous paintings on my floor, I started to dance.
I did.
I danced on top of papers I don’t know what nor did I care, the song was just that good. It was here I saw making friends with the lonely was restoring my soul to a part of life I blink and miss every day, but not tonight.
I had more love and peace and gratitude with head throbbing and wet paint all in my hair than any dance club yet, being served too much jager with Man Cubs dry humping me from behind.
I am still drunk from it, this new way of seeing the lonely, the death and destruction, surviving, and remaining. The Spirit of God is aware of what I am not.
Life is a gift.
It is a precious beautiful gift that you don’t get back, tomorrow isn’t promised, and I don’t have anything to offer, no wisdom at all, as to why tonight I saw what I may forget in the morning.
But, I saw it.
That is the beauty of living.
To hold on for that next breath, that next day, the right song, the perfect hug to remind and comfort you on dark lonely rainy nights where sadness is all that you see, that you in fact are a miracle, a breathing beautiful walking miracle.
It is God, just in rap, on a random sync, showing me what I knew all along, that of course, he is black, probably a woman, and definitely a terrible painter, because that is exactly how he showed up tonight.
And lets see, maybe I can find the song, and you can see for yourself it had to be God, or at least well disguised for just me, who tends to normally appear blurry and closely to the bad relationship aisle with regret, vodka, and the walk of shame.
Lonely is looking better all the time.
Check out the Nappy yo, I dare ya.

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Introducing “The Other Woman”

I just received a comment from a reader beneath a blog I wrote about my father, one in which I expose my hurt, my pain, the loss and destruction of being his child.

I am not one to like my personal truth being read, much less on such public display, my idea as a writer was to heal my wounds.

Little did I know it would become material read by over 10,000 strangers, a thought that makes me want to vomit, but I write to heal me, and if in any way

possible it helps others not feel so alone on this journey, I am grateful.

I also know that to expose myself comes with consequences, some good, some bad, and I do not publish anything without thought to the people affected, a reality that weighs heavy on my heart. I am indifferent to most comments, try my best not to think of them, never wanting to write for an audience, always striving to focus on my art, my truth. I feel my writing is just a projection, that a computer screen is capturing one moment of emotion or thought, so to be loved or hated, I do not feel personally attached to either thought. I write not because I want to, but because I must, and I let the readers do or say as they will. It is their right.

However, in this case, I have decided it is my right to reply in anyway I please, not in spite, but in addressing the child within, the outrageous injustice that she has endured will be heard and if it comes out politically incorrect or even a tad sarcastic or angry, so be it.
She has been through enough.

And here, is what this stranger had to say:

lea hickman
lhickman3158@gmail.com
71.236.12.232
Submitted on 2011/04/01 at 12:03 pm

“Katie, You are certainly entitled to your opinion about your father; however you are his daughter and he loves you. Reaching out is never easy, especially after a divorce, but your dad wants a relationship with his kids and granchildren, and you should consider his feelings. STOP being selfish!”

And this is my reply, of course, in Dear Abby blog form, but just in a more “OBVIOUS”
fashion.

“Wow. Lea Hickman. You certainly know how to make an appearance. I suppose introductions don’t seem to be needed here since my letters never received a reply, but I guess you know that. I never really thought my personal blog would be the place for a mistress to have a platform, but you are not just any mistress, but one who actually gives advice as well? I should be so honored.
Well, here is your moment and so lets just open up this can of worms shall we?
First off, please don’t be offended that I have not included you in any of my blogs or invited you over to personally say hello because it has been my impression since I was a small child that you were the psychotic ex girlfriend of my father, imagine that?
Yes, he said many times that you were prone to jealous rages over his adoration of my mother, that you could never be one to recover from his rejection.
I never knew he was such a stud.
Lucky girl, you are.
I wondered many times if all those calls and appearances in my childhood and adult life were fatal attraction, and funny thing about a woman’s intuition, I truly did give you the benefit of the doubt.
Perhaps he was just in denial.
It just seemed strange that my mother, who was of course, “THE love of my Dad’s LIFE, and THE ONLY love he EVER had,” normal gross announcements he made to her almost daily, was not apart from him even a day for my entire life.
I just didn’t know how to prove you, understand?
I will say I never thought about electronics, like say, computers, the one thing my mother doesn’t know much about, so I apologize for not connecting sooner.
I think it is lovely that you care about his relationships so deeply, I mean really, to reach out to me in his name is well, so kind of you, and effective for sure.
What daughter doesn’t want to run to Daddy when his ex girlfriend psycho perhaps mistress appears on her blog to defend him?
It is romance at it’s best.
I know. Maybe you can come by, the two of you, the reunion will be just beautiful, and I’ll be sure to vacuum. We shall all hug and cry and sing with joy, my two daughters love any excuse to eat cake, but it might want to be in secret you know, just in case, our party were to “get out” and upset family members.
People are so sensitive about these types of things.
Did you know my Dad and Mom ate a lot of cake, together, like 34 years of cake, gosh, that adds up to how many cakes a year for how many special occasions?
Wow. That is a lot of cake.
And I do appreciate that call to not being selfish, and I know I struggle here, I certainly do.
What do I call you again? Oh, Lea.
There I go again, being selfish. Maybe Grammy could be a pet name, just between us?
I am working on that selfish thing. My father certainly could have used more help in raising me. He told me what love is, but maybe you have a better view.
You are a fine example of exactly what my mother should have been you know, to get and “keep” a man as kind, selfless, loyal, and honest as my father.
Oh, but I would keep an eye on the credit card when desert comes.
Between us, he may have stolen it, so just proceed with caution, perhaps take your purse with you to the restroom, and lock it in your home if he accompanies you.
He is known to have 38 aliases and prone to using other people’s social security numbers. Whew, what a handful he is!
But listen, I do want to congratulate you on defending him, and perhaps you also are aware of the 22 page hate mails, mostly stripping my mom of all her dignity in outrageous lies meant to hurt her, not us. I mean who can blame him, right?
Oh and how he loves his grandchildren.
I think he met, no, not sure about my precious nephew, but he did get my little girl a train set one year. Kind of confusing to them, this overwhelming love.
Perhaps it overwhelms them, I don’t exactly know.
I suppose it is hard to blame him, even though he is definitely responsible for years of therapy, and along with the stalking, broken promises, and forgotten boundaries, you may need to give him a loan to help him with this healing Lea!
Not to mention the occasional run from the IRS, abandoning his family over a car, a nice one, the one in his mommy’s driveway? I know I am just his little girl, but really, that car smells brand new, don’t you think?
He used to love to joy ride with mom and I in that thing, and we would go to Bruster’s and get ice cream, and this funny thing happened once, he played this song by Chris Isaac, “Somebody’s Lying,” and I just poked him on the side of his arm, while we just laughed. He always thought I was just hilarious.

But, not to put a damper on anything, cause I am uncertain to your status, on facebook you see, the status of your relationship is what makes it official, anyways, keep this one little thing in mind. If it does go a little sour, don’t be surprised to find dead roses in your mailbox, surround your entire family for holidays with weapons, but use bats so the children aren’t nervous, and always tell him how selfless and wonderful he is, that he did the BEST he KNEW to do, over and over until your eyeballs fall out and every bit of life force has been drained out of your ever loving soul.

Oh, and do tell your daughter I said hello. In high school, she once told me we could be sisters but I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, not until today that is.
Maybe you should mother her since I do have one of my own.
You should meet her one day, or I believe you have.
She is not perfect, but she did love my father very much, as we all did.
He just never saw the value of real love, a perfect offering even in all his failures, until it was way too late.
I’m not sure how any love is more pure than a child for her own father, especially mine, because I wanted to die before I lived one day believing my daddy, the man who hung the moon, could become this. This is the unspeakable crime to a child, this is not the man I remember nor he is the man I ever wish to know.
But perhaps I am just selfish. Perhaps you can give him the love he never had. Perhaps you are the perfect woman to show him love, for trust me, every woman till now, his own daughter, can not. Perhaps you were the only one he loved all along? Perhaps he doesn’t know what love even means? Perhaps you can teach him.
Perhaps.”

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