Category Archives: healing

Just a thought

I think there should be a special judicial system created to try bad significant others (SO). Divorces in most states are now no-fault, so the dirty spouse doesn’t get punished and the (less) innocent spouse doesn’t have the satisfaction of justice.

The court I envision would not be only for married couples, though. It would be for ANY couple where one party alleges some form of abuse that isn’t covered under criminal or civil law. I had an addendum to an old post that added a discourse on fighting back bullies, but decided to leave it for another time when the post could stand on its own. That’s what emotional abusers are–bullies. There is nowhere to bring a case like that in our current judicial system. One might think of “intentional infliction of emotional distress,” but getting that in by itself won’t usually work. There should be other allegations.

In my mind, I envision a jury of women deciding the fate of an abusive man. As they hear the evidence, they yell, heckle and boo him. The penalties for being guilty should be between 10 days and life. I mean, are you really going to give a guy whose only “crime” is watching sports continually all weekend as if his SO didn’t exist five years? That would be a bit extreme.

There are some things for which no penalty is enough. I am morally against the death penalty because it is not meted out fairly. However, if anyone were to deserve it, it would be SOs who physically and/or sexually abuse their SO and/or the SO’s family members. Someone who does that just needs to die.

I’ve often believed that all males should be isolated once they reach puberty. At that time, they go live with men who teach them how to be human AND male. There really are men who are quite comfortable being both. There is no shame in showing one’s emotions or having empathy with another. Women love men who are like that. Kindness is a virtue across the sex and gender divide.

I am reminded of a couple of documentaries I saw that either had a segment on elephants or was about elephants. Pesky, randy male elephants are thrown out of their herd because they are a nuisance. Some roam around solo and wreak havoc; some roam around with others like themselves and wreak havoc, and; some find themselves in the company of an older male who teaches them not to be a pain in the ass. Unfortunately, there are those few who never learn and become dangerous to other wildlife and have to be moved or put down. Most often the latter.

So, in my fantasy, boys are turned over to someone to be trained in the ways of manhood. They are provisionally released at 18 and permanently released at 21. If they mistreat or misbehave after that, they go in front of a judge while the State brings charges against them.

Mind you, the system is set up for females too, but they are taught at home and during regular schooling. Somehow, I sincerely doubt that women will appear in this Court nearly as often as men.

As I said, this is just a thought.

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For Glenn

Gang, I apologize in advance for what I’m about to do. Since Glenn has been snooping around here and he’s said he didn’t want me to contact him, this is the only way for me to let him know some things. I really, really hate that this has to be public, but he’s left me no choice. He’ll regret it soon enough because he lost a real opportunity to have input into my book. There’s nothing I can do about it. It was his choice and he has to live with the consequences just like everyone else. Such is life. *shrug*

Well, Glenn, I hope you found what you were looking for. I know that you weren’t happy with a lot of it, but there is nothing I can do about it. I wouldn’t if I could for the simple reason that I told the truth about my feelings. I’ve been reaching out to you for a few weeks over a decade with no response. I didn’t know why. Most of the time I assumed that it was because you wanted to see me in pain. That was your motivation a decade ago. You are the kind of person who withholds necessary knowledge because it gives you power. You’ve always been that way. It’s pretty miserable if you’re the person who needs the information that’s being withheld. It also signals a certain mean-spirited mindset.

I’ve always known that you had a mean streak that could overtake the rest of you if you weren’t careful. I’ve seen it and been on the receiving end of it. You strike out at people before they can strike out at you, so you believe. That way, you have more control of the situation. I knew that if you married your spouse, the chances were very good that the wonderful, beautiful, promising parts of you would be lost. She is who she is and she’s one mean woman. That meanness walked two feet in front of her at all times. I was warned about her when I asked someone what her problem was when we were all at Oberlin. I didn’t know who she was in relation to you at the time. The two of you got together and destroyed the person I was and damn near killed me, quite literally. While you didn’t make me swallow a nearly-full bottle of Ativan, you pounded and pounded and pounded my psyche into the ground until there was nothing left. My suicide was definitely a foreseeable event. I don’t even think you would have cared when the cops came knocking at your door, because they would, you know. The journal entries you decided you didn’t want to see give a pretty good recitation of what was done.

It had been my hope that you’d marry me. You know that. However, what you may not have known is that I knew you wouldn’t “go over to the dark side” if you were with me. The problem is that, had you decided to “punish” me for some perceived slight, you could and would verbally slice me to pieces. Our marriage may well not have lasted because I would have found the strength to leave. Then again, I may have become so hardened as a way of protecting myself that I’d be practically unrecognizable. Yes, Glenn, you are an abuser. It is what I’d hoped you wouldn’t be. Because I was young and dumb, I thought I could make you happy enough to keep you from being abusive to me or anyone else. There really is such a great person inside of you. That’s the young man, then the not-so-young man, with whom I fell in love. I still love that person, but you aren’t him. I cannot love the person you have shown me you are now. You cannot imagine how incredibly sad that makes me.

Ever since I refused to have phone sex with you and told you that I was, at that time, identifying as a lesbian, you haven’t said a civil word to me. In fact, you’ve said some pretty awful, hate-filled things to me, about me, about lesbians. What the hell is your problem? Has no one ever told you “No”? Sorry, but it happens like that sometimes. I wasn’t your dial-a-whore, but that’s the way you treated me that night. You showed no respect for, or empathy towards, me. It was all about you all the time. I’ve long suspected a couple of things about you. The first is that you were abused emotionally, physically or sexually at some point in time. Frankly, you show a great many symptoms. Be that as it may, that doesn’t excuse your evil deeds and evil words.

I was about to say that I think you’re a narcissist. I can’t do it. Yes, you have a lot of narcissistic traits, a lack of empathy and projection of your own thinking onto others for starters, I’m not in a position to tell someone else they have some personality disorder. However, you do tend to think I have ulterior motives when I’ve been open and honest about what I wanted. You were actually patient and encouraging during that two week period a decade ago when I was very afraid of telling you how I felt. You completely fooled me. I walked into the trap and was savaged by you and/or your mate. I will never understand how you could do that to me when we were lovers for 17 years and I’d done nothing to you except told you that I was a lesbian and that I wouldn’t get you off over the phone. Granted, I didn’t do it in a particularly sensitive way given that that was the first time I’d heard from you in a year and then you call because you wanted phone sex, but I didn’t deserve what you, your spouse and/or your business partner did to me. I am 75% sure that your fingers weren’t at the keyboard because I couldn’t get the person to call me and discuss things. That person obviously didn’t want to have his or her identity discovered. It was a cowardly, twisted, disgusting individual who did that. Was it you? I bet you’d cop to it to keep me from thinking it’s your spouse. Therefore, don’t bother answering the question. You’d lie.

It would have been so simple for you to avoid whatever it is that you’re afraid of and also spare me a great deal of pain. Granted, you don’t give a damn about me, but you could have saved yourself all of the concern you obviously feel. All you had to do was talk things out with me. I’m not out to hurt you, although you aren’t going to look very good at all in my book. Believe it or not, I really wasn’t into making your spouse look terrible either. However, I’m also not going to water things down. You had an opportunity to influence what I write. Now, you don’t. You assumed that I am devious, manipulative, unscrupulous and a liar. That isn’t who I am at all. Look in the mirror. You’ll see the person you think I am. I honestly feel sorry for you and sad because you can’t fully enjoy life if you think everyone is out to get you. I do, however, wonder how many compromises you’ve had to make in your life given who you’re married to. But, that’s not my problem and neither are you. Those questions are for you and your spouse to answer for yourselves.

In conclusion, I wish to reiterate that I no longer want any kind of romantic or sexual relationship with you. You grew into the person I feared you would given 24/7 association with your spouse. I’m also not going to waste time on someone who can’t manage a civil word out of his mouth for reasons that totally escape me. As I said, you’ve been that way since I refused your request for phone sex. I also can’t deal with your homophobia. That’s evil. In fact, a lot of the things you’ve said and done are pure evil. That is not what I want in my life. I’ve spent 34 years of my life loving you. It ended last week and I feel somewhat relieved. I have my life back. Be that as it may, a decade of my life was taken, stolen and robbed from me. That’s something I can’t forgive or forget. I will leave that to God, but don’t be surprised if Fate deals your household a dirty hand. The world likes balance.

Depending on what I write, I may have my attorney contact you. The manuscript won’t be finished for a long time yet. I’m looking at possibly two years, perhaps 18 months. This is much bigger than just you. I am writing about emotional, physical and sexual abuse. It’s a subject I know well. And yes, you will be included, as will your spouse to some degree. If you’ve consulted an intellectual property attorney, I’m sure s/he told you that you really can’t do anything to me until the book is published. Even then, New Jersey law is not in your favor since I do have a right to write about my own life.

You had so much promise. Now, knowing what you’ve become, I feel nothing but sadness. I don’t know if it’s even possible for you to change should you walk away or somehow become unmarried. I think you’d still be the angry, bitter, paranoid, mean person you are. You can put a smile on your face, but that doesn’t take care of what’s inside. It’s what’s inside of you that’s toxic. How very, very sad.

Writing about abuse

There is a post I’ve wanted to write for a while now. It is about my history of being an abuse victim and then an abuse survivor. Wash, rinse, repeat. Without a doubt, the majority of the abuse I’ve experienced is emotional. However, a great deal of the emotional abuse is tied to sexual abuse. I sat up in bed after watching programs on the DVR that needed to be erased and told myself, “I’m going to do it.” I tried and I couldn’t. You see, it isn’t enough that I write about my own experiences. I have to include the statistics and other data because that’s what one does when one is a finder of fact. It’s second nature. However, when I began searching for the stats I used to know by heart, I found that my insides began to throb. I felt as if there were some tumor growing in the center of my rib cage as I read. Finally, I had to accept that, at least for now, I can’t do it. That isn’t to say I won’t be able to do it tomorrow or the next day or next week. I just can’t do it now because I’m too close to last week’s events surrounding Glenn and reading old journals that definitely portrayed him as an abuser. Granted, his method was emotional, but it was definitely abusive. He plans to continue, but I’m not a teenager or a 20-something or even a 30-something. I, very literally, have a spine of titanium. I forget that a lot of times because I’ve been conditioned by experience to believe consciously or unconsciously that the abuse–be it emotional or sexual–was somehow my fault and that I am wrong to fight back. The part about it being wrong to fight back is something I lay squarely at the feet of my mother and her family. For them, perception was/is everything. You didn’t complain. You quietly endured whatever and whoever befell you like a proper lady. I had to learn that I had a right to defend myself. I still have to actively remember to remember that fact when it shouldn’t even be a question.

I need to write so badly that I ache. I want to scream and shout and pound my fist into the wall because I so want to write but I can’t. I can’t because I’ve written so much about this one person and one subject that I’ll lose the little family that’s developed here even though I started this blog for myself and myself only. If people chose to take the ride with me, great. If they decided to by-pass it, oh well. Now, I’ve gotten spoiled. It’s sort of ridiculous, really. If I want an audience per se, I can go on over to my other blog and write something that will get attention and publicize it. I don’t do that here. This is the space I set up where extremely few people know who I am, leaving me free to write whatever the hell I want to write about. Well, right now, I need to write about abuse and I need to write about Glenn and I need to make what’s in my head real by putting it in writing. The only thing I want to know about Glenn is why he’s been so damn hostile ever since I came out to him 20 years ago. The string of homophobic hatred that came across my screen that fateful day was shocking and as deadly as ninja throwing stars. It was so shocking and damaging that I actually forgot about it until I read my journal entries. Asking him is pointless because he’s not talking to me. Even if he were, he’d never actually explain anything. He never has and he never will. It’s as though he believes he’s got some God-given right to do and say whatever he pleases and not explain or talk about it at all. And if you’re outside of his circle, you are fair game to be mistreated in any way that amuses him at the time. He did it to me for two years as I “chased” him, something to which I will readily admit. I was 16 at the time and he was Glenn.

I’m sorry, but I have to say this: that S.O.B. hurt me. I know that was his plan and that my pain gives him pleasure. He is a non-consensual sadist. That, too, was part of his tirade that day a decade ago. He’s like a domestic canine-wolf cross. You never know what behavior you’ll get. Will it be more wolf-like or more domestic canine? He can, and frequently is, quite cruel. He is also quite charming when he chooses to be. As a former mutual friend said, so I’ve read, he’s frequently overwhelmed and confused. This is true. His way of dealing is to run or strike before he feels he’s about to be struck (figuratively, that is) or both. Reading, he’s not someone I want to be with again. He’s got a domestic canine side that I loved dearly. Now, the only thing I experience is the rabid wolf. Mind you, I absolutely love and adore wolves and give most of my meager budget for charitable causes to efforts to save wolves and to the ASPCA. Therefore, in a sense, I’m libeling wolves. *looks west toward Michigan and beyond* Sorry guys!

I am trying to recover as quickly as possible from last week. I need to move on because I wasted an entire week on him that I really didn’t have to waste. To show how hurried I’ve been, I wrote a thousand word post, thought I’d uploaded it, didn’t see it hours later and went to look for it in “Drafts,” then realized I’d erased all of my drafts to create more space on my iPhone. I wanted to scream. I feel a lot of pressure to “get over it” even though I know it’s not that simple. I feel a pressure to just shut up about it already and I can’t. I’m wondering if I shouldn’t just set up another blog where I am the only person who can see what I’ve written.

OK, I think I’m beginning to kind of understand what I’m feeling. Some of my thought pattern is the PTSD rearing its head. I have noticed that I feel as though I’m on the edge of a cliff about to fall off if I take one misstep. I also feel as though no one will like me if I say one more word about HIM. Honestly, I don’t want to write about HIM, but how do I not and still write about the pain I’m in? I can’t have it both ways–at least not here.

In trying to write about my experiences with abuse, I ran across a list of some of the effects of childhood sexual abuse on the site PANdora’s Box.

  • Long term effects of child abuse include fear, anxiety, depression, anger, hostility, inappropriate sexual behavior, poor self esteem, tendency toward substance abuse and difficulty with close relationships.
  • Clinical findings of adult victims of sexual abuse include problems in interpersonal relationships associated with an underlying mistrust. Generally, adult victims of incest have a severely strained relationship with their parents that is marked by feelings of mistrust, fear, ambivalence, hatred, and betrayal. These feelings may extend to all family members.
  • Sexual victimization may profoundly interfere with and alter the development of attitudes toward self, sexuality, and trusting relationships during the critical early years of development.

That’s not the full list, but what’s there describes me. I have tried so hard to overcome the filth of my mother’s second husband since I was in my 20s. I’ve probably made a lot of progress, but right now, I feel as though I’ve failed myself and others. My head knows that I’ve made a great deal of progress and asks who these “others” are. I think the “others” are those who couldn’t get close to me because I was afraid. Those I did allow in were often abusive themselves and subsequently abused me. I have to fight to maintain self-esteem. It took me a lot of time to accept that I deserved better than HIM. Having done so, I’m afraid of slipping back because I have so many questions. I’ve never been good at accepting that there are questions about people for which I’ll never get answers. I’m the kind of person who absolutely must understand things of importance, especially when what I’m trying to understand is an emotion or act be it mine or someone else’s. I know a lot of people who hate the word “closure,” but it is what I truly do need. Otherwise, I am left with holes that are very dangerous because I will inevitably try to fill them with either another person or some idea I’ll settle on that may not be very complimentary to me.

OK, I’ve written nearly 1500 words. It’s time to end this. I’m at the same place I began. I have a knot in my chest and I want to scream.

Panic!

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I woke up very shortly after two Valium let me nap when I had hoped to actually sleep. I tried to go back to sleep, but it was pointless. On top of that, I was physically ill due to having my world turned upside down. This could turn into a good thing, but right now, all I know is that a truly malevolent creature stole a very large and important chunk of my life. Whatever the case, being sick was/is not something I can handle right now.

Most people eat when they’re upset. Not me! The more upset and depressed I get, the less I eat and the more I don’t want to eat. The thing is, I don’t drink either and I dehydrate very easily. I don’t mean a little bit. I mean ending up in the ER because my heartbeat gets irregular, I get light-headed and I have no veins except in my neck. I then have to lie to the doctors who know I’m lying but can’t prove it so that I don’t get locked in a me tal ward because I’m “a danger to myself.”

I didn’t have any anti-diarrhea meds so I had to get that before I even tried to eat. Otherwise, it’s a pointless effort. I also had to get just about every other prescription I had filled, especially the Valium. Valium is my friend these days. It’s the only thing standing between me and panic attacks, body memories and full-on flashbacks. Yes, I have post-traumatic stress disorder. It is made worse by fibromyalgia and fibro is made worse by PTSD. I’ve also had to cancel my life for most of this week because I can just barely cope with reliving the last 10 years of pain, apparent betrayal, heartache, abuse, suicide, profound loss, self-hatred and loneliness. Yet I have no choice because I have to make the love of my life understand what his hagbeast monster of a wife did to both of us. She took my life when she already had him and he sure as hell wasn’t going to leave her for me. She took my life. MY life.

I had to play Jane Bond and try to find a way to get Glenn, and only Glenn, the documents that detail what happened and all the times I’ve tried to reach him only to be met with silence. He never got ANYTHING I sent him via e-mail. So, I can’t use e-mail. Furthermore, I need figure out how to encrypt the data on a DVD I’m sending to him. It’s quite possible to do, but I need to find out how by tomorrow afternoon.

I went to the grocery store deli because I figured that’s about all my stomach can handle right now. The store is huge and it was crowded. I nearly had a full-blown panic attack three different times. I barely got out before the last one nearly emerged. Had I been there a few more minutes, that would have been all she wrote. I’m fairly good at talking myself down from them, but even I can’t beat them all when I’m tired, sick, upset as hell and want my mom because she’d know what to do when I don’t.

Speaking of Mom, I realize that some would see my letter to her and think I’m nuts. No. As I wrote, I kept hearing and seeing her in my head trying to tell me to not just hang on to him, but insisting I do so. This, from a woman who never particularly liked him. When I called to tell him about the book (a publisher had already offered a deal several years ago that I didn’t take then) and HE answered, I could barely speak. I didn’t believe him at first when he said he didn’t know anything about what I was referring to. But it gradually sunk in. And that’s when the world in which I have lived for a decade began to fall apart. That’s why Mom was so insistent. That’s why I could never shake my love for him even when I hated him for doing what I thought he was doing. Well fuck you Dr. Robin Watt. He may have no choice but to take your side because he put a ring on your finger, but he will sure as hell know who and what you are. Beast!

Now, I just have to get through the rest of tonight (sleep and/or working on that disk) and the day. I cannot get sick and I cannot have any panic attacks or flashbacks. I have to be strong.

The Story of T & G

I’m feeling angry, hurt and mean this Sunday. Therefore, I revised this post with some visual aids. God(dess) will probably strike me dead for BEING that way.

I’m actually at a loss for words. It’s not that there aren’t enough; there are too many. I’ll start with the title and, perhaps, discuss its inspiration. BTW, for this post, and maybe for others, depending on how I feel, the bâtard is being named. I wish I knew the French words for “septic cunt” and “hagbeast” or even “hagfish” because I’d use them as well.

One, possibly two, people who read this blog know who I am in real life and that I am an aspiring online magazine publisher. I’ve been putting the building blocks in place to turn another blog I have into an online women’s magazine since last fall. My goal is to go live this year. I do have a more specific timetable, but that’s my other life and I don’t really want to talk much about it here.

My heart and soul are dying and my mind can’t hold me up on its own anymore. I can blame it on a week off my antidepressants and that would be partially accurate. However, the antidepressants only allow me to cope with real life and make better decisions (I hope). They don’t change what’s happened. Certainly, they don’t heal me in places I’m not totally sure anyone can, including me. My way of coping has always been sex, music or the written word. I was; I am; I will always be, a musician, even when my only instrument is my voice. I am and have always been, a writer, even without a pencil, paper or laptop. I have written countless stories in my head that never make it to paper because there’s no need. They were written by me for me.

I’ve been playing with an idea for the last few weeks that I’ve decided to follow through. I am going to write a book based on my truth about Glenn and me. It takes as long as it takes. What’s in it is in it. I don’t care who gets hurt as long as I can write the truth. I’ve got a lot of documentation in journals, letters, etc. I only wish I had a screen capture of his wifey-slime pretending to be him saying, “It was a joke” when referring to his supposed interest in becoming involved again after I’d poured my heart out to him. I think the only people who might understand how destroyed I was and still am are the readers here and my shrink. I’m not sure my shrink understands completely. Then again, she did understand that it was cruelty in the extreme, and one of her specialties is abuse, so I guess she must get something.

In the last two or three days I’ve gone from righteous anger to crumbling heap. I’m trying to get angry again so that it becomes a motivator for action. The problem is that when I’ve been angry I’ve also been the most hurt. I’m angry because of the things Glenn did that utterly and completely betrayed me for sport. I’m angry that he let that hagbeast be the one who was in on at least part of it with him, knowing that I detest her and have since I was 16-years-old and didn’t even know she was seeing him. I’m angry that we laid in bed together for 17 years and there was love. . . the love. He never professed love to me, but I most assuredly expressed mine to him. Even though I was sleeping with other people, there was no doubt that he was my heart. He brought me to life in a way no one ever had and no one has since. Sure, we’d get tired of each other at times, but in the end, even when I basically chased him for nearly two years, I believed it would be Glenn and me. I took “themeangirl” seriously, believe me. I watched them together and could read them and knew it would be a tough fight but that she would not be good for him in the end. Therefore, being angry with him also brings up the intense pain. The pain overcomes any benefit I could have received from the anger.

Photo of a toothed hagfish

This photo of a type of hagfish reminds me of stories told in some parts of the world about vaginas with teeth. That’s my image of the “hagbeast.”

The reason I was/am angry with Glenn is because he has yet to take any responsibility for anything. He’s a coward and what he and his hagbeast did was a twisted, sick thing. That’s not anger talking. That’s what I’d say if someone else told me that they’d been through what I have with him and the hagbeast. I have found ways to survive by running, closing myself off, crying myself to sleep and anything and everything else except drugs, although I have gotten drunk once or twice. OK, three times. Over the course of ten years, that’s not so bad. But it all has to end. I can’t do it anymore. I have things that need to be done in real life. The more I try to suppress what I feel about The Hagbeast, featuring GT as her apprentice, the sicker I will become. However, if I can write constructively and know that this is NOT my fault and that what was done was wrong, even though I already know that in my head, I have to believe I can heal.

I know that I’m no angel in this either. Hagbeast has had a ring through his nose for over 20 years. I don’t know if she knows that we were still sleeping together as late as four years after they were married and did so during her entire residency. However, I doubt things would have progressed as horribly as they did if he’d just not ignored me for two years and expected me to be in the same place when he decided to come back. I can understand him wanting to give his marriage a serious shot. I would have hated it, cried a lot, pleaded, bargained and did whatever I could. But in the end, I would have understood. This ain’t my first rodeo. But he just disappeared without a word. By the time he appeared again, he called me for phone sex. Ladies, I think you have some understanding of how . . . I don’t know . . . MIFFED I’d be about that. So I told him, “Sorry, but I am not currently sleeping with men.” He responded, “At all?!” “No. I am not having sex with men at all, nor getting them off online or on the phone.” *CLICK* He hung up on me. I was too pissed off then to regret what happened or realize how hurt he was–and he was definitely hurt–and that he’d loved me. Mom tried to tell me, but I learned to never trust anything unless he says it. He’d burned me too many times on that. Regardless, that’s when the foundations of my personal hell were laid. It took nine years and barely surviving a relative who tried to destroy me for me to come within hell’s reach. I needed Glenn again. He acted interested, but suspicious. I’d sensed someone else listening to us as he talked to me while driving down to Florida for a convention. I thought it was probably some male friend. Men are often jerks when they get together, so I just tried to pretend that I knew nothing.

By the time he arrived back home, he had a very special present waiting for him. First, a prelude.

I have loved Glenn my entire life minus 17 years. I loved him when I hated him and hated him when I’ve loved him. Hell, I love him NOW. However, when I found him and asked about resuming our involvement, I honestly thought the love had passed and that we could be good friends with benefits, meeting a few times a year to catch up on several levels, perhaps share a meal and go back to our own homes. I’d accepted, I thought, that he’d married someone else even if I detested her. Now, since she was such a hagbeast, I didn’t feel any guilt at all about shaking the chandelier with her husband. When Glenn opened up, we were great together. When he shut down, he was frustrating. He wasn’t all that happy about leaving me behind and he was lonely.

Image of a hagfish

Hagfish are real, slimy, disgusting but necessary. I apologize to any hagfish who were hurt by my bastardization of the name of your species.

I’ve loved him nearly as long as she theoretically had and I’d been the one to soothe him when she was being a right cold fish. He didn’t marry me because I’m his “Gregory.” That means that he didn’t love me quite as much as he did hagbeast just as I loved Glenn a little bit more than I loved Gregory. I also wasn’t going to make six figures coming out of training, thereby allowing him to set up his businesses without having to worry about his next meal. In addition, she was able-bodied. There’s nothing I can do about that, so she won. I don’t happen to think that being able-bodied should have been a criteria, but it was. What hurt so much is that anyone who has ever seen us together felt that they were in a room positively crackling with electricity. Given that, why does having an above-knee prosthesis on one leg make any difference? What difference does it make if I developed fibromyalgia? Apparently, a lot of difference. She’s better arm-candy, a better earner and doesn’t limp and spend much time as a patient in a hospital.

Well, as I said, by the time he got back from Florida and after talking to him a few times while he was down there, I decided to make a film of myself talking to him and telling him of this love that came rushing up from its hiding place out of my mind’s eye view. It was corny, I admit. The music in the background was Donny Hathaway singing his masterwork, A Song For You. But it fit.

Here are the lyrics.

A Song For You
Sung by Donny Hathaway

I’ve been so many places in my life and time
I’ve sung a lot of songs I’ve made some bad rhymes
I’ve acted out my life in stages
With ten thousand people watching
But we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

I know your image of me is what I hope to be
I’ve treated you unkindly but darlin’ can’t you see
There’s no one more important to me
Baby can’t you see through me
Cause we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

You taught me precious secrets of a true love witholding nothing
You came out in front when I was hiding
Now I’m so much better and if my words don’t come together
Listen to the melody cause my love is in there hiding

I love you in a place where there’s no space or time
I love you for my life you’re a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song to you

I love you in a place where there’s no space or time
I love you for in my life you’re a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song to you
We were alone and I was singing this song to you
We were alone and I was singing this song
Singing this song to you

A Song For You lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Universal Music Publishing Group, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

You see, by that time, I’d been a journalist for three very busy years and had definitely gotten people’s attention. I was going a few places to conferences and such, talking to people active in black gay circles and in the Welcoming Congregation movement. Indeed, that’s how I made my bones. I covered the 2001 United Methodist Church General Conference. It was one thing after another. My adrenaline was pumping and I was taking pictures and conducting interviews with people I would never have been able to get next to otherwise. I was in heaven! I attended the First Annual National Black Lesbian Conference where I watched an organization being born. Let me tell you, it was a beautiful experience. I got mobbed by the women when they found out who I was.

The lyrics to A Song For You say:

I’ve been so many places in my life and time
I’ve sung a lot of songs I’ve made some bad rhymes
I’ve acted out my life in stages
With ten thousand people watching
But we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

I really had lived my life on a stage of sorts. Mine was the digital and glossy paper stage. I’d written a lot of stories about a lot of people and organizations and they really were my life. To my great surprise, people knew who I was and appreciated my work. But I chose to sit on my office floor, with a cigarette (to keep me calm because I was scared to death) and told the absolute truth. I didn’t realize how much I still loved him when I contacted him and that these feelings came up almost the moment I began talking to him. I loved him regardless of his situation. We figured things out once and we could do it again.

I know your image of me is what I hope to be
I’ve treated you unkindly but darlin’ can’t you see
There’s no one more important to me
Baby can’t you see through me
Cause we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

I apologized for the way I told him I was, for all intents and purposes, a lesbian. I should have been more sensitive to his feelings because we had such a long and storied history. I told him that he had me if he wanted me and that I wanted him. I opened up completely. I was totally vulnerable.

I didn’t hear from him for two days. I finally caught up with someone I thought was him but, as it turned out, it was the hagbeast. I asked if he liked the movie. The reply was “No.” I said something like “Oh.” Some other thing happened that I can’t remember except that it made me go cold inside and my stomach clench. That’s when I first got a clue it wasn’t Glenn. He’d never talked to me that way. I ran to my bedroom to phone him and tell him that his wife was online pretending to be him and saying whatever else she said besides “It was a joke.” There was no answer. It is only recently that I’ve accepted that this is what happened. I didn’t want to believe that the hagbeast had that much evil in her. Certainly, I didn’t want to believe that Glenn was complicit in her games. It led me to wonder if they plotted the entire thing and laughed at me while they did it. I picture them making love while making fun of me. Even now, the humiliation is such that I really and truly want to die. No kidding. No exaggeration. If someone shot me right now, I would thank them. The only reason I don’t do it myself is because of my girls. They need me. Even an empty shell of a person is better than what would await them at the local shelter. So I live.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through writing this, but I will. I doubt it will be ready for submission even next year. So, I’m looking at two years. I’ve got to keep myself alive for at least two years. OK.

As the watchful eye of Mother Earth is my witness, I just want to die and get it over with, but I can’t. My babies need me.

Shit.

Congratulations if you’ve managed to get this far! For your efforts, I want to reveal two photos I sent to Glenn yesterday and last night.

A picture of my arm showing severe self-inflicted burns on my arm

This is a photo I sent Glenn so that he can see that I was in so much agony there were no words. The only way I could express myself was to burn myself almost to the bone and cut. I did this after the “It was a joke” comment.

Photo of a paper plate with 3 bacon strips next to a paper plate with a stack of pancakes with a dinner knife connecting the two. There are assorted food items in the background.

This photo is filled with symbolism. Some of it would only be evident to someone who knows me. I sent this to him with a letter telling him that I’m writing our story.

What now?

I don’t need to see Glenn again. I don’t want him in my life. I don’t want anyone who can do what he did and won’t accept any responsibility for his own actions. I am the one who swallowed a handful or two of benzos to end my life. What he did to drive me to do so is on him. No, I do not need to see him again. On the other hand, *evil grin* I want him to see me.

The thing about Glenn and I was that neither of us were sitting around waiting for the other to call. Well, I should qualify that. I did sit around waiting for him to call when I was in undergrad. I was young. However, after I crossed the threshold of 30 years old–actually before that–I was off doing my own thing. I had other relationships and, as he learned, I chose to actually do something about my attraction to women. That was our Waterloo. That’s what he couldn’t handle. He really couldn’t deal with me now. I am no longer willing to put up with a manchild. Heck, I don’t even know that I’ll ever want a man as a lover again. Part of that is thanks to him, but it’s mostly because I have a very hard time trusting men. OK, so more of that is due to Glenn than I’m admitting. *shrug* It is what it is. The only one who can make it go away is me. I have some idea of how, but I’m just not willing. It would mean becoming involved with a man for a while and gradually learning to trust again. It’s not an easy or quick road. I do think that I might be willing to get royally fucked off the edge of my bed by some hot young thing with an appropriately-sized penis, but that would be a quicky and meaningless. A little meaningless sex has it’s place, though.

In the last couple of weeks, almost as if I knew Valentine’s Day would come and I’d finally be more or less free of Glenn, I’ve done a couple of things to move my life along. The first was to re-join a dating site I’d left sometime last year. It was annoying to me that their clientele wasn’t as educated as I’d like. So, I took my money elsewhere. The “elsewhere” was Match.com. Oy! That place is infested with con artists! I encountered two in the first week. I would definitely suggest staying away from them. I won’t divulge which one I’ve joined, but I will say that it’s gotten better. There still aren’t the number of educated women I’d like to see, but there are those who can manage to put together a profile that’s worth a second look. There’s one woman in particular that’s piqued my interest. She’s pretty, tall, into the arts and, as I wrote tonight, gutsy. She’s been through things to which I can relate even though I haven’t been through the same things. We share some interests as well. We’ll chat and see if there’s anything that is worth a third look and, perhaps, a fourth. It’s fun discovering new people even if I don’t find The One.

The second thing I did was join a gym. I’ve never done so before, but I am so very ready to get in there and make my body into the weapon of mass destruction I want it to be. NO ONE will ever laugh at me or play cruel games because of my body–any portion of it–again. Glenn was the first time and he will be the very LAST. In addition, as much as I don’t feel my age intellectually, my body does. Things are going south when they used to be perkier. It’s time to do something about it. I was supposed to meet with a trainer today, but she had to cancel and I’d overslept anyway. I can’t be upset about oversleeping because stress has kept me awake for two nights. Actually, so has chatting with a fellow fibro patient feeling very depressed, poor dear. I know what that’s like and I wasn’t going to leave her alone in her depression. Therefore, I believe that I lost sleep for good reasons. However, I can’t lose any more. It’s too easy for me to get back into a habit of insomnia cured only through medication. The exercise will help, so I’m told. Personally, I just want to: 1) tone, firm, reduce; 2) repeat an infinite number of times until complete. Since I have a tendency toward anorexia, I have to be very, very careful about eating at all, eating properly and not over-exercising. Nevertheless, my body will become a W.M.D. Boom!!

Getting real about BDSM and me

I don’t feel like going into my history with BDSM. It’s too long and too long ago to write about when I’m tired, sick and the tiniest bit wobbly from a smidge of bourbon in my hot toddy. Suffice it to say that I was a submissive to a few and a bottom to a few more. I loved it. The only reason I’m out of the scene now is that I had medical problems that sidelined my entire life beginning in the early 2000s. I don’t even want to think about how long it’s been since I’ve had sex with anyone. I don’t mean sex during a scene or within the context of BDSM. I mean that I haven’t had sex at all for years. I’ve learned to bury that part of myself, so I don’t miss it . . . most of the time.

Tonight I felt a yearning I haven’t had for years. I want to be owned. Actually, I wish that I’d been owned a year or so ago so that the relationship would be on solid ground by now and I could have a safe place with a safe person to let my guard down. Needless to say, that isn’t the reality of my current life. The reality is that I’m a submissive/bottom without a Master/Mistresss or Top. I’m not sure anyone who hasn’t been in the scene at one time or another can grasp it, however, I feel as though half of me isn’t here. It’s supposed to be here, but it isn’t.

Looking for a Dominant/Top online is one of the trickiest, most dangerous things I can think of doing now. I don’t mean tricky and dangerous only for me, but for anyone. That being said, I found my first Master online many years ago. That relationship ended after three years and I found a couple more as well as my first Mistress afterwards. However, this was well before the entire world knew and used the Internet. There weren’t too many degrees of separation between regular users of the chat program IRC, the mechanism I used to gain access to the online kink community, or; those who posted on Usenet, a group of bulletin boards with different topics. Now, there are so many wannabes who have no fucking clue about what it takes to be either a sub or a Dom. They read things that are meant to be fiction and would be horrendous practice in real life and think that’s what BDSM is all about. It isn’t. Not by a long-shot. I should say that I have yet to read the Grey trilogy, but have plans to do just that. I’m curious about how realistic the characters and scenarios are.

I am a great believer in “Safe, Sane and Consensual” play as opposed to RACK (Rick-Aware Consensual Kink). The two are not necessarily in opposition at all. However, from my experience, those who follow RACK tend to be more hard-core and not respectful of people with limits reasonable to them. In writing this post, I happened across an essay that explains the two themes quite well. In essence, the author boiled the them down to the notion that SSC people bury their heads in the sand about any risks they may encounter in their play. In contrast, people who practice RACK go out and do the research to discover the risks and what to do should they encounter them even if that means asking someone who is more familiar with a particular way of playing than they are.

I do not believe in the dichotomy. At least, I don’t believe in that dichotomy. It has been my experience that a good Top or Dom will in fact research a type of play along with their partner so that both can find out if they are comfortable trying something new. Remember: A good Dom always has his/her sub’s well-being at heart. If they don’t, they don’t need to play with ANYONE. If the Dom is part of a community, then peer pressure can be a wonderful thing to keep potentially errant Doms/Tops on the straight and narrow. For that matter, community can keep unsafe subs/bottoms out of the scene as well. It’s a whole lot easier to teach a sub/bottom about what is expected than it is to teach a Dom/Top even though they are the ones who need to know most. I realize that will be an unpopular statement, but that’s been my experience. Some Tops just do not, and will not, listen to either their bottom or other Tops who may pull their coat and try to teach them the right way of doing things. I believe that their egos get in the way. Some, although I don’t know what percentage, are probably just narcissists who are emotionally abusive and call it BDSM.

Losing my mother and having to deal with her very complex and totally FUBAR’d estate has been a lonely experience. That’s partially my doing because I feel I have to keep myself together. That means there are times I have to withdraw to keep from falling apart. I realized Friday night that I need someone to lovingly take care of me. I need the safety, compassion and strength of a good Dom so that I can let go in a safe environment with someone who knows me well. That’s one of the things fiction, at least that found on bookshelves, doesn’t teach. A Dom/sub team is the most intimate kind of relationship two people can have. A Dom knows his/her sub inside and out; what makes the sub tick; where his/her vulnerable spots are; what buttons to push when, if ever; how to calm the sub and provide an anchor when things get really tough and the sub is in danger of falling over a figurative cliff. I need and want that kind of intimacy now. However, I should have been moving in that direction with someone a year or more ago if they are to help me now. I’m wishing for something that should have happened already. Talk about impossible!

There are some Doms who specialize in taking subs who are broken and damaged in some way and helping them help themselves. When/if their time comes to an end, both are better for having been together. Both can be proud of the progress the sub has made because s/he couldn’t have made it without the Dom’s influence. That’s the kind of Dom I need right now. I need someone who specializes in the damaged and broken. The thing is, I’m not so damaged and broken that I can’t fend for myself. In fact, I’m likely to resist submission. It’s not that my conscious mind doesn’t want it. My subconscious mind may not allow me to do it. I can see that happening very easily. That would be the part of me that has to learn how to trust again. That’s one of the primary reasons I got into BDSM in the first place. It was the only kind of relationship I felt would force me to trust another human being. Well, at present, there aren’t too many humans I trust. In fact, I can’t think of anyone I trust completely. There used to be people, but they are no longer in my life. I’ve also had the whole Glenn mess. That, alone, is reason to never trust someone with my heart and emotions. The irony is that, but for our first sexual encounter, I probably wouldn’t have discovered I was turned on by BDSM.

I must admit that I’ve been thinking about Glenn because of Notre Dame’s Manti Te’o scandal. It’s too close to the crap I went through with Glenn. At least Glenn and I had 17 years of some form of real world togetherness before the break, me calling him and him tricking me into believing we could rekindle our relationship. I wish with all my heart that the news media would leave this kid alone. What they are doing is, perhaps, driving a young man to do something for which everyone will be sorry–too late. Think about Te’o as a person first and a news story last.

Anyway, although Glenn shattered me into so many pieces years ago, I have managed to mostly put myself back together. I finally have no interest in him except that I hope this Notre Dame thing reminds him of what he did and he’ll have the decency to hang his head in shame. Am I together? This is the first time I’ve ever asked this question of myself. I’m functionally. I can feel joy even though I’m covering up a mess of sadness. I can still write, but I have yet to write something that is instrumental to my future plans. I am honestly not sure that I’m bad enough to seek a Dom who specializes in putting the broken bits back together. Then again, I can see myself as the primary partner of such a Dom and helping him/her in helping others. For some reason I don’t understand, I would feel more comfortable doing that with a male partner than another woman. I have absolutely NO reason why.

I’ll end this post by saying that I need to really think about what I want. I believe I want a Dom. In researching this piece, I learned that the group that originally took me into the fold still exists, but my ISP doesn’t have Usenet access. I may end up paying for the service. But do I really need anything else to take me off task? My life has become one of questioning what I want against what I need. I both want and need someone who can chip away at the walls to get to my core being because I don’t think I can do it myself. That person needs to be around while I heal. From what I’ve been told, I may never heal, but I will learn to live with the pain. I just don’t know if that’s true–the part about learning to live with it. I live with it now by barely acknowledging it’s there. What happens when it is exposed to the light? I need someone to catch me when I tumble, because I most definitely will tumble. For now, all I can do is write, keep both my eyes and my mind open and hope like hell that someone crosses my path. I’m not sure I need a specialist, but I do know that I need someone who has truly lived in the scene for a long time and has the other, emotional characteristics I need. A dilettante, Dom-wannabe can’t deal and I deserve better. *sigh*

For a great FAQ about BDSM please see this site.