Category Archives: glenn

Faithfully

This was originally a post on my Facebook page.

**This is actually the second time I’m writing this post. The first one is lost in the ether somewhere because I tried to add art after writing it. AAARGH!**

Broken-Heart-Music-smallerI have learned to be very, very careful about what I share online. If someone knew what to look for, they’d find that I’ve been a traveller on the net for about 20 years, give or take one. Therefore, if I’m writing this on Facebook, of all places, then I really, really had to write. There is another place I can write, but I do so under a pseudonym that only a few know as me. This time, *I* need to write this post. Me.

I’ve been sitting at my dining room table working like hell to get WickedWomanMag.com up by *mumble*mumble* while listening to iTunes. It’s just me, my really f’ed up wrist, my laptop, the occasional head butt from a puppy to say, “Don’t forget about me!” and my work. I was concentrating like a laser when I had to stop.

There are some songs that we not only hear, but feel in our bones. It doesn’t matter whether it is a sad song or joyous. Whenever we hear it, there is a swell of emotion that we really can’t explain to anyone. For me, one of those songs is Journey’s Faithfully.

The sentiments expressed, the experiences, the longing are all well known to me. I loved two men at the same time when in college. One of them was a “music man”–a roadie for a couple of bands—so he wasn’t around as much as I would have liked. I remember a couple of times when I went to spy on his apartment building which was easy enough since it was across the street from our favorite bar. Now I think my little reconnaissance missions were hilarious, especially when I had my best friend at the time help me with them. Then, all I had was the longing.

As an aside: What I would give to have a photo taken reminiscent of the John and Yoko bed photo! Visually, we were gorgeous together. He had a thick mane of very wavy, deep, bright red hair and pale skin. My skin, obviously much darker, had the right highlights to make, particularly, a black & white photo stunning. I have thought of that shot many times, especially after I ran into a salesmen at a music store that could have easily been his son. He wasn’t.

The red head and I had several little “talks” about the formality of our relationship. Neither of us were monogamous. How could I be with another guy a little over an hour away? The thing about the red head was that I could really be who I was. All those intimate urges were on overdrive, yes, but it was much more. He was a gregarious Irishman and I was just happily me when he was around. Man, did it hurt when he had to go to work, though. I *hated* seeing him drive off. He was my “music man.” Faithfully.

Another aside: I think I felt most alive when I got to watch a basketball arena turn into a concert hall. It is complexly amazing. I remember watching my red head, (although I don’t think he was mine quite yet), running cable and climbing scaffolding to hang lights. When he was finally some version of “mine,” I got quite “excited” every time I saw him working with cables, especially light boards. Remembering the metamorphosis from arena to music hall now really makes me long for that experience once again. I’ll put it on my Bucket List. Before Mom died, I was going back to our alma mater for grad school. I’d planned to ask if I could take over as the advisor to the student organization that handled concerts, among other things. I am a Roach Patrol alum, after all, so I know a little about what needs to happen.

The other man I loved was, and may well end up being, the love of my life. I hope he doesn’t, because I can easily do better. Having a chronic, debilitating condition plays havoc with the love life. Good Lord, I could go with either sex and I’m still by myself! Actually, I don’t really mind it right now. I’m too busy and I have a lot that I have to do because I’m the only one who can. WickedWomanMag.com has got to go live in the very near future. Indeed, me sitting here typing this a second time has totally screwed the pooch with my night, but it had to be done.

It took me a whole year and a little more to finally get the love of my life to take me seriously. I wanted him. Period. Dot com; dot org; dot edu. I may have been a few years younger than most kids in college, but I felt the electricity the very first time we actually met. That S.O.B. played with me like a cat with a mouse, too. It is fairly humorous now, but it was anything but then. Looking back, he was so bad, but in a way that wasn’t evil. That would come later. I still ended up crying my eyes out over him both before and after we got together, but those instances were forgivable. As I said, he wasn’t truly evil or cruel then.

I transferred to a larger university my sophomore year. Going back to visit friends where I first entered college was tricky. I wanted to spend time with them but I also wanted to get time with my love. He was seeing the woman he eventually married along with a few others on campus—or so it was believed. He didn’t always know when I was going to be in town and I didn’t always know that he had time or would make time for me. Actually, while exploring the possibilities, he did make time to see me.

Once we got “together” and he came to visit, I was a floating ball of happy goo from the moment I saw his car pull into the drive until he left. He was my heart. He HAD my heart. But, again, we weren’t exclusive. It wasn’t impossible, but it sure would have been impractical, especially with the girl he was seeing there on campus with him. I hated that, but I also knew I would not thrive in such a small school.

All in all, we were together, if somewhat ambiguously, for 17 years. One of the darkest times was when he asked me to come visit him at home several years after we’d both graduated. When someone brings you across several states to meet his parents, the natural thought is that things are about to get serious—finally! I think that trip was a test that I failed. I think I know why, but it is really immaterial. He told me of his engagement to his college girlfriend, then about to become a doctor, just as I was leaving his home (bastard) to visit a cousin nearby. For better or worse, he told me, “I almost chose you.” I don’t remember what happened next other than more tears than I’d shed in my life until that point. It’s all a blur.

It is hard to say which I remember most, the longing for him when he wasn’t physically or emotionally available or the joy, for the most part, when he was. I’ve written so much about him over the years that a publisher inquired about a book some years ago. I couldn’t write it then. Now I can and will, although I’ll have to change the names to protect the whining, bitching and moaning incredibly guilty. Once I get WWM up and running smoothly, including hiring a managing editor at some point, I can breathe a bit.

I mentioned that he hadn’t turned evil prior to his marriage. He was quiet, had mad skills as a DJ, super smart and probably in or near the genius IQ range, sweet, gentle when needed, but he did have a very evil side that I’d known was there for a long time. I knew nearly from the beginning that he was the kind of young man who could either choose to be a good and decent person or be a cruel, evil and non-consensually sadistic person. At some point during his marriage he chose the latter. I would give a lot to go back and stop him from choosing the wrong side, but I can’t. These days, if there COULD be a sinister motive for someone’s actions, that is his default assumption. I’m sorry, but I believe that’s quite twisted.

What happened to my caring, generally upbeat, beautiful young man? I dearly want to know what made him turn into someone who could be so utterly hateful, cruel and sadistic, particularly to me—someone who’d been totally loyal to him and, with one exception, shown him nothing but love. Hell, even when I was hurt and angry with him I still tried to be decent about things. I wish I could say the same about him. I can’t. He has become a textbook narcissist and it just makes me sad. What he did to me as the narcissist he’s become is very private. I’m struggling with how to write about it in the book because I’ve never experienced cruelty on that level.

This decades old rock ballad called Faithfully has a kind of magic for me. Most of the time, if I truly listen to it, I start crying. I’ve barely held back the tears tonight, but I wanted to get this post done. I know this song. I’ve felt this song. I’ve been this song. Indeed, I’ve been this song twice in my life in two different ways. The fact that I’m sharing this on FACEBOOK is fairly well amazing to me. However, as I stated when I began, I needed to write this and not my alter ego. I did this for me because this is what is in my heart. For reasons that probably won’t become clear to me for a while, I needed to remember. Faithfully.

Whew! I didn’t know all that was in there. Now I need a cigarette. It’s too bad I quit smoking. 😦

You’ll never guess who’s back

I thought this mess was over. I had accepted that Glenn is a plain, old narcissist and I’d moved on. Then, one of my next door neighbors told me about a couple of guys he’d confronted walking around the house with a camera on more than one occasion in the last several weeks. They did not–would not–identify themselves. That let him and me know that they weren’t with the city or the damned bank or any insurance company. Actually, the bank has all the information they want, so I knew it wasn’t them. As for the city, there is only one official interested in the property and that’s because I couldn’t find a lawn guy for a couple of weeks and got a warning. There are no insurance claims and anyone from an insurance company would have identified themselves just like any other person with a half-way legitimate reason to be here. That left me with this question: Who would want information about me and/or want to hurt me? One guess as to the first name that popped up.

I am no besotted teenager, 20+ year-old, 30+ year-old, etc. I’m not besotted at all, at least not with this incarnation of Glenn. I had to go back and read what he put me through to see the light. It was then that I remembered a lot of things from when we were young and realized, sadly and with a heavy heart, that he is and always has been, a narcissist. The difference now is that he’s fully grown into the pathology and I sure as hell will not be drawn into his circle. Neither will I back down or shut up, so he got a text telling him that he’d been caught and it was going to stop. Further, if anything happens to me or mine, there will be no place on this earth he can run. One side of my family and associates or the other will get him. Frankly, this post is part of that. There is also a set of journals that are very thorough. All of this gives him motive, so he will be first on the list should I wake up injured or dead.

Strangely enough, I don’t have anything else to say. I’m sad because I so wanted to marry the Glenn I knew. I wanted to build a family with him. Instead, well, what happened happened. Now I feel slightly amused, slightly pissed and very ho-hum about the Glenn who grew into the skin he’s in now. He’s a stranger I don’t want to know. I asked myself if I’d believe him if he suddenly changed his tune. No, I wouldn’t. That’s one of the problems with narcissists–they tend to lie and embellish as easily as they draw breath if they feel the need. *shrug* So that’s that.

Mourning

I’ve just spent the last 30 minutes or so telling my cousin about Glenn. It wasn’t a subject I’d planned to address, but there seemed no way to explain a part of my life without explaining him. This makes sense, really. Before I awoke from my nap this evening, I’d dreamed about Glenn, a mutual friend we had named Tanya and, of course, about me. I was in horrible emotional pain because Glenn somehow walked away from me and wouldn’t speak to me again. He was with hagbeast and the setting was the college we attended. I remember the agony and I remember his face. What I didn’t know in the dream, and don’t really know now, is why he hated me because of my sexuality. The irony is that, at this point in my life, I honestly, truly do want a male mate. I’m not kicking any lovely, lovely women out of my bed–or life, if that’s the case–but my sexuality has made a 180 degree turn in the last month that’s confused the daylights out of me.

Be that as it may, when I awoke, what I felt was the profound loss. It mirrors the loss I haven’t allowed myself to feel in real life. I don’t think I can run far enough fast enough. I’m going to have to truly feel the pain.

This is in no way meant to diminish what I feel, but the thing that struck me after actually saying a few words to him and being greeted with hostility is that I was dead on about his character and characteristics when I thought he was ignoring me. I am thankful that, as if someone had pushed a button, my emotional armor went up the moment I realized I had managed to fuck up and reach the person–TWICE. I don’t understand that kind of hatred. I never have. He was the last straight person in the world I’d peg as homophobic. Yet, that was part of the rant he used to cripple me and bang my figurative head into the ground over and over again. A decade later, he doesn’t remember and suddenly decided he doesn’t want to. I wish I could have forgotten as easily.

Somehow, the world seems much lonelier than it did. Tanya left me little to no choice except to say one final goodbye. Glenn turned into the narcissist/sociopath/narcissistic sociopath I was truly afraid he’d become with hagbeast. He could go either way and I knew it. That’s one of the primary reasons I stayed with him. Not to get completely hyperbolic (although I’m going there), hagbeast massaged his darker nature. I massaged his lighter nature. He had a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. (Please know that I did try to find a substitute metaphor and failed.) It was much easier to be dark, rapacious, mean and evil. Dark always has an advantage. There are things I understand now that I didn’t then. Unfortunately, it’s too late. Even if he wanted to get out (and there’s no evidence he does) he couldn’t. That leaves me to mourn and to write.

A part of me says that I don’t know how we’re going to get through the hell. Another part says that we simply will. It is what we do. Strength above all.

While laying in a hospital . . .

I’ve had a headache since Saturday afternoon. Judging from the symptoms I knew that I either had a wicked nasty bastard of a migraine or I was about to stroke out. When pain breaks through the kind of narcotics I’m on, that pain gets taken seriously. Still, end of the month, the unexpected expense of buying a second set of auto tags with the third and, I hope, final set to be purchased in May and the money just was not there to fill the Rx I already had that wasn’t working to begin with. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and had my cousin drive me to one of the local ERs.

Long story short, I was admitted and started on stronger pain meds. The unfortunate aspect is that I had no real choice but to lie and say I was better because I have managed to surround myself with people who are allergic to dogs. So that meant I needed out of the hospital. The second part of this discomforting scenario is that I could only get the pain meds as an in-patient. I definitely cared, but I cared more about my girls. There is almost no one in my breed in the area at all and there aren’t any in the breed in these parts who are friends. I got home and everything was OK even though I’d been gone something like 30 hours.

Once the pain stopped knocking me to the floor; once the room was dark, and; very little noise was coming into my ER cubicle, I had an epiphany. I’ve outgrown Glenn. Hearing and experiencing him as he is, I have learned that only one of us matured happily. He’s angry, afraid and dependent. I actually do understand a lot of that. Had my mother continued on and had I capitulated to her more and more bizarre demands, I would have been him in a couple of years. The difference is that I didn’t choose my circumstances. He did. He’s old enough to rescue himself should he choose to. He’s healthy. He is everything that I was not and still, had I not had the feeling life was going to go sideways, I would have rescued myself because I couldn’t go much further down this road.

When I realized that I’d outgrown this person to whom I’d looked up for so many years, it was a big surprise. I’d captured a part of both our lives in amber as if that was a snapshot from an old 4 megapixel point ‘n’ shoot as opposed to a snapshot from before digital cameras were invented. (Granted, more than a little hyperbolic, but the reasoning is sound.) A lot of that is because he absolutely refused to tell me of the changes in his life after I came out to him. Indeed, I think it’s fair to say that he hated me for loving women at all, regardless of where I fell on the scale of human sexuality. I would have to be all het all the time for him or he’d always wonder how I felt at any given moment on any given day, in any cycle, month or year. And in doing so, know that he couldn’t give me all that I wanted or needed, even if he could give me 99.999%. It would always be the .001% he’d look at me and hate me for because he’d think he’d failed. One thing is right: He is failing by leaps and bounds. He is failing himself, very true, but he has, is and will continue to fail me. As I said on the day he married hagbeast, Glenn is Robin’s problem now in far more ways than anyone reading this will know.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. There is still a book in this. However, something else takes precedence for the next couple of years. I can mind-doodle whenever the urge strikes. Hence, all is not lost.

Ouch!

There are so many things I want to write about, but my mind and body are exhausted. I’ve been setting the scene for my photo shoot that should have taken place weeks ago. Thank you, TEWSNBN! Fuck it. Thank you GLENN!! I spent so much time scanning pages from journals I haven’t read in ten years and re-living the horror of that period because he swore up and down that he had no idea what I was talking about. Then, when I tell him several days and about $50 later that he needs to choose whether he wants me to put the scans on a cloud server or risk the package arriving on the weekend when it was likely to be seen by nosey eyes, the little shit basically declares war. God, he has become the man I dreaded!

I think I may have mentioned this before, but a former mutual friend said that he is often overwhelmed and confused. Yep! And despite growing up in the NYC area and traveling all over the world, he is rather plebeian in his acceptance of people and his view of the world as it is. In fact, very plebeian. I honestly never thought I’d say this, but my worldview and acceptance of different peoples and lifestyles is FAR more broad-minded than his. If readers had known Glenn when we were attending the same college, I think there would be a lot of surprise. Then, he came off as worldly and sophisticated. At 16 years old, of course I ate it up. Then, after spending 17 years more together than not, he married and my life had to go on. I found the leather/kink community online and immersed myself in it both in the virtual world and the real world. I also began trying my hand at writing fiction. It seems I have a gift for writing little scenes that say a great deal. I also wrote my first full-fledged short story with something like six chapters about a bi-lesbian couple that became very well-known around the net because it has a killer BDSM scene in it that took me two days to write, all while listening to Pink Floyd over and over again. I really would love to continue writing stories about their relationship. I need a muse. Then, I had one in the form of this gorgeous blonde chica with lovely pierced nipples I could nestle in and suckle all day long. I have tried to find her, but no luck.

I know that the whole BDSM thing scared him because he had no clue. I used to think that he’d be good at it, but I don’t now. A Master must be empathetic, giving and willing to communicate. That’s not him, I’m sorry to say. I think that most men are very intimidated when I tell them that I still consider myself a leatherwoman even though I haven’t practiced in a long time. They are afraid that whatever they may bring to the bedroom won’t be able to compete with my BDSM experiences. Frankly, they may be right. Eventually, I’m going to get bored. Right now, any man who gets hold of me had better be ready for the fuck of his life. Yes, fuck first, then make love. I’d really like to get to know the guy I met at the gym last week, but my idea of “late” and his idea of “late” are two different things. I’ll pop in earlier tomorrow to see if he’s around.

What I wanted to write about in this post is a happy thing. My excursions to the gym are paying off. My body feels better once it stops hurting; my fat is firmer, if you know what I mean; I sleep better, and; I am physically stronger. Oh, I should also mention that I’ve lost four pounds. Granted, that’s not a lot, but I’ve only been at this about six weeks. Nearly two weeks out of six were spent at home, as I said, scanning my ass off and re-living unimaginable pain for someone who didn’t deserve it. You’d think I’d know better by now. Any act of kindness I’ve ever shown him has been met with a kick in the teeth. He is his own worst enemy and his account will come due. No more GLENN! (I hope you see your name in caps, m’dear.)

As I said, the gym is paying off. However, at this moment I hurt like a son-of-a-gun. I have placed lidocaine patches any place on my body they’ll stick. I need a script filled, but money is extremely tight until the first of the month. I haven’t been this broke since I was in undergrad. Still, overall, I’m quite pleased with myself. I realized that there was no iPhone app that met all of my needs, so I decided to just keep records using Notes. I’m trying to remember whether or not I have a spreadsheet app somewhere around. If so, I’d like to use it to track my progress. Right now, though, I’d like to share.

April 23, 2013

Cycling
Distance: 2.09 miles
Calories burned: 41
HR: 144
Time: 17 min.
Resistance: 6

Rowing machine
Strokes/min: 25
Calories burned: 107
Cal/hr: 308
Time: 17:00 min.
Resistance: 5

Pull down
36 reps @ 40 lbs.

Chest press
50 reps @ 40 lbs.

Shoulder press
40 reps @ 40 lbs.

Leg press
50 reps @ 40 lbs.
40 reps @ 55 lbs.

April 25, 2013

Cycling
Distance: 3.74 miles
Calories burned: 78.3
HR: 140-144
Time: 31:33 min
Resistance: 6

Rowing machine
Strokes/min.: 28
Calories burned: 94 (This is an inaccurate measure due to problems with the computer on-board.)
Cal/hr: N/A
Time: 21 min.
Resistance: 5

Pull down
40 reps @ 40 lbs.

Chest press
40 reps @ 40 lbs.

Shoulder press
40 reps @ 40 lbs.

Leg press
100 reps @ 55 lbs.

I haven’t measured the body metrics yet. It seems that I never have time when I’m close to the tape measure and I do have time when I’m not close to the tape measure. I’ll do it eventually.

The reason I’m so proud of myself is that I’ve heard a litany of “Don’t do that!” and “No, you need to not risk your quality of life.” Basically, if I do hurt myself on the leg with the birth defect, no one has any idea how to put me back together. I can think of ONE surgeon in the entire country who would have more than a clue. The hospital that stole him from Johns Hopkins built an entire new wing just for him. The bad part is that he’s a pediatric ortho and they do NOT like to work on adults.

That’s not to say that my current ortho would be totally clueless because that’s not the case at all. In fact, his primary interest is in bioengineering. That gives him a solid background in the mechanics of my body. In addition, this hospital’s doctors actually listen to me when I tell them I am not just another amputee. That wasn’t happening at the hospital where the first spinal surgery and knee replacement were done. In fact, I kept telling the ortho that I was sick after my first knee replacement surgery. He blew me off by saying that people often feel that way after joint replacements. He didn’t listen until I spiked a fever and my pulse-ox was in the high 80s. Lo and behold, I had pneumonia and a partially collapsed lung. He was frustrated because medicine wouldn’t release me to rehab, thereby screwing up his schedule and stats. Fucking narcissists. If the nurses hadn’t called in medicine, my lung would have completely collapsed. Ever since, there have been times when I feel as though I couldn’t breathe and had pain in my back right over my lungs. That’s when I say a little prayer for myself because I really cannot deal with being in the hospital right now. I’m hoping that my breathing is better now that I’ve spent six hours cleaning off my dresser. Yes, you’ve read that correctly. SIX hours. I didn’t even dawdle in the process! I found all sorts of things I’ve been looking for for years. I have to clean off the dust, (this house collects it like a magnet collects iron shavings), but a little Pledge goes a long way.

It’s time for me to turn out the lights, continue listening to some music and close my eyes again. I came in from an appointment with my pain doctor and immediately went to bed after feeding the girls. The pain doctor was concerned that I was unhappy because my body is not cooperating. He asked me if the medication was working. That’s a loaded question when asked by a pain specialist because if you say no, they may think you’re drug seeking. If you say yes, even though the meds aren’t working, you’ve conceivably missed an opportunity to get the medication adjusted so that the whole cocktail works better. He told me not to be depressed because there are so many things going on with my body and my life that I have to be realistic about my goals. Thank you, God! He understands! I didn’t even have to prod him. Even if I weren’t at the gym at least twice a week where I theoretically risk injury, I have a specialist for just about every system in my body. That’s a lot of doctors, but there is a lot to be examined. I’m getting a cortisone shot next week if I can get my cousin to take me to the appointment. I have to be sedated because that damn needle HURTS.

At any rate, Bruce is singing Badlands and it’s time for me to magically envision the place about which he’s singing. Every time I hear his music now, I think of The Big Man, Clarence Clemons. I miss him a lot. His nephew is good, but he doesn’t have the experience his uncle had and won’t until he’s been through the trials and tribulations his uncle had. Oh well, Better Days came up next. I think some spirit knew that I needed to hear that song. I wish you all better days ahead. Remember, “Strength above all!”

Odds & ends

I’m sick. I don’t know whether it’s from morphine withdrawal or I have a bad sinus infection. I got the morphine script filled tonight, so we shall see.

It’s 3:09a and I am so totally exhausted I don’t know what to do. I’ve taken my sleep meds, but I only got sleepier and did not fall asleep. What is up with that? They’ve always worked!

I went to the gym while awaiting my prescription. I wanted to check my theory about my “late” being too “late” for someone who has to get up and go to work in the morning. No data yet. The person for whom I was looking didn’t show up. Oh well, perhaps another time.

However, speaking of the gym, I think I’m beginning to see some definition in my muscles. If I had to guess, I think my thigh is going to be quite prominent because of the quadriceps. I also think that I’m going to be able to nip that whole “wings on my upper arms” thing in the bud. I didn’t want to change shoes, so I concentrated on my shoulders and chest tonight. I’m still good at only 40 lbs., but I’ll move up in a week or so.

I got home and didn’t feel like cooking at all. What I should have done was make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. However, if I made one, I’d want another. Granted, I hadn’t even begun to approach any calorie intake, so I could eat what I wanted. I just didn’t want to get in the habit. Instead, I broiled a steak that’s been marinating in the fridge for two days. This time, the girls didn’t steal it from me and I actually got to eat it! Coupled with King’s Hawaiian rolls, it was divine. I tried to wait for the broccoli to finish cooking, but I was too exhausted and just wanted to eat. I’ll finish up the broccoli another day.

Finally, I just wanted to let you all know that the other, private, blog has been set up. That means you guys won’t have to suffer through my anger, angst and bewilderment regarding GLENN as much here. I hope that scum bucket’s eyes fall out since he’s checking to see what I’ve written. The posts on the new blog are password protected and the blog itself is hidden. Therefore, I can get as real as I want to be with my feelings and work out the nitty gritty of the book, thereby leaving this blog for other matters.

That’s it. I’m going to try to sleep now. Did I mention I was exhausted?

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.

Moving on

I don’t know how many posts I’ve written about Glenn, but I do know there are a lot of them. Anytime I begin to feel guilty about not moving on from a thing, I get very insecure in my interactions. What runs through my mind goes something like this: “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I know that people are sick and tired of hearing about it. I should probably have moved on by now, but I can’t. Maybe I’ll just avoid people or put on my ‘face’ so no one will know how I feel.” That is not good. What’s worse is that I’m starting to feel that way. That’s very unhealthy for me because no amount of antidepressants will reach that level of depression. Once I get in The Pit, getting out of it is hellishly hard. Therefore, it’s best not to go there in the first place.

In order to feel comfortable in my relationships with the little community we have here, I need to write about Glenn where I won’t feel as though I’m being judged. I should say that, as far as I know, I haven’t been judged at all. You guys have been great! It’s just that I’m beginning to get paranoid and feel guilty. That’s all on me. I also need a space he can’t get to and I know he’s been here and on my other, very public, blog. I found out about the latter Monday because I religiously pay attention to site metrics. Of course, I’m also very sure that he jumped to some damn stupid conclusion he made up in his head. He really has seen Fatal Attraction too many times. Because he won’t pay attention to anything I say due to that fact that he firmly believes everyone is as devious, cynical, toxic and mean as he is, I’m sure that he thinks I’m going to stalk him or something. I don’t have to. He’s made himself quite public and it will come back to bite him in the ass.

Now, if he were to say that I’m obsessed, I’d agree with that assessment, but not for the reasons he thinks. I’m obsessed with finding answers. I am always obsessed about finding answers no matter the subject or people involved. That’s just the way I am and I won’t apologize for it. He owes me a hell of a lot of answers, but he won’t give them up. He does what he wants and damn anyone and everyone else except his inner circle. Actually, even the inner circle can go fuck off as far as he’s concerned. What matters is him and, perhaps, one or two other people who are in the innermost circle. In short, although I have said this before and then changed my mind, he is a narcissist. Narcissists are always bad news. Where I am concerned, not only is he narcissistic, but also non-consensually sadistic and quite homophobic. He hit me with a string of homophobic rants among other things the day he destroyed the person I was a decade ago. I’m not going to allow that again at all. He tried to bully me into not writing my book, but he can’t touch me legally until it comes out. Even then, under New Jersey law, he has only about a 25%-40% chance of winning since I’m writing about my own life. As I said the other day, he really thinks I’m an idiot. I’d have to be not to look at the applicable laws involved.

*sigh* I’ve probably already said too much. I didn’t want him to know that I know what he is up to. He’s trying to set me up. Uh uh. I am not falling for it. If it weren’t against the law, I’d say that he needs his ass kicked but good. It’s not against the law for me to say it, just for someone to do it. Ah well. I can fantasize.

Due to my insecurities about writing so much on the topic of Glenn when he really doesn’t deserve my attention except for the fact that it bugs the daylights out of me to have questions hanging over my head, I need a new space to write what I need to write. I’ve set up a private blog where I can say what I want without making my hands hurt by handwriting journal entries. Geez, that’s now three blogs I’m maintaining. There’s a fourth that I don’t really do much to unless I know someone needs to look at prior work. Even so, that’s a lot. Granted, I’m only writing for myself on the new blog, so I really don’t need to write in it all the time. It’s conceivable that I start writing this year and leave it alone until the book is ready and Glenn begins his twisted little rampage that will give the book more sales than if he’d sat there and shut the fuck up.

I have one final major thing to say about him here. He’ll probably check in here a couple of times more and then satisfy himself that he’s won or some such nonsense. So be it. What I’ve come to realize is that he seemed so sophisticated when I was younger because he was from the NYC area and I was raised here. Now, I realize that I am far more sophisticated than he’ll ever be because he doesn’t see that most people don’t think the way he does. He’s been all over the world and he still can’t get that most people are fairly decent even when it seems there are a lot who aren’t worth two cents. I think I may actually have encountered more types of people than he has even though his passport is full. He’s not nearly as accepting of people, which is something that I’ve just realized although the signs were blazing neon all along. Well, at least since I came out. Ever since then, he’s been very angry with me and it seems to have continued. That was over 20 years ago. I mean, I do understand hanging on to feelings for that long, but had we actually had a conversation, those feelings would have dissipated. I’ve been willing to talk ever since that night when he called in search of someone to get him off and I refused. Maybe he’s never been refused. I don’t know anymore and it doesn’t matter. What matters is that he didn’t grow into the man I’d hoped. I find that sad and the person he is to be pitied even as I watch out for him to come out of nowhere to stab me wherever he can get me. He’s assuming that I’ll crumble. Not this time. Not this time at all.

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.

The lost children

I awoke this afternoon to news of a terrorist attack during the Boston Marathon, this country’s premier track event. Runners from across the globe come to Boston with the hope of just finishing the race, forget about winning. The elite of the elite of course, dream of taking home the grand prize, usually to another country.

I went about my daily chores with MSNBC in the background providing audio coverage I could hear in the kitchen and video coverage I could see when I sat down to eat. (Yes, I am actually eating. I’m just sort of forcing myself.) The attack itself is tragic, but hearing that an eight-year-old little boy lost his life is just devastating. As Rachel Maddow is now reporting, there are several other children with very serious injuries, some of whom may well lose one or two limbs.

Man comforting victim of Boston Marathon bombing

Man comforting bombing victim. Photo by John Tlumacki/The Boston Globe via Getty Images,

I have wanted to have children since I was a child. I got pregnant while in undergrad, but lost the child almost as soon as I found out s/he was inside of me. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I knew that I was pregnant even before I went to see a doctor. When the requisite blood work was done, the hormone indicating pregnancy was higher than it would be if I weren’t pregnant, but not high enough to signal a viable pregnancy. Sure enough, within hours, my baby was gone. The child was Glenn’s. I think I’ve told this story here before. If I have, forgive the duplication.

My point is that I can imagine what the parents of the injured children are going through. It is a pain like no other. There is little to do except sit with your child; hold his/her hand; pray to whatever higher power there may or may not be, and; will the child’s body to heal. In other words, parents are totally helpless. It’s up to the nurses, doctors and the child’s physical and metaphysical strength to determine the outcome. For at least one set of parents, the outcome was as bad as it gets.

I have never had a living, breathing child born after being carried inside of me for nine months. My baby . . . our baby . . . never drew a breath. I never felt the flutter of him or her moving nor having his or her head pressing against my bladder and having to run to the restroom. I didn’t have the privilege of choosing furniture for a nursery that I’ve painted, or had painted, in a beautiful sky blue and yellow. Nor could I pick out onesies in preparation for bringing him or her home from the hospital. The only thing I had was the blood of losing our baby. Even then, there were few signs I’d actually miscarried.

My body gave hints of carrying someone else inside of it. Just hints, but pretty significant ones. Nevertheless, I knew. I was so afraid because I was so young. I worried that my parents and other relatives would be disappointed in me. Our family, until relatively recently, didn’t have unwed mothers. Even now, the only unwed mothers come from one branch of the family tree. I was considering in vitro or simply buying the “genetic material” from a clinic in San Francisco I’d scouted some years ago, but had to drop all plans when I learned I needed a second operation on my spine. As afraid as I was when I got knocked up in undergrad, and as terrified as I was at the thought of Glenn’s reaction, I had every intention of keeping our baby even if it meant s/he became MY baby. I am very much in favor of choice, but I wanted that child. If I wanted him/her so badly, why did I feel relieved when I miscarried? I wish I could answer that question, but I can’t because I don’t know.

What I do know is that I can feel the terror of those parents anxiously awaiting good news from doctors in charge of their children’s cases. I feel the longing and the empty space in the lives of the parents and loved ones of the little boy who was killed. I feel the rage caused by some maniac with no regard for life and willing to kill people who’d done nothing but stand on the sidelines of a race to cheer the runners on. How much more basic a scene can there be? But that’s one of the reasons why the bomber chose this particular target. Twenty-six miles is a long route to secure. Inevitably, there will be holes in that security. The bomber found at least two and probably three. One of those holes was near a little eight-year-old boy who will never see the inside of his bedroom again; will never be held in his mother’s arms again; will never learn to drive; never get grounded for staying out too late; never go off to college; never find his first love; never get married, and; never have children of his own. The bomber didn’t just kill one little boy for whatever cause he was protesting. He killed a family’s dreams for their child and halted a branch of their family tree as if with a chainsaw.

It took me over 20 years to grieve the loss of the child I would have had. Glenn just learned about it last week, not that he particularly gives a damn, but he had a right to know because I never told him even after we’d both graduated, carried on a long distance relationship, his marriage, continuing to see each other from time to time and then the forever break-up. We were similar to the movie Same Time Next Year for a while, only we did manage to get in a couple of times a year. Anyway, as I said, he doesn’t care, which is kind of what I expected. I care. I care because that baby was inside of me if even for a little while. I care because I never had a chance to know him or her as they grew up. I care because I didn’t have the honor of sitting next to a hospital bed holding his or her hand when s/he was sick nor worrying nor feeling jubilant when s/he got better. I wanted all of those moments, good, bad and horrible. But for whatever reason, I will probably never get the chance. My branch of the family tree will end with me.

What happened today is horrific. That the bomber killed at least one child makes it more so. For all we know, that kid could have invented a truly clean energy source when he grew up. Maybe he’d be the next Steve Jobs or the next Stephen Hawking. The future was his to grab and hold onto as tightly as possible. Now, the only thing he’ll have is a funeral and, perhaps, a grave. His parents will have holes in their hearts that nothing and no one will ever fill. They will cry for the rest of their lives as something or someone reminds them of the little boy they lost. That’s the part I do know. I don’t know it in the same way, but I know it nonetheless. I can think of nothing more sad than the wailing of a mother for the baby she lost and can never replace. May the spirits of the little boy killed this afternoon and the spirit of the child I lost both find new homes where they can be happy, loved and carefree as long as possible. In other words, a place where they get to live through their childhoods and, like other children, grow into adulthood and families of their own. Peace be with you little ones. Peace be with you.