Tag Archives: loss

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.

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.

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.

A talk with Mom

Hi Mommy,

I’m so sad today. I was sad anyway and then I saw that an Airedale acquaintance’s mother died yesterday. She was your age, but not as well preserved. I wrote to her of the things I’ve learned since you died last year, even those things I haven’t been able to do myself. For instance, I haven’t had a chance to really mourn you for more than a day or two because the vultures began to circle almost immediately. Since I feel you with me so often, I’m sure you know that I had to fire Wes. That was awkward, but, I got two great lawyers who protect both of us.

You got me in trouble, young lady, when you dropped dead the day you were supposed to get the license tags. I got stopped and the minivan almost got impounded, but the officer took pity on me and let me keep it. Still, I couldn’t drive it for over a month while Shia did some creative lawyering so that I could get the tags you would have gotten. Then, would you believe that I forgot about the court date for the ticket and had to go to REAL court Wednesday with Marvin? After he got me out of that, what does he see but the “new” tag was only good for the nine days before your birthday and I needed to go get yet another set of tags for another $100. I ended up laughing because there was nothing else I could do. I don’t even know what I owe Marvin. I’ll be paying him and Shia for the rest of my life! I’ll tell you more about Marvin later, but suffice it to say, he is very familiar with Daddy’s former line of business and laughed when I told him a bit about it. Finally, someone I can talk to about Daddy! I know Daddy wishes there were things I didn’t know, but I do now and I did when he was alive. I don’t love him any less. He looks after me, too, Mom–Daddy, I mean. I didn’t want to tell you when you were alive because I know how jealous you were of my feelings for him. But he really, really looks after me. He thinks that he’s “making up” for the time we were apart and, for whatever reason, we didn’t see each other as often as we should. Although, I had a good talk with Aunt Ethel the other day considering the date. She told me that Daddy actually spent a lot of time with me when I was in the early single digits. I understand why you two couldn’t stay together, but I really wish things had been different.

Mommy, I really, really need you now. I don’t mean the crazy you of the last decade or so. I mean the you you were when I was in my mid-20s through mid-30s or so. In other words, the you that wasn’t as mentally ill or medically ill as you can safely acknowledge now. Yeah, I know. One of the reasons I don’t talk to Sonny is because of what he did that kept you getting more and more ill. Hell, that doesn’t even cover the fact that he’s a lying, hypocritical, envious individual. Yeah, I’m angry with him. Whatever. I need the you that I hope you became again once you passed on.

I remember you telling me about some of the people you and Daddy knew when you were married. You both accepted them for who they were. These days, I’m having a really hard time with who I am. If I were a pure spirit, then, I’d know. I’m not. I have this body and I don’t know who it needs anymore. I know what my mind needs: someone who can keep it engaged. I know what my heart needs: someone who will love me with no reservations. My body has been the thing that kept me from the person I loved the most. That says more about him than it does about me, I agree. However, where is he? You were right when you said that no one drives over 500 miles for a booty call–several times. And no one has me fly out there solely for a booty call. Again, where is he? Finally, no one tracks me up and down the Eastern Seaboard for a booty call. Why isn’t he here next to me?

You told me, correctly, that men are essentially foolish to the point of stupidity. Even they don’t know why they do what they do. You, with the exception of your two marriages, the last one to the Devil himself, were really good at understanding them. I never was. They were and are as foreign to me as Chinese. There are days I think I have more in common with elephants than I do with human males, especially the adult variety. I feel as though it’s time for me to do something. I do want to write the book because Lord knows there’s enough material! But what else? Mommy, I keep hearing you and feeling you and what you’ve consistently said. I am picking up your “insights” more and more as I get older. That seemed to start shortly after you were gone. Anyway, I feel what you felt independent of what you’d said, but I need someone better. I need someone who is worthy of me and he isn’t. Not anymore he isn’t. Did you know that when we went to check out that law school in NYC that the doorman saw me with him and shook his head? He didn’t shake it because of me, but because of you-know-who. It puzzled me then and I didn’t think of it until many, many years later. Maybe that elderly gentleman could see that he would do nothing but bring me a lot of heartache and never quite grow into being a man. He was right–at least so far.

Mom, I couldn’t talk to you about this when you were alive, although I wanted to. It took you a while to accept who I was and that I didn’t like men in general. Then, I think you caught on to the fact that there was the occasional male that caught some portion of my body’s interest if not others. Now, I don’t know what’s going on. I know what I want and it’s a HIM and I don’t even know who HE is. I just know that when I do meet him, everything in my life will make sense. If I hadn’t seen recent pictures of you-know-who, I’d think that it must be him, but it isn’t. I do know that I won’t have him for long, just like I didn’t have Daddy for long. That’s going to break my heart into a million pieces, but it will be worth it because I will have had the blessing of knowing him at all and I will be stronger–after I lose my mind, that is. 🙂 I haven’t told anyone about him. In spite of what you thought while on this plane, I hope you now know that just because something’s on the Internet doesn’t mean anyone will see it. Most of the people who read this blog are my e-friends, if not more. Hence, we’ve got the room to ourselves.

There is so much I want to say and have no coherent words, only feelings. I wish I’d been a better daughter and realized how sick you were sooner. I’m guessing, but I wish you’d taken the cardiologist’s advice. You’d be alive now and I wouldn’t have such a mess on my hands. I hate being alone, Mommy. Just as most people didn’t understand you, your family doesn’t get me, with a few exceptions. Speaking of, please tell Uncle Herbert that I miss him terribly and wish he were here. I need him, too. As you can see, the girls and I are making it as best we can. I know they see someone from time to time, but I don’t know who. You? Probably not, but maybe. I mean, I know you drop by fairly frequently and that you’re very, very sorry about the way things turned out and feel like you’ve failed. Much of the failure wasn’t your fault. Like I said, I blame Sonny for a lot of that and he can kiss my booty. Please ask if I can have my girls–all of them–for some time longer. I’ve lost a lot over these last five years. There’s only so much one person can take and I’m at my limit. But for these girls, I’d be up there with you.

OK, I guess it’s time to let you go for now. I’ll try hard not to spend so much time screaming at the ceiling when I hit yet another fucked up situation that you’ve gotten me in by not paying attention or willfully ignoring me. You know now the damage that’s been caused. I’ll deal with it. I always do, or I hire people who will. I keep hearing you becoming more and more insistent on the question of him. Why? Why? I mean, yeah, I think you’re right, but not right now. He needs to be a full-fledged man first and he isn’t. He may not be until he’s 60, regardless of what he should be. I also hear you asking who’d make me happy. Both the man I don’t know, but who is coming and the manchild, once he stops being a child and finally fully becomes a man. It’s crazy, but I know for a fact that I will both know and love the man I’ve yet to meet nearly on sight. And he will deserve me and all the love, care and loyalty I will give him. I just wish you could be here when we become “we.” In the meantime, help me keep it together until my world comes together. Oh! Don’t fight with Daddy too much, OK? He really is here much of the time taking care of me. It’s early for you yet. You’ll be here in time, too. I know it.

Love you,

Me

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.

She did it

Because I’m a decent person, I sent Glenn a letter and a copy of my last post here since it has his name in it for the first time. I also summarized everything I’ve felt and written in the last months about him, including my contempt and the fact that he could have had what he wanted–a promise not to sleep with women–had he chosen to commit. The thing is, he is the only person who could have done so. I would have told anyone else, and did tell anyone else, that I’d give up men before I gave up sleeping with women. All he had to do is say that the craziness of long absences where he seemed to think I should have been sitting around waiting for him were ridiculous and finding a way to be together if only a few times a year as we’d done before would continue OR, better yet, stop lying to everyone, especially himself, about what I meant to him. He had a hard time giving me up. I know it. He knows it. He just couldn’t give up the money, the arm-candy, the able-bodied mate. It is that mate who I now believe was at the keyboard when the words “It was a joke” came across my screen and sent me to the nadir of hell. I remember running to the phone to dial his number to tell him his wife was online telling me that she was him and that it was all a joke. They killed the person he knew as me. What’s left is someone else. It sucks that this other person I became still has the unrelenting pain hiding behind a door clad in black that would be capable of forcing me to destroy myself if I allowed it. I won’t allow it. I won’t allow THEM. Not again. Never again.

So I sent him this letter that tells him of the recent post and summarize the last several posts and letters I’ve written because I had to assume he didn’t get them for a variety of reasons. I send it, take the girls out, try to figure out how in the hell I’m going to keep Prof. B. because I do think she’s going to be an integral part of my future one way or another, and it hits me: That thing he married–the mean girl with the sceptic cunt–did this. I want her to suffer like she has never suffered before. I want HIM to suffer as well because he allowed this in exchange for keeping the money, arm-candy and able-bodied mate. He knew what would happen more or less. Still, he has allowed this to go on for 10 very long, painful years without any apology or acknowledgement of what they did. Everything finally made perfect sense. I’d dismissed this possibility whenever I thought about the possibility that it was that thing he married typing in her husband’s name.

Look we were all adults now. She knew about me before I reached the age of majority. Maybe she felt threatened. I wish I could say there was a reason for her to feel that way, but I can’t. At least I can’t with even 80% certainty. She bought herself a husband. That’s not to say he didn’t love her because I am very sure he did and does. I am equally sure that he loves his family. Even so, I know him. There are a lot of days he has regrets. What I regret is that he has no fucking balls. He allowed this to happen. My suicide was totally and completely foreseeable. They turned me inside out and shredded me. It has taken me a decade to be able to truly love anyone else again and I’m still not sure I can give my whole heart. I am very sure I can’t give my entire heart and self to a man. Yet, there is a part of me that still loves him. I don’t know who is sicker, Glenn or me. I’m very sure that the thing he married is sicker than either of us. The very last thing in the world she should be doing is taking patients’ lives in her hands. She chose a specialty that doesn’t require much contact with patients while they are conscious. That is so like her. I knew she would emasculate him and she did. I was collateral damage. And Glenn let it happen. That’s all that counts. Bâtard!!

I feel sick.

This is all Glenn’s fault!!

The scars of your love remind me of us
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can’t help feeling
We could have had it all

That’s me speaking to Glenn. OK, forget about the rest of Rolling In The Deep for the moment and just focus on those words taken somewhat out of context–but just a little. That was definitely Glenn and me. If nothing else I ever write or have written thus far is worth believing, believe me when I write this: The memories of him do leave me absolutely breathless. For the longest time, I thought that he would be the only person I’d ever feel that way about. I was with someone else for three years during the first years of his marriage. After all, he’d chosen and there was nothing I could do about it as much as it damn near killed me to continue to draw each breath afterwards. That man, I’ll call him “Gregory,” was my first Master and I loved him in ways Glenn didn’t need and kept closed to me. The difference is that I knew that I’d never spend the rest of my life with Gregory. So, although I had feelings that were nearly equal to those I had for Glenn, they fell short. Still, Gregory was probably the person in the number two spot on my list of “Loves of My Life.”

Now, there’s someone else I’ll call “Professor B.” I am head over heels in love with her mind and her heart. I don’t give a damn about her body, but her body is a real factor. It’s a miracle that we found each other to begin with. It’s an even greater miracle that she, a woman who takes love and all forms of sex far more seriously than I do, is willing to wait for me to figure out: 1) If I can promise to never sleep with another person, especially another man, and; 2) Out and out told me to go to a woman with whom I was very much in love once, and talk to her about why and how lesbians of their age tend to turn off their sexuality or take sex very seriously. That takes guts! I should say that she, feels about me the way I feel about her. There is so much to say that I should start from the beginning.

First, know that I’m typing this through curtains of intermittent tears. I’ve been confused about relationships before. This is not new. What is new is that I’ve been caught in this fucking lesbian disdain for women who sleep with men! It’s not like I sleep with men in general. I don’t. There is only one that I know of at this moment I would even consider sleeping with and he’d have to work like a motherfucker to get me to let him back into my pants and actively into my heart. We all know who that man is so I won’t bother with naming him . . . again. I can wrap my mind around making that commitment if it weren’t for Prof. B’s disabilities. Neither of us is sure she can have sex now. I am going to GUESS that if her doctors say that she can, they will also say that she will have to take it easy. That is going to be a problem.

You see, for me at least, there are different kinds of sex. Each kind has its own rewards. I have made love so achingly slow and carefully that, for me, orgasm was not going to happen and I was perfectly fine with that. The only thing I cared about was that my partner reach a pinnacle he’d never forget–or, that she would never forget. I have had sex to satisfy a craving and that meant absolutely nothing afterwards. I have been fucked royally to the point I can’t forget it if for no other reason than its raw physicality and I don’t want to. Furthermore, I want to have that experience several dozen more times in my life. Fucking can happen with a stranger or it can happen with someone you’d die for. I’m coming to realize in this moment that I would probably die for Glenn, even now. Then, there is this great woman I’m falling for and who is falling for me that I’m going to have to promise to give away part of who I am if I expect to keep her. I am so absolutely torn I’m almost incapable of forming a coherent sentence.

There are some people who’d say that I was very lucky to have loved two very different men and one woman, going on two. This is true. However, it should be noted that I am not with them now, except for the one that is current. Of the three people, only two were viable in the sense that a very long-term relationship was possible. Gregory was, I do believe, a love/sex addict. In the end, we wore each other out emotionally. Anytime ALL of a Master’s slaves get together and say that he’s in trouble, he’s in trouble. He wasn’t happy with any of us afterwards, but that’s neither here nor there. I know that I stayed with him and tried to help him, terrified half the time that I would lose him. He kept the woman I loved dearly (I’ll call her “Khat”) and, although he consistently failed to acknowledge it, was really his primary partner. There is so much pain there still that I’m going to move off of him as a subject. Suffice it to say that Glenn and Khat were the only viable relationships. Although memories of Glenn turn up in odd places, he is effectively gone from my life and has been for many years. The same is true of Khat.

The title of this post was half in jest. The other, non-humorous part, is true. I don’t think I’d use the word “fault,” but he showed me how all forms of sex, but especially the combination of fucking and making love, can have a power that is absolutely indescribably, utterly, wonderful. I want that again and Prof. B cannot give it to me. I’m not sure it’s even in her to give it to me regardless of her disability. She’s more of the slow, aching kind of sex. That is going to leave me very frustrated and ultimately unhappy. I know that I absolutely must have the raw, physical kind of sex from time to time to keep me happy. She’s said that if I or anyone she’s with has an itch that just has to be scratched, she didn’t want to know about it. I can deal with that. However, when I pushed the issue tonight, she told me that she wants total monogamy even if I end up moving out of the state. I don’t think I can promise that to anyone. That’s not to say that I’d fall in love with someone else because I am damn hard to satisfy intellectually and keen intellect is a deal breaker. Therefore, I’d say that falling in love with someone else is remote. That notwithstanding, wanting to jump someone else’s bones, or vice versa, is inevitable in that circumstance. For that matter, it’s inevitable in the circumstance I’m trying so hard to get my mind around.

It has occurred to me that maybe I’m just not ready to give Glenn up. That is to say, to put him in the proper perspective of someone I loved more than I loved life itself and would have laid my life down for if need be. Notice how that’s all in the past tense. I think there’s some small part of me that knows he did what he did to me for a real reason and has a damn good idea of what that reason is. Yes, what he did was unforgivable. However, I just know/knew him too well to accept that he’d be vindictively cruel to someone who’d been his lover for 17 years. Add to that the knowledge that he knew I’d tried quite hard to kill myself due to his words and actions and I still can’t see it. I know that he’s a coward in some respects and to be pitied in others. He’s both in this one, for sure. I deserved better and I deserve better. I deserve, if anything from him, that he be a grown ass MAN and not some cowering manchild afraid of wifey and me! I don’t know if or when he will do it. I do know that I can’t put my life on hold waiting. Nevertheless, can I promise someone else that I will forsake all others, blah, blah, blah when I’m pretty sure that she cannot give me what I need sexually? We won’t even talk about our different needs where people are concerned! And, she says there’s a large class difference that I don’t see. I just see two people with different, though not incompatible, life experiences. I don’t care that she’s the first in her family to go to college or be ABD. Why should I? Yeah, there would be some things that she couldn’t relate to in my long-ago past, but I don’t even relate to them now!

Prof. B and I talked off and on all day today from the time I woke up this afternoon until I went to bed very early. I was busy going about my errands and so forth, but she was on the other end of the line. It’s a good thing she’s on leave or I can imagine a whole lot of things wouldn’t have gotten done on her end. It took a very long time for me to know through experience that I belonged with women. Glenn had gone and Gregory and I were temporarily off for the zillionth time. I was actually with someone else who I inadvertently pissed off that weekend, but he should have said something. *sigh* My point is that I’d known since I was four years old that I liked females be they girls, young women or women. That didn’t necessarily mean that I didn’t like men. Glenn was my first whole-hearted love and that’s something he can’t take from me, nor can anyone else. He married his first whole-hearted love. I should be happy for him and, on some level I am. That doesn’t mean that I don’t know I had a right to expect more from him, especially since we both knew that he wasn’t wild about the idea of giving me up completely. Had he been honest with himself, with me, with his wife, we’d have had different lives. Mine, for sure, would have been better. Then again, he would have done what Prof. B is doing: He could not deal with me being with another woman and loving it.

Whatever I do, I can’t win unless I choose. I can’t choose. Not now.

Of mourning and brokenness

I am listening to The Prayer by Celine Dion and Andrea Bocelli. I wanted it sung at my mother’s memorial service, but her brother, who isn’t paying for a goddamn thing, inserted a vocalist from his church along with his church’s minister without my consent. I am so angry with him I could throw him through a window and not give a good damn. He is a fucking hypocrite. He stood in front of a church full of people and broke down in tears to the point where I went up to comfort him even though I had an internal shield of numbness holding back the deepest pit of grief. He and Mom were as tight as two people can be. In a dispute, she’d take his side over mine any day. For that matter, she’d take any of her brothers’ side over mine any day. That’s not the way it’s supposed to be, but that’s the way it was. So now, this tearful brother is going around telling anyone who will listen that I got a large insurance payment when Mom died and, therefore, he doesn’t feel he ought to chip in the remaining $250 owed to the church that graciously agreed to host Mom’s memorial service even though it had been many decades since we/she attended. She would have been there if we’d known the congregation was still in existence. We didn’t. We thought that the local presbytery had closed the church’s doors. Instead, it simply moved to a newer building out in the suburbs. At any rate, I am now stuck with a $250 bill that the minister “forgave,” but that I feel has to be paid because it’s just bad karma not to do so.

I exist thanks to minimal Social Security Disability payments that I just barely had enough working quarters to get; a small stipend from my mother’s retirement fund; Medicare; Medicaid, and, in all probability; food stamps when I get over my embarrassment and get real. Yet, I am the one who bore the FULL cost of my mother’s cremation and memorial service. I will make the payments in honor of my mother and make sure that it says that I am the one who contributed in her memory. That hypocritical, ass of a brother and his social-climbing witch of a wife will get no credit.

I do not agree with the minister’s take on Christianity at all. Through means of which I am totally unaware, this Presbyterian minister is a fundamentalist. She actually believes that the Bible should be taken literally. That isn’t the Presbyterian way that I am used to. What’s important is that she would not allow Mom’s BFF, an ordained minister, to give the eulogy because she wasn’t “Christian enough.” What the FUCK?!?! That’s another thing that happened behind my back. The BFF and I were really ticked as hell about that. When I casually mentioned that I don’t take the Bible literally and neither did my mother, the minister and the social climbing twit wife of my mother’s brother laughed at me AND my mother’s beliefs. I think that was a little inappropriate given that we’d just held a memorial service for her. That made no difference, it would seem. These are “good Christians.” Yeah, they are about as good Christians as I am an observant orthodox Jew. In fact, hell, under two different branches of Judaism, I was BORN Jewish because my father converted before I was even conceived. So, theoretically, all I’d need is a bat mitzvah and I’d be considered a full-fledged member of the tribe. I guess that makes me more Jewish than these women ever were Christians. No wonder they act as if they have no judgement as human beings or as supposed benevolent, almighty Christian zealots. The social-climbing witch was no surprise. She affects a pious air, but has been seen for what she is by the larger family. She is what she is. However, the minister is quite another story. She was just wrong. There are no two ways about it. I shook my head when it happened and turned to talk to the other people at my table. Pa-the-tic.

In case it isn’t apparent, I am angry. I have reason to be angry, but I am also tired of it. I know that part of my anger is from the mourning process. My mother shouldn’t be dead. I strongly suspect malpractice, but it will cost hundreds of dollars I don’t have simply to get my hands on her medical records. So, the cardiologist who supposedly said that there was no need to do anything about my mother’s aortic aneurysm will get off scott free. A vital, if confused, woman is sitting in my china cabinet on a shelf instead of walking around. I could also look at it another way. My mother had some form of dementia. If she were forced to face that fact, she would be devastated. Perhaps her relatively early death–and 86 years old is young for a death in our family–was a secret blessing. I don’t look at it that way, but someone else could.

I find myself wishing for days of old when my great-uncles, Mom’s uncles, were alive and were active heads of this branch of the clan. So much shit wouldn’t happen. For one thing, I wouldn’t be forced to leave town because I get absolutely no respect from the second generation of the clan here even though there would be no family reunions without all of the work and money that I put into them. I could plan one practically in my sleep with only six months lead time. There are certain things at which I am extremely good and there are some things I know very little about. I know my limitations. That’s why it is rare that I fall flat on my face. I admit what I don’t know and I either learn that skill on my own or ask someone to teach me. However, more often than not, I ask someone who knows what they are doing to help. My momma didn’t raise no fool. I wish I could say the same of everyone in the clan. My blood relatives are all incredibly smart and talented. The step-children we inherited due to the hypocritical brother’s marriage to the social-climbing witch are . . . well, let’s just say that they leave a lot to be desired intellectually. For that matter, if I really think about it, even his natural children have their issues. They are still smart and talented, but they get themselves into screwed up situations. I’m hardly the one to pass judgement on them, though. I’ve been in one fucked up situation after another. At least that’s the way it seems.

I don’t want to leave town at all. I keep telling myself that even if I change location, I can’t run from myself. The thing is, I’m not running from myself as much as I’m running from people who disrespect me at every turn. I can’t stand it anymore. I am not valued as a human being, much less as part of the clan. For example, I asked the only cousin I could if I could have/borrow $3,000 to pay lawyers to keep fighting foreclosure on the house for a few months while my credit improves. He left me dangling and waiting. I’m sure he knew that he was putting me through hell because that’s his specialty. He loves it when I squirm or hurt thanks to something he’s done. He’s tried to destroy me for over a decade. I didn’t want to ask him for the money, but I was desperate. In some way I have yet to discern, I was told by another cousin that I’d alienated the one I’d asked for money. She said it was something I said on Facebook. I’ve looked through all of my posts and I can’t find anything. I did make a distinction between “family” and “relatives.” I did say in a letter that I thought I wrote after I’d withdrawn my request that he was a relative but that I’d wanted him to be family. He knows what he did to me. How else am I supposed to feel about him? I forgave him some time ago. But I will never forget. I can’t. What he did to me over a decade ago easily falls within the Top 5 most influential events of my life. The first thing is being born. The second is dying (which we all eventually do). That leaves three open spots and I can fill one of those three, thereby really leaving two. That’s fairly profound.

Why stay in a place where there aren’t people who see me as intelligent, capable, imaginative, talented, etc.? All the cousin from whom I’d asked the money said was that my plan to pay him back would fall through and that I’d better have a “Plan B.” Since I didn’t give him the specifics of my plan at all, he has no basis on which to make that judgement. He also assumed that I didn’t have another way of getting my business off the ground. Is it me or is it men? They seem to feel they have all the answers to questions that haven’t even been asked. In their eyes, I couldn’t possibly know what I’m doing. That’s not to say I don’t take advice because I do. It’s just that the advice has to be from a credible source and the criticism be constructive and valid. As I painstakingly said above, I know my limitations.

What does this have to do with mourning? Well, as I said, I’ve been really angry lately. There are days when I feel as though I will boil over with rage. I have less patience for people, but definitely have patience with my girls. Even when the oldest of my resident master thieves, my middle child, stole a steak I’d delicately prepared for over two hours until it was finally broiled just the way I like it, I yelled at her and put her in a time out in her crate. I didn’t hit her at all. She has since gone on to steal my cereal by quickly standing on her hind legs and copping a couple of licks out of the bowl or knocking the bowl out of my hands from underneath. She’s getting more and more daring and I honestly don’t know what to do to stop her. I think she’s doing this as her way of saying that she needs more intellectual stimulation. We need to get back outside on our favorite trails, just the two of us. I don’t know how to fit the other two in, though, and I feel guilty leaving them here.

I don’t want to leave my home. My mother, in her dementia, put me in this position. Truthfully, I’m not sure this house will last another six months it’s in such bad shape. She took out a predatory home equity loan for half of the appraised value. Well, the appraisal was inflated by at least $20,000. She refused to see that. She also said that she wouldn’t die and leave me holding the bag. I was so furious with her when she did that. I tried to stop her using reason, pointing out that the loan officer was not her friend but was working for the bank, had a hissy fit and said that the bank would not see one dime from me. They won’t. I don’t want this house, but I need a place to live while I fix the good credit that was ruined trying to keep the house running on my measly SSD check. My bills didn’t get paid. I could barely feed the girls and me. Then, to have her brother spread the malicious lie that I got a lot of insurance money when Mom died? That puts a period at the end of my desire to have anything to do with 90% of the clan. I want out and away from their toxicity. I will end up sad, bitter and broken-hearted if I stay here. I’m sad, bitter and broken-hearted now. I don’t want to feel this way for the rest of my life.

In an earlier post, I asked for help making a decision about using this blog to promote my “character” when I begin shooting and submitting photos of myself to devotees of amputees. I’ve decided that I will keep this blog as is. Few know it’s here and I want to keep it that way. I can easily start another one specifically for the character I’ve named “Velvet Mocha.” I thank all of you who’ve at least read the blog entry even if your only comment was to say that you “Liked” it. I finally have all of the equipment and costumes/underwear/nightgowns I need for the first set of photos. However, I have to clean my bedroom from top to bottom so that I can use it as a set. I have to vacuum another room that has very fine sawdust on the floor that will get on the fabric I intend to buy as a backdrop that’s going to cost about $100. Needless to say, if I’m going to spend that kind of money, I don’t want to ruin it the first time it’s used.

I have some misgivings about taking advantage of a fluke of biochemistry. It’s not so much that as it is that I don’t want to get too explicit in the photos. I am all for erotica that celebrates the sexuality of disabled people. I do not want to be a porn star. I am deeply concerned that I’ll end up having to get more and more explicit in order to make the money I need to move. But, it’s always been women who do what we must for the good of our families. I’ll just have to suck it up and be as explicit as I need to be to sell photos and site memberships. I don’t want to look back one day and say to myself, “What have I done?” That is, I must admit, putting the cart before the horse. For now, I plan to make the experience fun, sensual and sexy. I can do that and not feel badly about myself at all. In fact, I would like to tap into my suppressed sexuality and allow it freedom once again. I can be proud of that even if this entire situation is one that should not be.

Sick+Tired=Sick AND Tired

So many thoughts permeate my brain even though I’ve got a riproaring headache of a kind I seldom get. I really shouldn’t feel the headache given that I’ve taken my nightly pain meds. And yet I do.

I’ve been sick for just about three weeks now. I was diagnosed with borderline severe asthma about 18 months ago and bronchitis is hitting me with an unforgiving hammer. Thankfully, the asthma doesn’t seem to be related to my four-legged family. Even if it were, I’d just have to cope because they really are my family. We humans cannot be separated from our other human family members no matter how much we may wish we could. Why on earth should I feel any differently about the four-legged family? This bunch has helped me survive a hell of a lot more than my human relatives. The unconditional love I receive and try to return is simply amazing. I am alive because I could not bear the thought of my girls wondering what happened to me and asking themselves why I’m not coming back. I must live because I promised them a home for life. I have every intention of keeping that promise.

The six month “anniversary” of my mother’s death will be upon me in ten days. There is an enormous part of me that is walled off because I just can’t deal with the grief right now. I’ve only broken down once since Mom’s memorial service last March. Once! I know what kind of pain lies behind that wall and beyond my reach. It is a devastation that needs to pour on to this dry earth that is my consciousness. I know that I am not able to will it so. Nevertheless, please, for God’s sake, pour onto me like the Nile pours its nutrient-rich soil onto the surrounding delta, allowing plants to grow and feed a nation. The most important relationship I will ever have is over because the other half of the pair has died. There is no second chance to get it right in this lifetime. Perhaps, if I am lucky, I will do so in the next. My mother died not knowing whether I loved her. I understand why she would question my love because she really did do something nearly unforgivable. I never got a chance to tell her that I really and truly do forgive her. How do I make this right? I can’t.

I have found that I am becoming an adult at the ripe age of five decades. (I put it that way because I just can’t believe the actual number.) My mother infantilized me by never taking me seriously as an adult. I couldn’t possibly be right about anything in her mind. Unfortunately, I was right way too often for either of our tastes. I don’t know how to describe the financial mess she left. I am only scratching the surface. There’s a whole file cabinet filled with things I haven’t had the emotional energy to peruse. She needed a guardian badly. I tried to take some of the weight off but she lied to me about financial matters on a regular basis. It’s my fault. I just couldn’t stand seeing this woman who’d shrunk about five inches due to osteoporosis fold in on herself and plead, in the most desperate and quiet voice, not to wrest control from her. At that moment, she was the one infantilized. I hope and pray that I didn’t make her that way. I’m not sure I could forgive myself.

Still, my mother regularly threatened to throw me out of her house when I insisted on thinking and acting in a manner that suited me, an adult woman, and not a five-year-old child. I constantly had to watch what I said around her because, in her mind, anything short of kissing her ass was a lack of respect. So, because there was no way I could support myself on a disability check alone, I did what I had to do: anything short of ass-kissing, although it came within millimeters. She could be mean and spiteful. Indeed, truly hateful. She tried to tell me that my father tried to molest me when I know for an absolute fact that he would never, and did never, lay an inappropriate hand on me. No, that task fell to her second husband and she let it happen. That’s the thing that was unforgivable. She knew and she allowed it to go on due to her own pathology.

I feel guilty because there were times when I had to verbally smack my mother down. About every six months or so, she’d work my last nerve and I’d retreat to my bedroom–the only room with a lock on the door. She’d often follow me and call me names you’d call a whore in the street when she rolled a date. I don’t miss those arguments at all. In fact, I don’t miss the near-ass kissing either. It feels so good to be an adult for the first time in my life. I’m pretty sure that my maturation stopped around 35 years old. I feel like a 35-year-old most of the time. At other times, I feel like I’m a 30-year-old. I have more empathy now with transgender people. They look in the mirror every day and are astonished at the face looking back. This shell of a body that doesn’t work properly can’t be me. I am so completely disconnected from my physical self that I am a stranger. There’s a song I heard on, of all places, the daytime drama General Hospital. It’s called Stranger In My Skin and is sung by Christine Dente. I was lucky to find it on iTunes. It’s quite haunting, as though Evenescence had a hand in it.

Finally, I come to another sad end. For the first time since I was 16 years old, I don’t want Glenn. It is at once freeing and isolating. Loving him was so much a part of who I am. When he made the choice to marry someone else, then keep seeing me (with my blessing, I might add), and then doing something so vicious, cruel and inhumane to me I can’t even write it, he changed both of our lives forever. In reality, he changed our lives when he chose to marry Dr. H. Bitch instead of me even though I didn’t realize then what a profound affect it had on us both. He’s trapped, whether he wants to be or not, and; he and his wife inflicted a wound that has festered for approximately seven years. It was intended to be one of their mindfucks. Instead, it was no less than a mindRAPE! It was toxic, but it, too, became a part of me.

Removing Glenn from my emotional being leaves me with a hole I have no idea how to fill. As an adult, I can go out to bars (something I’m not really into) and enjoy the drag king/queen shows, meet people and socialize. I can even bring someone home now should I choose to do so. I’ve tried Match.com only to end up with some guy in Nigeria who claimed after a week that he was in love with me and could I please send him money so he and his son could eat because, see, he was over there in Africa building a road and, like, he’d stay up late to chat with me while his son slept in the other room and, so, somehow, he wasn’t getting paid enough by his employer and he was afraid because, like, he didn’t know how to feed himself and his son. Yeah, right! Keep movin’ buddy-boy! I just can’t wait to see my next phone bill because he sent a ton of international texts. OY!

The fact of the matter is this: Right now, at 5:35a Eastern, my body is in pain; I’m emotionally and physically exhausted; I am empty of any illusions about Glenn (really Faux Glenn) and why he and his wife did such a horrible thing that nearly cost me my life in the nuclear emotional fallout that followed; I both miss my mother and feel guilty because, for the first time in about 30 years, there is peace in this dwelling I’ve hated for so long.

I want to ask something I don’t think I’ve ever asked on this blog. I am in dire need of good energy. I don’t care if it’s in the form of a prayer or if you visualize fireworks. I really, really need positive energy to flow my way so that I can absorb it and be replenished.

I can’t write anymore. I am so very tired. I am going to sleep and hope like hell my body and mind begin to heal. Thank you for reading this rather long and rambling post. G’morning!

A Secret Uncovered

I’ve actually been too depressed to post. My plan had been to come back and tell the tale of how convoluted my feelings are because I turned Glenn loose and told him that, if he wanted me, he knew where to find me, but that I couldn’t carry this weight alone anymore. I am going to be in his neck of the woods the first weekend in October for a series of dog shows. That’s how we were able to continue after he married his presumptive current wife. Between visiting friends and dog shows, I was up and down the Boston to D.C. corridor. We’d arrange to meet whenever I was within a couple hundred miles.

Then tonight, out of the blue, something hit me square in the face. Although I thought I’d figured out most of what happened between us, there was still the lingering question of why. I had the basics right, but it goes even further. Glenn and his wife are evading taxes by claiming his business, which I’m very sure she funded, as a money-losing endeavor. She’s a doctor in a specialty that carries very high malpractice premiums. What better way to get at least some of that money back? I’m just pissed I didn’t see it sooner.

I am presenting a redacted version of the letter I wrote and e-mailed to Glenn. I am only redacting those parts that could reveal my identity, including some information about my father. In Daddy’s case, I’m not sure all of the people who could conceivably go to prison are dead yet. Actually, I’m hoping they aren’t. Whatever the case, I have to redact some of his information too. In addition, I’m taking a page from Daddy’s book. Namely, always have some leverage because it can keep you alive. I’m in no way spouting hyperbole. After Glenn gets my letter, I have no doubt that he will attempt, yet again, to threaten me. The first time was simply his imagination working overtime. This time, he’s got a reason.

My father would be very disappointed in me for taking this long to see what was right there in front of my face. You’re laundering that HUMAN bitch’s salary. Yep, that’s right. I have more respect for my four-legged bitches that I do for your necessary wife. In fact, the two of you need each other. You need her to fund [name of Glenn’s indy label] and she needs you to provide a faux tax shelter. I’ve always known that she was funding you, that’s not news. But being my father’s daughter, although I look like Mommy, I should have seen this in glaring neon yellow. Let me school you, HUMAN bitches, about who my father was.

Both had your minds on other things when the [metro area in which I live] mob wars broke out. You were on the east coast probably taking your PSATs and may not have even thought about [college where I did my freshman year and from which Glenn and his *spit* wife graduated] then. Suffice it to say, the government was deeply interested. Daddy was, by profession, an accountant. He graduated from a college that’s now part of [local university that is very highly ranked among universities and colleges] with a degree in Accounting. Mom never told me who paid for Daddy’s education, but I have my own ideas about that. None of us ever discussed what Daddy did once he became legit. He even had a way to do that, bless his heart. Yep, I am Daddy’s little love all the way. That’s why I’m bordering on being both pleased with my discovery AND pissed off that I missed it for so long.

When we were in kindergarten and 1st grade, this nation’s ghettos burned. But before that, in the early to just-barely-late 60s, segregation wasn’t a bad thing in many ways. Daddy started working for the Jewish mob as a teenager in the very early 40s. He was an only son, but I think he may not have contested the draft. There was a lot of money to be made if you had the right connections and he did. His first job was running numbers. The Jewish mob here had the numbers racket more or less sewn up. I won’t say what Daddy had to do to move through the ranks after he came back because there aren’t statutes of limitation on what are probably technically still open crimes. I don’t want Feds knocking on my door expecting the full run down. For one thing, I’m not certain I know the entire thing. In fact, I doubt that I do. Second, even though Daddy’s dead, there are others who aren’t. I told you that I see most things as grey. Now you may understand why.

I’m skipping a decade or so to get to the good part. So, as I said, Daddy worked for the Jewish mob run by [name of now-dead racketeer who ran the Jewish mob here]. I’m not sure the spelling is right, but it will do. You know how any fool over 30 who’s managed to sling drugs to little kids calls himself an “OG”? Ha! They don’t even know what an OG is! Daddy was what one would call an OG and, buried in some very dusty file that hasn’t been seen in 30 years, there’s probably the documentation to prove it. He had to do a stint in federal prison at some point, however, that mysteriously went away. I do know how, but, my lips are so glued shut. *gringiggle* (I’m sorry. I’m just way too tickled to FINALLY have everything make sense.) It’s only natural that, given his vocation at that time, that he’d spend a stint inside. In truth, I’m just glad that he made it out alive. He, on the other hand, was quite ashamed of the things he’d done. He would hate that I know about some of them. And since I could usually tell what was going to get Daddy maudlin, I kept my mouth shut for the ten years or so I had him after throwing off [my] mother’s deep and abiding pain from being married to him for almost twenty years. Actually, I think they may have been married almost exactly 20 years, but were separated when I was conceived. At any rate, she made sure that I was terrified of him. He didn’t help matters either, but he made all of that up to me and more. I have never had a better friend than my father. And, to be honest, I’m very proud of him. He was brilliant. Back to [now dead Jewish mob boss].

The club scene in [my metro area] was red hot. Daddy, as I said, had received the best education possible by graduating from what is now [local university mentioned above]. He had two specialties, only one of which is germane to this letter. He moved money around so that NO ONE except him knew where it was exactly, including and especially, the Feds. Aside from being an accountant, Daddy managed a club called [name of famed jazz/soul club]. [Geographically identifying information redacted along with some names]. Daddy did occasionally come around IF my mother allowed it. There was a barmaid I so wanted Daddy to marry even as a little girl, but she died of breast or ovarian cancer many years before Daddy and I got back in touch. I cried about Janice when I heard of her death. She was a sweetheart and smart. His common law wife was as dumb as a doorknob, but she [redacted a common statement in black communities concerning fair-skinned blacks] as the saying goes. In his mind, that made up for it. If you remember, Mommy was about [HUMAN bitch’s first name] color when it was said and done, but started out about a shade or two lighter-skinned and, without a doubt, no one’s dummy. Daddy was a “little” colorist because he hated being what is to me a dark milk chocolate. Since he grew up in a very segregated Alabama and was illegitimate to boot, I understand.

Aaah, this is something you’d like, Glenn, but you might just kick yourself for being short-sighted and, I don’t know, thinking that I wasn’t good enough to be on your arm because of my pronounced limp even though I could do things in bed because of that shorter leg that it’s more difficult for someone with two full-length legs to do. But, there were things that I can’t, and couldn’t, do too. It was and remains a trade-off. Whatever. Back to the story.

You see, because Daddy managed [name of club], he knew EVERYBODY in the world of black music. If they have not been damaged by a leaking roof, I have autographed pictures of The Temptations, The Four Tops (I think), Dionne Warwick and Nancy Wilson. I’ve already shared the story on one of my blogs about Daddy sending Carmen McRae, the jazz vocalist, to me as a present because I loved her music as a wee one. He did, though. Unfortunately, I wasn’t at home. However, it’s the only time Mommy has ever praised his parenting skills. She knew about Ms. McRae because she’s the one who answered the door. When I think of all the trim Daddy probably got, it puts you to shame, dear heart. I don’t mean that in a nasty way, honestly. I am simply using you as a point of reference. Daddy was smooooth in ways that only nature provides. Women just instinctively loved him. My mother had loved him since she was 13 years old. She married him when she was 21. Hmm, now you see where I get my penchant for long-term relationships. Had you stayed with me, Daddy would have helped you get started and taught you what you needed to know. I’d already told him about you. He was suspicious that you were going to break my heart. How right he was! You’d better be glad that Daddy died when I was 25, or that other specialty that I purposely didn’t mention is one with which you would have come up close and personal. The best thing is that neither of us would have seen it coming and Daddy would have been in the clear. Actually, he probably wouldn’t have done anything too lasting because that would have risked his relationship with me. However, if he’d been alive when you pretended to want to get back together until you or your surrogate told me online (which is why I know it wasn’t something you necessarily wanted) that it was all a joke, leading to my suicide attempt that came within a hair’s breadth of working, solving the murder of Jimmy Hoffa would have been easier than finding all of your body.

Right now, I don’t know who I’m more pissed off with: you, that HUMAN bitch you married or myself. This is so fucking obvious! You two are wedded forever because of mutual need. [Glenn’s indy label] needs to lose money, at least on paper, so that Dr. H. Bitch can offset her insurance premiums which are through the roof due to her specialty. I was the sacrificial lamb in all of this. I may be thoroughly and completely pissed off with both of you, but I’m not making any rash decisions except one which is literally a matter of survival. Within 24 hours, there will be too many people who know about what you’re doing to harm a hair on my head unless you REALLY want to go to prison, and I don’t mean for simply evading taxes. If anything at all happens to me from now until I am placed naturally in the grave, YOU will *BOTH* be under scrutiny that you can’t withstand. I’m so blessed to have a very prominent family on my mother’s side and a certain respect for the real OGs left in the world, of which there are few, on my father’s side. From what I’ve been told in the last two years, I’ve got protection I don’t even know about. Nevertheless, I do know where to start looking if need be.

Just to make it plain:

1) There will be no physical or emotional harm to me
2) There will be no physical or emotional harm to anyone close to me, including and *especially* my girls
3) I will tip the Internal Revenue Service and the Federal Bureau of Investigation off if ANYTHING looks just a wee bit off
4) In case I should die or “disappear” before I get to the IRS and/or FBI, even if it looks like a suicide, God. Help. You.
5) Thank goodness for people on both sides of the legal fence

Can I get an amen?

What you have both done to me is beyond cruel, as my shrink put it today. And you, Mr. High-and-Mighty, telling me when I offered a kind gesture that you couldn’t be bought. Honey, everyone has their price and your wife seems to have known what yours was. Ya shoulda stayed with me, kiddo! For damn sure, you should have never, ever been cruel, or beyond cruel, to me. I’d done nothing to deserve it. And, I was *sick* you bastard! It just never crossed your mind that something else was going on because your view of humanity is so goddamned warped that I *had* to have another agenda. I pity you.