Tag Archives: music

God, PLEASE Let This Day End

I’m sitting at my living room table typing this post on my laptop. That has never happened before. In fact, there are very few computer-related things that take place downstairs even though I’ve got a 700 MHz eMac here that I somehow made run Leopard with a software patch and a bit o’ tinkering. If I only had myself to worry about, I’d still be in bed, probably in tears, feeling empty and wishing I’d followed my gut and bought another fifth of Jim Beam. Empty because this is the first major holiday without my mother and I feel empty except the enormous well of pain and loss that could easily drown me. Hence, the Jim Beam. There’s a somewhat amusing story that goes with the JB that I’ll indulge myself by telling.

The very first time I got rip-roaring drunk was when I was 17-years-old and everyone on my floor at Oberlin was going home for the summer. Oberlin was and is a dry town, but getting liquor wasn’t hard as much as it was inconvenient. That was also the last time I got rip-roaring drunk and whiskey, specifically bourbon, were largely the reason. I have to laugh as I think about it now because my mother came to collect me and I vaguely remember her shaking her head and cutting me a whole lot of slack. I don’t think either of us ever mentioned it. That’s not to say that I haven’t felt impaired in some fashion by alcohol, but I rarely drink, (even though all three of my dogs are lushes). I take too many drugs that would not mix well with alcohol of any kind were I to imbibe. That’s why it’s taken me over a month to go through the fifth of JB Red Stag I’m just finishing. I wouldn’t even know about that had the guy from whom I bought my guitar and I not gotten into a conversation one day about hot toddies because he was sick and didn’t have anyone to take care of him. There is some mixture of maternal and sexual instinct going on inside me where he’s concerned that I am damn sure ain’t right, but I’m equally sure would feel oh so good if I could just get myself and my life together. Because I can’t, I’ve stopped going to the store and hanging out. It’s too hard. And so, we come back to the raîson d’etre of this post.

So much has happened since I last wrote I don’t even know where to begin. There is a very large part of me that has absolutely no idea how to cope. I can list the things that need to be done, but that doesn’t mean I can do them. On top of that, I was using my mother’s lawyer, a cousin-in-law who either bought or inherited one of my great-uncles’ law firms. That bastard got pissed off at me because I dared to call him on a Saturday at 6 p.m. because I got a call from an antiques dealer who was coming by the next day, a Sunday, and I needed to know what I could and could not do legally. It was on from there. I should have cursed his ass out then and there, but I didn’t. In fact, I basically hung up on him when he started whining like a little human bitch about interrupting his freaking Saturday. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell him that when the probate judge asks me why I did such and such, I’d tell her that my lawyer didn’t want to work on Saturday. Instead, we got into a shouting match that Monday and I had him send me the paperwork to open my mother’s estate. This is now the third time I’ve had to run behind him cleaning up his messes. [ETA: Actually, the fourth time because his paperwork was supposed to conform to my mother’s will and it didn’t. I cleaned up what would have been a big and very ugly mess that would have created a rift I don’t know would heal at all among her brothers. In addition, the probate clerk caught another error that I didn’t.] I’ve made more appearances before judges on family matters than he has and I’m not licensed to practice law. What does that say about him? Yet, this is the man my mother trusted with her will and there was nothing I could do to shake her into making a proper trust for our circumstances. She’d always say that we’d do it after whateverthefuckwasgoingon was over. It never happened and I’m supposed to take this manure and turn it into a watermelon patch.

I didn’t realize it, but I’d gotten to a place where I just couldn’t function. That was in large part due to one of my mother’s creditors. As far as I am concerned, most of them can go pound salt. However, technically, the minivan that allows me to be mobile and have a life is in my mother’s name for a number of reasons, most having to do with an unsteady stream of income. At any rate, the lender’s probate department was relentless. I could count on at least two calls a day even though I couldn’t tell them any more than I had the previous day. I’m going to run into trouble with them again and it will be my own fault, but I’m jumping ahead of myself. I could see my life slowly ebbing away thanks to them. It wasn’t as though I had nothing to sell that would get them off my back for a minute, because I did, Mom’s truck. The problem was that it would cost me more money to get it repaired than it would to sell it outright. However, selling it outright wouldn’t even come close to what it was really worth, but it would take care of the money the lender informed me she was in arrears. I think that’s when something inside of me broke. Everyone has certain buttons that if pushed will cause all sorts of generally negative reactions. I knew two of mine already. I learned a third.

The one time I broke and didn’t attempt suicide, the local shrink police had me committed because someone in my family, and I’m beginning to figure out who, got scared. It didn’t help that I publicly upbraided the cousin-in-law for being a jerk and said that my uncle most assuredly did not allow him into his practice to ignore his family. That sure as hell went for ignoring my mother and me where both of my great-uncles were concerned. They raised her!

The thing about any psych floor is that the patients have to figure out what it is the doctors want and give it to them. It’s the same game with everything. I’ve been through this too many times, so I knew what to say and what not to say. It helped that my lawyer is my former Mistress and now friend. She said that she was actually glad someone from the family did it because she’s been quite worried. Yeah, well, so have I, but I couldn’t say it. My actual psychologist was on frakking jury duty! What idiot of a judge puts a practicing shrink on jury duty knowing that there are people depending on her? Had I known, I could have gotten her out of it, but I didn’t know until my last appointment with her. By then, it was too late to have someone intercede on her behalf. But when I find out what judge this was, I’ll make a contribution to his/her opponent along with a note. In the meantime, there was no one I could turn to. I was more or less alone. I say “more or less” because I had my mother’s youngest brother, the only two cousins I have in my age range and my great aunt. I couldn’t and wouldn’t trouble my aunt because she’s got health issues of her own and I didn’t really want to lean on anyone. My mother’s brother has what is both a passive attitude and a vengeful one. He’s sure God will take care of those who don’t make amends for the dirt they’ve done. Me? I’m more active. You fuck me and I’ll fuck you harder. That’s the phrase that kinda had the ex a bit worried. She hadn’t seen the side of me that’s basically Rahm Emmanuel in a darker color and a sex change. It wasn’t necessary when she knew me. It became necessary over time.

To close this out, Lady A is singing Dancin’ Away With My Heart and I’m thinking of someone I shouldn’t. (For the uninitiated, that would be Glenn D. T-something-or-another. *smirk*) Something occurred to me today for reasons I honestly don’t understand. I would have made that person I shouldn’t be thinking of an excellent wife. I hope he got what he wanted when he chose someone else.

Another thing occurred to me as I reach the end of this entry that has nothing to do with the above. I’ll always have a weakness for red-headed rockers/roadies, beards, badboys, and; women who love fast cars–both of which make me drool–like the cutie one who picked me up yesterday to take me to Goodyear to get my minivan which, if I didn’t say so, I did save, but only for a little while. If that chica weren’t engaged, we’d both have gotten ourselves into some well-deserved trouble. I even let her get lost so we’d have a few extra minutes. She may not have been from the area, but no one is that directionally challenged. *laugh*

It just occurred to me that there’s another reason I want this day to be over. If I plan to survive, and I’ve never had a really strong survival instinct, I absolutely must put the insurance paperwork in the mail that I’ve carried with me for months. No one seems to understand that by doing so, I’m admitting that the person closest to me in the world, who was also a stranger in other ways, really isn’t coming back no matter how many dreams I have or call out for her. She’s gone. She stupidly trusted me to survive. If it were just me, I wouldn’t care if I ever drew another breath. However, I have three furbabies who depend on me and I will not allow “the system” to have them. They are the only reason I didn’t take my life a few weeks ago. I found a way to do it almost perfectly, but I refused to take them with me and I could only find a destination for two of them. I don’t think God would forgive me for making the third come with me and, frankly, I don’t think I could have forgiven myself in whatever afterlife there may be. We’ve been together 12 years. With some luck, there’s no reason she can’t stay another two or three years. Little dogs tend to live longer and she’s small. She’s the one who sees my soul, although I think the youngest is here for a reason, too, and it frightens me. I think she’s here to develop the same empathy that the eldest has. I see it happening more and more as she’s gotten older in the nearly one year we’ve had her. Thank you doG for sending someone to watch over me and giving me a reason to be here.

My, Oh My, Oh My!

As I sit here in the silent dark with no music playing and the light from my television that isn’t broadcasting anything but an annoyingly blue screen, all I can say is, “This was the scariest, most emotionally gut-wrenching day I’ve had since I don’t even know when.” Yes, I’ve had scary days, and; yes, I’ve had gut-wrenching days. Having both at the same time has worn me the fuck OUT. It’s not the “good” kind of worn out where you can’t walk straight without looking a bit off and hoarse from all those vocalized “prayers.” This is the really bad kind of worn out where someone or someones you love is in imminent danger of death, is finally retrieved, but only after absolute panic and lots and lots of prayers to God. Now, take that and multiply by two and you’ll have the first reason I’m worn out.

I had to start up iTunes and take a swig of bourbon and Coke to tell this story. Mind you, if you’d told me a month ago that I’d be drinking bourbon, I would have laughed at you. However, this seems to be a time of dramatic change in my life. Why not change my drinking habits, too? So the Absolut is sitting in a bottle as I’ve almost gone through a sampler pack of Jim Beam. Whatever the drink and the music (Gipsy Kings), it is entirely possible this post will be floating in a sea of swearing. Sensitive eyes should leave while they have a chance. I’ll wait.

. . . 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . Long enough. Here’s what happened.

By now, anyone who’s been reading for a while knows that my mother died recently. She and I shared a home–when she wasn’t trying to throw me out because I’d rather not talk to her when I’m furious for fear I’ll tell the truth that should not be told to someone who you’re not really sure is all there, or; when she’s just generally pissed off and accused me of disrespecting her for any of a zillion reasons I can’t even think about now. Don’t get me wrong, I truly deeply loved my mother, but I don’t kiss anyone’s ass, including hers. It’s just not who I am. I’d rather say nothing than something that’s going to lead to God-only-knows-what. Mom didn’t work that way, although she should have gotten a clue or dozen even before I was born because, although I didn’t know it, my father did the same thing, I’m sure to keep from wringing her neck. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but the bastard that was her second husband/predatory pedophile did the same thing. This will become important toward the end. I just had to get it out now.

Due to my mother’s death, I have been left to try to keep the house running without the electricity, water, cable, Internet, phone lines, etc. being shut off. I have purchased exactly one indulgence: the aforementioned Absolut and the Jim Beam sampler. I guess that’s two, but right now, $5 for the sampler is chicken feed compared to what I need. I suggested that my cousin’s boyfriend, Chad, move in. I’ve got the room and he was in real need. Besides, I knew my cousin, nicknamed “Mickey,” the child I wish I’d had, would more or less live here too. I honestly didn’t know how much I needed another person, especially a male person, in this house. It’s as though there’s life here now and it feels good to come in knowing that I’m not going to get thrown out and that there are people here who miss me when I’m gone. Chad cooks, which is beyond cool. Mickey kind of tries, but she’s messy as hell! I just about lost my mind the first time I saw the kitchen after she’d made brownies. Let’s just say that I left notes where they could not be missed. It was eventually worked out, but the more I learn about Chad, the more I know he and I needed not only each other, but Mickey, too. He has definitely been fucked over by his mother, a woman who should be rounded up and sterilized if she’s still in her childbearing years. His sister who, I am very sure, is reacting, and has reacted all her life, to being emotionally abused at least as much as Chad, isn’t much better. The situation became intolerable. I’d met him when Mickey brought him over a few weeks ago, therefore, I was comfortable with him. The girls love him to pieces. They can see he’s really a great kid in need of gentle encouragement and people who believe in him. I think he’s been here two weeks, (but it could be slightly less) and I consider him family. I am one very fierce C.A.B. when it comes to my family.

I lost my iPhone and am in a quiet panic over that because it has more than enough info to ruin my life, including some song lyrics I haven’t filed with the Copyright Office, passwords and all sorts of shit. Now, you’d think that I, being a reasonably intelligent woman, would have purchased AppleCare or some sort of package through either Apple or AT&T that would allow me to at least find out where the damn thing is. Uh uh. Nope. Trying to remember my movements when I went to bed quite happily and deservedly stoned off my gourd was fairly impossible after spending hours and hours on the phone with various creditors who haven’t been paid since Mom died because she was way under-insured and what there is is coming at a snail’s pace, not to mention I just haven’t had the time or emotional wherewithal to fill out forms. In addition, I’ve been so focused on the house I really did forget a few creditors or thought they’d been held at bay. Nope! The bank is threatening foreclosure although I told those sons-of-snakes that she’d died and that I really needed to see her accounts to find a policy I’m fairly sure she had that would help a little. I brought the documents I was told, only to have some damn bank manager say they weren’t the right documents all without once losing his smile or ever offering a word of condolence. I had to leave the bank because I was planning on punching his smiling face, which, of course, wouldn’t do anything except make me very happy. Be that as it may, it is clear that the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing at Key Bank National Association.

I forgot to mention that Chase Bank is trying to repossess the mini van that holds my electric wheelchair and a portable ramp giving me just enough of a grade to get said wheelchair in the back of the mini van. It won’t fit in a sedan or an SUV. Without a van, I am pretty much housebound with no life and often no way to even get to my doctors’ appointments, of which I have many. Yes, there is a paratransit service, but they need 24 hours’ notice, which is often impossible.

I have but one question: When am I allowed to stand still without the weight of my world on my shoulders long enough to just be a grieving daughter? No one gives a rat’s ass about that.

I spent Monday through Wednesday nearly non-stop on the phone. I actually lost my voice Wednesday trying to cajole someone–ANYONE–to give me a break. I made headway in a couple of places and went to see my shrink and FedEx Office (aka Kinko’s) with a briefcase filled with papers and notes on my iPhone about who needed what. Thankfully, I still had the damn phone at the time. Anyway, I stood and copied my little debit card out, trying to match each document with a recipient. Then, I got a call from another cousin checking on me. We’re all becoming a family of orphans and it’s breaking our hearts. This branch was always a bit snooty, but between one of my two great aunts’ death and my mom’s death two weeks later after being 86 years old a whole five days, we’re coming together like I’ve never seen. I called a truce between the smaller group I was fighting with and had been for years and let everyone know that I expected them to do the same or I’d call them out in public and kick some ass–verbally, of course. 🙂 The only miscreant is someone I mentioned in another post and is most assuredly a waste of my time and valuable air.

I remember having the phone when I got in the van after Kinko’s because I decided I wanted to hear one of my playlists instead of the country station I’d listened to on satellite. I remember driving out of the Kinko’s lot and going to McDonald’s because dinner wouldn’t be ready soon. That’s all I remember other than coming home. I didn’t realize that my phone was missing until I’d eaten my MickeyD’s and gone upstairs, shortly followed by my cousin with some really great dessert. As I noticed making less and less sense, I threw them out, closed my eyes and didn’t open them again until Friday morning. It was then that I got that, “OMFG!!!” feeling about my iPhone. I searched the bed linen, because I am forever losing that damn phone with a dark blue cover in my dark blue sheets. No joy. I tried to remember what I had on with only partial success. I remembered what pants I wore, but not what shirt, whether the shirt had a pocket and whether I was wearing a jacket, which I kind of doubt, but can’t say for sure. Panic was setting in big time, but I swallowed it and went into the garage, searched the floor, went to the van, searched the driver’s side because I couldn’t get over to the passenger’s side, but I know I’ve lost all sorts of things over there.

Acknowledged, but not watched in my search, the girls followed Chad and I into the garage. In the process of searching as much as I could of the passenger seat, some parts of my anatomy that are usually trussed up within an inch of their lives apparently landed on the garage door opener. Out went both Micki (the bitch) and Snippet. Berry walked out, but was not in any way interested in leaving her happy home, thank you God. In the meantime, I heard tires squealing, didn’t see either of the two reprobates and took a small sigh of relief. I closed the garage door and ran into the house to see if Micki had allowed herself to be caught, which, thankfully (Thank You, God!) she did.

A small diversion, but this is still fairly well amazing to me. I have tried to pick the adult-sized Micki up many times. She weighs between 50 and 55 lbs., especially since I’m giving her the amount of food she should have been getting all along and taking her treats into consideration as well. But when Chad picks her up and carries her with his arm around her chest and the rest of her facing front, she looks completely nonchalant. In truth, she looks like she likes it! I just shook my head, happy that at least one of the two hoodlums was safe and rolled out of my driveway in search of Snippet.

All of the streets south of mine on do weird curvy thingies. There isn’t a straight street that will reliably take you where you want to go if you don’t know the neighborhood. As it happens, as long as I’ve lived in here, I haven’t really explored more than a couple of side streets south of my house. I can go on the street directly behind mine, which is what I needed in my search, and pretty much tell where I am in reference to my own street. I called and called, but didn’t see Snippet. I wanted to cry so badly, but realized that wouldn’t help her since I had to accept she really was lost. She hasn’t lived here long enough to know much of anything about this street. I live on a main boulevard where it’s nothing to see cars going 45 or even 50 MPH. Hell, I have been known to put the peddle to the metal here. A young kid was about to walk in back of the van as I was pulling out of my driveway for the second time. I asked him if he’d seen a little white dog and he had. When he told me where, believe me, the pedal damn near went through the floorboard. I didn’t see her where I thought and I had to choose whether to go straight or turn right, left or make a U-turn. Something told me to make that U-turn and I am so glad I did! There she was, running back to my street after running, very lost, from one of the side streets just where the kid said she was. I would have missed her if not for pure luck.

I threw my car into PARK with the hazard lights on and got out of the car, across traffic that didn’t want to stop. I didn’t care. I had to get my baby. There was nothing more important at that moment, even my own life and health. I called to her without watching the traffic on her side of the street. She almost didn’t make it, but she came to me on the boulevard strip. I caught her by the collar, but she struggled and I was afraid she’d get away, so I pounced on her regardless of what that meant we landed in. (Boulevard strip, other dogs/owners, daily constitutionals, get it?) I held on to her tightly and closely. I couldn’t get up without at least one hand and they were both making sure she didn’t take off again. A lady passed in her car, saw that I was down and holding a small dog and asked if I was OK. In a rare bit of humility, I told her that I’d just found my lost dog, but I couldn’t get up while I was holding her. Two teens got out of her car and took Snippet so I could get up. The adrenaline was pumping so hard and my heart beating so fast and loud that I almost lost it as the girls carried Snippet to the car and I got all of the windows rolled up. Would you believe that I forgot how to roll my own windows up from the driver’s side? I’ve had the van since ’08!

I still don’t have my iPhone, though I had AT&T lock it in case anyone tries to use it. I need to find my phone, but there is no way in hell it’s worth a hangnail on any of my furbabies. It is only because of them, in various configurations, that I have life. Every time I think about truly ending my life, especially since I now know what will and won’t be enough to do the deed for real instead of ending up in the ER with Narcan in my stomach and then up to ICU, I think of my girls. At most, I have someone who’ll take Micki. There are several who’d take Snippet, but Berry would be left out in the cold. I can’t have that. She, alone, has kept me alive so many times I can’t count them. She’ll be 12 around Thanksgiving and she is most definitely someone for whom I give thanks. She always knows when I need her. Mom and I used to share her. Mind you, Berry could do whatever the hell she wanted whenever she wanted. However, if I expressed to her that I missed her the night before, she’d sleep with me that night and Mom the next night. She’d keep this up until she sensed that I didn’t mind if she slept with Mom for a while. Now, I have her full-time. Snippet is with Chad and Mickey tonight/this morning while Berry, Micki and I sleep in my bedroom.

I’m going to leave you with something of a musical discovery and recommendation. Jason Aldean’s CD My Kinda Party was released in late 2010, but I’m new to country and am, therefore, just discovering him. I’ve got a couple of tracks and will probably end up using Complete My Album on iTunes to get the rest. I particularly love Fly Over States and Dirt Road Anthem [remix] (featuring Ludacris). I’m certainly going to do so with Lady Antebellum’s Own The Night released September 2011. I’ve put Dancin’ Away With My Heart in heavy rotation on my now-lost iPhone.

And with that, I’m going to try to sleep. The sun is up and I haven’t even finish writing about everything that happened. Yes, there is more. It’s been one freaky damn Friday!

P.S.: I’m experimenting with adding the ability to comment.

Home Is Who

I woke up this afternoon and, for the first time in weeks, I felt content. For me, “content” is like “happy,” but with a side of “peace.” I think I’ve finally figured out why I haven’t been able to let Glenn go and that, by doing so, I may have tripped the mechanism that will allow letting go. Sorry if that’s a bit circuitous. It is for me as well.

I’m sure most of us have heard the aphorism that home is where they have to take you in. I don’t think that’s accurate, at least for me. The aphorism assumes a place and not a person or people. For me, the place most would consider my home was a very dangerous place for a long time thanks to my mother’s second husband. When I left to go to college, that felt more like home than my house did. Then, I transferred after my freshman year and that school really felt like home, but only if I again assumed “home” was a place.

At some point, totally without any conscious effort on my part, my “home” became a person, Glenn. I look back and want to kick myself for not figuring this out sooner, but I don’t think I had the tools then. If I had, I’m not sure he could have understood. Or, he would have understood and scampered away. Sorry, but the more I look at things over the years, the more I see him running and having to be in control. Anyway, he became my “home” because home really is where the heart is. My heart was with him. He was my very first adult love. Wherever he was, I wanted to be. I was so used to being mistreated that some of the things he did then that were definitely not cool may have pissed me off, but didn’t make me see the clues that something was up with both of us. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I was a victim because I wasn’t. But I was walking into a situation that I should have handled differently. I didn’t because I was usually too afraid he’d walk away. Then, I learned how to handle him. Give him space. Let’s just say that doesn’t work anymore.

In case you haven’t guessed, music is a huge part of my life. We are very much alike in that way . . . and many others. For about the last five months or so, maybe a bit longer, I’ve been really listening to a lot of modern country. There’s a song that’s older now by the Zac Brown Band called “Colder Weather” that I instantly liked. Why? It reminds me of a certain individual who does a whole lot of running from instead of running to.

“Colder Weather”

She’d trade Colorado if he’d take her with him
Closes the door before the winter lets the cold in,
And wonders if her love is strong enough to make him stay,
She’s answered by the tail lights
Shining through the window pane

[Chorus:]
He said I wanna see you again
But I’m stuck in colder weather
Maybe tomorrow will be better
Can I call you then
She said you’re a ramblin’ man
You ain’t ever gonna change
You gotta gypsy soul to blame
And you were born for leavin’

At a truck stop diner just outside of Lincoln,
The night is black as the coffee he was drinkin’,
And in the waitress’ eyes he sees the same ‘ol light shinin’,
He thinks of Colorado
And the girl he left behind

[Chorus:]
He said I wanna see you again
But I’m stuck in colder weather
Maybe tomorrow will be better
Can I call you then
She said you’re a ramblin’ man
You ain’t ever gonna change
Got a gypsy soul to blame
And you were born for leavin'(born for leavin’)

Well it’s a winding road
When your in the lost and found
You’re a lover I’m a runner
We go ’round ‘n ’round
And I love you but I leave you
I don’t want you but I need you
You know it’s you who calls me back here

Oh I wanna see you again
But I’m stuck in colder weather
Maybe tomorrow will be better
Can I call you then
Cause I’m a ramblin’ man
I ain’t ever gonna change
I gotta gypsy soul to blame
And I was born for leavin’ (born for leavin’)

And when I close my eyes I see you
No matter where I am
I can smell your perfume through these whispering pines
I’m with your ghost again
It’s a shame about the weather
I know soon we’ll be together
And I can’t wait till then
I can’t wait till then

The thing is, I’ve usually found that kind of personality in male musicians, specifically rockers. Glenn is a musician, so I guess that tracks. He is not, however, a rocker. It’s funny, but classical musicians tend to be very stable, sometimes a bit dramatic, but generally stable in a slightly crazy kind of way. Rockers and hip-hop musicians love to party. I prefer the former to the latter, though. I don’t personally know any country musicians, but I’m going to take a wild guess and say they like to drink a lot, perhaps with a little pot thrown in for good measure. Jazz musicians=DRUGS! and R&B/Soul usually means top shelf liquor, pot, maybe a bit of coke, (but that’s up to personal tastes), and they all want sex with someone or another. I do miss that world, but I’ll be back there soon enough, probably with little patience for the bullshit. The older I get, the less patience I have for people who are supposed to be adults but act like children.

What I’ve learned about myself in the last nearly 24 hours is that I can’t rest until I understand the “why” of something. I’ve known that, but I haven’t really known that. Aside from the home angle, the hardest, nearly impossible obstacle to overcome has been getting on without knowing why. Why did he become abusive? I hadn’t said anything at all that would have incited that kind of response. If anything, it was the exact opposite. Why did he think it was OK to pretend to still want and care for me only to turn around and laugh, taunt and humiliate me when I believed him? As I’ve said to him several times, he didn’t put that bottle of pills in my hands and put my hands to my mouth, but he is as responsible for it as I am. His hands are as dirty as mine, if not dirtier because I was only harming myself while he set out to harm me. He pulled the rug right out from under me and I fell into the deepest, darkest of pits. I never got an explanation. That led me to believe he had no conscience and I called him a sociopath. Really, I definitely need to stop putting people in pigeonholes. I don’t fit. Why should anyone else? But this, I must say even years later, just fit given what I knew then and what I know now since he has done nothing to even try to make amends. As I’ve said before, each moment of silence is like hearing him say I don’t matter; my life doesn’t matter; if I’d died, oh well, see ya on the other side. I wish I could say that was an exaggeration, but it’s not. I’ve seen him cop that attitude with others.

I think what hurts most is that I can’t go back in time to save the beauty I loved inside of him. I don’t even know what I’d save him from because I have no idea what happened. I can accept losing him to someone else, although I can’t respect the reasoning; I can hope like hell that he’s happy and that almost losing my life was worth it to him; I can wish him well and try like hell to just go on with my life, even knowing that he’s loving the chaos he’s causing. I can grant him grace, but that’s all I can do. The young man, the adult man and the getting-into-middle-aged man are the stages of his life in which I’ve loved him like I’ve never loved another. He is none of those people now. Mom said that I needed to be patient. I have been. I’ve been more patient than anyone has a right to ask of another. It’s done and I’m very sad. One day, I want to trade that sadness in for liberation. In fully realizing who and what he is now, I feel so much lonelier. I’ve lost my home and my heart is broken. I’ll see the “good” in all of this one day, but it won’t be today. He thinks he’s invincible because he’s got money, a growing business and a family. No one is invincible. Bad things happen to people every day who don’t deserve it. One day, fate will catch up with him. He is no innocent. Nature likes balance. There’s nothing more to say.

Letter to Mom 4/8/2012

Dear Mommy,

I’ve thought and thought about this letter while taking the girls out for their pre-dinner potty break, during their dinner and while taking them out for their post-dinner potty break. There’s so much to say. In fact, if you were alive, I don’t think I’d say any of it for fear of an argument, but I sense you’re at peace now and can listen to me when you couldn’t before. I envy you that. I am anything but peaceful. I ache inside.

I haven’t quite learned how to manage the house yet. That’s mostly because I stay so depressed that I don’t move. I lost an entire day last week. I have no idea where it went or what happened. I just know that I woke up one morning and couldn’t remember what happened the day before or the day before that. I guess it’s fair to say, then, that I lost two days. It was distressing at the time. Now, it’s more like, “Oh. OK.” It’s as though I’ve shut down because I’m in so much pain I’ll overload if I don’t. I guess you know now that I don’t overload because some of the pain goes elsewhere to crop up at some unexpected time, usually very inconveniently. That’s what happened this go ’round with Glenn. He was the last person I wanted to think about, but I also needed the Glenn who was supportive and who cared for me once upon a time.

Mom, I know that even though you never liked him, you knew how much I loved him. I know that you wanted me to marry someone older who would let me be all of who I am. I thought that Glenn, even though he’s only a couple of years older, would be that person. He’s the only man I’ve ever seriously thought about marrying. Otherwise, I’d be perfectly happy to live a nice, quiet, woman-focused life with dogs, adopted grandkids and a lovely wildflower garden where my partner/wife and I could sit and just enjoy the life we’ve made for ourselves. Well, at least after I get the magazine off the ground. I really feel good about that possibility. No, that opportunity. I think I’ve found just the right investigative piece I was looking for. It will help me make a name for the magazine and, at the same time, establish the demo I’m looking for. Sometimes God fools ya and drops things in your lap when you least expect it. But I’ve got to get out of this funk if I ever plan to get started. Is it right to dump the other piece I was working on periodically for this? My gut doesn’t feel right about it, but I can’t see doing them both right now. There’s still too much going on in my head and in my heart.

Right. Glenn. Mommy, what happened to him? What turned that sweet, yet sometimes insensitive, sometimes volatile, man into whatever it is he is now? I want to understand so badly that I don’t know what to do. I don’t think there is anything I can do anymore. I had to start protecting myself. In the shape I’m in, he could finish what was started years ago, only this time, you and I would be reunited in heaven. No more failures. You’re not here to inadvertently save me. If I ended up in ICU again, it would be because I’m about to die and I’m an organ donor. It’s the girls who’ve kept me going. Add in Glenn’s penchant for inflicting non-consensual pain and I wouldn’t survive even with them. My God, Mom, I can’t even begin to fathom the things he’s done. If he didn’t live 500+ miles away, I think I’d be seriously concerned for my safety. As it is, I had to draw the Daddy card on him and may well have to use it. If I think I’m in a nightmare now, that could easily turn into something worse. I called Glenn on all his shit. I should have done so years ago, but didn’t. Maybe I didn’t because then, I didn’t have confirmation of things I knew–those things I can’t even write or else I’d get a knock on the door asking me about cold cases. Even with the family’s help, I don’t think the non-related cops would understand how I just knew some things that were only confirmed last year. You remember, I’m sure, the barber shop I took you to. The barber, whose name shall remain with us, started asking around. He told me what he discovered. He confirmed what I knew and added something I didn’t. It’s what he added that’s my ace should I need it. I only hope the barber has the sense God gave him and keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t know how close he is to more truth that would most assuredly get someone knocking on his door and it may not be the cops.

Mommy, I keep hearing you in my head telling me to be patient with Glenn and that he will come back. Yet, you never say why you know this to be true. I long ago stopped asking how you knew some things. Again, I just learned to accept. You were right too many times like a few other women in our bloodline. There is usually a basis in the old ways and now I get it. Since you’ve been gone, it’s as though your gift has passed itself along to me. I always had it in relatively small quantities, but I feel it getting stronger. Again, it’s just one of those things I accept. “Oh. OK.” What I always found utterly amusing about you is that you accept that you’ve got the sight, but can’t accept that this house has at least one spirit. The girls see it all the time and have for generations. It doesn’t bother me and I don’t bother it. It’s the same way Micki knows there’s a critter out in the back even though I can’t see it. She’s right too many times for me to disregard her. I just have to brace myself in case she decides to go after it. Unfortunately, I don’t know if Glenn fits into the category of “I just know.” It isn’t that way for me, probably because this is the one thing I’m fighting like Muhammad Ali. I can’t be wrong. I can’t hope. Yet, I also can’t deny that I love the man he was before whatever happened to him happened. I know that he was seduced by the Benjamins. I don’t know that he’s happy at home, even though I’m sure he’s fucking that Tilman chick. She’s a yella gal like you and he and Daddy have that in common. In having to re-write this post, I am seeing that they have more than that in common. I hope his daughter was a Daddy’s girl like I was once we finally got together. Anyway, where women were concerned, the lighter the better. It’s sad, really. Very sad. It’s not like he’s all that dark. We were virtually the same shade, although I had more red thanks to Grandmother Clara.

You said that I never considered that Glenn treated me so badly because I was the one who really could threaten his marriage. Maybe. Again, I can’t hope. I hate that he’s crushed that part of me. If he were to come back to me and explain everything, tell me he loved me, he was sorry for hurting me, yada, yada, yada, the only thing I might believe is his explanation for doing what he did. I might believe that he loved me, but he’d have to be extremely convincing. I’m not sure I’d buy it then because we both know abusive men go through a honeymoon period where they apologize, say they won’t abuse you and things are fine until it happens again. It is so hard for me to write or say or think: he is an emotionally abusive man. He wasn’t that way before, but he is now. I wish that I could scream into the night and ask, “Why?!?!?!” Of course, I’ll never know. That hurts a great deal. It’s in my nature to ask questions and not be satisfied until I get an answer that makes sense. I don’t think I ever will with this one.

I think the thing that hurts me most is that he never accepted my disability. I thought he had, but he didn’t. I think I even confronted him about it when we were together. I seem to remember him saying something about being younger then. While that’s true, he obviously took it into consideration when he asked Robin to marry him. What would he have said if I’d asked him to marry me? I wasn’t even thinking about marriage then, but what if I did? He’d probably tell me no and then marry Robin. I don’t like this part of myself, but I wish she would find someone else, decide she didn’t want to be married or just die. It’s the last one I hate. I don’t want her to die. I just want her to go away. I want him to have a chance to be who he wants to be within reason, and find his way back to me. He always felt like home to me. Am I totally pathetic for thinking of him that way? Yes, I am. After everything he’s done to me, it IS pathetic and I’m not sure I care. That’s what this has been about from the start. He’s my home and I can’t break the link. I want to. Mom, you know I’ve tried. This is the first time I’ve admitted it to myself, to you, to anyone. Damn it, I now have to send this to him. I love him and I dislike him all at the same time. He damn near destroyed me thanks in part to Dr. Trouble’s magic pills; I let go for years, only to find him in my mind and heart again, up from the basement where all the deep, dark, bad is kept; I’m pestering him for an explanation that I do richly deserve and have every right to require; he lets me swing in the breeze with nothing, laughing all the while. I deserve better and I know you agree. He’s an incredible disappointment as a human being, much less a potential lover/partner as things are now.

I sent him the lyrics for Lady A’s “Dancin’ Away With My Heart.” It fits so perfectly with the exception of the age. Mom, I have never loved anyone like I loved him and still love some deep, nearly-inaccessible portion of him. He is a part of me and always will be. I can’t lose him even though I  have already. Why did he do this to me? Why did he treat me like garbage? More accurately, why did he do the equivalent of throw garbage at me? I hadn’t done anything to him at all except tell him how I felt. I didn’t know I felt as I did, but it all came flooding back and I made that horrendous tape. He mocked me, embarrassed me, tormented me, shamed me. Tell me, please, why do I still love him? I keep thinking that was an anomaly, but he hasn’t had the guts to face me since. What does that say about him? What does that say about me? I deserve better. I know I do. But I also know that there’s something I’m missing. He’s behaving like a sociopath with narcissistic tendencies. Granted, they don’t have to go together, but they often do. I wish I had a DSM. I think it would help me understand what’s up with him and what is going on with me.  Am I experiencing something like battered wife syndrome even without the paper between us? Am I experiencing some sort of PTSD?

It’s nearly two and a half hours into Easter. I tried to save as many flowers from the sprays as I could. I don’t know if any of them will bloom again. I should be grateful for having them as long as I did. I think that’s what Mandy was trying to say to me: At least I had a mother for nearly 50 years; she didn’t and that’s affected her. Anyway, many lasted nearly a month. As I watch them die, no matter what steps I take to make them last, they eventually give way to what is termed the “natural order of things.” I miss you, Mom. The natural order took place, but gives me no comfort. This is a rite of passage. I remember how cold your beautiful hands were the last time I touched them. I still can’t believe you’re gone. You looked like you were asleep. Now, I think I’m glad that you wanted to be cremated. I don’t think I could bear thinking of you in the cold ground. I do feel your spirit around me. It’s why I can write to you now when I couldn’t talk to you before. I just wish you were here to hold me while still being at peace. I don’t think you had much peace in your life. I am sorry for anything I did that caused you to have more aggravation than you deserved. I love you. I forgive you. I want you to rest in peace now, but feel free to come back when you feel the urge. Like I said, I miss you.

Love always,

OnX

Something Strange Happened Yesterday

Well, I finally did it. I drove to the Flats and handed over Poppy for euthanasia. On the way I said a lot of prayers and tried to convince Mom that this was the right thing to do for everyone, including Poppy. I felt so badly for her. She was drooling, forgot that she had food in her dish, didn’t bother with any of the cat boxes, which were spotless, btw, and kept getting harassed by Snippet. At 20 years old, she did not need a young whipper snapper of a small dog thinking of her as just another toy. I could look at Poppy and know that she wasn’t thinking straight. On top of it, she was skin and bones. No matter how much she ate–and we gave her two cans a day–we couldn’t put any weight on her. Peeing in Micki’s downstairs crate sealed her fate. It was just time.

The drive to the Animal Protective League (APL) was uneventful until I got off the highway. That was when I realized the APL was in the Flats. For all you non-Northern Ohioans, the Flats is an area that runs along the Cuyahoga River and has a lot of businesses, factories and tony restaurants and clubs. It was the first part of Cleveland that was settled in the late 1700s. It is very easy to get lost there because the streets wind around the river bank and there are hills that bring people up and down from other parts of the city and back home again. In addition, it’s one of the few places that still has swing bridges. They are so cool! I’d kind of hoped I’m see a ship navigating the water as I drove through the maze. Alas, no ships, but for once my GPS got a Flats district address right, even though I didn’t do exactly what it said.

I got there and told the clerk that I wanted Poppy euthanized. I told them that she was 20 years old, she was drooling, had some sort of infection in her guns, had licked her fur into giant mats that she wouldn’t allow anyone to comb, etc. They said, “Euthanasia. That will be $35.” My eyes bugged out. When I phoned them–twice, no less–there was no mention of a fee for euthanasia. I thought they’d do it for nothing since I didn’t want cremains. Would they rather I let her lose in the area so that she can get killed by a car? I’m on frickin’ MEDICAID, for Christ’s sake! My mother just died and her retirement checks haven’t started coming to me yet. I said, I’ll give you $20, but that’s all. Thanks, Poppy. I won’t be eating anything soon. I had to split the $20 between cash and an almost maxed out credit card. Just peachy.

I went to see my shrink before the trek to the APL. I was 20 minutes late because I’m still learning how long it takes to take the girls out, get them watered and fed, sit with them while they eat and then take Micki out again to poop. I still have to wait for her to poop since she’ll look around and see what else is going on before she feels like going. *sigh* That’s about 10 minutes spent waiting for her.

Finally, Micki does her duty and I can hurry up and get dressed. I’m really glad I took a shower the previous night because that saved around another 20 minutes. I knew that I’d see the shrink, but I also wanted to stop where I get my music supplies and show my lyrics to the sales guy who’s quite knowledgeable about things musical except music theory. Now I’m wondering if I showed him the right one. I went through my WordPress app as opposed to the browser. The WordPress app is annoying in that it doesn’t show the finished post. It shows the HTML of the post you were editing until you hit Preview and then it will show not the final product, but the edited product. Oh well. I’ll show him again later. It will give me an excuse to go back.

Like I said in another post, there’s someone I’m working on and that would be him. I don’t know what I’d do if someone called me a Cougar. I think I’d probably say, “Oh well. Just because he’s half my age doesn’t mean a very nice man should be ignored. There aren’t many left in the world and he’s single. There are even fewer of them. I told him on a previous visit that he’s been messing around with girls. It’s time you got yourself a woman. I wore a nice, little dark pink camisole top, blue jeans, sunglasses, dark reddish-purple lipstick sand black sandals. Under the cami, I had on a pink bra that, because I’ve lost weight, doesn’t quite do what it’s supposed go do. Therefore, I have to work on it a bit to get it right. Regardless, I made sure that I was noticeable. He liked the lyric that I had on my iPhone. When I left, he said, “It’s always nice to see you.” I smiled because that made me feel better and that also means that he’s getting to know me. I think he’s got an old soul. Then again, he’s also a musician and I’m used to that. Slower wins the race, in this case.

So, after I leave the music store, I drive to the Shoreway. It’s the beginning of rush hour, but traffic is moving east and not west until the split that goes to the West Side and the other to downtown and the airport. Now that was backed up. Still, we made it there by a little before 6p.

I really didn’t want to put Poppy down. She was such a spirited little devil! Even as an older cat, she was spirited, but in a gruffer way. For some reason, she looked as though she was in a permanent scowl and would accost anyone who’d dare mess with her. It was just a front, though. She was as gentle as ever. But picking her up made my skin crawl because she was all skin and bones. No animal should ever be that thin. I’m sure there was something very wrong with her that we didn’t take her to the vet to get straightened out. Most of the reason is that we thought the other cats were eating her portion. Then, when all the other cats died, Poppy really upped her intake. Still, she was skin and bones. Even the bones felt like they’d break under too much pressure.

Even after putting down my last $20, I wasn’t allowed to be with Poppy when she made her transition. That hurt. I really wanted to be there with her and not all alone with people she didn’t know. I’d been talking to her a lot on the drive there and talked to her some more when she was on the desk, knowing I’d never see her again. I told her that it would all be over after a few minutes. Then, she could run, jump, chase mice and butterflies all she wanted. Best of all, she’d be with Mommy and that would make both of them happy.

So, I said in the title that something strange happened to me today. I got off the highway and made it into my garage. I shut off the engine, but after that, I have no idea what happened. I fell asleep right in the Puppy Van with the garage door open. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I didn’t wake up until about 11p and realized what happened. It scared me a little, especially since I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I’m not on any meds during the day that I haven’t been on already for ages. Falling asleep in the car while in the driver’s seat is something very new and potentially dangerous. OnX, get thee to the Sleep Disorders Clinic pronto!

Letting Go

The first words that come to mind are from the iconic Nat King Cole song “Nature Boy” with words and music written by Eden Ahbez.

There was a boy
A very strange enchanted boy
They say he wandered very far, very far
Over land and sea
A little shy
And sad of eye
But very wise
Was he

And then one day
A magic day he came my way
And while we spoke of many things, fools and kings
This he said to me
“The greatest thing
You’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved
In return”

(instrumental interlude)

“The greatest thing
You’ll ever learn
Is just to love
And be loved
In return”

There’s another lyric floating in my head. It’s one I’m writing so that I have someplace to put the feelings I have inside. Otherwise, I genuinely fear I’ll go mad with grief. A little background is in order.

As some of you may know, I lost my mother late last month. I don’t care what a child’s relationship is with his or her mother, the wound it leaves is devastating. Reading some of the information available online, I’m finding that it’s not my imagination or some pathology that’s making this loss so much more difficult than losing my father in 1987. Women have a special relationship with their mothers that cannot be replicated. We may utterly adore our fathers, but it’s the mothers who nurture us and understand us because they were us. I know that I’m still in the early stages of grief and I’m told my ability to handle it and/or get used to it will get better over time. It must, because everyone loses their parents and they don’t go barking mad. That is, unless the losses keep piling up.

My brain works differently than other people’s. It’s something I’ve had to accept and live with. Sunday, it finally truly hit me that the man I’ve loved for nearly all my life, Glenn, is gone. We met during my freshman year in undergrad. I saw him and wanted him BAD. And he wanted me, but was involved with someone else at the time, too. Actually, I’d say several someone elses. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity and a transfer from one school to another, I finally landed him. We carried on for 17 years, even through the early portion of his marriage to the woman I definitely knew he was involved with my freshman year, one of us going to or leaving from New Jersey to Ohio. Occasionally, if I was traveling on the East Coast, we’d meet up wherever I was. Since his wife was a doctor and they didn’t have children then, it wasn’t a big deal for him to take a drive. He was my first truly adult love and I loved him like I’ve never loved any other man. He was the only man for me. He still would be if he existed, but he doesn’t.

The rest of the story would fill a lot of bandwidth, but it’s safe to say that we each made huge mistakes. His was leaving me alone for two years and then calling because he wanted phone sex. Mine was in telling him while fuming at the gall of his request that I was no longer sleeping with men. Then, I had a nightmare of a reaction to a drug my psychiatrist had me on that obliterated both my inhibitions and my internal EDIT button. I’d wanted to talk to him ever since he hung up on me when I told him I was only sleeping with women and identified as a lesbian. In truth, had we talked about it even just a little, for him, I would have made an exception. He was the man with whom I was so utterly in love, even though I was pissed as hell with him. So, I tracked him down, which was fairly easy to do. I checked out his property and where he lived via a few paid search sites with public records. Then, I called him at work.

He decided, for reasons I’ll never know nor understand, to play an incredibly cruel and humiliating trick on me. He pretended to be interested in possibly getting back together. This evolved over several phone and chat conversations. Then, after I sent this really honest, though really corny, video to him, I didn’t hear from him. I caught him online a few days afterwards and asked if he liked the video. (Even I didn’t like the video because it was far too corny for words.) He said no. He went on to mock me, tell me that I’d fallen for a lie, tell me to give it up, to move on, he didn’t want to hear from me again, blah, blah, blah. I tried to get answers for why he’d done such a horrible thing for nearly a year. I don’t remember the sequence, but his response was usually no response. Actually, I thought he’d blocked my e-mail but continued writing because I really needed to talk with him, even if it was a conversation that took place in my head.

The last time I actually talked to him, he threatened to have someone beat me up, I think sexually assault me and kill me if I came near him or his family. In my precarious mental state, he broke me. And I do mean that literally. I tried to commit suicide even though I’d found evidence that the drug I was given went a very long way in determining my actions not just toward him but everyone I encountered. I was in ICU for four days and a mental ward for an additional three-day hold. The psychiatrist who saw me in the hospital knew that the drug I was taking could have really horrible side effects, thank God. He was perfectly happy to let me go because I wasn’t a danger to myself or anyone else. I was, nevertheless, furious with Glenn.

I am supposed to be dead, but I’m not. I took enough meds to be dead, but I’m not. They were in my system long enough for me to be dead, but I’m not. Why?? I honestly don’t know. Sunday was the first time in all the years in between then and now that I’ve seriously thought about what it would be like to make the pain stop. The reason I haven’t is because there are three lives (actually four since I couldn’t go through with Poppy’s euthanasia Saturday) depending on me. Yes, my grief may well drive me mad, but I have to hold on to enough reality to make sure they are cared for.

Sunday carried with it something else: the realization that Glenn is really and truly gone. That realization alone would overwhelm me, even after so many years. Now, I’m trying to deal with two losses, either of which would devastate me, but together have me seriously wondering whether I can absorb this much emotional pain. The Glenn I met as a young man and watched grow into a fully adult man, doesn’t exist anymore. He wouldn’t do something to me that was humiliating and cruel, (although I do remember him totally ignoring me while in the campus club one night when his current wife/then-whateverthefuck was there). I have also surmised that he did so in front of an audience of at least one other person. What does that make him? Well, it isn’t the Glenn I knew. I wish on everything precious to me that I could have the man I loved and adored back in my life, but clearly, for whatever reason, this one hates me. I, on the other hand, will always love the one I knew, even though I knew then that he could go on to a really dark and hostile place or be a loving, caring, sweet person. It was the latter that I knew, loved and believed in.

Hmph! Well, I guess I ended up telling the whole story anyway. Basically, I’m dealing with a great deal of loss and it’s going to get worse. I’m hanging on by my fingernails as it is. I’m hoping and doing a lot of praying that I can make it through. Monday, I have to go into my mother’s bedroom and start searching yet again for insurance policies as well as some other things.

I wrote the lyrics to a melody as yet to be written. In fact, I only have a very vague melody in my mind. However, that does not mean these lyrics can be used without my permission. They can’t–unless you want a lawyer on your ass that will sue you for everything you’ve got. They will be registered in the U.S. Copyright Office ASAP.

You Never Taught Me to Let Go

I’ve loved you for life
I’ve loved you for a lifetime
My heart was full and eyes were bright
Cuz you’d taught me to love right

I loved you when I hated you
I loved you when you hated me
I loved you so completely
So unconditionally.

Then one day you were gone
Leavin’ me wond’ring what went wrong
You were gone so fast, no time to ask
How I’m s’pose to let you go.

You never taught me to let go.
You never taught me to let go.

There I was alone
Left wand’ring in the cold
My heart so filled with love it burst
Leaving me broken, bent and bowed.

You never taught me to let go.
You never taught me to let go.

Lord, please, God in heaven
I don’t know what to do
The pain inside dropped me to this ground
And now I’m begging you.

Lord, please, please,
Please tell me how
To endure the ache inside
I’ve tried so hard to help myself
But break a lil’ more each time.

Please, God teach me to let go.
I don’t know how to let love go.
Please, God teach to let go.
I can’t bear this pain anymore.
Please, God teach me to let go.
Cuz I’m gonna go insane.

Love never taught me to let go.
Love never taught me to let it go.

© 2012 OnX

Goodbye, Mommy. Goodbye, my love. I’ll see you both on the other side one day.

Tears On My Tuxedo

By the time I finish writing this post, it will officially be my birthday. I was born at 6 a.m. on March 16. I was never looking forward to this one. It’s one of those “milestone” birthdays that basically says, “Yay! I’ve raised a family, my kids are all (or almost) gone, the husband/wife/partner and I can just kick it!” If only that were true for me. I am single and have been for far too long. I’m not really all that upset about it, but it would feel so good to lay wrapped in someone’s arms right now as I try to make sense of a new life.

My mother died February 27, 2012. We lived together and helped each other since I have disabilities and she was getting older. Then, one day, she collapsed on my bed and was gone. Oh, she stayed conscious long enough to reach the hospital, but crashed three times shortly thereafter, with the doctors and nurses bringing her back twice. Had I gone with her in the ambulance, I would possibly have had a few more minutes with her. However,  I was in a vehicle that had to obey all the traffic rules and in my heart, I knew she’d either be gone by the time I got there or shortly thereafter. It was the latter. I’ve known since the beginning of the year that some catastrophe was going to happen to her and I’d lose her. I just didn’t think it would be this early in the year. I thought I’d have more time to say those things we needed to say to each other. I, especially, needed to tell her something so that she could rest in peace. Hence, this birthday and all those to come, will carry with them a sense of sorrow because I may be alive but my mother isn’t.

Robin Thicke-Love After War Cover

I have this “thing” where I try to dress better when I feel like shit. Today was one of those days. I wasn’t in my usual jeans and polo, but jeans and sky blue twin set with a little lipstick. I had a horrid day that saw me begin with one bank my mother used telling me that I can’t have access to my mother’s records without a court order even though I’m the executrix of her estate as well as the sole beneficiary. I had my lawyer offer help while the other just did not get it. This was my mother and some dick of a branch manager was working under an incorrect interpretation of the law. I don’t even want whatever money might be in the account. I need to find out who she was paying so that I can begin to fight an insurance company that doesn’t want to pay, telling me that the policy lapsed three years ago. Knowing my mother, that didn’t happen. Now, the only thing left to do is go through her check copies which will probably tell me less than nothing because I’m fairly sure this was a direct withdrawal from her retirement payments.

I wrote that I really don’t mind being single. Actually, I do. My problem is that there was/is only one man I could consider spending my life with and we were over a very long time ago. I haven’t met the right woman yet and I have this penchant for younger men. Let’s face it: men in my age group are prone to erectile dysfunction and rely on those little blue pills or something similar. I don’t need or want that. “What does that have to do with that Robin Thicke image just above?” you ask. It’s simple and complicated. In essence, I’d fuck Robin Thicke in a heartbeat if given the opportunity and permission from his wife. More germane to this post, there’s something about his music that makes me feel really sexy and totally wanton. (There’s also a song on the CD called “Tears On My Tuxedo.”) It’s a feeling I love, but there’s no one to satisfy the hunger. Yes, “hunger.” I am so used to suppressing my sexuality because I could do nothing about it. I still can’t, but for different reasons. I was suppressing it because I was too ill to acquire a lover. I had nothing to offer. Now, I may have my disabilities, and there’s one very pesky problem I’m dealing with, but I’m pretty much as well as I’ve been in a decade. It’s OK to feel sexy, sensuous and ravenous. To put it plainly: I need to get my freak on. Sometimes I want a man and sometimes I want a woman. However, the word “bisexual” doesn’t really apply. The energy has to be right for me to pay attention to a man OR I have to be horny as all hell and not care who slays that beast.

My sexuality totally confuses most people. I avoid putting a label on it because that confuses the issue even more. Men, as lovers, can be good. Men as partners are just not going to do it for me. I’m working on someone male right now. I don’t know if it will go anywhere, but he reminds me of someone I once had as a lover ages ago. His hair is a darker red, but when I see that curly red mop, I smile. I saw him Thursday for a few. He was as sick as the proverbial dog. I’m trying to figure out if bringing him a fifth of bourbon tomorrow for a hot toddy would be too much. There’s a part of me that thinks it would seem as though I’m trying too hard. There’s the nurturing part of me that says he needs it.

The new reality of my life is that I can have a lover in my home now. I couldn’t before. That, too, was an impediment. Unfortunately, that son of a bastard child at the bank is making it impossible to determine whether the house is automatically paid off when I tell whatever insurance company holds the policy that my mother is deceased. (God, I still can’t wrap my brain around that.)  Nevertheless, the reality is that I can have whoever I want in this house wherever I want them. I have two drawers full of fabulous underwear to perk me up, a closet and other drawers with clothing that makes me look better than I feel and I can paste a smile on my face to show the rest of the world I’m good until I actually feel it. And yet, the tears fall.

Crushed!

Something odd is happening with me that is at once disconcerting and exciting. For the first time in a very long time, I feel a deep desire to share a romantic and sexual relationship with someone(s). There are several reasons these feelings are unfamiliar to me. The primary reason is that I’ve had to suppress them to concentrate on my health. It was not always so, but has been the case for nearly seven years now. I’ve made half-hearted attempts, but I always felt that there was something missing within me that kept me from getting serious about anyone or even finding a suitable person about whom I could get serious.

Another reason I find this reawakening of my romantic self odd is that, for the first time, I am making a conscious decision about what character traits I want my partner(s) to have. I don’t know if straight males ever sit and consider exactly what kind of mate they want, but girls usually do this in their teens. Being a teenager is, for me, a distant memory that involved so much emotional chaos that I wasn’t able to think about such things. In fact, I didn’t know that I even had a right to my own desires and needs, much less the right to actually have them met. That is what was missing in my earlier half-hearted attempts at companionship over the last seven years: a feeling that I deserved to have needs and desires; have those needs and desires met, and; most importantly, be treated with respect.

If anyone had asked me if I believed I was deserving, I would have answered affirmatively because I didn’t acknowledge to anyone, including myself, the extent of my low self-esteem. I had to learn to like myself, love myself and respect myself because no one ever taught me. For a girl, especially a disabled girl, that’s a set-up for disaster. We all know that disabled females are far more likely to be sexually assaulted than our able-bodied counterparts because we are more vulnerable. If we are not taught that we have a right to object, we can be utterly destroyed psychologically and not get the help needed to recover. Unfortunately, too many parents of disabled girls don’t consider the danger in which they place their daughters by not teaching us we deserve to have romantic and sexual needs and that we have an absolute right to decide who touches us. These are things I work on every day in some manner.

Trying to explain my sexual orientation to most people is a lesson in frustration for me. Most people view orientation as binary: heterosexual and homosexual. A few enlightened people understand that there is a great deal in between the two extremes. If I am particularly lucky, they understand that there is often some fluidity within that spectrum. I went from pretending to be straight to coming out as bisexual to coming out as lesbian to, only recently, carefully acknowledging that, every once in a while, I might find a male pleasurable.

Cover from the Robin Thicke CD Sex Therapy

Singer/songwriter/producer Robin Thicke shares love and sensuality

I usually describe myself as “mostly-lesbian” because, in a nutshell, that about covers it. I identify as lesbian in my heart and soul and, frankly, that’s all that really matters. Someone else’s perception of me has far more to do with them than it does with me.

Keeping my self-described orientation in mind, I am in the midst of a mad boy-crush on singer/songwriter/producer Robin Thicke right now. I discovered him fairly late on, of all things, the soap opera General Hospital. The executive producer of the ABC flagship soap began her career as the show’s music director many years ago and, consequently, consistently makes exceptional use of music. In this instance, it was Thicke’s delicate ballad “Angels” from The Evolution of Robin Thicke CD that was used for the reunion of über couple Luke and Laura after nearly a decade of separation. Evolution also included the mega-hit “Lost Without U,” a song I strongly suspect he’ll be performing when he’s 90 years old. That CD was followed by Something Else, which also did well, and; now, we have the red hot CD Sex Therapy. In between his own work, he’s produced for Lil Wayne and others, winning a couple of Grammys along the way.

Thicke is married to his childhood sweetheart, actress Paula Patton who graces the cover of the May 2010 issue of Ebony magazine while about seven or eight months pregnant with their first child. I can honestly say that I have never seen a more beautiful woman. Some may remember the Vanity Fair cover with a very pregnant and very nude Demi Moore many years ago. Uh uh. Demi’s star pales in comparison not only to the cover shot in which Patton is fully and beautifully clothed, but the inside two-page spread that shows a very suggestively comfortable and nearly-semi-nude Patton that will take the readers’ breath away in its artistically exquisite daring.

Actress Paula Patton on the cover of Ebony magazine

Actress Paula Patton as the sexy madonna

My only criticism of the article is that, while dense, it is too short. Someone with her intelligence has a whole lot more to say that’s worth quoting than the, perhaps, 1200 words used for the article–and I’m probably being generous in the word count. There is also a Q&A with hubby Robin that is equally far too short. However, an argument can be made that the article is about Paula and not Robin. The “problem” is that it ends just as he begins to speak in-depth about his thoughts on becoming a father for the first time. Personally, I would very much like to know his thoughts on raising a child that may look more black than white. I should mention that Paula is biracial, so this is not completely unexplored territory for her.

My crush on Thicke isn’t based on looks, though he’s got an adorable baby face. It is based on the emotional and spiritual content of his music. He admits to writing extensively about his own life, both ups and downs. One thing that is abundantly clear from his three latest endeavors is that he utterly and completely adores his wife. Now that is something I find super sexy and something I want for myself. Thicke’s unabashed sensuality, romanticism, respect and love of his partner are traits I want in my own partner. Add to that the fact that he’s very much aware of the emotional, spiritual and intellectual consequences and complexities of racism in the U.S., which indicates he’s got a brain that functions in a way that is all too rare, and there is about 95% of the reasoning behind my hard crush. Brains coupled with sensitivity are the ultimate aphrodisiac!

Did I mention that Sex Therapy is smokin’ hot? There are going to be a whole lot of babies conceived to that CD. Be that as it may, my specific attraction to it and the principal songwriter who wrote it is that it fits my sexual proclivities, be they with men or a women. It may be difficult to believe, but I was talking to one of my priests about my re-awakened sexual self yesterday afternoon in great detail. One of the things I said was that I was very sexually active and adventurous from my late teens until my early- to mid-30s. As a result, sex doesn’t hold any great mystery for me. I know what I like, what I don’t like, what I might be willing to try, what I need and how to be careful. I have zero interest in fucking the first Johnny or Mary who comes along even if they come along at a certain time of the month and I’m as horny as a rabbit in heat. What I want is a connection. Here is where things get tricky.

I am not looking for a man with whom to settle down. I am open to finding someone I genuinely like, and who genuinely likes me, who will share with me those times when only a flesh-and-blood man will do. It would definitely help if he’s a Dominant male, but that’s another post. After that itch is scratched, I’d like him to back off until one of us needs that physical intimacy again and be a real and true friend in the interim. In short, I am open to having a boy toy. It is very unlikely that I’d see myself making a life with this guy or asking for a monogamous relationship. I remain a lesbian in spite of that occasional craving and strict monogamy would not fulfill my needs sexually or emotionally regardless of the sex of my partner.

I’ve written about the extraordinary metamorphosis I am experiencing, but only in part. To write of it fully, even to the limits of my partial understanding, would be to serve a rich dessert during every course of a five-course meal. Digesting it all would be difficult, if not impossible. It would also require a great deal of intellectual exercise for me to continue at this moment. It is enough that I have simply begun.