Letters to Him - Part Six
Knowing the difference between lust and love has rested on a steep learning curve for most of my life. In some ways, I’ve been told, I carry that trait around as if I were born with it. In other ways, it has been something I’ve had to be hands-on with in order to understand the tiny discrepancies between the two. I’ve written about it in order to sort out my own logic. I dive deep into a world of creation in order to not think about it sometimes. I snap in and out of life at a moment’s notice going either direction, and I feel as if you didn’t understand one thing about me, or how to keep up.
I can’t fault you for that, though. I take full responsibility for the complex side of me because I don’t even know how to handle it all the time. I tried to show you how, but it was never a fair fight. You were totally unarmed for the battles I would wage, and all I was giving you for protection were swords made from duct tape. I didn’t even think to make you a shield, as shitty as it would have been.
At what point, though, will you forgive my past? I’ve been in lust more times than I can count, and I’ve fallen out of love more times than that. I’ve done my fair share of breaking hearts and acting reckless. I’ve experimented with hard drugs, and then quit as if I had never tried a single one. I trashed talked a boy’s penis in high school because Ew, and then went through a slut phase. I’ve treated my mother like shit before, and I’ve been an absolute cunt when I didn’t have to be just for kicks. I power-tripped for a long time. Yeah, I’ve got issues, but I’ve admitted to every single one and I’ve dealt with them.
I know, I know… I can be a scary little thing, but I like to think it’s all part of my charm these days. The issues in my past don’t haunt me any more - they’ve only molded a portion of my soul. I do wish you could have seen me the way I do: strong, independent, and willful, but full of sugar and spice.
If one thing can be gained from the experience which was you, I can say I learned the difference. People with issues are great fucks - exemplary, even, but the people who’ve won the battle with their issues know things about making love, without ever touching your skin, that would make your head spin.
I don’t think you were ready for that.
Fucking fuck! Three mornings in a row now and three restless sleeps later, my house still refuses to leave me alone.
Some of you know for most of my life I’ve been visited by those no longer living. I’ve seen things move and I’ve had many things moved around by unseen hands. I’ve heard voices, listened to full conversations, and I’ve heard the nightmares of their own spirits. I’ve seen someone who didn’t exist in this dimension get stabbed in the chest with a bayonet. I’ve heard battle cries and victory chants. I’ve had hour-long talks with my spirit guide, and then woke up feeling better about everything, even the bullshit.
The farthest back I can remember is when I was a wee-little lass in Kindergarten. I had blown a bubble with my gum while on my back. Imagine the mess: hair down to my bottom, and a big wad of gum, resting in an explosion of sticky bliss. (get your minds out of the gutter) My mother had to cut my hair off up to my ears and even after a decent haircut to fix things up, it was horrendous.
After a few days of walking around with a serious bowl cut and eyes that could kill, I decided it was whatever. In bed one night, I was grabbed, held down, and something tacky was being rubbed on my head. Mom came in, flicked on the light and there wasn’t any evidence to be found. It could be a nightmare, I will accept your argument, however, to hear my mother describe the scene as she walked in and looked at me, it couldn’t be just a simple nightmare.
Regardless, this shit has followed me around for a long-ass time, and I’m fucking sick of it. This week so far as been filled with voices, banging and doors creaking open on their own. The kids are oblivious to it all, and I think they are meant to be that way. I’ve been latched onto and it’s mine to deal with.
For a long time, even though it tried its best, I stopped letting it get to me, and it never matters where I go, who I’m with, or what’s going on in my life. After a few weeks at a new place, it shows itself. I refuse to move again. My mother moved us around so many times as kids, and I’ve moved enough on my own for other reasons. I’m done moving around. My kids are done moving around. I’m so fucking done with all of it.
Ghost Adventures would have a fucking field day with me.
I feel like a mermaid today. My skirt is seafoam green, hugs me just right, and touches the floor.
Hello, Spring. I’m glad you’ve arrived.
I just two-stepped from the kitchen to my desk to George Strait’s Amarillo by Morning.
I have serious thrill issues.
To the man who is not proud of his woman
To the man who ridicules his woman,
Listening to you speak of your partner made me feel ashamed. You were asked about the “love of your life” and your response was nonchalant to say the least, when you should have swelled with pride.
We are fascinating creatures; succumbing to stereotypes on a daily basis. Women, appear to be the pillars of monogamy and men, often known to deviate. Yet, women discuss their lives in the bedroom almost religiously and men remain silent, when in love or exaggerating their exploits when partaking in some “casual encounters”.
There are days when I swell with pride to identify myself as a man and others, such as today, I am filled with shame.
To the men who seek power; remember a woman can bring you to your knees, without raising her hand or her voice. She works in the shadows and you shall never see it coming.
To the man who denies being in love; remember she will break your heart and your claims of “love” shall go unheard
To the man who cloaks his emotional intelligence; remember, there will come a day when she leaves to be with someone, man or woman, who believes in strength through understanding emotion and not in its denial.
To the men who betray; her powers of observation and her love for you shall supersede your ability to hide your infidelity. And, if she chose to act on her thoughts, you shall never know.
Love her with kindness and honesty. Treat her as your equal. Make love to her even when you speak.
A man, in love and proud.
thewriteofi asked: why are you so fucking awesome? ;)
There’s a rumor going around about me. It has something to do with wisdom, experiences and lessons learned, but the rumor was started by my mother, so I’m not sure it even counts.
That’s all bullshit, honestly. I don’t consider myself to be awesomesauce-and-balls. All I’ve ever done is whatever my gut guided me to do. If I can learn something from it, or gain insight into myself because of it, I count it as positive and move on. There’s nothing else required.
Thank you, though. I smiled. <3
Letters to Him - Part Five
When I put my head on my pillow last night, I told myself I was going to get something accomplished today, but all that seems to happen when I open my eyes the next morning is wonder where you might be or what you might be doing. I also wonder if I ever cross your mind during the silent times when no one can read your face or see your thoughts.
I had a conversation with the vacuum the other day. It was one sided, of course, and it never offered to give me any answers, but it allowed me to get things off my chest. I keep thinking this practice will raise some of the weight off my shoulders, and while it never lightens the load, the load never gets any heavier. I suppose I’m thankful for that.
My date will be here at six to pick me up. He’s charming enough, and handsome enough, I suppose, but I don’t want someone who will just be enough. I want someone who is such a handful that my hands might fall off - because that’s what keeps me on my toes. I want someone with urges to do random things at random times and will never learn how to control it - because that’s what makes me laugh. I want someone to beam with pride any time I walk through a crowd to greet him - because that’s what makes my heart swell. The look on a man’s face when that happens says everything you ever need to know about him.
Did you know a groom’s face when he watches his bride walk down the aisle can tell you if they had a fight the night before? It’s true, but it can also tell you how much he adores her. Adoration damn near trumps love. Love is love is love is love. We all know this, but adoration says I like you. It says I want to spend time with you, and I’m so happy to see you. The look on a man’s face can tell you he likes you with rat-nest hair, smudged makeup and morning breath if you look past the Leave me alone until I get some coffee face he makes after you’ve done nothing but snore in his ear all night, keeping him awake.
What I miss the most is how you adored me for so long. You liked me. You wanted to hang out with me, and each time you would say Hey, Baby over the phone with a slight pause allowing me time to smile, I could feel the adoration on the other end. When my date called to schedule for Friday night at six, I didn’t feel any of it. Not a single shred of any feeling what-so-fucking-ever washed over me. Perhaps, though, I will feel something once I get to know him.
That’s bullshit. Nevermind. No one ever feels anything for someone they don’t feel something for in that first split-second they first lay eyes on one another. Part of the reason the divorce rate in this country is so damn high is because people who don’t truly and honestly adore each other keep getting married. For Hell’s sake, babe, I did it once. My first husband was good enough for a while, but I eventually wanted more. He was nothing than the next step in my life, and he’s admitted to marrying me just because I was pregnant. We never adored each other, and we never fell into it in time.
I’ll be damned to an eternity in purgatory if I ever settle for that again. Go ahead and call me a spoiled princess if you’d like, but I think I deserve far better than I’ve ever given myself, so maybe I won’t go on the date after all. Maybe I’ll put on my red dress, black heels, and pull my hair up into a mess of curls and go dancing with the girls. And maybe, just maybe, there will be someone there who adores me the minute he glances my way.
Maybe healing isn’t such a horrible thing. Be good, you.
That feel when everyone in the room goes silent and you can feel all eyes upon you - in an empty damn room, no less.
Letters to Him - Part Four
Here’s the thing about anger, babe: it abates. Saccharin-drenched memories are to blame for this particular defeat. At this moment, after a broken dinner plate and a vow to never touch first-person shooter games again, logging into my PSN account seems to be the only thing I want to do.
The memory which haunts me most has become my most favorite moment we shared together. I had come across a fairly unknown musician on YouTube and instantly fell head over heels for one particular song. In my excited-little-puppy ways, for several long minutes, I wouldn’t shut up about it. I’m sure you sat there for a decent eternity rolling your eyes and praying for a miracle, but instead of changing the subject or telling me to shut it, you picked up your guitar and asked me to turn the song up. You listened to its entirety, and then asked me to turn it off. The next thing I knew, every note was played again, but it was specifically for me. I sat with my hand over my heart and a solitary tear making its way to my collar bones. After that day, when I would go back into puppy mode, you would give me about three minutes on the soapbox, and then pick up your guitar. You always knew how to instantly silence me and you were always such a gentleman about it.
That’s when I knew I loved you. You knew how to get me every damn time, and you knew that I knew all your little tricks. Your voice would get softer and filled with gentle chuckles. That’s how I knew you were getting ready to tackle a woman’s voice in the most delicate way ever known to man. Once I was down for the count, you would be stone-cold silent for a minute or two, and then start rambling on as if you didn’t just make my heart soar. Mountains be damned, sweetheart - I loved you in the purest and rawest form possible.
I don’t have diamonds. I prefer gemstones. Roses make me cringe while I crave the touch of wildflowers as I greet them with my nose. I believe boxed wine on the front porch can be just as good, if not better, than a bottle of Dom on a cruise ship. I prefer sundresses and jeans to evening gowns and pantsuits. Sandals over heels and Vegas to churches. My credit is shot and I’ve been divorced. I don’t fear God. I believe that good things come to those who do good. I’m an avid Bob Marley fan and I’ve turned my bathroom into Little Jamaica. I’m a little too curvy, but I won’t apologize for it. I have absolutely nothing to offer you but my heart, and it’s a loyal heart. A faithful heart. A hopeful heart. A heart full of passion and promise.
It’s really sad that you put up blinders at some point and failed to see it from my point of view. It was one of the most beautiful things a human being could witness, and it pains me to think someone would choose to not see it. I smile, however, because I got to be part of it. I got to see it firsthand, and even if it didn’t work out, I will always consider you to be my favorite adventure.
Be well. Be happy. Smile for me simply because you know. You always knew.
This morning, a shooting nearly took place at my kids’ high school. An eighteen year-old senior, Kyle, went to school this morning with an agenda. He was going to commit suicide while everyone looked on - according to the note found in his room. With a long-barreled shotgun, he walked towards the building after getting out of his car. At this point, faculty noticed the gun, locked everyone down and notified police. After not being able to get in through the front doors, Kyle jumped back in his car and took off. After a small chase, he took his own life in the front seat of his car once the cops were able to get him pulled over.
My two oldest teens knew Kyle well and my son has commented that he never would have seen it coming. My daughter said he had posted a few ominous things to his social media accounts, but it wasn’t anything alarming. His last Twitter post reads April 11, 2014 will be a spectacular day.
Parents, Uncles, Aunts, Brothers, Sisters, Friends, Grandparents… I urge you to keep an eye on your kidlets these days. Get to know their patterns and routines, and if something seems fishy, let them know. Ask them questions. Demand access to their social media pages. Know who they are with and what they are up to. Be the helicopters they don’t want you to be because it just might save their lives one day, or the lives of others.
Letters to Him - Part Three
I’m angry with you today. I’m spittin’ fucking mad, actually.
You see, I think you’re scared. Of what, specifically? Me. In all your years spent putting boots to dirt, I don’t think you’ve ever met someone quite like me. I offer no apologies for my feelings, I shoot straight with people, and I’m fiercely loyal even if the situation doesn’t deserve it. You’ve been fucked over all your life and I think it surprises you to think someone can respect you and be loyal to you without wondering what’s in it for them.
Guess how I know these things. Take a big fat guess. Let me help you here…
I’ve been through it, much like you, and probably for just as long. If you think for one second I would ever treat someone in the ways which they treated me, you are dead fucking wrong. Go ahead and roll your eyes, but let me ask you a few questions. When have I lied to you? When have I not believed in you? When have I not had faith in you? When have I not been there for you when you needed it most? When have I ever, ever, left you to watch my taillights in the damn dust without even so much as a Goodbye?
Never. Not one fucking time. The only conclusion I can come up with is you got scared, turned tail and ran, rather than deal with whatever emotions you have about it all. I’m starting to think that if someone doesn’t treat you like shit, you have no fucking clue what to do with it. Either that or you protect yourself with a pre-emptive strike to treat the other person like shit before they can do it to you - make them run first so you don’t have to be the asshole.
The third option is perhaps I never meant that much to you, which is fine. I don’t expect to mean everything to everyone I ever run into. I know the world doesn’t work that way, but if that’s the case here, I have to wonder why. Were you bored? Were you in it for the ego boost? Were you testing me to see just how far I would go for you, or to see how much I was willing put up with? Did you meet someone else and couldn’t fill your balls with enough Man-Hormone to tell me? Was I just a little plaything? Did I make myself too available to you? Should I have held back? Should I have treated you like dirt under my shoes?
I have no answers to these questions - they have to come from you, and at this point, I’m pretty damn positive they never will. I suppose, my job now is to break something, and convince myself to just get on with it.
Letters to Him - Part Two
Do you know how hard it is to have a conversation, morning after mundane morning, with the same damn coffee cup which is filled with the same damn mocha blend you prepare evening after solitary evening just so you won’t have to wake up even more early than you already have to because you know no better joy than what you feel in your dreams?
I have a strong tendency to believe our dreams hold our true, most honest happiness. Our dreams hold the childlike glee of turning circles on a Merry-Go-Round - the moment right before your stomach turns and lurches for your throat. They hold the feeling of a first kiss, and the lucky ones wake up with sweaty palms, racing hearts, and euphoria. Our dreams help us work out problems while we sleep. We wake up with a small bit of clarity, or the big Ah-Ha! moment in which everything falls into place as it should. They hold our fears and our obstacles, and while it may take a while for our tasks to be accomplished, our dreams show us they can be. Our dreams make us believe the world is within our reach.
Our dreams show us love. They show us the kind of love even the hardest of hearts wants to feel. Our dreams show us how strong we wish to love and be loved in return. The lucky ones are those who have loved in the trenches, and in spite of it all, they come out swinging together on the other side. Lucky, also, are those who have been shattered more times than I can count on my fingers, and yet, they still find it within themselves to want to do it all over again because there is a slight chance of finding someone traveling the same path. Our dreams show us a hope we can’t always grasp onto, and our dreams give us the faith to keep hoping for a little bit of hope.
In the span of one week, we can wake up blissfully happy or wanting to take the world out with a well-calibrated sniper rifle. We can wake up with eyes full of tears, or palms full of sweat. We can wake up feeling solitary or part of something bigger and better. Our dreams provide such an enormous rollercoaster filled with dips and spins, but without it, we would never be anything more than programmed robots. Yes, it would be a lot easier to sail through life and not feel anything, but I believe that only makes for a fairly boring death.
I’m the girl, who, a long time ago, learned to cry with the thrills and laugh with the devastation because I’d rather know in the end that I, at least, gave it a damn good shot. Nothing ever plays out exactly as we planned, but that’s where the beauty of life comes out to play. That’s where life makes us open our eyes and whisper to ourselves Well, ain’t that some shit? That’s when small, knowing smiles grace our faces for a moment while we share a giggle with our souls. And it’s in our darkest dreams where light shows her balance the best. You just have to be willing to open your eyes amid the nightmares.
Letters to Him - Part One
I don’t want to believe it has been more than sixty days since we wrote last. That one, small realization makes the ninety days since your voice graced my ears feel like we existed a lifetime ago. Do you know how long a lifetime lasts? It can be as small as one minute or as long as a hundred years, and only after we have really lived, whether it be for that one minute or those long years, we wish we could control it all.
I thought I had lived. In my narrow way of thinking, I thought I had seen it all, done it all, and bought the shot glass to match each experience. The fact of the matter, though, is I didn’t know a damn thing about living until I met you. In all the typical ways which belong to a man, you taught me something and that’s when I realized I had been wrong all along.
You opened the window to my soul, and then you taught me how to climb out of it. You never knew you were capable of such things, and I can guarantee you still don’t believe it. I always tried to tell you just how special you truly are, and you would either get real quiet, or you would pick up your guitar and start jamming out as if you were on stage in front of a sell-out crowd, letting me listen in on every note.
You know how people talk of soulmates and how they just know when they’ve bumped into theirs? For me, you are my teammate in the world of bumper souls. Sure, we may bump into other souls, but unless destiny’s conditions are ripe, we don’t stick. However, there are certain scenarios where two people get trapped together in the crowd - and they should panic, but it feels like home. It feels, even amid a sea of a thousand souls, safe and secure. It becomes a perfected dance, and it can happen as quick as that first minute of a newborn baby’s life.
The first time I heard your voice, I came home. You know how I left home at a young age in order to be whatever it was I wanted to be. You know how that particular adventure was an epic failure at the time. You also know, that even though I ran home to Mommy and eventually put down strong roots, I have never once felt like I’ve gone home. I’m always searching for that missing piece - the final piece of what has taken me a lifetime to build. And I always told myself once I found it, I would cherish it and hold it within my own heart because that’s where I’m the softest. I tucked you there because of its safety features and I made a silent promise to always keep you there.
For such a long time, you were the glue that held me together. You were my soft landing, but then you became a part of me. You carved out the raw edges and wedged yourself right in the middle of my scattered pieces. I don’t know why or how it happened, but it did. People love to be skeptical of soulmates and even you and I have scoffed at the idea more than once, but they also love to believe with everything they have within them that it’s a real phenomenon, and they hope that someday they will find their bliss.
I’ve wanted nothing more than to believe with my entire being that I had found mine, and it pains me to think perhaps I never have. I’m scared. I’m fucking terrified, to be perfectly honest. My search was over just as yours was beginning, and I’m afraid that once you find your missing piece, it won’t be me. I’m also afraid of realizing that maybe you weren’t my piece after all. Perhaps you held me together just long enough for me to gather that scatter a bit. Perhaps all you ever were was glue and maybe the goddesses above us really do know what they’re doing.
I don’t know how any of this will end. I don’t know if you’ll call me tomorrow. I don’t know if you’ll send me a note. I don’t know if I will ever hold you as tightly in my arms as I have in my heart, but I hope I will. I can’t give up. I won’t give up. And when you’re ready, either way the story might end, I know you will find a way to let me know your answer.
Until that day, you are with me. Still safe, still secure, and still loved with every piece of me.