poeticdesires

Category: Emotional

  • Kids

    [Trigger Warning: This entry features a description of childhood sexual abuse.]

    I love my niece. She’s about to turn four this summer. She’s a ball of energy: running, jumping, crashing into walls while cackling.

    Today, before she, her parents and I headed out, I assisted her in putting on her socks and shoes. I grabbed the miniature footwear and fabric, as well at the tiny human they belonged to.

    “Give me your foot,” I said, my voice noticeably different, a higher pitched, younger, playful tone emitted from my lips. I slipped on one sock, then the other. I got both shoes on, and success; the child was shod and ready for the road.

    As I worked, she clung to my arm, holding on like Tarzan swinging from a vine. I love every time I hug her. Kiss her face. Feel her strong compact little self next to me.

    I want kids. I don’t know if I’ll ever have them, but I know I want them. It’s a scary prospect, another human life that not only would I help to create, but then care for. Nurture. Make a home for. Assemble a life for.

    When I look at Eve, I see this beautiful little miracle, this sweet (mostly) innocent (the eye roll still kills me) tiny human who I cannot even express how much I love.

    But there is something else I see when I look on her beautiful face. I see me, when I was little.

    I was about her age when it happened.

    My Mom and I were visiting my aunt and my cousins. We did this often. My aunt and her kids lived near our house. My Mom and my aunt were in another room. I was in the bedroom with one of my cousins playing.

    That day my cousin wanted to play a new game. I don’t remember the name now. I’m glad of that.

    She had me lie in the bed.  My clothes still on.   Under the covers. She got under the covers too. Got real close to me.

    And then she started touching me. And I think kissing on me. And sucking on my neck. I don’t remember her actually doing that part, but I know it happened. My Mom found a bruise, a hickey, on her four year old daughter’s neck.

    At a certain point, I don’t remember when, I pushed my cousin off of me and ran out of the room. I ran into my aunt’s bedroom. Found my Mom.

    I don’t remember going home. I don’t remember going shopping. But I do remember jumping up and down on our bed (I still slept in the same bed with my Mom then). And I remember I was trying on clothes she’d bought. I remember her stopping me as I spoke gleefully. Her asking me where I got the bruise on my neck. Me telling her about my cousin and I playing.

    The next thing I remember is being back at my aunt’s apartment. Rushed right over I think. And my mother yelling at her sister.

    I can’t remember if it was my aunt who explained it, or if it was my cousin who told me, but the inspiration for her game was a daytime soap opera. My six or seven year old cousin was just imitating what she saw on TV.

    My mother never mentions that day. We don’t talk about it. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about it since it happened.

    My aunt wonders why I don’t like her. She’s said as much to my mother. I can’t point to that incident as the deciding factor. My aunt is emotionally needy and occasionally emotionally abusive towards my mother, not to mention craves my acceptance though I cannot understand why. Those things, more than her ignorance as a parent, make her less than appealing to me.

    This life is not easy. Or fair. Or kind. When I look at my niece, I see innocence. I see happiness. And hope. And possibility.  I see someone I would protect with my own life.

    For now, she doesn’t know all the bad things that could happen to her. Eventually, she will. But, for now, I like teaching her about coins. And watching Wreck It Ralph with her. And helping her put on her shoes.

    I get why parents want to stop time. To savor this moment forever. Because it’s the loss of that hope, that joy, that innocence gone, that means their kids aren’t kids anymore.

  • Breakthrough

    “I just wanted to say thank you for creating the bamboo rig and encouraging people to play on it. That was the first time I’d self suspended at an event in a year. I’d had an incident before which left me skittish. That tie felt like a breakthrough for me. So, thank you.” – Monday afternoon

    It was late Sunday night. Not quite the end of open play. Maybe two or three hours before the dungeon was to close.

    I was somewhat tired. The past few days of Shibaricon had taken its toll. But I wasn’t exhausted. I still had some steam left in me. But what to do with it?

    I thought maybe I’d drop into my voyeur headspace, roaming around the dungeon, watching scenes.

    And then my friend Meliffica approached me.

    “Could you self suspend? This guy created this awesome rig and all he wants is for people to use it.”

    I turned, stepped closer to it. It was a larger structure made from bamboo and lashed at the top. It looked similar to a swing set, its triangular middle triggering memories of my childhood. On its sides were two smaller triangular areas. These seemed perfect for small, intimate ties.

    I thought about it for a moment.

    “Okay, I’ll go grab my rope.”

    I switched out my bootblack kit for my rope bags in my room. I then threw on a pair on panties and headed back down stairs.

    I rested my bags by one of the smaller triangles. I took a breath. The nerves had already come.

    I happened to glance right and saw Gray tying. I glanced forward and saw Dov playing. More nerves.

    I stopped. Closed my eyes. Took another deep breath.

    Fuck it.

    I dumped out my rope bag. Picked out five 30s and five 15s, four red and one black of each. I placed them within arms reached of where I would hang. I took off my hoodie. Stripped down to just my bra, panties, and boots. I pulled out my gray flag and rested my safety shears on it.

    I stretched.

    I stepped inside the triangle. Rigged my ring.

    I took off my necklace.

    I breathed again, eyes closed, head rested against my ring.

    This is for me, and no one else.

    I opened my eyes. I began tying.

    As my hemp adorned my body, my hands remembered my standards. Swiss seat on my hips. Three bands across my chest. Ankle cuff to the right boot. A short length to lift my hips. The long tail on the ankle cuff to pivot me.

    I sat in my Swiss seat, raised the tail of my right ankle’s tie, and looped it through a carabener. Slowly, I raised my leg. Pivoted my body. Went inverted.

    My left hand found my left boot. My right hand held my right leg’s line. I rested in my body.

    The rest of the world melted away.

    I existed in the pressure on my lower back, which held most of my body weight. The swimming sensation in my head as the blood rushed towards it. My breathing. The slow turn of my body as the ring held me just above the floor, yet high above the world.

    I let my left boot go and allowed my hand to skim the floor. To feel the delicate sway as I moved ever so slightly in my ties. It was if I felt the ebb and flow of life in my fingertips.

    I allowed my right leg to come down, raising my body to a horizontal position, and locked off the cuff. Reaching down, I grabbed a 15. Larks head to my chest. Ran through a carabener. Locked off. My left leg tucked above my right. I closed my eyes. Lazed in ties.

    Again came the gentle sway. Small movements as gravity played with my rig.

    Coming back, I reached down, this time for a 30. Ankle cuff on my left boot. Through a carabener. Down behind my head. Locked off. Neck support, yes, but my whole body weaved into my ropes. My hands laid on my stomach. I relaxed.

    Did I want to try going sideways? Practice the new knot I learned on Friday? Do something with my arms?

    No.

    I was in my happy rope place, but I also wanted my floor time.

    I released my head. Lowered a leg. Then the other. Loosed my chest and hips. And I sat on the carpeted floor. My lines still attached to my body.

    My right ankle cuff became a futomomo, as did my left. As I tied, I remember Wykd_Dave’s words on how to tie. On tension. On being present in every inch of the rope. My chest line wrapped through each futomomo and attached back to itself, pulling my torso down. I felt an urge, and went with it. I reached out, grabbed my leather cuffs, and put them on my wrists.

    I sat. I breathed. Eyes closed. Taking in my body. My breath. My being. Sinking into my flesh. Melting away life. Letting everything else besides my body and my breath not exist in this moment. I found my Zen. I rested in that space.

    Centered in myself. Centered in my ropes. I sat.

    When it was time, I released my chest line, keeping tension, feeling the movement of my hemp throughout my being. I untied each futomomo with concentration, running my rope with as much intention as when I put it on.

    As I lived in my headspace, someone who had looked on came over and asked if I was okay.

    It felt like a window had crashed in. It was gone. My center. My Zen. One sentence and it was gone.

    I gave them a head nod and a yes.

    I continued to untie, but my love felt sullied. Too many thoughts and emotions came rushing in. Too many of the no-good-very-bad thoughts. All the things I didn’t want to think about or feel in what was to be a time of happiness.

    I had opened myself up. Exposed my being. And with one sentence, the light, my Zen, was gone. Whereas before I swam in soft calm, now my mind was a tempest of darkness.

    I shoved my rope into my bag. Took down my ring. Threw my hoodie and my skirt on. Gathered up the rest of my things.

    I couldn’t bring myself to put my necklace back on. It went into a bag. Trying to stem the tide of emotions, I instead tied my gray flag around my neck.

    I rushed upstairs.

    I dropped every thing and grabbed my netbook. Made my way to the lobby.

    Opened a new file. Named it ‘Emotional Diarhea’. Started typing.

    It was 2:30am. I didn’t know how long I would be at that table writing, but I knew I would not finish anytime soon. The storm in my mind ragged.

    But then, thankfully, not thirty minutes into my emotional expulsion, I was invited to tacos.

  • Yearn

    Attention and affection; two simple concepts, yet it has taken me time and thoughtful introspection to realize they are the two major necessities I need in a relationship.

    I want a partner who will spend time with me. Not around me, but with me. I need simple attention: a meal where we bitch about our respective jobs; watching a movie on NetFlix; going for a jog with me in the neighborhood; testing our duel trivia knowledges via Jeopardy! It doesn’t need to be fancy, but give me the time.

    I also want someone who shows affection towards me. Hugs and kisses, yes. But also holding hands. Back rubs. Gentle caresses. Playing with my hair (bonus points!). Cuddles. Snuggles.

    Without attention and affection, I cannot be happy in a relationship.

    There was a moment a week and a half ago. It was the Sunday after the Grue Pitt. Everyone was tired, exhausted really, winding down from the event. Gray, TwistedView, K2, and myself gathered in the living room to watch random action movies.

    At one point, TwistedView and K2 snuggled on the LoveSac while Gray and I did the same on the couch. Gray lightly rubbed my back, my arm. We were watching either From Dusk Til Dawn or Game of Thrones. It was nothing big; just some down time to relax our brains and bodies.

    And then, in a flash, it hit me: This is awesome. I want this. I should find someone for this back home.

    Ding ding ding.

    Because that’s the thing: I live here and he lives there. Our lives are separated by hundreds of miles. When we are together, it’s great, amazing really, but our lives make it so our time together is fleeting. Thems be the breaks.

    I wanted to kick myself when the obvious hit me upside my head.

    It was exactly what Doc has been talking about. Love, real love, isn’t a series of highs and lows. It’s steady. A baseline that’s always there. Yes, it will have its moments, but the foundation lies in daily consistent care.

    I yearn for attention and affection from someone regularly in my life. I want snuggles on the couch and cuddles in bed each night. I want someone to lean on, and to take care of, not just on special days, but every day.

    I don’t like that, when thinking about any as yet partner, thoughts veer towards my Ex. I don’t like remembering snuggling with him on the couch or sleeping with him at night. I don’t like that he is still a small part of my life (the occasional run in at work).

    It is so tempting to go backwards, to try again. Not tempting enough, though, for me to do it. There were far too many things wrong with our relationship for me to go back to him. But tempting still.

    It hurts, my current situation. Because I know I did have that bond with someone before. I know it’s possible, making the not having it that much worse.

    I do have attention and affection now, occasionally, on special days. When I get it, I feel this sense of ease. Of excitement, of course, but also of stillness. A knowing that yes, this is right. This is what I want, what I need. A gladness for my life in those days.

    But I yearn for more than my special days, as cherished as they are to me. I yearn for constant love, daily care, dependable attention and affection.

    As you might have guessed, since the Grue Pitt, I edited my OKC profile again. I’m trying to find a poly munch. I’m keeping my eyes and heart open. And I’m hoping.

    Slowly, surely.

  • Until…

    My head throbbed. Pain pulsed from the base of my neck up into my brain, out through my eyes, around my forehead, and at my temples.

    It was a migraine, the first I’d had in years, and only the third in my life.

    “I’m feeling nauseous” turned into “You need to drive” in a matter of seconds. I climbed into the passenger seat while Gray took the wheel.

    Immediately, as soon as I buckled my seat belt, I began crying. The pain was too much. Too much now. Not now. Why now? The last few precious moments I had with Gray and all I could do was quietly weep.

    He had me recline my chair, lie back, cover my eyes. He told me to eat his yogurt, but I didn’t want to risk throwing it up.

    My car was running low on gas. We had to stop.

    “Do you want a receipt?”

    “No.”

    I didn’t care about gas or my credit card. All I wanted was to stop the pain. All I wanted was to not make him miss his plane. All I wanted was for these last few minutes with him to be about something other than my head. I hated my body for betraying me.

    “I need something to concentrate on.”

    We started talking. We began a conversation about Game Of Thrones. He’s read the books. I’m watching the television show and reading after. We caught two episodes the night before.

    We discussed the characters, specifically my favorites who, if they die, I will stop watching. We talked about themes in the show. We talked about anything to make the time pass, to make myself forget about my head.

    When I peeked from beneath my arm, I saw it. He was pulling into the airport. I had a new reason to cry. What little time I had had with him in my car was about taking care of me, not about enjoying the the moments with him.

    He pulled in, grabbed his things from the back. I lurched out of my seat, stood by the front.

    He stepped over. He opened his arms for a hug, and caught the corner of my mouth for a kiss. I turned my head and returned his affection. Kissing once. Twice. Thrice. Four times our lips met and parted. My head didn’t hurt, my mind didn’t wander from our moment, standing in the airport drop off lane, embracing a man I loved.

    “I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
    “Safe travels.”

    And he walked away.

    I got into my car, my head throbbing a little less, and made my way home.

    All while driving, through wrong turns, pit stops, and moments of sorrow, I thought about my Senpai, missing him already, until the day I’d see him again.

  • Talk

    ~ a story ~

    “Hi.”
    “Hey.”

    It was the same as it had been between them for some time now. Short. Curt. Never outright rude, but not warm either. Like any other day. Except today wasn’t any other day.

    He saw it. Normally there was a moment, a split second of eye contact, and then returning to their respective worlds. But she didn’t give that today. Didn’t even hint a glance in his direction.

    “What’s wrong?”
    “Nothing.”

    She tried to hide her tears. Turned away from him. Threw her dishes into the washer. Made a dash out of the kitchen. He caught her arm as she attempted her escape.

    “Bani, what’s wrong?”
    “Not today, okay? Not today. I can’t talk to you today.”

    She wouldn’t look at him.

    “Bani?”
    “No.”

    She pushed him away. He let go of her arm.

    And then he saw it. The bruise on her face. The tears in her eyes. She must have been crying for hours.

    “Bani. Was it?”
    “No, it wasn’t him.”
    “Bani, you can.”
    “It wasn’t him. It was his frat brother. He wanted a turn with the new hot piece of ass and when I screamed no he came across my face so hard I fell on the floor. He went for my skirt, but I kicked him in the balls and ran.”
    “Edgar?”
    “I texted him. He called me a lying cunt and said we were through.”
    “I’ll.”
    “You’ll do what? Nothing. That’s what you’ll do.”

    Bani moved towards the hall.

    “Stop.”

    He grabbed her arm again. She lashed out.

    “You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to stick up for me. When was the last time you said more than hey to me? A month? I started seeing Edger and you just dropped out. Where was my friend? Where were you Chris?”
    “You had Edger.”
    “A frat boy who spent more time stoned than in class. Who cared more about my cunt than anything I had to say. Who half the time kicked me out of his bed after we fucked. Yeah, we were totally gonna last.”
    “Bani, I.”
    “You what? Didn’t want to bother? Didn’t care? Had no time for someone who’s known you since we were eight. Someone who told you Cassie could go fuck herself for being so mean to you in fifth grade. Who helped you through Pre-Calc and Calc. Who is half the reason you even made it into this fucking school.”
    “You are the reason I’m here.”
    “What are you?”
    “I came here, I applied to this college, because I knew you wanted to go here. Because I knew you would go here. Knew you loved the campus. Loved the Greek system. Loved the classes and the faculty and and and. You didn’t shut up when you came back from your visit junior year. So I thought, if you were here, I had to be here. Because I don’t want to be anywhere else. I didn’t talk to you for the past month because I couldn’t. Not knowing you’d just be running off to see Edgar that evening. Dragging yourself back home at god awful hours from the frat. The smell of him on you.”

    Now it was Chris who couldn’t look at her.

    “If you asked me to, I would find him. Both of them. Kick their asses. Maybe even kill them. Anything you asked of me, I couldn’t stop myself from saying yes. From doing it. I love you Bani. Have loved you since forever. Will love you til forever.”
    “Chris, I.”
    “Don’t talk. Not now. Not when I finally said it. Finally let it out. Just let me hold you and pretend it’s third grade all over again and I’m guarding you from the scary dark place. Can we do that, not talk, just for a little bit?”

    Bani nodded her head, stepped forward, and accepted his arms around her. She nestled her head into his chest and let herself quietly cry some more. And, if she had looked up, she’d have seen she wasn’t the only person emotionally wrought that evening.

  • M’s

    Mania

    Three people died in Boston today. One of them was a child. Eight years old. A third grader who attended the Boston Marathon, who possibly cheered on a family member, lost their life today.

    More than one hundred people were injured in the dual blasts. Multiple injuries included the loss of limbs. I don’t think that is a coincidence. A bombing at a marathon that causes people to lose legs. Someone is trying to say something, though we don’t yet know what.

    I listen to NPR for my news. They played the sound clips of the blasts. People screaming. Fleeing. The second boom in the background. They talked about the race volunteers and the police assisting with the crowds. All the things you hope will happen when tragedy strikes.

    The point of terrorism is to inflict not only harm but fear. Fear to go out. Fear to do anything. Fear to live your life.

    Marred

    April 15th.

    Today was Tax Day, but also Patriot’s Day in Boston. Every year they run the race, celebrate the battles at Lexington and Concord. Every year there is a celebration in Boston on April 15th.

    What will next year be like?

    Menage-a-tois

    I heard about the explosions in my car while listening to NPR around 3pm. At first only faint snippets. A few injuries.

    I parked, went inside my home, did internet things. And then I read Twitter. And the numbers had grown. And the President was set to speak at 6:10pm.

    I got inside my car, turned on the engine. Turned on the radio. I sat, waited, listened to what he had to say. No real new information, but a promise to find out who did this and why. A small comfort in this time of turmoil.

    I drove to Popeye’s. I bought fried chicken and biscuits. I went to go see my friends.

    Because that was what I had planned to do before I learned someone or someones inflicted this horrible act of terrorism (let’s call it what it is) upon the people of Boston and its guests.

    When I arrived at my friends’ home, one of them was pinging people he knew in the area, making sure they were okay.

    And then we ate fried chicken and drank wine and watched a movie on a laptop because FUCK YOU!

    FUCK YOU whoever did this!

    FUCK YOU whoever tried to instill fear in the hearts of people in this country!

    FUCK YOU whoever killed a child, two other people, and injured over a hundred others!

    FUCK YOU whoever ruined a beautiful joyful day for people who trained for years, raced their hearts out, for the people who cheered and encouraged them, for a city who celebrated!

    And FUCK YOU if you think you have won. Because you have not.

    I refuse to live in fear. I refuse to be bullied by unknown agents of terror.

    I’m working in DC tomorrow. I will still take the Metro to work. I will still do my job. I will not let fear take hold of me. I will not let you win, whoever you are.

    Fuck you, fear. Fuck you, terrorists. Fuck you.

  • Groan

    Waking up and my elbow aches because, in the middle of the night, I turned over and ended up sleeping on it funny. And now that I’m awake, I can’t just drift back into a snooze-ful slumber because the pain, though not debilitating, is annoying enough to distract me.

    Trying to snooze for an hour, only to finally give up, brush my teeth, and hop back into bed.

    Gray sky outside is foreboding. I wonder if it will rain. No running today.

    I sit up on my bed, pull out my netbook, and look up information for an open call for submissions. Jotting down the requirements, ideas for my story pop into my head. Revisiting an idea I had yet to flush out, I realize it’s perfect. I start typing.

    And then I stop. The ache in my arm is gone, replaced now with a desire to go back to sleep. But I know it will not be in my best interest; too many things to do before work.

    And then I remember how I felt the night before as I tried to go to sleep. And I realize, “Shit, I have to dealing with feelings. Stupid stupid feelings. There went my morning.”

    I open my netbook back up. I type more, no longer caring about cadence or developing a story. I type my thoughts, all the feelings, until I have pages on my screen of the things I tried to ignore. All the things I hoped would be lost in my dreams.

    I read the words back. I edit, add to, and save the document.

    I do it again for other feelings, less impactful thoughts that still warrant some time. I flush it all out before I have to be more productive. I run out of time for more fun writing.

    I get up. I throw on work clothes. I eat food. I watch a touch of NetFlix. I mend my work pants cause I don’t want to buy new ones yet. I leave for work.

    Outside today. I find a parking spot not effected by rush hour. I wait til closer to my call time. I keep a look out for meter maids. I try not to bake in my car. I pay the meter. I walk to the site. I work.

    And work.

    And work.

    Four hours, what I was slated for, turns into five. And six.

    I get really pissed. I cancel my dinner plans. I reschedule for Wednesday. I try to not yell at people who are being stupid. I remind myself I’m angry because my blood sugar has dropped. And I’m working outside. And my job sucks sometimes. I breathe.

    I end work at the 6.5hr mark. I try not to be mad anymore since I am on my way home.

    I drive a friend to their car. I buy fast food, cause at this point I really don’t give a shit.

    I sit on my couch with a roommate watching Nathan Fillion and Stana Katic be awesome. I feel better about my life.

    I finish my food. I finish the show. I clean up some in the kitchen. I drag my ass upstairs to my bedroom.

    And then I realize, after I start taking off my disgusting work clothes, that my clean clothes are downstairs in the dryer. GROAN. No bed just yet.

    I drag my ass downstairs. I retrieve my clothes. I come back upstairs.

    Brush my teeth. Get into bed. Open my netbook. Type. Wish I had more time to write, but a 6am call looms.

    The good news: I learned today I was accepted into community college. Maybe less groaning in my future?

  • Frustrated

    I hated my job tonight.

    The short version is that someone else fucked up but I get the blame for the screw up.

    I thought I did everything right tonight. Even with the pop up issues. Even with the running back to the warehouse for more equipment, rushing to finish everything on time. I thought I got it right.

    And then I learned I didn’t because of one small lapse.

    The worst was the condescension in the voice of the persons pointing out my error. I kept myself from crying. I didn’t want to give the air of loathing surrounding me the joy of seeing my pain. I gathered up my equipment and got out of there as quick as I could.

    I keep playing the decision over and over in mind. If I had just… If only I’d… Why didn’t he just…

    You can drive yourself mad with What Ifs.

    Now I’m just left with fatigue and frustration. At my job. At the gentleman who didn’t do his. At the women who treated me like an ill-informed fresh-off-the-boat oh-aren’t-you-so-cute-but-you’re-wrong-and-I’m-gonna-take-the-time-to-point-out-your-wrong-wrongness idiot.

    I hated tonight. When I signed out, even with the large amount of hours for which I’ll get paid, I was mad. Mad because I know I’ll have to keep doing this for the foreseeable future. It will be at the very least two years of community college and a few years of medical school where I’ll need this job to get by.

    I appreciate that I have this job, knowing there are so many others who don’t. But sometimes this job feels like an abusive relationship I just can’t get out of. I know it pays my bills. I know it keeps a roof over my head and food on my table. I am grateful for that, really. But when do you say, “Enough is enough?”

    Will it have to be like my serving days? Nightmares about customers. Getting yelled at and cursed out to my face. Finding a corner to cry in, only to come back to work to finish my shift. I don’t want that.

    I nearly cried tonight. Because of my job.

    So I will probably get a complaint lodged against me because of the incident. That will make two in my last two gigs.

    I got a phone call from my boss during Frolicon stating I had been doing a good job, but could I not talk about my personal life. Apparently someone had complained about me talking about my extracurricular activities. That is a whole other can of worms I do not want to open right now before I pass out to a hopefully blissful sleep. But I have to say, the mere fact that I tolerate shitty misogynistic comments by guys all the time yet I am reprimanded for talking about my life. Hypocrisy much?

    Its nights like tonight that remind me this is not the sum total of my life. I don’t live to work; I work to live.

    This is not what I will be doing ten years from now. This is not my future. This job does not define me.

  • Three to the Third

    I may never forget his birthday.

    I love numbers, always have, and as soon as he told me his birthday, I smiled and said, “Oh, cool; three to the third.” He smiled at the nerdy way my brain had branded the date into my memory.

    Now, having not seen or spoken to him in months, it dawned on me about a week or two ago that his birthday was soon approaching.

    I’ve kept myself from contacting him. No texts. No calls. Every day I think about it, either in a passing moment or in the struggle of an addict trying not to get just one more fix. But now, the irony of a text to him on his special day just seems fitting.

    I don’t know if I’ll do it. Something in me wants to if for no other reason than it is the perfect excuse. No other day of the year lends itself to my self-destructive tendency to keep this man in my life. And considering how shitty my special day was, why the fuck not inject a thought into his brain?

    But the logical side of me, the part of me that wants to protect myself from myself, is resistant, realizing the harm it could bring, the further damage I could inflict upon myself.

    What would I get out of such a message? Opening the Pandora’s box of contacting him. Placing myself back on his hook. Splaying my wants and needs out again, knowing most likely he will not fulfill them.

    Something in my brain sees this as how it should be. The constant unknowing, hoping for what can never be, what he will never want or allow. Something in my brain nudges me to act in ways I know will not be in my self interest, ways that will do more harm than good. Because my brain believes he will change. My brain believes it can be different, he can be different.

    My brain believes things I know, more likely than not, will never be true.

    So I try to tell my brain to shut up, which Doc insists is not the way to tame my urges.

    Then I try to listen to the voice behind my thoughts, which Doc encourages. I listen to her, the little girl who just wants to be loved. The little girl who believes if she just does this or says that he will want her, he will change for her. The little girl who wants the attention, the approval, the care he never gave.

    I hold her. I caress her hair. And I tell her everything will be alright. I tell her I love her, no matter what.

    So whether or not I send that text on the 27th, whether or not I open up Pandora’s box again, I try to continue to love myself despite myself, whatever consequences my swirly brain’s decisions elicit.

  • A Little Motivation

    So I was in my car, driving from a gig to my house, listening to NPR the other day. I was only a minute or two away from home when a local news segment came on. The feature: decision day for medical school students. This was the day when they all learned at what hospital they’d be working.

    One of the students featured was a woman who had changed careers mid-life. At the age of thirty-five, she transitioned from a career in theatre to attempting a career in medicine. In the years since she started medical school, she’d gotten married and had children; she had an entirely new life.

    As I listened to this small news story on my way home from the job I am trying to transition out of, I started crying. Right there, in my car, over a small news story, tears trickled down my face. I was grateful I was most of the way home. I pulled into my driveway and pulled myself back together.

    There it was. There I was. There was where I could be. A person with a similar background as me had already done what I am just starting, the long road to a career in medicine.

    I’ve been pretty up front with how scary and nervous making this whole process is for me. There are a number of hurdles I need to jump through before I can even apply for medical school. At least two years of community college. Studying for and taking the MCATs. Figuring out how I’m going to pay for all the learning I will need. All the while I know I will have to stay in my job, make sacrifices with my time, with my friends, with my family, and, sadly, with the many kinky adventures you read about here.

    But this one little news story of how someone else, someone I don’t know yet who is somewhat similar to me, that one news story is what I needed to hear.

    I’m sure, in the years to come, during the struggle, during the not-so-fun times, I will remember those five minutes on my radio. I will remember that someone like me, someone who didn’t come to medicine early, made it there anyway.

    Sometimes you just need a little motivation, a little reminder, a glimmer of hope along the way.