December 16, 2020

I knew today was gonna be a two-fer.

I have been purposefully avoiding my blog and the internet trying to write another book.
But like a siren, she calls to me (U2)

I made it 2 or 3 days.

Flipped from 8 hours scrolling and one writing to 5 writing, 2 tanning and still spent some time upon the interwebz. But less than before.

33 000 words on the new book. Not in 3 days, altogether (6 months now?) But all things considered. Not bad. 3000 in the 3 days I tried.

Zero today but they can’t all be diamonds.

Inspiration exists but it must find you working. Picasso.

For comparison I can churn out a blog post (1000-1500) words before my first cup of coffee is fully consumed. Pour a second, sip, edit and voila. Ta da. Fairly instant gratification. Maybe that is part of the problem.

I have to break so many loops, one of them being beating myself up for the things I didn’t do when I had the time.

I forgive myself for the things I didn’t accomplish during the apocalypse.

Life happens, and rarely goes how we planned it.

I can’t plan now and am anxiously awaiting the transition from that particular fact being a source of terror to liberation.
I remember feeling free once. I know I did.
All this cosmic fuckery and eclipse portal energy that is normally reserved for the summer months is occurring in Sagittarius, the archer, the bowman, the personification of the reconciliation between man and beast. High energy fire sign shenanigans, like the Lion’s Gate portal that opens in the sign of Leo, but the energy here is more mature and refined, less ego and more forethought.

Add to that, the bow and arrow.

That is exactly the sensation I am feeling right now, a rapid pull backwards into things I thought I had conquered and dealt with, but I haven’t.

The tenseness of pulling forced backwards and the need to hold steady from back here and aim properly.

I am getting pulled way way way back.

I am 19.

I wrote earlier today that once upon a time I used to like to dance, in bars, for fun.

I did.

I don’t know what happened to that girl who felt confident enough to do so, but she’s long gone.

I don’t know who said what or what happened that took that away from me. But I am too self-conscious now. Which is super bizarre considering I am a stripper and I dance on stage in front of a crowd for a living. I don’t know how it is different, it just is.

But let’s go back and visit the girl who could dance for fun, shall we?

I am going to age myself here, but I have a very vivid memory of Lenny Kravitz singing ‘are you gonna go my way’ and me smiling in a crowd of people, moving my hips and being happy.

And I have a very vivid memory of walking up to the bar to get a cranberry juice and seeing ‘him’.

I agonized last night about what to nickname him, everyone gets a nickname.

He was just gonna be LLTL, long lean tanned and lovely.

He was.

But he Solo’ed me 3 months prior to that night in the bar.

My girlfriend from public school was getting married and we had these events called ‘Stag and Does’. The couple would sell drink tickets and have raffles for prizes and raise money for the wedding. I am sure they exist outside of the tiny town I grew up in by other names.

And I wasn’t old enough to go as a guest.

I was 18 though, and old enough to tend bar. So I did, and I was good at it.

I served this boy I had never seen before. And I knew almost everybody.

He was beautiful. Lithe, tanned skin, cheekbones for days. And cocky as fuuuuuuuuuck.

And at some point during the night he was climbing up he stairs to the bathroom of the community center rec room as I was climbing down and in a moment of brave I stopped on the last step, spun around and said “hey, you’re gorgeous.” He smiled this megawatt smile and said, “I know.”

I think it was March.

By June I had turned 19, had a new tit and I ran into Mr. Solo at the bar.

I got brave one more time and made sure we went home together.

This went on for a few months at least, throughout that summer into the fall, 27 years ago.

So why bring it up now…

Glad you asked.

Once upon a time, probably 14 years ago when myspace was a thing I got a message from Mr. Solo.

He apologized for what happened at the end of that summer.

And what happened was this.

He looked me in the face and said, “I had fun with you but there’s girls you fuck and there’s girls you take home to mom.”

He started dating a girl he could take home to mom. I can see her face, she actually had really nice hair (don’t they all), but her name escapes me. A year younger than me and one of the popular girls. I was never popular, and I didn’t know if I was good amongst the moms, no one ever took me home to meet one.

I spun around again, probably 9 months to the day we met, and I walked away.

I was pretty upset. It was a shitty thing to do and say.

His roommates didn’t like me.

He rented a house with a bunch of dudes and they all worked shift work at the nuclear power plant.
They would sneer while he and I were snuggled on a scratchy, plaid, hand-me-down couch in the living room and listening to oldies.
He loved Janis Joplin. I loved all of it. The cuddles, the company.
The sneering and shitty commentary not so much.

His house was down the street from mine. And every Friday and Saturday night (prior to the aforementioned conversation) for months on end I would go dance with my friends until he was done drinking with his and we would go home together. In the morning I would walk the short walk home, shower and go about my week. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I was happy.

His bedroom had knock off Holly Hobbie wallpaper and we would giggle about the big headed kids. We fucked of course, a lot, but we talked a lot too. I remember waking up and telling him about a dreams I had while the moon glow came through the window and covered the bed in this beautiful blue light.

He always held me while we were sleeping. He always listened when I spoke.

He was the closest I had ever gotten to having a boyfriend. And even though there was no label on it, it felt good and real.

I didn’t know at the time that he would stay awake and watch me sleep too.

He didn’t just apologize back in the myspace days. He said I was the one who got away.

That he had massive regrets.

I saw him 8 or 9 years ago. I have a weird feeling it was the weekend that I went to another ex’s wedding, the one who kept saying my name instead of his bride to be’s. Whoops. Must have been another vortex of cosmic madness.

After a nice lunch and catch up session at the very bar we used to hook up at, he walked me to my car and stole a kiss. Said something about not wanting to add one more regret about me to his life.

And I talked to him last night.

He was just checking on me. He used to do that a lot.

He disappeared a couple years ago, off my friends list.

I finally asked him why last night.

He said he was jealous, and he didn’t like seeing me get hurt.

I didn’t dig any deeper. I honestly don’t know which part of the parade, in the festival of pain that is my dating life, was the trigger there. I don’t need to know.

My need to archive and be historically accurate all the time is waning these days.
Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future. (Steve Miller Band)
I just know history repeats itself.

Just like I knew Solo’s birthday even before I checked, August 4^th, of course it fucking is.

I asked permission to write this so I could try to sort through everything.
He said okay.

Me: You unfriended me a long while back Can you please tell me why?

Him: Basically, I was an idiot. I think I was jealous.

Me: Okay, I didn’t understand

Him: I didn’t like that you kept getting hurt and knowing you didn’t deserve it

Me: It seems like that’s just my life
Actually 90% of my relationships have been like ours was. Like disturbingly eerily similar

Him: Ya?

Me: Guys get really excited about me and then bolt.
You used to watch me sleep (and you left anyways)

Him: Ya, it was cute.

(it was)

Me:Was that a ‘me’ thing or is that a thing you do with women?

Him: I didn’t do it before you, or since

Me:I was 19 ______. 27 years of living the same relationship
What voodoo did you do?
Maybe you could write a letter on my behalf advising them not to run

(pause)

Me: Do you still have regrets?

Him: With you? Definitely.
I should have listened with my heart instead of my ears.

Me: Your friends were pretty douchey
Or is there more to the story?

Him: No, that’s the story. It never ends with me not being an idiot.

Me: I’m sorry
I wasn’t very brave either

Him: Don’t be sorry. I could have fixed it and I didn’t. That’s on me.

Me: I could’ve said “um no, you’re not dumping me”
I’ve heard that is a thing
Instead of just walking home a crying about it

Him: Ya, but I should have realized what I did to you. Youth is wasted on the young.

It truly is.

But what if we aren’t young anymore and what if there is some cosmic fuckery pulling off old bandages and showing me this is just the same thing that happens to me over and over. I’m finding no comfort here.

I don’t want to be a regret any more than I want regrets of my own.

How do I stop this?

I don’t know what I am supposed to do.

It isn’t even new information.
He was the first to do the thing, and the first to admit regret.

But there have been so many others.

Am I supposed to dig my heels in and refuse to go when I am being exchanged for ‘wifey material’?

Had I found the brave to say “No, this is good and we both know it now shut up and fuck me.” Instead of returning his hoodie when asked to do so, cheeks aflame with shame and cocooning in my room would it have made a difference?

I’ve never actually tried that.

The closest I ever got was asking Giant ‘why’ and continuing to sleep with Final Boss after the fact. I slept with both of them after the fact.

No.

What’s past has passed.

Everything went the way it was supposed to.

I just wish I knew what I was supposed to take from this before I launch into the unknown yet again.

And maybe this is it.

Maybe I never asked them if they were really truly sure that they really truly wanted me to leave was because I didn’t feel worthy of being there in the first place.

And a big part of me still doesn’t.

I just accept what is given instead of asking for what I want.

Cosmic energy like what we just experienced is manic, like the worm at the end of a bottle of tequila. We were already drunk and this took it next level.
Euphoric and intoxicating and absolutely leaves all emotions raw and exposed.
Then there is the hangover.

I have an eclipse hangover.

We were told to dig back through 2017 for lessons between the darkening of the moon and the sun.
But my lessons are always the same.

I do the same shit over and over.

Make someone into something they are not, and I end up like Ke$ha at the beginning of Prayin.

“Am I dead? Or is this one of those dreams? Those horrible dreams that seem like they last forever? If I am alive, why? Why? If there is a God or whatever, something, somewhere, why have I been abandoned by everyone and everything I’ve ever known? I’ve ever loved? Stranded. What is the lesson? What is the point? God, give me a sign, or I have to give up. I can’t do this anymore. Please just let me die. Being alive hurts too much.”

To clarify. I don’t want to die. But I don’t really want to live either.

My life is just a void now. Return of the Haboob.

I get up. I feel like shit. I try to keep going. But going to what? Back to the attic? Then what?

At least my sweatpants are there.

There are so many unknowns. More than those the plague has created, which was already a fucking lot.

At least in 2017 I was brave. Not anymore. Punch drunk and hand shy.

Frozen in fear now.

I wasn’t really dealing with what was vexing me.

I thought I was.

But the other day I had a 2 hour long text conversation with someone I have known since I was 14.
And some extra truth came busting out like the silicone in my tit.

It’s leeching into my body and making me hurt. Bad.

He originally messaged me regarding writing erotica. Then we spoke of his divorce and finally my tits.

I can’t imagine how that one simple seemingly insignificant thing could have such a staggeringly significant effect on a young girl’s psyche, and the ripple effects that could cause.

Ripples became waves and I am drowning here.

That is what is bothering me. And now my good tit hath betrayed me.
Et tu good tit?

Something is wrong with the other one too. Feels like an air bubble trapped behind it.

I have been dealing with this since before he and I met. I started seeing my reconstructive surgeon in the 8^th grade. I met Scott in grade 9 or 10.

My first surgery was a disaster, second also went badly.

3rd was great.

This was the 4th and they’re making me too sick to move.

It doesn’t matter if time has passed or the situation is different. 

I am still that girl.

I’m 15 years old waking up from surgery, in pain, hopes crushed, a more deformed tit than the nothing that I started with, bawling while my mother screams at me. I am giving myself pneumonia at Christmas because I didn’t want to go home and be resented or pitied.

Or I am 18 going through the same shit that happened at 15. With the same ugly results. T’was a blessing when that one broke.

Or I’m 35 sitting in a freezing barn 3 days after surgery. Crying and getting screamed at, then abandoned so my husband could go fuck someone else in my house. An hour later I have a coat full of baby goat. The goat’s foot hooked into the binding holding my boobs into place and pulled it loose. I didn’t care. I got the goat fed and settled in for the night and collapsed into a depression sleep without fixing my bandages and they have been crooked since. Her name is Layla and she still lives.

Or I’m 40 away from the farm, sitting in another surgeon’s office getting poked and prodded while he draws incision lines on my skin. He proposed a lot of incisions. I didn’t go back.

I’m not creating scenarios. I’m remembering what happened. 

The good news is, my friend is an incredible tattooer and if I cannot accept the scars that will come from getting these hideous things out and amended, there is another option.

I had another surgery when I was 19.

It went well. Like super awesome, non traumatic day surgery with really symmetrical results. It was the day before my birthday and I really pissed my parents off by going to the bar the next night.

Honestly? I felt fine. My pocket was well established, I had 3 stitches internal through an old scar. I didn’t drink at the time. I was sober from my 18^th Christmas until I was mid 20’s.

The same Christmas party that I learned I was a really good bartender, I also realized I was a really bad drunk. I threw up a lot, on my boss’s girlfriend’s shoes.

Out of all the things I had done drunk, and there were some stupid, violent, terrible things…that was the thing that stopped me. I loved my job, I needed it to exist. So, I quit doing the thing that might make me lose it.

Didn’t stop me from going to the bar.

I used to love to dance, on dance floors, at bars, sober even. I don’t anymore, the idea terrifies me, and I have no idea why.

Everything is terrifying me lately.

My girlfriend went online for me and looked at some reconstructive surgery results, post mastectomy etc. and said the results looked really promising.

I can’t look.

I have been under the knife and come out disappointed too many times. I can’t see myself in those women.

At least she acknowledged the difference between being excited about elective surgery and what I am going though now. Too many people think I should be happy, and I honestly can’t be.

Yes, there is a chance that everything will be great and obviously better than now.

But…

I am going on well over a year of sickness with no idea of the cause (until recently) and I have a 75% personal failure rate and the absolute bullshit clincher is, I didn’t even need these tits, all I really had to do was leave my shitty husband and put on a bit of weigh.

At least, after talking to Njava and Scott, I feel a little less alone. Mandabear is letting me stay with her while I recover. Giant will come check on me too. I have a contingency plan of sorts.

And the surgery itself and the physical part of the recovery isn’t even what is bothering me so much as who will I be if I can’t dance anymore?

What if I end up too scarred and hideous to work?

How will I get by without the job that has kept me safe and fed for 22 years?
Who will I even be?
Where will I go?

I already feel fundamentally unlovable, 36 years of tit issues and I have never figured it out.

None of this is getting answered any time soon. I won’t know until I know.

And I am guessing everything I ever wanted is on the other side of this fear.

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Author’s note.
This is not a plastic surgery vanity thing and even if it was, that’s my business.
But, to clarify…
I have a congenital deformity called Poland’s Anomaly and have written several articles about it.
Just use the search bar at the top right of the blog’s main page or Google and type in Poland’s Anomaly.