Home Sweet Home

 

It’s been over a month since the car wreck. I was supposed to go pick up new truck and…I am in some sort of weird vortex wherein no one is getting back to me. I am sending out SOS and SMS and…nada.

I am scouring the interwebz to find out what the moon is doing, or where Saturn is.
Anything but taking any responsibility for how I am feeling right now which is abandoned and lonely and hurt.

I don’t think it’s the moon, I think it’s me.
I want things and I don’t have them.
Buddha would be disappointed, this is not very Zen except Buddha doesn’t get disappointed, because that IS Zen.

Talking to Saint Anthony this past week. I tend to do this when I am panicking. I am panicking.

It was a mistake, until he started sending me Adventure Time links.

He is like Vanilla Ice, if you got a problem, yo, he’ll solve it.

I ended up saying “your logic is flawless, but I just wanted some comfort.”

That is not his forte.

He needs to be needed, but in a practical, tangible way.

I get that. I find satisfaction in easing burdens for others.

I am that girl too. Probably why we didn’t work out. That and his penchant for polyamoury.

I didn’t get it a decade ago.

I get it now.

Love someone how you find them or let them go be loved by somebody else. He always had a harem, they were part of the package. Ignoring it didn’t make it go away. Screaming like a harpy and throwing epic tantrums didn’t help neither. In fact, I made it worse. My job was to be the goodwife, he gave me the pedestal to sit on, forged it with his own hands a hammer and an anvil. I kept climbing down to fight these imaginary women that held no place for him, I lost my spot.

His current, whom I have referred to before as many things, let’s just call her Sisterwife, is sickly and needs him. She also accepts him for who he is. Something I couldn’t do.

 

I am a monogamous creature by nature. My Heart is a focused thing and it takes all of me with it, Vagina included. I have found a focal point, and … let’s just say I spend an exorbitant amount of time talking myself out of it, equal to, if not greater than the amount of time I spend fantasizing and turning over every morsel of every minute I have had with him so far.

My adventures in Relationshipland over the last decade have taught me however, that I am adaptable, resourceful and accepting on a level that rivals sainthood.

Fuck whomever you please, I know there is nothing I can do to stop it and plenty I can do to cause it.

I have been having a debate for the last year or so wherein I believe jealousy to be a man made invention. I have been proven wrong. The male of the species has a biological need to ensure his bloodline is continued. A new male lion takes over a pride and kills the cubs of his predecessor.

So why are women like that? Why do I get twinges that make me feel like my lower intestine is hooked up to a low volt battery? Like I have an imaginary hand wrapped around my throat, and not in a fun way.

I’m having that last jealous bone in my body surgically removed. But please understand, I am way too rare to be a side bitch and I have had enough of war to last me the rest of my life. I will fight beside you. I know my worth.

I crave hearing the words “good girl” and “she is mine”, in reference to me. My want to belong to someone is so much greater than my want to have someone belong to me. That seems like a lot of responsibility. I didn’t even learn how to drive until I was in my 30’s because I was afraid of hurting someone. Seriously.

But I still get those jolts of fight or flight and (shudder) ‘mine’. Phantom limb throbbing on a rainy day.

And it is a ferocious ‘mine’, not a whimper.

I have no right, I know this. Love is not ownership, I know this too. I date way too many boys to ever think about anything past next week. I know this. Enjoy what you have whilst you have it.

Logic will prevail, everything will be it should be and that will be all right.

Once upon a couple of young un’s ago, he said, ‘this place is sanctuary’ in reference to my house, he corrected himself a few hours later and said, “it’s not this place, it’s you.” I glowed from that compliment for months, in fact, the memory of it just made the sun shine from my face again.

My purpose here is to be home (sweet home) for someone , not a prison. The door is always open, “here is yes, here is you may”*, here is always warm and you will always be loved.

That is where my satisfaction lies, to be chosen over and over. Not because of some moral restrictions but for who, what and how I am, and I will happily make you feel the same way.
Chosen.

I’m lost.

I want to come home now.

 

(*Stephen King)