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lost boys

The Graveyard of Almost

July 31, 2016

My ex-husband sent me to therapy. Told me I couldn’t come home until I saw someone to ‘tame my crazy’ and ‘manage my anger’.
He stayed home with sisterwife while I walked into strange women’s houses, sat on their couches and spilled my guts into their loving laps.

Oh honey. What did you think was going to happen?

Did you really believe they would tell me to stay in the toxic waste dump of our marriage?

Seriously?

I had been drinking the poison Kool-Aid for so long I didn’t even notice I was dying until they showed me what happy tastes like.
Freedom and unconditional love are far sweeter elixirs than a man who forced me to share him and called me crazy for not eating his shit with a smile.

Funny enough, my “crazy” became quirky and cute and my “anger” no longer existed at all, thereby negating the need to be managed. I completely stopped panicking when I wasn’t being attacked.

You don’t try to ‘manage’ a tumor, you cut the fucking thing out and let the body heal.

I healed.

I was speaking to the Lumberjack the other day, sitting in Sunshine’s truck, we had just hit the garden center and everything smelled like basil and bougainvillea.

I was that girl. No, not Team Compromise. The other one.

I was a whiny weak little bitch that clung onto a shams of relationships like I belonged there.

I didn’t belong there.

I am ashamed to say I have been back visiting the graveyard as of late.

Saw Giant and Gelfling, been peeking at the Poet’s page when I ought not to be. Had a lovely conversation with the Hulk recently. I wish them well, I truly do. But they do tend to make me question my worth.

Do I have a sign on me that says ‘hey let’s play a rousing game of come here/go away’?

I am tired of trying to figure out what is wrong with me and starting to see what is right with me.

I am a really good girl.

Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadows of my exes…

I can’t even call them exes. All they are is ‘almosts’, as in we almost dated. I was poised and ready to put on my monogamy pants and be with them, and they bailed.

The Poet sent me to therapy right before he jumped ship.

Said he was done trying to love broken girls like me.

My therapist asks after him from time to time.

To which I reply “No word, still blocked, just posts photos of his words on my body.”

She has yet to ask me how that makes me feel.

(Comfortably numb for the record.)

She accused me of only being in her office For him.

I corrected her, quickly.

It was his idea, yes. But did I do it because I thought somehow it would make him love me back?

Nope.

During our 2 year on-again-mostly-off-again-whatever-it-is-we-have-been-doing/not doing, I’ve realized that although his delivery sucks, hes often right.
I tasted the idea of therapy that he handed me, and found it delicious. So I ate it. Every Tuesday and I wash it down with coffee.

Oh honey. What did you think was going to happen?

Did you think she was going to tell me to stick around for someone who can’t even pick up the phone yet passive-aggressively posts to Facebook?

That is some teenage drama queen bullshit, and I ought to know. I was one.

On our way back from the garden center/amazing lunch I found myself briefly contemplating Gelfling for a moment.
I looked up and saw a solitary raven outside of a cemetery.
Biggest one I have ever seen this far south.
One for sorrow. Two for joy.
I think I’m getting the message.
Unrequited love isn’t cute or romantic.
It’s ridiculous.
I’m not a ridiculous girl.

My Pixie girl Ciara said, “Sorrow is still a valid emotion. Feel it when it comes, let it pass.”
To which I replied…
Nope.
My brain is my brain, my life is my life. It’s as simple as deciding I don’t want to be somewhere anymore and walking away.

I must again reiterate the Matthew Hussey idea of unrequited love being ugly.

It’s truly a colossal waste of time.

Channel your inner Luda and tell them fence-sittin’ boys to “MOVE BITCH GET OUT THE WAY.”

Even better, realize they’re not listening anyways, and go around.

The important thing is to keep moving.

I was in my car and that Frank Turner song came on.

Because I know you are a cynic but I think I can convince you.
Yeah, cause broken people can get better if they really want to.
Or at least that’s what I have to tell myself if I am hoping to survive!

It’s a long road up to recovery from here, a long way back to the light.
A long road up to recovery from here, a long way to making it right.

So darling, sweet lover, won’t you help me to recover…

He isn’t going to help and the road is not long.

Besides, I know a shortcut.

It is called ‘I have a nice life and if you aren’t making it better you can’t come in’.

I don’t even like Kool-Aid.

Uncategorized

Digging in the Dirt

July 8, 2016

Every harlot was a virgin once. ~ William Blake

Everything changes, letting go is the only way.

I’ve been crawling on my belly
Clearing out what could’ve been.
I’ve been wallowing in my own chaotic
And insecure delusions.

I wanna feel the change consume me,
Feel the outside turning in.
I wanna feel the metamorphosis and
Cleansing I’ve endured within
~ Tool 46 &2

I can feel it. Mostly in the lack of things that were here before…and in the warmth that has replaced them.

I can control time, speed it up to get through the unpleasant, slow it down to savor the bliss. I have the blessing of not noticing the unpleasantness around me until it is time to get out of harm’s way…or just not at all.

It has been years since I had soul crushing panic attacks that would rob my breath and sanity and cause me to feel as though I would never be happy again. My limbs used to solidify into deadwood. No more. I am rooted in the ground and branch out to the sky collecting sunshine and rain.

I have succumbed to baby backslides now and again, but I accept them…learn from them and find great satisfaction in conquering them.

I’ve looked inside myself and found grace, peace, strength, bravery and love.

I know I must allow the universe to unfold as it will.
My responsibility is to think happy thoughts, work hard and follow my gut towards my desires.

I know I can only control my actions and my reactions to the actions of others.

I no longer feel the need to cloister myself in the nunneries of dry, sexless, loveless, passionless relationships.
Hiding my potential behind men who were never worthy or enough, just to justify my feelings of being unworthy and never enough.

I have freed myself from those prisons and somehow I feel my eyes are still adjusting to the light.

It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell. ~ Buddha

I do revel and rejoice in my victories over myself, no matter how small.

I cannot seem to shake this feeling of unworthiness, but it is lighter than before.
I am no longer crushed under the weight of it but I am still dragging it around.
Still laying my boots to long expired equines on occasion.

Past dictates that no matter how hard a hold of my heart someone once had I can learn to let go, or at least adapt and maneuver in the parameters given.

My heart is currently bound to someone worthy. I am working at becoming worthy back.
And regardless of outcome, that will be mine to keep.

The relationships I find myself cultivating in my present life are passionate, lovely, satisfying and yet my past dictates that I still anticipate the alternate piece of footwear will succumb to gravity at some point. I’ll just go barefoot.

It’s true, everyone comes and goes. It’s my job to love them.

I am hand shy I have to stop flinching.

So shed your skin and let’s get started ~ Hunters & Collectors

I am working on it.

Digging in the dirt, find the places we got hurt. ~ Peter Gabriel

All due respect to the process, the earth has been turned enough now. Time to plant and start growing up.

Those who sow in sorrow, reap in joy. ~ William Blake

I sowed in sorrow for a long time.
Always pouring concrete over the gardens I had planted right before the seeds broke the soil, so they never saw light. Self-sabotage.

I constantly find myself marveling in how far I have come and reveling in how far I have to go.

Sometimes I wallow.

I have been alternately wallowing and skating by for years.

What have I done?

A much easier question to answer than ‘what do I do now?’

It is time to live, breathe, move and work with purpose.

I will suffer fools, gladly. But I can no longer beat them nor join them.

I have no enemies in this place. You are with me or you are inconsequential.

My past does not dictate my future. I have conquered everything that has happened to me up until now and I am still here, with more grace and strength because of my trials and tribulations. They haven’t made me what I am, I have.

The time has come to thrive instead of barely surviving.

I am no longer scared of my potential.

I suppose by sitting here waiting to find patience I am, in fact, being patient…

men

Cyranos

May 16, 2016

I had one of the more fucked up conversations of my life today.

If my sister heard me say that she’d undoubtedly quip…”Well that must be pretty fucking weird coming from you Sarah.” I don’t think she reads this, probably best all things considered.

It was sister. It truly was.

It wasn’t the words so much as the source. All things in good time and in context.

I read a thing a while ago that I shall now paraphrase out of sheer exhaustion and laziness. I have been writing for 13 hours, I can’t seem to turn my brain off nor stop. I haven’t eaten save a few handfuls of M&M’s. I am running on caffeine alone. 4000 words of good copy.

Maybe it’s time for the fighter to be fought for, for the lover to be loved something something blah blah blah.

I read it a while ago and for a brief moment I allowed myself the luxury of hope.

Hope is a four letter word. I try not to indulge.

I posted today, something called Still Is. I tried to hide it over on my page.

Didn’t really work so good. And hour later…the ding in my inbox.

“It’s about him isn’t it.” Statement, not really a question.

I paused before answering, sometimes the truth needs a deep breath and a whiskey chaser.

“Yes.” Another statement, no question. Everything seems to be about him even when I don’t want it to be.

“So fucking call him already and stop torturing yourself. Or give me the number and I’ll do it.”

Ever get that feeling that hovers between awe and dread. Ya, I had that.

Desperate times call for desperate measures and all, but no. Bad idea.

The awe turned quickly to AWWWW.

Seriously? You would do that for me?

It’s not that far of a stretch for me. I do this shit all the time.

And it’s funny, I can easily set my ego and wants aside to help those I have coveted and fucked, no problem…never expected to have that happen to me. I always get the polar opposite. If they don’t have me, they hate me. For a while anyways.

And here is this man that by all rights I hurt rather badly and rather recently telling me “If he has any fucking ounce of a clue how valuable you are….he will swallow his pride and finally come get you…..if he’s half the man he claims he will hold on to you like it’s life or death….because it will be.”

It is such a strange sensation to be treated the way I treat others.

Case and point.

Young Un messaged me last week out of the pale blue.

We talk once a month sometimes more, rarely less, hence the paleness of the blue.

Been doing this for a while. Tripping in feelings and using the other as an opposite sex touch stone of sorts. Ego strokes and advice from someone who thinks differently enough to break the loops/bad mantras we both get stuck in.

Said he needed advice.

I love that he trusts me. I love him.

It’s been 2 years and 2 days since we met.

We had a rough go for a bit in the middle there.

But in my candy coated way of glossing things over, he was, and remains sweet as fuck.
Because he always was.

I credit him with my first steps of becoming. He was the first boy who was my choice. The first one in a long time that was of my tribe. In the brief time we had together he treated me like gold.
He made the transition from mundane to magic a lovely one and raised the bar.

He laid out his dilemma.

Said “the overthinking part of my Scorpio brain is having a meltdown”.

Oh baby, I know those.

His sounded like “what if what if what if”…

He is smitten you see, been talking to this girl since Christmas, but she had a boyfriend.

Now she doesn’t.

So the ‘what if’ was clearly labeled “what if I don’t say anything and I lose her?”
Followed closely by “what if I say something and I lose her?”

Conundrum.

I am Queen of the land known as SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT. It’s actually pretty hard to shut me up unless you put something fun in my mouth.

Young Un is fully aware of this. I practiced on him one time in late July and again in March.

I also have some shining examples of phrases that make girls swoon…

So I Cyrano’ed.

I said…

Here’s what you do.
Go look in the mirror.
Use my eyes so you can see what I see.
Realize how incredibly handsome and wonderful you are.
Then tell her what you just told me.
That you value her friendship but you are smitten as fuck and you don’t want to lose her.
Tell her she is worth waiting for if that is what she needs.
You used the term ‘head over heels’, tell her that, because honestly it is sweet as fuck coming out of your mouth.
And one more thing…tell her talking to her is the best part of your day…if that is the truth.

He told me it was the truth and he did SAY IT SAY IT SAY IT.

10 minutes later…

She said the same thing back to him. I could feel him glowing through my phone. And I glowed along with him.

That is what love is.
I’m not IN love with him, I don’t need him with me, his mess is mine and so is his joy.

He told me he is glad we stayed friends, I am too.

I forgive and have been forgiven.

And listen here all ye who are actually listening…if she/he is important, don’t let them go.

“And he had better grab onto you and hold you like you’re the fucking Holy Grail.”

I am beginning to believe I just might be.

It’s time to say what needs to be said, in my own words.

Uncategorized

Still Is

May 15, 2016

“Who knows” I said, “you and me…the idea of us might have been the knife that cut him out for good. I have no way of knowing.”

I don’t. I look and wonder, hope and faith fighting it out. But I know nothing.

And the moment I did know, was bittersweet. In the way of those horrid romance novels, I had to leave to see the truth.

And now I wait, and I work. Can we just skip to the end now, the happily ever after or something like it. A sort of fairy tale. Shaking sleeping beauty, wake the fuck up.

I saw and re-posted that Bukowski quote today and broke my own heart, hard. I did that and I’m bleeding out at the thought of it.

I am so fucking sorry.

As a teenager, I fancied myself a writer, dropping bad acid and dripping bad poetry on bad trips. Reading Bukowski made me realize I am not a poet. That sometimes less is more (but I can’t shut up) there is beauty in simplicity and I wasn’t the only one who thought the world was seven layers of fucked up. He made me fall even more in love with words. I saw that words are power, the can kill or heal depending. Like knives.

Silence does that too, kills or heals depending.

Limbo is a bitch.

I said before that my heart went away a year ago and never came back. It’s true. She bounced off a satellite or three, slipped away from me in middle of the night. Traveling through time zones and space, landed softly. She’s currently locked out of the house. This is me, helping her scratch at the door.

Every time he breaks me, and he does, I put myself back a little different. I like the person I am becoming, the one that heals and forgives, gets stronger and braver. Like a mosaic, or a stained glass window. But this time I broke him and I don’t know how he heals, I never did. To the naked eye it seems like something he cannot do, or maybe just not alone.

The only thing I know is he needs time, which I have and will gladly give. The other ingredients of his forgiveness elude me. I know he values loyalty and I fucked that one up, royally. Openness and honesty I can do. I have told him a few times that I fucked up, apologized with sincerity and then make a point of not making the same mistakes twice. He forgave me once.

It doesn’t help that I find new creative ways to fuck up or that he finds new things to look for and assume.

I’m tired of this dance, my feet hurt and I am a little dizzy, please can we just go to bed already, I’d rather dance with him there.

Accepting all I’ve done and said,
I want to stand and stare again,
til there’s nothing left out…

Peter Gabriel radio edit In Your Eyes.

gypsy travels

Anticipation

May 6, 2016

I grew up on a pretty steady diet of Carole King, James Taylor, Crosby Stills Nash and sometimes Young. And Carly Simon. She was the soundtrack to house cleaning most often. You’re So Vain shows up in this blog with regularity.

I did have some dreams and they were clouds in my coffee and he was so vain.

But that isn’t where I am at right now.

I am here…

And I tell you how easy it is to be with you
And how right your arms feel around me.
But I rehearsed those words just late last night
When I was thinking about how right tonight might be.
Anticipation, Anticipation…

Um ya Carly, exactly that.

It’s 7:30 am. I got up early to write. In 7 hours I leave for Toledo Ohio to see my love. It’s our halfway point and I booked a hotel with an indoor pool, and a 7 minute drive from Bob Evans…my wishes and wants and he is rolling with it. Because biscuits and bikini…

He rolls with everything, so do I….mostly. But I am having a mild freak out that must be acknowledged.

We have been talking for months. Facebook official for 10 days and met once in person mid-April for just over an hour at an airport. I almost missed my plane because I didn’t want to stop kissing him.

Fairy tale romance as far as internet romances go…or any romance really. I fucking love him.

But um…

We haven’t slept together yet.

Tonight is the night and I am feeling like a teenager again. Nervous. Maybe if I had ever dated in high school, or gone to prom this wouldn’t feel so strange. But I didn’t and it does.

I have really never dated like this before, all this getting to know you stuff before the sex.
Yes I have done long distance, but I had slept with them prior to the geographical rift.

I have started dividing my life into 2 parts. Before and after.

In the time called before I would (almost) literally trip and fall into a relationship by meeting a cute-ish guy, sleeping with him and then he just wouldn’t leave. 5 years, 7 years, 2 years, all gone.
I stopped that after Budget George/Pimp daddy. Not the sleeping with them right away. I fucked Young Un before dinner on our second date, less than a week after we met…but he was my choice. And he was/is magic.

Drogo, Gelfling, Wolfling, Giant.

Common denominator? Magic.
Empathic, ethereal and compatible. And they were my choice. Not something I fell into and couldn’t get out of.
Incredible transcendental conversations, dates, car rides, adventures.

And the sex?

Phantasmagorical.

I didn’t see the aurora borealis, I became them. Lightning, fireworks, molten lava in human form.

Natural phenomenon brought on by otherworldly compatibility.

I said before that we shouldn’t fuck outside of our tribe and this is why.

So why am I worried?

As I write this, I have realized. I am not worried, I’m nervous, but not worried.

He wrote this…

The Candle and The Fire – Jason King

And it sounds a lot like me. He is my tribe.

It’s no secret that I have had a lot of sex. It’s not a secret that I am really good at it, because I fucking love it, pun intended.

I learned years ago that ‘bad sex’ is a rarity, especially if you know what you are doing, and I do. And even more rare if you know how to use your words as well as your hips, and I really do.

Jason and I have developed our own secret language, some of it makes us belly laugh and some of it is just guttural growls and moans when we lose our words. I can see both of those things happening in our hotel bed.

I remember pressing my body against his under the overpass by the pillar that divided terminal one from two at O’Hare, and how it felt like I belonged there.

I’m no prophet, I don’t know nature’s way
So I’ll try to see into your eyes right now
And stay right here, ’cause these are the good old days.

I am a prophet and I do know nature’s way. 6 hours now until I can look into his eyes for the second time. The ‘right here’ that is a Comfort Suites in Toledo is where I want to be. I will stay right here. Because so far, this relationship with him is rivaling the happier times in my life. And I have to agree, that no matter what comes, I know I will look back years from now and see that these are the good old days.

I love you baby, no more sleeps.

Author’s note…
As fate would have it, I got fired on Tuesday. Which gives me more time to write.
Something that was sorely lacking.
There is a ‘pay-per-view’ section contained within this blog that has gone unused.
I promised porn and stripper stories. And here they come.
No better thing to start with than an unadulterated look at why I got fired and a closer examination of the dirty fishbowl that is my old workplace…don’t’cha think?
I have been collecting secrets and stories and now I have time, and if you want to see what I wrote about you…pay up buttercups.
Launching May 10^th 2016.
The timing is delicious.

men

Wide Open & Held Together

May 3, 2016

I told another man I loved him yesterday…not my boyfriend… (I think I hear a gasp from the audience)…so why is he not freaking out? My boyfriend I mean.*

Because he knew. It’s how he found me, loving that other man who had a penchant for leaving me, in a crying puddle on the floor.

My (now) boyfriend showed up in my inbox unannounced, simply said “you okay there puddle?”

I was exactly broken enough to answer, “No, no I am not.” With an implied ‘help me’.

So he did.

I needed him.

He didn’t pry or force, he just let me ramble. Asked a few poignant questions.
“2 years huh? That’s a long time Sarah.” And I realized he was right.
Never once said ‘fuck that guy’.
And he didn’t let go.

As it happens when I am treated with enough patience and given enough time, I got sick of my own shit. I knew I had done all I could do with the Poet short of getting on a plane and showing up at his house, which I knew wouldn’t have gone over well.

So Jason and I started talking about other things, there was some tentative flirting sparked by a pair of kitten crotch panties. I read his writing, he read mine and we realized we had a lot of common philosophies.

He then drove 5.5 hours to see me for one. Held my hand through the bustle of an airport when I was close to flying apart and didn’t let go.

He sat across from me and encouraged me to tell stories in the brief time we were given. His eyes lit up when mine did and basically, that was it. I was smitten as fuck.

Like any of those teen romance movies from the 80’s where our heroine sees that the one she really loves has been standing in front of her the whole time disguised as a friend.

Like the Princess Bride, where she realized every time he said “as you wish”, what he was really saying was “I love you.” And I love him back.

He is my farm boy, poor and perfect.

I had a psychic tell me I would have to make a choice in the spring, between a rich man and a poor man. Huh. Just remembered that now.

The other reason he is not freaking out is that he saw the article I posted before anyone else did.

I sent it to him.

His initial reaction?

“That was beautiful”.

Me: You understand?

Jason: Do I understand as in?

Me: What I said. Why I had to say it. And that it takes nothing away from how I feel about you?

Jason: Yes baby I understand that….You’re making peace.

Me: I believe that you are the kind of man who can extrapolate that if I can love the wrong person this much…then I can love you even more.

Jason: Peace with what was….what could’ve been….who and where you are now. I know exactly how that feels.

Me: It should be enough to know I tried. But…Ima writer.

So is Jason. We feel things, see them touch, them taste, them and then write about it.

It’s how I noticed him in the first place. How we first began to explore and show each other how we felt. And how we continue to do so. I paraphrased an article he wrote about me as the opener for this one.

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/ *

We joked yesterday about misplaced jealousy over our past.

“Do you really think I got this amazing by reading about sex and love in books while cloistered in a nunnery?”

I didn’t. I have fucked and loved a lot.

Nor did he. I know he loved his last one and she almost destroyed him, and baby I know exactly how that feels.

Rumi said, you must keep breaking your heart until it opens.

I am open.

Jason showed me how good it feels to be wide open and held together at the same time.

“Baby you have a good heart….and you love….it’s part of you being you…..but….I know you love me….and you know I love you….it’s that simple.”

Me: it really is. I swear to god we just leveled up, or I leveled up and caught up to you…and you know Ima blog about this too right?

Jason: Haha I would expect nothing less from my girl….I love our level ups

Me: Did I catch up or did you come with me? Either way I feel brave and happy and good

Jason: Honestly….I don’t think it matters….we are here….holding hands. And feeling brave and happy and good…..is what matters….

It is.

the poet

Open Letter to The Poet

May 2, 2016

I had plans to write just this one line.

~~I stayed, I tried and~~ I fucking love you…god knows I do.

The end.

But, there is always a ‘but’.
When she sent me over to your page to read ‘pretty damned sure this is about you Sarah’ and I found myself blocked, for the first time in 2 years, I knew beyond doubt and question that you loved me.
Not because of what you wrote, because you blocked me.

And honey, that is really fucking fucked up.

“If you love me, then love me.” Stephen King

Why is this hard?

What you wrote was glorious, and all of the things most women dream of hearing.

I am not most women. Nothing compared to hearing you whisper “you fucker” in my ear, that I gave you an ‘emotional boner’ or sighing when I said something that pleased you. That was the real you talking to the real me, that was us. That laugh when you’d call me a clever girl, like diamonds, but more precious.

I asked you out for coffee, 2 years ago tomorrow.

I remember the dancing dots, my hopes soaring that you might actually say yes.

You spent 20 minutes hunting through my profile pictures and found exactly what you were looking for, a reason to say no, a nipple.

You decided in that moment I was exactly like all the rest, an attention whore/exhibitionist who would do anything for social media likes.

You told me to fuck off.

You never asked me why I put it up. For the record, it was a show of solidarity for a female friend who had been put in Facebook jail over a nipple. Nothing more.

There was nothing to forgive. You were protecting yourself, I saw it. I understand. I feel protective over you too, viciously so, even in absentia I would allow no one to speak badly of you.
Even now, I still defend you. I always will. It’s my way.

The exact same amount of time you spent looking for reasons this would never work and making assumptions about me, I spent learning you. Gleaning why you are the way you are and trying to figure out ways to prove I loved you with the parameters given.
And lordy-fucking-lord there were a lot of parameters. I could barely move an inch without hitting a wall.

I think I realized, the third or fourth time you came back, that if you stayed, life as I knew it would be over. And I didn’t mind. I called you my life’s work and I meant it.

“…my love for you is so overpowering I’m afraid I will disappear.” Paul Simon

I wasn’t afraid.

I knew that once I laid eyes on you the rest of the world would fall away. And once you saw into mine you would trust me. My face would forever reflect that fact that I belonged to you alone. My body and mouth would back that up in their respective languages. I am yours, nothing more.

And I wasn’t afraid.

I started out being afraid of you. In awe. I chuckle to myself when I think back to my first idea of what and how you were. Some of it astute and the rest so far off.

I imagined you in a small apartment above a bodega. A desk overflowing with poetry and balled up pieces of paper, a few whiskey bottles and full ashtrays. A small iron balcony on which you would sit, smoke and drink your morning coffee or afternoon whiskey and just observe.
Pounding at the keyboard, trying to diffuse some love back into the world, one drop of your heart’s blood at a time.

Every time I bought a book or a piece of your work I thought I was helping you in some small way. Funny in retrospect, but it is the thought that counts.

Poor and lost and lovely to me. And I loved you, as is, or as I imagined. I still do.

When I realized how wrong I was, I just chuckled to myself and gleaned an even further understanding as to why those walls of yours are so damned high.

I wish I could remember the exact moment that I realized you were human. Flesh, blood and marrow. Fallible and fumbling, just like me. It was a good moment. I fell harder for you and became braver than I have ever been.

When you told me about your life I absorbed every word, every tone in your voice that said ‘this is what made me’. I learned you, even when you left, I kept studying our conversations. I wanted to be better at loving you. You were worth it.

You taught me I wasn’t worth it, to you.

Your safety is more important than the risk it was to just love me and see where it goes.

I understand, your safety is important to me too.

That is why 5 people know your name…and no one knows the secrets you told me in the dark.

I wouldn’t trade a minute of you.

Since last July I have had plane ticket money tucked away in a drawer, waiting for you to call me to you. But you never did.

You opened up a whole new world of possibilities as to how honest I can be with those around me about who and what I am, the things I want and the things I have done. You made me admit things out loud that I had hidden even from myself. You unlocked the cage society made for me and set me free. And I know you loved me for it.

So I will always love you. I had to flip the switch from active to passive. And now back again, there is nothing unlovable about you to me.

I am writing this to you, in blood red, dripping graffiti on one of the walls you threw up to block me with. And that is the best I can do, in the parameters given.

men

The Big Blue Thingee

April 29, 2016

I put out distress calls, god knows I do.

I spent a long time alone in my head believing myself to be strange and unworthy.

Spent that exact amount of time toning myself down and trying to figure out what everyone wanted me to be. Like wearing costumes that didn’t fit. They pinched, itched and hurt.

I think I am naked now.

I found my people and came home to them. We are naked often, stripped bare, just being us.

And sometimes, the me that I am, is a sad girl, a scared girl, I don’t understand the actions of others. Especially those who seek to hurt, maim and manipulate me and mine.

Still, I go out and I try to live my life. I bump into people with sharp edges, I try to love them anyway and I bleed.

If it’s bad enough, I cry out and always, without fail, someone from my village comes running with bandages.

Only makes sense that my heart and ear is also fine-tuned to hear others crying out in the wilderness.

A girl said upon the Facebook “I don’t think I should be allowed out in public today.”

Sounds exactly like me 6 weeks ago.

My first instinct? Go get her and take her home. Make a sushi roll outta her and take it from there.

Instead I messaged and said “I’m around if you need an ear and a coffee.”

You see, we’ve only met twice in person. Once at a photoshoot covered in fake blood and once at the launch party for the calendar that said photoshoot was for. https://www.facebook.com/deadglamourgirlz/?fref=ts

She was drunky and I got her car where it needed to be.

She is cute when she is drunky, and next level sex kitten when she is in front of a camera.

Good times. Not enough to form a lasting bond, but enough that I was intrigued by her.
And then there was the distress call I couldn’t ignore.

We agreed on tacos the next Tuesday.

I told her she is a juxtaposition to me. A chameleon, and I find her fascinating and wonderful. Because at her core she is sweet, kind, smart and a total dork. Kinda like me. Except she has the switch inside of her that turns her brave ALL the way up in a way I have not learned yet.

That day her switch was turned off. Or maybe it wasn’t. It took guts to sit across from a relative stranger and show the absolute shit hand of cards she has been dealt lately. Her bottom lip quivered and I saw tears that never made it out of her eyes, but they were there, hovering, waiting.

The things we talked about are no one’s business. This is my blog and my space. If I could out my friends and their shenanigans, I would have a million followers just for the Cara Show alone.
But one thing she said, I had an immediate counter for. I had real life proof that what she wanted wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

I was a bit late for lunch, for 2 reasons.

A real estate agent and the big blue thingee.

I got stuck waiting for my apartment to be shown, they were late.

Aaaand…Jason and I were trying to make our relationship Facebook official and we couldn’t get the big blue thingee to work. This one.

One of the reasons the girl sitting across from me eating tacos was sad is because she had been with someone for several months and he wouldn’t claim her on social media.

I know right now that some of you are inclined to believe that it’s not a big deal. And if that is your opinion, more power to you. I am not here to judge. I have said before my relationship status was on mute for 5 years.

The only other long distance relationship I had with a semi public figure/writer…it was important to him to be anonymous, so I kept his name like a secret in my mouth. Even though I could bury him, I wouldn’t, I didn’t and I won’t. It’s important that he is safe, even after everything.

It’s no different than some people like holding hands in public, some don’t. Young Un hated it and I knew it. He knew I loved it so sometimes he would, for me. And that was enough, more than enough actually.

It was important to her. So it is valid. She is valid. She is worthy of any gesture that adds comfort to her. Her partner, if he is to be called that, should have acknowledged this BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT A PARTNERSHIP IS. It’s not a failing on her part, it is something simple that she wanted and was within his power to give to her. But he chose not to and thereby didn’t chose her.

Now she is free to find someone who loves the way she loves.

I understand completely. I don’t want to be a secret either, nor does Jason.

In my relationship with him, it is important to US. Doesn’t matter what his/my/our reasons are. I want to be with a hand holder. I want to be held and claimed and celebrated. And it isn’t some bullshit girly fairy tale shit that doesn’t exist. It does. I am proud of my man and proud to be his, and the world knows it.

We are both writers, we both spill our guts. And I have a feeling that we will show the world what is possible when it comes to love via the vast ocean of the internet.

When we are out in public there is no doubt that I belong to him. My body language screams it.

We finally figured out the riddle of the big blue thingee.

Jason has claimed me, over and over. Written pieces and articles about me, in which he calls me Sarah. And my name spoken by him in his sweet southern drawl is about the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.

https://thelithiumchronicles.org/2016/04/28/make-it-count-jason-king/

lost boys

Looking Back and Fucking Thumbs

April 28, 2016

“…that’s a biiiiiiiig fuckin’ thumb you just sent me.”

That was the first time I heard his voice. InstaSploosh.

I am a sucker for a southern drawl, I won’t lie.

American accents sound like home and happiness. Some more than others. “Just shut up and let me say this” sounds bad regardless of the voice. I think even Morgan Freeman telling me to shut up would get my back up.

And that badly placed thumb on Facebook messenger. I hate it, seems dismissive. And yet I hit it by accident on the regular.

Meh.

Just gonna roll with it. And “big fucking thumb” has become part of our language with each other. I do so love it when he says ‘fuck’.

We talk, oh lord we talk for hours upon hours. I feel like I am in high school again, phone cord stretched to the limit out the back door so I can smoke and listen.

High school sweetheart went to juevie when we were god, like 17 maybe. I spent every night on the phone accepting collect calls and every day for the next month working to pay off the phone bill. He came home and dated someone that wasn’t me for the record. Why does my life get stuck on repeat? That was 25 years ago and I am still doing the same thing? And why do I have to have these moments mid-write?

And now that heaven is on fire, in the worst technicolor, oh and I’ve been chasing angels all my life. Amber Run, Heaven

There it is.

So now what us gonna do?

“This war won’t stand long, God won’t let it.”[1]

I am still fighting. I’m tired now.

“I am tellin’ all y’all it’s a sabotage.” [2]

Mercury is in retrograde, all phone lines to God are currently down, please try again later.

Day one. Shit is already slipping sideways.

My laptop decided to do an update shutdown and I lost 5 pieces I was working on. Microsoft Word had the audacity to dangle a carrot called “would you like to restore your previous documents” to which I replied YES. And no, not a thing. Just blank spaces where before there were words and feelings and thoughts and links.

“This is me breathing.” [3]

Jason had to tell me that yesterday. Breathe baby.

Somehow he knew. I was sitting in front of my laptop, mouth agape, tears rolling down my face.

I have a private album upon the Facebook called “holding area”. It’s where I put the things. Snippets, screenshots, inspirational shit. I was pulling screenshots off my phone looking for a conversation with Leah for an article. We fought, I was expecting a heartpunch. What I wasn’t expecting was uploading these tiny wee thumbnails that were not conversations with Leah.

Here come the Giant. Waltzing out of the past.

I wasn’t ready.

Sucker punch.

And this wasn’t the worst one. Not even close.

I have a self-defence mechanism, sharpened and honed over the last 3 years of dating ghosts.

More often I cut myself on the damned thing and baby do I bleed.

I decide I made them up in my head and he wasn’t that great, he didn’t really say those things and I am just a silly girl and look, everything is fine now.

And then time passes and I go looking for something else, innocently enough and I open their assigned oubliette.

And lo, he did say those things, and so much more.

I have got to learn how to label things better.

I also need to learn to stop looking back over my shoulder lest I trip, or worse. What if God sees and I become Job. Nothing grows on salted ground. I need to grow.

I said to Jason that I thought he deserved better, that I wasn’t coming into this clean. And he just stayed. Made a hundred excuses as to why this WILL work.

He doesn’t punish me for my past or even ask me to hide it. He works through it with me and looks for the why.

He doesn’t tell me to shut up. Quite the opposite actually.

He simply says “okay baby”. Let it out baby, give it some air and let’s work through this.

We did. We are. We will.

“Maybe what you think is you being a hurricane just feels like a light sprinkle to me.” He said.

I think so maybe, yesh baby.

This.

[1] Cold Mountain, Ruby Thewes

[2] Beastie Boys, Sabotage

[3] Grosse Pointe Blank, Martin Blank

Uncategorized

Okay Baby

April 28, 2016

Oh you did a buttload of drugs and you feel shitty and you need me to come get you so you can sleep in my bed and cry on my couch?
Okay baby. Love you be there in 20. What’s the address again?

Oh, you want to ride a mechanical bull with no panties on?
Okay baby. I will hold your purse, and film it.

I want to go swimming, can we get a hotel with an indoor pool?
Okay baby. (What no foot stomp required? Thanks baby.)
(See also, can we go shopping at Target for shit I don’t need so I can be supportive and then can you fuck me in a blanket fort…okay baby. Yesh)

Oh, you think its okay to bring your drug dealer to brunch and spend 3 days text screaming at me because I didn’t just say ‘okay baby?’
Okay baby, we done. That one wasn’t okay.

Which is weird considering…lately everything okay baby.

It’s my new mantra, whatever life hits me with, its just okay baby.

Once upon a time my dad was a shutdown coordinator for a huge company.
He would tally the man hours and outside hires to get everything running on budget within the time given. He worked with another man to whom he would show his well calculated specs to.
This man would look them over and religiously say at first “Okay Jonny”. Then it would all slide downhill. “Okay Jonny, I thinks so…I think so maybe. Um no. No Jonny. Just no.”

In my household it became part of our vernacular. Those inside jokes, movie quotes and song lyrics that become a private language between those you love and spend time with. The original back and forth got shortened. And any time the answer to anything was ‘no’, it became, “I think so maybe no.”

I have since changed my outlook on life the universe and everything due to a random trip to New Orleans with Miss No Rules.
There are no rules.

If I love you, I just love you. As is.

You wanna do a thing? Okay baby.

You hurt me? Shrug, okay baby.

Plans for hotel rendezvous? Okay baby.

It works for everything, like tabasco, perspective, duct tape and WD-40. And should be applied liberally.
This is some next level, ‘just roll with it’ shit. And I love it.

What happened is while I was waiting for life to happen, it was already happening. I panned out whilst watching the movie that is my life and saw that with little or no direction, everything was great. We lay in the road and get up if a car comes. Dance to no music or all of it. Life isn’t scripted, and I love the people playing star roles with me right now. Exactly the way they are, messy, funny, honest, belly laughs and sometimes out of control.
We have all survived everything up until this point. Those nights laying in bed with my heart ripped out, I wanted to die, thought I might. But at some point I got back up and back on with the business of living.
And as scary as the new stuff was, it was also really amazing. And it continues to be so, exponentially better.

I always loved this poem…so much that i wanted to be it, somewhere I lost my way.

Found it again and found the one who makes me feel like he is yesh, and I may…

Planned a vacation with Jason, we must have reorganized things, added and subtracted 1000 times, if once. Now he has to work 3/8 days. No breakdown, no subtext, no foot stomps. We can snuggle and watch movies when you get home and I’ll make dinner. Okay baby.

My friends are all at different points in their lives, most of them younger than me, some of them making right messes out of things BUT THOSE ARE THEIR MESSES TO MAKE. In retrospect all my messes had lessons buried in the shit. Why deny them the same thing just because I actually know better. If it gets dangerous I will pull them out, and they will come with me because they know that I am the Queen of Okaybabyland and if I have to say, no baby, there is a reason for it.

They say things like ‘I love him.’ and I just say “okay baby”. I am not the expert on love, I have a really good idea what it feels like to be accepted and wanted as is. Like a solid friendship, with lust on top. Closer than I have ever been. Feels like love to me. For them? I just know how I love them and hope they find something similar. Someone who just lets them be themselves and says ‘okay, that’s my baby.’

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