Speaking for the Trees.

I didn’t meet your biological mother until well after we’d married. Before then, I wrote her an email thanking her for bringing you into the world and for doing her very best to get you into adulthood so that I could have you as my husband and one day father of my children. I built a relationship with her because I loved you, and in loving you I gained a family unlike my own. I needed that diversity. I needed that support. Without them, I could not have understood the way you were in that moment… that season of your (our) life. I researched decades beyond your birth to give our children roots to look back upon; to trace their fingers along the names and maps and know their DNA made marks upon the soil there.

I found your daughter. I looked into her eyes and saw you there. I wrote more letters… to courthouses, judges, lawyers… and then I reached out to the first woman you called Wife. She is now one of my dearest friends. We share survivor stories, parenting struggles, children with the same genetics and mental curiosities and beautiful minds and daughters with your eye shape and your mothers lips. 

Your stepmother and I have our differences in opinions about you. We’ve clashed regarding my choices and beliefs on my body and our marriage that ultimately led to our baby. But what she’s always been good at is being there for her children and now our children. She makes every effort to be available. She asks about their schedules and goes to their practices and performances and has them over. I will never deny your family time with our children, because they are their family too.

When their family, who was my family AND my support to lean into for 11+ long years, actively includes me in their visits or gatherings where our children are present - I will be there. I refuse to indulge anyone in conversation about you unless it is directly regarding our children. Your life and mine are no longer made of the same threads anymore and you made sure to sever every last strand on your way out the door and into the fabric of her life. If your family wants to discuss you and your choices, as I’ve told them before, that is a discussion they need to have with you. I’ve said things like, “that’s nice for him,” and “good for her” and my stomach twists in knots and my tongue swells in my mouth and I am reminded that they are her parents now too. I shrink back and observe and take in these moments for our children. I bite my tongue and take all the pictures and remember all the stories.

I am our children’s memory keeper, the documenter, the historian and photographer. I am our children’s warm embrace, their whisperer of “I love you big… you are SO smart and SO creative and SO funny and SO loved.” I am their mother, once your lover and wife. I will never not be family to your own family because I am the umbilical that keeps you tethered to them through our children. No matter what season you’re in with your family, I will continue to document and archive all the moments I didn’t keep our children from them.

Have your tantrums, say what you must, but it only serves as a reminder to myself and one day to our children of how you are and what I removed us from. Being so hateful, so angry is no way to live. There is zero logical reason to self sabotage your own ability to just be content and happy with what you have versus what you could have. Nobody is perfect, especially not myself, and I learned the hard way that sometimes you have to sever a limb to save the tree… but that doesn’t mean the limb never existed.

La petite mort.

I would give anything to be 17 again just for a night with you. I miss feeling as if time stood still. I miss your nervous hands against my waistline pulling me close to you. I miss the heat of your mouth whispering confessions into my hair and neck. 

I miss this version of you. 

I miss this version of me. 

I want to stop time again. I don’t understand why we ever had to erase each other from the other’s life. This life is too short to not be happy and blissed out of our brains with simple contentment. It’s not fair. At least when I’m sleeping you’re there and I can relive it all… the worst part is waking up.

40.

Happy Birthday.

There’s no other way for me to wish you all the happiness and health I ever wanted for you.

If you know me at all, you should know that there’s so much more I could say to you… but those are words I keep bottled up behind the wall I’ve built around my heart.

So, Happy Birthday… I hope 40 brings you answers to all your questions, pulls you close and whispers the meaning of your life into your ear and guides you to where you want to be or at least sets you on the right path.

Now it’s your turn. You’ve found me before and if you wanted to? You would do it again.

Raise of hands.

If you are reading this, tell me how you got here to this madness. There’s a little place to leave a comment and you can either do so publicly or if you know me personally, just drop me a text/DM that you read this post.

I’m curious as someone has been reading this blog Tarantino style backwards and I just want to know their thoughts… what’s kept your attention or curiosity about my life? What do you want to see more of? What parts do you skip?

I’m sincerely flattered that you’re here, but Google statistics only tells me so much.

Idioteque.

I can’t listen to Radiohead anymore without being 21 again and having my heart ripped out at the hand of the person who was home to me.

But honestly, it would be nice to ugly cry. It takes something truly earth shattering to bring on the water works thanks to my SSNRI. I can feel the seasonal sadness creeping up with a slow grip on my throat.

I want hot eager hands on my waist, the biggest fluffiest coziest bed to fall into and get lost in, a horizon view with sand between my toes, a second glass of wine and an ugly face swelling cry. Raw, cathartic and soul baring sob fest.

My soul is numb. It’s indifferent. It’s not happy, but it’s not sad either. I feel like I’m dancing a choreographed little ditty all day, every day is the same.

I want to sneak off and text him. I want to bare my soul in the shadows of this dance and hear his voice from hundreds of miles away. I promised I wouldn’t. That promise is breaking me. I want to throw a fit. I want to yell into the sky how unfair this is. He walked away, broke his promise. He came back and made right while I was in the depths of a path I chose to take without him. 15 years later I found him, we reconnected, the chemistry and love was there. It. Was. There. And the distance tore him apart and tortured him while I saw silver linings and my heart filled with a tiny mustard seed of hope. And then… he begged that we stop. I want to respect that, logical brain wants to respect that. 17 year old me buried deep down is appalled we didn’t catch the first flight out of this town for some magical movie moment.

My heart keeps taking me back to great falls. His training tee clutched tight to my chest. Alligator tears burned my cheeks and I couldn’t bare to turn away from him because the minute I did I knew I was headed back to a life that didn’t even seem significant anymore. 

For over 15 years I’ve just wanted to come home. Getting to talk to him was like being handed the keys and finding myself standing outside the door.

Shadow Stories.

Come lay with me and our hands will sing praises and the heat of our mouth a chorus of hallelujahs.

Speak to me with your body and our wordless exclamations will speak volumes to the ghosts whispering in the shadows.

I want to be a novel read aloud by you, spine broken, my hair dog-eared beneath my head.

My brain doesn’t translate the ongoing monologue to my mouth as it does for my hands. 

In order to hear me you’ll need to read this great adventure in the crinkle of my laugh lines, the sneaky dimple on my left cheek, the backroads of stretch marks tracing across my hips and stomach telling tales of more than two dozen months of building my children brick by brick inside of my body.

With the flesh of your chest pressed against mine, our hearts will pass sob stories between them of our near undoings and confess their sins to one another.

Speak to me with your body as it’s the most fluent language I can understand beyond the written word.

Wipe my tears with your thumbs and lips before they pool hot into my ears; reassuring me of your inability to just walk away.

Take my hands and run them down your body like Braille.

Speak softly, slowly, directly and use these words to tell me what you want, need.

I’ll lay beside you until the words come like a slow dance between us and we can move together in sync to music only we know the lyrics to.

Everything and Nothing at all.

I don’t necessarily need someone to tend to my wounded heart, but I want someone to baby me and make me feel precious to them if just for a little while.

I like the idea of someone pulling me close to their heart and smoothing my hair.

I feel like my heart is bruised in bed with the covers up over it’s head.

The bruise radiates out to my fingertips and everything I touch burns.

The words left unsaid are stones in my pockets pulling me down into this current of grief deeper than the distance between us.

We both saw what could be and what lit me from within tormented you.

Your brain wouldn’t allow space for the possibility of anything other than the plans you’d made before me.

My brain wanted the comfort and familiarity of your arms.

If only we’d thought with our hearts.

I wish it were just a dream.

You are everywhere and nowhere. Every day for 24 years you’ve made an appearance in my thoughts or dreams. Every day.

My kid talks about getting lost in the halls looking for automotive class and I remember my paper thin baggy overalls specked with paint… I remember the cool of the brick sill pressed beneath my hands, long blonde hair pushed against the window that overlooked the courtyard. I remember your hands slipping between the denim bib of my overalls and sliding over my shirt behind my back with forbidden kisses planted on my neck beneath my ear. I can remember your hands running through my hair, cupping the back of my head. My ears burn now of tactile memories, footsteps we trailblazed that year crossing in front of the auto lab my son now walks across… in that same hall, in front of those same courtyard windows that saw everything.

I don’t know what hurts more, having lost you again or knowing that I didn’t and won’t get to touch you or curl into your chest and just exhale the world and 18 years of feeling incomplete off of me.

Love, wild unapologetic love is terrifying. Having your heart laid out in front of you with all of your demons, flaws and your secrets wide out in the open is even more terrifying. I’ve been ignoring my heart; turning my head away from the dismantled mess splayed out before me… my eyes clenched shut to force the sight of this still somehow beating hollowed heart. If you listen closely you can hear her whisper, “it was you it was you it was you…”

Pt. 5 It Was All a Dream

I dreamt Covid was over, or maybe we were in pre-Covid times. You wrote me a letter and a package showed up a short time later with your luggage filled with t-shirts. I could feel the weight of them in my hands and smell you on them. Later I was at The Roxy in ATL, the only indoor venue you and I had ever been to. I was sitting on the railing leading into the standing room area perched with my phone in my hand pressed against the top of my thigh. It vibrate against my palm and your name flashed across the screen. I didn’t say anything, but clearly heard you say, “I’m here.” I walked through the double doors of the venue and faced where Sushi Rock and Roll used to be only to see the area just outside of customs at Hartsfield. You were walking towards me in your dress blues.

And then I woke up.

Happy Anniversary

15

We would have been married 15 years this year.

I still have to stop myself from deleting your image from photo albums, erasing your existence from our records, because the husband and father we thought you were is not synonymous with who you are now.

The person smiling back at us beyond the pages of these albums was who we desperately wanted and needed you to be.

You made it so clear that you were never truly that person and it killed you to be him. You made us, the kids and I, attempted murderers. We were the ones who failed you. We were the ones who asked too much when to us it felt like the bare minimum.

The woman I always was had to be stitched tightly under my heart, closed her off beneath my breastbone. I tucked her away, dimmed her light always in hopes your light could shine… as an EMT, firefighter, veteran, artist, father, father, father, father, best friend, spouse… every time your mask fell away, the door would shut the outside world out and we would be trapped with the person you say you truly are now. 

17 years ago, I sat behind the wheel of my car in the early morning summer hours as the sun shrugged the clouds and pines off her shoulders. I sat there crying and writing to myself how I deserved someone who appreciated the things I loved too. How inviting you to join me in fellowship at the monastery for morning meditation would mean the world to me and you rolled over when I tried to wake you… saying you weren’t in the mood. You didn’t care. You slept spread out in my bed, in my loft, with zero remorse towards my distress of leaving that person I was behind… for you. I recall cleaning out my car to find that notebook and reading those words, cheeks stinging with what I thought at the time was shame and now knowing 17 years later, wasn’t shame for my raw honesty with myself but shame for ignoring my own cries for help.

I'll burn this bridge with the same lighter I use for my sage.

If you're not making every effort for the children you brought into the world like you do your stepchildren while they are literal CHILDREN; you have zero reason to throw a pity party when they become teenagers/adults and want nothing to do with you.

This cycle ends with my children.

I will no longer practice or allow codependency with/from other adults.

I will no longer make excuses for adults who can't make time to be in their lives.

I will no longer reach out to the other biological parent if I need assistance; if they want to show up and be a part of their lives they can call/text our children or even maybe add events/appointments to their own calendars and offer to assist.

It is not my job, my responsibility to tend to and baby every last adult associated with them by blood.

It is not my children's responsibility either.

And this is the mindset I'm utilizing to ring in the new school year.

I have one elementary school student, one middle school student and one high school student all under my roof.

My littlest has therapies and needs constant supervision.

My middle will be swimming in drama rehearsals and performances.

My biggest? Between needing a damn taxi to chauffeur him around and his odd jobs between family members and family friends, appointments to have his braces tweaked and adjusted, and Lord only knows what else...

We've GOT this! We've never needed you... or you... or even you. We've always had each other and they've always known that Mama will push a bitch down to make sure she's present (unless a sibling had something scheduled prior and I can't be everywhere.)

We make adjustments.

We prioritize self success without harming those around us.

We are aware of those who show up without having to be drug out unwillingly.

These babies were born of my flesh; built brick by brick inside my body... I will be damned if I nurture the same relationships for them that were coddled and cultivated for me in my youth.

If you want to find every excuse to not be present, we will stop asking you for answers.

YOU are the only one to blame for not making the effort. Not your spouse, not your step children, not your job... YOU are the only one to blame for showing them that in order to be relevant they have to live under your roof or merely exist within your field of vision.

It is a shame that I had to even waste my breath to say these things out loud.

But maybe... just maybe... saying them will remind those adults that my children are not pawns. They are not burdens, inconveniences or a means to make you feel better about yourselves. They are humans, future adults, that need to be taught how to survive in the real world. And not JUST survive,  but fucking thrive. I've only ever wanted these baby birds to be happy, healthy, know just how much they are loved and to be self sufficient enough to support themselves.

I am no longer existing to make your lives more manageable while drowning in mine and my kids needs and they need to learn that it is OK to say "no, figure it out for yourself."

Messages in bottles.

Sometimes I send texts to boys I know will never respond.

Now that travel restrictions are loosening, I want to hop a plane to you and say fuck it to the whole world. I want to close my eyes tight and squeeze your hand in mine and then open them under a blanket fort at some shady ass hotel at two in the afternoon. Time will cease to exist in the 36 hours of you + me time.

I can envision dusty sun beams trickling through gaps in our fort. I’ll cry happy sad tears and you’ll kiss my shoulders and pull me close to you so our hearts can whisper secrets to each other,

You’ve crossed my mind at least once a day ever since the last time you’ve held me.

Sometimes when I close my eyes and press my face into the inside neck of my sweatshirt I can smell you even when you’re hundreds of miles away.

I will probably never know another fully absorbed unconditional love like the love I’ve held captive for you ever again.

I want you to write the ending to my daydream. I want your hands sweaty and shaking to reveal what you want, need, desire. Let your heart open up and flood the earth with all the love you’ve ever smooshed down deep inside. Let it out. 

Isolation Station.

There is an isolation that comes with surviving an abusive marriage and suddenly finding yourself single in your late 30’s.

For nearly 15 years you lost friends to your “better half.” You would carry on false hope every time you’d hang with another married couple knowing he would positively ruin any chance of the friendship lasting more than a few months. 

Post divorce you would find yourself invited to gatherings with old friends only to find you feel like a third wheel as the odd man out throwing off the balance of all the other couples. Wives no longer trust you around their husbands as you’re the suddenly single neighbor.

So you fill your days with solitaire, crosswords, half assed DIY projects because your brain only has enough energy to get you through the excitement and “gung ho” phase and you’ll find yourself staring at tools and instructions wondering why you bothered. Once the project is finally assembled you don’t trust setting anything on it for fear it will fall because you said “that’s good enough” about 23 times and you had to brace it against the wall with screws you had laying around. Long story short my etarge cabinet doors don’t line up correctly and overlap a little.

This isolation can be deafening. You’ll mistake adult “play dates” with actual social interaction when you’re only scratching an itch… barely scratching the surface of an intimacy that only comes with a companionship you made yourself believe you once had. You’ll get frustrated with partners because nothing lines up or fits “just right” in conversation or togetherness.

You’ll spend time with family who wouldn’t want to be friends with you IRL because there’s no time to pick up new hobbies and make these friends the traditional way. You’ll discover aspects of yourself that were always worthy of love but you’ll have no one to share these gems with. Sometimes you’ll find yourself praying the desperation of human connection can’t be seen in your mannerisms or in the crinkle of your forced smile. Do you show all your teeth or do you keep them hidden? Where are you supposed to put your hands? Should you lean into something? Did you lock your knees? Playing the part of a friendly human gets old.

I find myself now hoping to re-friend familiar faces at an upcoming high school reunion. But… I’m so sick of making an honest effort only to fall into the same “odd man out” situation.

I want friends.

There needs to be a 12 step program for introverts to overcome their anxieties and insecurities long enough to befriend others in similar situations.

Native Tongue

Magnolia, Wisteria, Kudzu, Dogwood, Peach, Pine, Tulip Poplar, Sweet Gum, Mimosa, Crape Myrtle, River Birch, Crab Apple, Hydrangea, Redbud...

My inner monologue lists off the names, ticks them one by one as I pass and acknowledge each plant/tree. I wouldn't be my grandfather's shadow or landscaper's daughter if I couldn't distinguish the difference between redbud and peach blooms or know that you could eat the leaves of the sweet gum tree. Would I be genuinely Southern born and raised if I couldn't identify one of the handful of Peachtree Street's sprinkled throughout our capitol city? Or would you know it from a blood test that I'm a native without my ability to accurately explain (thanks to my love of linguistics) that Peach trees are not native but that "Pitch" trees are (Pines were regularly referred to as Pitch due to their sap by the Native American Creek tribes).

I'll find myself absentmindedly repeating their names in my head when I pass them as I'm driving; their foliage as thick and lush as the humidity itself. I've tried relocating out of state a few times in my early adult life and could never wrap my head around the terrain and local greenery. I would step off the plane and feel millions of miles away, foreign in a country that speaks and looks like me but is incomprehensible and confusing more than comforting. Before long, in this new to me location, I would dream of falling backwards eyes closed into blankets of kudzu (remember this is a dream, IYKYK) while wet hot breezes would wave curtains of violet wisteria blossoms above my body. Home is where invasive Asian vines take over every lot or dried up flood plain.

Not entirely unrelated, dating has been a lot like relocating out of state. I know who I am when I'm at home, but everywhere/everyone else is like pretending you know the native language and then proceeding to panic when you can't understand the words coming so easily from their mouths. I'll look at the bios and pictures of these humans on Tinder, PoF, Hinge, Bumble... and wonder what I did in my short life to deserve such Hell that the only time I have to search for other adult human connection is to tap and swipe in the short moments between the littlest one falling asleep and my eyes following suite. I feel so boring and inadequate in comparison to those I feel I might have any sort of spark with based on bio's alone. They have degrees, salaries, or (worse) have never been married or had children and WANT that in their lives. I feel like I've done everything backwards and the most thrilling time in my life I crammed into the 5 years of my adult life that didn't include either of those while others were binge drinking, hazing and living their best hoe lives on a campus near you.

I've reached a point where the ONLY things I miss from marriage are as follows:

• Comfortable silence.
• Having a best friend that just GETS me.
• Someone to curl into in the middle of the night, on the couch, or when life gets shitty.

I know I have this with my kids, but my kids are CHILDREN. They are not replacements for a spouse/partner and I pray they never feel like I utilize them to meet my personal needs.

I just want someone that meets me on my level and accepts me for who I am and doesn't expect me to be someone I "could" be or who I'm simply not. Most days I'm lucky if I'm able to recoup and recover from work/raising kids 99.9% of my waking life, I just want that teeny tiny .1% to be happy and content both while I'm alone doing my thing and when I'm with other adults in the wild.

To all the dramatically exciting adventurous people I (sometimes) accidentally swiped right on, we're going to call it what it is... mama was just being idealistic. I can't imagine how hard you sleep at the end of your days after all the amazing shit you do just because you can. I wish I'd done some or even most of those things you enjoy, but alas, I'm a better spectator than I am the main attraction. It should be noted that when I'm really into another adult, you won't find a better cheerleader when I see you living your dream or fully submerged in something you love.

Sheesh. Maybe I just need someone to play with my hair until I fall asleep every once in a while.

He says he misses me.

He says he misses me and I shut down like a bear trap or maybe a better analogy is like a zip tie; things are good and only heading in a smooth linear direction but the words pulled at my heart and now I’m so tightly twisted up in my head knowing he’s not the one that I want and that I can’t be released without cutting myself out of this knot he’s created. 

He is not you. His touch isn’t yours. His voice doesn’t soothe my muscles more than hands ever could. I won’t kiss him because his isn’t the intimacy I want; just an answer to an itch that needs a momentary scratch. He’s a bottle of wine to make me forget whereas YOU are a bottle of wine that turns me into liquid poured into you and you into me and I don’t want to be missed by HIM. 

I want to know that some part of you longs for me too. I want to know that you also wake up and hold your breath and reach out with eyes closed searching for the warmth of me only to find an empty space where I should be.

I want to know that you too get lost in your head during menial tasks thinking about what our lives would have been like if you’d asserted your wants, YOUR desires. What if you’d confessed then what you confessed not even a year ago. What if... 

What if you just showed up at my door? What would you say? Anything? Would you slip me into your arms and just hold me? Would you feel like home? All these years I’ve just wanted to “go home” despite being in the home I’ve created for my children and what if this entire time it’s your arms that are the home I’m homesick for?

What if there were a knock at my door and it were you? Would your mouth taste the same? Would I know it’s you by the scent of your shirt with my head resting against it? Would you leave me again out of fear that you couldn’t live up to what you felt I deserved?

He says he misses me and all I want is your everything.

With my head in the clouds.

This is the start of a series of texts I send to a cell number that never responds but gets the brunt of messages that catch my breath and force me to stop what I’m doing and word vomiting. One day someone new will have this number and blush when their phone dings. So I’m posting them here in the case maybe one day the intended person stalks my stories.

Days like today it would be nice to have you here. I played in the dirt today and could feel the sweat drip down like a lazy river down my spine. I could feel your hands slip under my sundress hem as I came inside and quenched my body under the fan, the hairs at my neck coiling up at the nape and temple. Your hand would grip my ass as you blew cool air on my neck sending goosebumps down the length of me. I'm sitting in my truck recalling what could have been not even an hour ago. The girl I used to be, that belonged to your heart, she longs for the you that you once were. Longing for him is what keeps me safe from settling again on situations that aren't deserving of me. So thank you... even though I'll never get a response, this is therapeutic in its own way getting all these daydreams out.

Burnout.

You were like a vacation or an unexpected breath of fresh air.

You were a break from my ordinary.

I needed what you offered and then you disappeared.

And I’m so tired.

I’m mentally, physically and spiritually exhausted.

I want to be unplugged for a week, but then when I asked and bartered for that time I was drug through the mud and everything became too loud.

And I’m crying again because I don’t know how I can walk back into that environment. My adrenaline soars just thinking of putting my key in the door.

I don’t know how others do it. I don’t know how they are able to regroup and do it over and over and over again without a break. 

You were the closest thing I’ll get to a vacation, but the closer I get the more you look like a mirage.

My cup is so empty, I need touch. I need to be held. I need a break. There’s never enough time right now to recharge and it’s fatally frustrating.

I can’t breathe under this mask of the girl who smiles and does what’s asked of her.

I am choking on my own pleasantries and willingness to please.

I am screaming and nobody can hear me.

Flight Risk

Watching airplanes pass over my head, thousands of feet above.

Their wings skim clouds tickle stars.

How surreal to know hundreds of souls, lovers, mothers, grandchildren float above us every day and we are so desensitized to how crazy and insane it is that flight is even possible.

I miss that gravity pull, sucking me into my jump seat like the hands of my family and loved ones trying to pull my head out of the clouds and back down to earth.

Nothing has ever topped flying literally over the top of this lonely rock and seeing her curve under both the darkness of night and the promise of sunrise simultaneously.

My heart still soars on the wings of every plane that crosses the sky above me.

Love you big.

I tell my children that I love them big.

I love them BIG as I know what it is to be loved small.

I don’t want them to settle for a small love; a good enough love.

I want them to be consumed by love and to know that they are needed here now forever and always.

I want them to ooze love so that others know how important they are to not just me but to so many.

I think that’s what holds me back from setting my heart truly free.

I’ve allowed others to love me small; love me with fences and walls up keeping me/them distanced.

I want a love that feels like coming home after a long trip away from your own bed; that feeling of your mattress supportive and firm made for your body. The soft comfort of YOUR blanket wrapped around you. It smells like feels like home.

I want a love that can let me expose my weird and they feel comfortable hanging their weird out too. And we’re just accepting of one another’s weirdness.

I deserve a love that is liquid. It flows easily from one to the other, never too much but never too little.

My kids deserve that love and I try to meet that love BIG.

Doesn’t matter how big they are, they know they can crawl into my lap no matter their age to rest their tired bones against my chest and just let go.

I hope they never wonder or question how much I love them.

I hope you never wonder or question how much I love you.

Breakdown Lane

Sometimes I hate that the urge to spit words on the screen happens when my emotions are heightened. Tonight the darkness crept in. It whispered lies as single words slipped silently into my internal monologue to myself. “Isolation... unloveable... unworthy... unapproachable... awkward...”

I know they’re just lies... but they can be so damn convincing. They’re words I’ve heard sprinkled throughout the years. Words aimed at the glass walls of my heart. You try standing emotionless while those you love and trust most spew those words at you. I can’t trust anyone, not even myself most days. And what is love? Love is just a tapestry hung to cover the holes in the drywall,

I broke down tonight. I forced myself to take the trash out so I could sob quietly unnoticed in my truck. At one point, little “me” somewhere in my subconscious reached out and forced my hand. I found myself texting the one person I knew would understand when I told them my brain was lying to me. They talked me through it as best they could, but honestly... I just need a hug.

I need someone bigger and stronger than me to just come wrap me up and hold me. I’m burnt out from holding it together, running the shitshow both at work and home. I’m exhausted from having to wear the mask of a mostly functional adult. I know I started to crack last week when I fussed at my boss that it was some bullshit that I ask everyone how they’re doing and about their lives and not once has anyone in that office asked about me; asked how my weekend was... how I’m doing. And yes, I’m aware that it speaks volumes about who I’m surrounded by and nothing about who I am as a human. It just... it sucks. It sucks because I come home to my amazing children who need ME. There’s nothing left of me by the time I close my eyes at night. I can still barely fill my own cup of “needs” after filling everyone else’s.

I just need a back breaking, soul popping hug, I need time to ugly cry it out without having to worry about covering the swollenness of my face the next day. I need to be kidnapped and taken away from everything for a week.

But first, a hug.

Full moon lessons.

Some stories are meant to stay in my drafts.

There’s a good reason I didn’t drink for the majority of my adult life.

I should stick to cleaning house and meditating when the kids are away to avoid being consciously aware that a.) I don’t have a plethora of adult friends to have adult conversation with and b.) no adult conversations means no chance of hyper fixating (see previous posts regarding being neurodivergent.)

I can’t be trusted on Amazon while two glasses of wine in.

There’s a tiktok hashtag about over sharing in your underwear and I’d like to blame the full moon.

Back to my regular shit show of “shit I can’t make up” and surreal awkwardness.

Happy Monday, bitches!

Over (th/dr)inking.

What I can remember.

Your hands on the backs my thighs while you massaged me.

And then again as they slipped around my waist as I went to leave.

The feeling of you pressed against my back breathing me in.

A trail of clothing leading to your room.

The crispness of your sheets beneath my naked body.

Your arms beneath my thighs, pulling me closer.

The hair on your legs pressed up against my calf.

Your hands, your fingers... your mouth, my God your mouth.

The taste of me on your lips as I kissed you goodnight.

I want more, now, hotter, faster, more urgent.

You are rooted in me.

Sometimes I see you doing just every day tasks. I’ll glance your way and feel the familiar tug to just draw your silhouette with my fingertips; trace them across the curve of your jawline, run my lips up the hairless runway of skin behind your right ear, cradle your head in my hands and rest my forehead against your sternum. Feel your heart beating against my eyelids while breathing through the strong drum of my own heartbeat.

You’re just a friend.

You’re just a friend but I feel electric and alive when you grab my hand. A heat rushes up from the root of me when you hype me up with your compliments.

“You could have any man you want.” But what if I wanted you?

“There’s not one thing about you that needs to be fixed.” And I want you to keep telling me this, I want you to whisper this into my ear as I fall asleep, remove my layers and say it again… and again… each layer falls away and your words warm my skin.

“Everyone learns better hands on…” then lay your hands on me. I won’t stop you.

But then the door closes behind you as you walk into your home. The silence is deafening.

The Secrets We Keep.

What would I know about the human who’s supposed to be my best friend making large dramatic exits from our home only to reappear hours later?

What would I know about about being gaslit and blamed for their bad behavior?

What would I know about getting picked on by the one person I sacrificed my body for and fighting for their mental health while losing my own?

What would I know about working myself to death in the name of carrying my family through one financial crisis after another?

What would I know about sheltering my children from their father’s breakdowns and dangerous behavior? 

What would I know about crying out for help and calling off the guards because I didn’t want people to know about what happened behind closed doors?

What would I know about having to call the crisis line without hesitation for my own child because I saw what lack of intervention would lead to?

What would I know about biting my lip and closing my eyes to dial 911 on a family member because they were no longer just a danger to themselves?

What would I know about having CPTSD because I loved someone blindly and thought I could save them?

What would I know? Apparently... nothing.

Never enough words.

There are never enough and too many words just sitting, watching, waiting for their turn to tumble from my mouth or fingertips.

Sometimes I instantly regret the bleeding exposure of my heart.

Sometimes I wish I could lay curled up into you listening to your own heart beat change as you're exposed to what I have to say.

I feel too much but you'd never know it if you spent 5 minutes alone with me.

Emotions swell, ebb and flow. I am the ocean under this skin.

I yearn for you. My skin craves the warmth of you.

But there's no us and I don't want to be any part of an "us."

My brain is at war with itself. Wants and needs.

If none of this makes any sense, I'm blaming the blinding migraine that took my day from me.

You're not here and I think this muddles things indefinitely.

There's no conversation, it's all one sided in a brain overflowing with love and prescription drug induced serotonin surges. 

Domino effect: the surge flushes my cheeks, ears... an itch lifts hem of my skirt with thoughts of your hands where mine linger... my heart creeps upward into my throat and my brain remembers that you're not here and your voice is just a memory. Just a memory over crackling payphone wires stretched thousands of miles between my heart and yours.

What would you say to me if we bumped into each other in the produce section on a random Tuesday in March. Would you come up behind me and whisper "that one" in a single breath on the outer shell of my ear? I would put my apple back onto the pile of gold and ruby perfect pyramids and swear a ghost had stolen my heart while trying to remember which was sweeter, Fuji or Gala? Would you walk up with cantaloupe "breasts" seeking a laugh? Would you watch me walk by and not say anything?

Why do I keep myself awake imagining these scenarios when I don't want this. I *don't* want this.

Do I even know what I want?

Could you sit with me until I do?

Reinforcing the Foundation of my Heart.

I’ve been hurt. I’ve experienced trauma. I’ve been misled and lied too. I’ve surrendered my body and sacrificed myself for the betterment of others.

Because of this, I pulled the cloth of my life taut and taken hot a hot knife in my hand and severed the threads that keep me clinging to the me I once was.

If I hadn’t done this, I would still openly mourn her. Instead now, I nod knowingly accepting who she was and her purpose in my life. She was the stepping stones it took to get to here. And while I still sometimes glance at her in my rear view, we don’t put the car in reverse anymore to console the brokenness in her. I am a product of her pain and it has taken too long to brush the dirt off my knees to go backwards.

I’ve been hurt and sometimes I still hurt, but we don’t dwell in the pain. I’ve experienced trauma, but now I build on the rubble and reinforce the structure of the walls around my heart. I’ve been misled and lied too, so now I don’t believe anything I’m told unless I see the actions with my own eyes. I won’t sacrifice this body and mind for anyone ever again. Nor will I willingly allow others to sacrifice their time and hearts for mine.

Please don’t fall in love with me. I’m not ready for love. I’m too busy treating myself to the love I’ve always deserved and now demand of myself. I want the indulgence of desire, without the longing need to share it with someone else and I’m no longer entertaining those who show even an iota of interest in anything other than momentary fulfillment. You don’t deprive yourself of a quick scratch when an itch arises, do you? So don’t flatter me with your words; don’t make plans or toy with the notion of a future I don’t want.

I’m not looking for a forever with anyone other than myself, and I’m still getting to know her.

Confessions for the Homesick

I long for you in stolen moments. Deep in the recesses of my mind I know that the “you” I’ve created is not the “you” you have become. But what if it was? What if all these dreams and visions of that alternate universe were true? 

What if you walked through my door, took my face in your hands and kissed me like you’d been saving up for me your whole life? I want to think you’d scoop me up like the famous scene from “An officer and a gentleman,” and carry me down my steps, place me gently in your truck and we’d ride off into the sunset (but of course have me back before my children came home because, WHO AM I if not a mom now first?)

I want to believe that I truly saw a sparkle in your eye like lightning when you looked into my eyes. I want to believe that you would really go out of your way, detour a few hundred miles, to hold me again. I’d like to think the crook of your neck still fits my face and your collar still smells like old spice and Irish springs... that you give me your sweatshirt again and I sleep in it every night like I did after we first kissed.

Maybe it’s not you I long for on nights I lay in bed staring at the shadows crossing the ceiling. Maybe it’s someone else familiar but new all over. It still feels like homecoming knowing the feeling of my hand in yours and the spot beneath your lip where the scruff doesn’t grow. My lips remember every spot like muscle memory should.

I want to believe that the dreams I had when I was married that wracked me with guilt to the point I forced my then husband to come along with me to therapy so I could confess to what felt like an adulterous affair... I want to believe those dreams were you thinking them into existence in my subconscious. I can remember how my husband laughed at this confession, and how he’d asked if I’ve ever actually thought of anyone outside of dreams and my answer was always no but it was always you. You who were forever unobtainable and never to be heard of again. He would later express disbelief that I’d never acted on any advances from other men, that I’d never thought of being with someone other than him. I only ever dreamed of you and confessed those burning embers of guilt again and again to his heart. I took my vows so faithfully and every thought of you felt like a betrayal to them.

This isn’t about him, or the marriage that should not have been. This is about you, coming home to me maybe one day... someday soon.

Carnal

Your mouth is hot as it moves down my neck. Firm rough hands at my waist, pulling at me... pressing your heart against mine speaking to mine in ways our tongues can’t.

There’s so much to say; words deafening threaten the sound of my heart racing in my ears. Sweet whispers tickle at my collarbone, the roughness of the scruff of your chin scratching at my chest.

Strong arms wrap around my waist; your face buried into my neck, my hair. We’re as close to one as we’ll ever be.

Terms and Conditions.

When meeting new people, I feel like maybe I should start handing them pamphlets with my current terms and conditions; the disclaimers that basically warn them of what they're getting themselves into.

I don't want to be your girlfriend, wife, wifey, baby mama, girl FRIEND, GIRL friend... I don't want to be your boo, bae, baby, honey, sweetie... I'm fine on my own thankyouverymuch. I've got me. I've got all my needs covered. It's the "wants" that are the itch that need scratching.

I don't have time for you after my kids and then myself. I don't have time for phone calls, dinner dates, dinner parties, meeting your mama. It's not that I can't make time, I don't WANT to make time because then it interrupts with what little time I have to tend to my own needs. And plus? I've always been terrible at being a girl and doing things "girls like to do." Talking on the phone? Is numero uno on my list of shit I just can't do. I will stare at my phone as it rings. Try me. Voicemail is full because my Pappaw's voicemails take priority and will never be deleted unless he has a new one to leave me. So yeah, good luck with that.

My cup runneth over with needs and I'm here to draw that old familiar line in the sand stating that this is where my boundaries begin and my ability to meet your needs ends. Bye. It was fun.

I feel like no matter how large the megaphone or how big my big girl panties are, I still am not being heard when I scream, "My last relationship ended due to x, y and z. If you cannot handle x, y and z you need to move along!" Instead they hear, "Please catch feelings and think you can change my thoughts on what I want for myself." I can't talk on the phone, not because of who you are but because of this damn line in the sand. There's no negotiating or meeting in the middle. There's no compromise on this. What little time I have to myself does not include forcing words out of my mouth hole to make you feel better about your ability to compromise my time. If you can't handle the small talk and my inability to nurture a relationship I did not sign up for in the first place, then as I said, move along. I'm not the one for you if that's what you need for your cup to be filled.

It's right there, page 8 section 2 line 5, "My time outside of work consists of caring for my three children and their individual needs, tending to my mental/physical well being, lather, rinse, repeat. I'm available every other Saturday evening barring any children remain home from their visitation with their father." I mean, I didn't stutter. It's right there; black and white. I even had it printed in large print for those of us with vision issues.

If you've read this far and it hit home, please please PLEASE don't think that I'm saying any of this to be cruel. I'm not. As a matter of fact, I say it TO drive the point home. My boundaries and my ability to tell people "no?" Those are NOT suggestions nor are they flexible. I warned all parties involved to not fall in love with me. Don't do it. I'm not the one you're bringing home to mama nor am I your next wife. But I feel it. I feel the vibe changing from HMU and DTF to, "that's what I **love** about you, you're so positive and honest." No no no. No sir/madame. I'm here for a good time, not a long time. YOLO or some shit like that. My 5 year plan involves a metric ton of self evaluation and putting the work in to be my best self and LOVE the person I become. It doesn't involve a third party. I'm no good for you, you or even you down there in front with the cowlick and freckles. I knew how unfair it was to my most recent ex to silence him out of my life as I began working on myself. I knew he deserved better and I realized I didn't want or need him during this time in my life. Our time together had played out and served its purpose. Anything longer than what it was would have been kicking a dead horse. THAT. WAS/IS. NOT. FAIR. TO. HIM. Equally, it most definitely wouldn't be fair to you. I have ZERO attraction to anyone in a long term, love you forever kind of way right now. I can't even pretend to want that, and if I'm pretending? Then I'm lying to both of us.

As stated on page 3 section 4 line 1, "I need friends." That's it. Just... friends. Friends who understand that they're not going to hear from me for two weeks at a time. Friends who understand that I don't make plans because who knows if I'm even going to want to do "option A" or "option B" eight days down the road.

Please don't make me hurt your feelings. Please request a copy of of the Terms and Conditions and accept my disclaimers and fine print as the user manual to this current updated version of me. 

No surprises here.

Seeing the words pop up at me across the email, I should feel something. Someone else might feel surprised, or angry even. Someone else might feel relief. But I feel... indifferent?

It’s something I’ve always known about myself. I’ve always known myself to have sensory issues across the spectrum of all the senses.

I’ve never liked the feeling of anything beneath my bare feet; not grass, carpet, cool tile... nothing. You’ll never find me barefoot, instead I’ll be the one rocking flipflops year round and never just socks either. Socks are only to be worn with shoes.

I don’t wear clothes with tags, the worst are tags on the side seats that tickle my waistline. Instead of a tickle, it feels like ants biting or needles. I don’t like the restriction of tucked in shorts or belts. The material itself can’t be too heavy or hot, I’d rather pile on layers to work myself out of them and become obsessed of the fabric is TOO light creating a situation in where I can’t warm myself appropriately.

I take serious issue with bands covering songs in which I expect to hear a song one way, but the cover is completely different or doesn’t give me the same emotional response the original song did. Musicals, choirs and flash mob choruses are the things of NIGHTMARES.

Flares from car windows or off other similar surfaces send me into a panic as I’m blinded by them and migraines give me similar symptoms that leave me paralyzed wondering if I’m beginning a migraine. Worse yet if I’m driving and ill prepared for  the amount of sun. One of my earliest memories is of being outside in the direct sun. Once while following the footsteps and shadow of my grandfather through his garden and another time in elementary school when we went outside to recess and the sun reflected off every corner of the playground. ((These were times when the slides were made of industrial metals and screamed “survival of the fittest” with their knobby rivets and jagged corners... ah, the 80’s at its finest.))

Facial expressions are overwhelming and typically pull out completely inappropriate responses from me. I’m the one who laughs during your pain or stands there steely faced when placed in an overly joyous or other such emotional situation. I don’t cry, not from joy or sadness unless my anxiety places me in an endless loop of a desperate thought cycle. Only once I’ve completely dehydrated myself will the crying commence, and then it is touch and go for hours if not days following.

If you want to have a completely functional conversation with me, write me. Text, email, direct messages... but never call or approach me with urgent questions. I need time to process and weigh all sides of the problem. Unless I’m approached with conversation about something I’m deeply passionate about (i.e. my kids, travels, books I’ve read, etc.) I’m not likely to have deep conversations.

I’ve always been insatiable when it comes to pleasure. Whether it’s chasing the high of the first cigarette in the morning, the excitement of that first kiss/orgasm, the buzz from the first drink... it’s a slippery slope. I quit drinking entirely when I got pregnant with my oldest. I want to quit smoking, but my brain cannot handle the withdrawal. And I’m in love with the IDEA of love. I thought I was in love with my husband, but now I question everything (and try not to question as that turns into an endless thought cycle that makes me overly emotional and omg just re-read my issues with crying.)

So after many years of knowing what my parents have denied and pleaded their own cases against, watching my youngest struggle in scary familiar ways and social media making me question myself... I did the tests. The same tests my therapist would do in his office but I cannot afford to save up to take so I took them on my own and had them analyzed to be sure I was reading things correctly. The same tests little and middle were subjected to but on an adult scale.

I am autistic.