Ghost Life

Day one of OutDoor Lab is drawing to a close. Only one of my kids has gone off and screamed how much they hate me and shrieked and cried because I told him to eat his mac and cheese. Fun stuff. My sinus infection is quite enjoyable as well. I love how everyone of the teachers has called home to check in with someone they loved, someone at home waiting to hear from them. I called Chad, he said he missed me like crazy and can’t wait for me to be back home in his arms. Oh, no. I guess that didn’t really happen, did it? Yep, being in the mountains has brought out the pleasant, cheerful side of me.

However, the facility is unbelievable. The teachers are staying in this ‘mountain mansion’ built in 1907. The ghost stories they have told us about the house are awesome. Actually, it all has me very inspired to write. I already have a story in mind in this setting. This place has really got my creative juices flowing. Halfway through the day I decided I was going to stay up for awhile and write. Now that there are only a few more minutes until ten, and I can barely keep my eyes open due to the infection and exhaustion, writing is not going to happen. I would love to come back here and just stay in this place and write for a couple weeks. I’ve never really wanted to write a ghost story before, but I love the idea that is coming to me. I hope it keeps going.

I was shocked to find that we actually do get some internet service (although no phone service—I am so used to my cell that I forgot to even think about bringing a watch, so I am timeless at the moment). Despite having internet, I have decided to not check email, facebook, connexion… nothing. I need a break from the constant reminders. This week is just me. Being sick. Being a teacher. Being away from everyone I love. Away from those who love me and those that no longer do. I needed a break, and while this isn’t the one I would have chosen, it is the one I got, so it will work.

So, I am off to bed in the ghost-ridden house. It says a lot about the life I have been living lately that a house full of ghosts (yes I am just as much of a fraidycat as ever) is more appealing than where I have been lately. Maybe because I constantly live a life in a ghost world. Filled with what was, what used to be alive and vibrant.

click click

On a humorous note, for those of you who are insane and enjoy following this blog regularly (again, I urge seeing a psychologist immediately), I recommend looking at the adds in blue as they change everyday. The day after I wrote the poem Over Me (which had a stanza about fermented wheat and oats—alluding to alcohol) all the ads were about wheat germ and gluten free products! And after writing about my overdrawn account yesterday, all the ads today were for checks and cashier checks! I wonder if everyone else misses the point of my blibbering blogs as much as the ad service. It kinda cracks me up. I have no idea what it will say tomorrow, maybe suicide hotline or something! BTW, you haven’t been clicking on the ads. I can tell. I earn twenty-eight cents for each click. Thus far, I’ve earned a whopping total of twenty-eight cents—and that’s because I was curious and clicked on it once! I love how my miserably pathetic current existence can be wrapped up into random, slightly off-topic consumable products!

flatline

I leave for a week of outdoor lab with tons of sixth graders in less than twenty-four hours, and I couldn’t be feeling much worse. Between the allergies and what I think is turning into a sinus infections, somehow being more desperately depressed than I have in well over a month or more, worrying about things going on here that I will be away from, and just an overall sense of hopelessness, I’m not sure how I’m going to function. On one hand though, it sounds rather beautiful to get the fuck outta here. Up in the mountains where I can’t get cell-phone reception or internet access. No phone calls telling me of Chad’s current date, no seeing online how much he is loving Brandon-free life, no coming home to the absence of what-was (however, I will miss the puppies fiercely) and though I’m not sure if I can physically get through it at this point, it does sound nice to have a week of pseudo reset button pushing. (Yes, I am aware that I am negative nancy today—she and I have become enmeshed lately.)

I remember the days (years) that I considered myself the truly happiest person I knew. Wonder if that person still exists somewhere inside? Probably. However, I do think he has been irreparably damaged.

gut punch

So, it finally happened. I knew it would. I’ve dreaded it. Tried to prepare for it. Apparently didn’t succeed.

A friend told me tonight that he was at the Beer Bust on Sunday (where else?) and saw Chad there with someone he was obviously either interested in or with. He said this person started paying more attention to him than to Chad and that it seemed Chad wasn’t too happy about this. Of course, appearances can be misleading, but still… He told me this with the goal of making me laugh (about the second part of the story). That wasn’t quite the reaction I had.

I knew this day would come. When I would hear about him being with someone else. Now there are only two more things I have to get through. Actually seeing him with someone else and finding out that he is ‘with’ someone else.

It is hard enough to think he left me for partying and to be ‘himself.’ And I never expected him to stay single and not fool around. However, I don’t know if there is anything that could hurt more. I can’t put into the words the love we had. The love he had for me. Where did it go, and why doesn’t he love me? People say not to take it personal, that it’s about him. Well, obviously, it’s not—there are others out there he is willing to be with that aren’t me. I’m not very good at math, but even I can figure that one out. It’s not that he wants to be alone, it’s that he doesn’t want to be with me. People ask what the big deal is. It’s not as if he’s all that cute or all that wonderful, they say. Actually, he is. No, not perfect, but he is the best man I’ve known, the kindest, the sweetest, the person that made me happier than I ever thought I could be. Yeah, it’s a a big deal that he doesn’t love me. It’s a big deal that someone else gets to hold him and kiss him. And I know it’s dramatic, but I truly believe—it’s a big deal because they won’t truly understand how wonderful he is, and he’ll be okay with that. Hell, it will probably even help.

I don’t get it. I’m sure it’s right in front of my face. I’m sure it’s so simple that it confuses me, but I can’t wrap my brain around him truly being gone. His love for me truly dying. My life continuing to go on without him by my side. Him being so happy leaving our life behind him. Leaving us. Leaving me.

The Internal States of Life on Pause

I am experiencing a new emotion today.

Sadness.

Oh, wait. No, that’s not really new for me, is it? Nor will it be a shock for those who read these words. I’m sure most will roll their eyes and shake their heads and ask themselves, ‘Really? Again? Why do I continue to read this drivel? I should get back to work. Oh, right, work. Ok, hearing about his sadness for the billionth time is still more enjoyable than working, at least for now. I’ll read on…’

I’ve not been crying or struggling to breathe. Just folded deeply into the blankets of hopeless melancholy. I am doing a fairly good job with teaching at the moment, and that is highlight of my redeeming attributes at the moment. Every other area leaves me looking around and stammering as I acknowledge where my life is.

The role of uncle is turning out to be one that requires endless love, unending worry and fear, and the lack of any power to make a difference as you see the destination clearly in the future and have no ability to alter the course or make an impact to deter the unavoidable.

The role of self-supportive, capable adult is also expertly skilled at evading my grasp. After realizing I was eighty some dollars overdrawn yesterday, I did three massages—one late last night, two early this morning. While rushing to the bank to deposit the cash to move to the black yet again, I called to check the balance, hoping my paycheck might have been deposited early. Within the hours I was asleep, my debt had increase to a little over three hundred in the whole. After freaking out (yet secretly hoping) that someone had broken into my account, I got online and saw that They had charged me over two hundred in overdraft charges. Fun. I decided to keep the cash, since even if I put it all in, I wouldn’t begin to dig out of the hole, and I still have things I have to purchase for being with the kids at outdoor lab all next week. Being in the hole is not a new sensation for me. However, I’d forgotten what it was like to face that particular joy on my own. When it happened with Chad, to me it was just a little bump. We would be fine. Things would turn around. We had all we really needed, so screw our absence of money. Things look and feel a lot different without him to be my mirror of what is really important.

The role of well-balanced sanity is so far left field that it seems like a distant fairy tale. As much as I talk myself through it, as much as others offer ‘reality,’ as much as I ‘accept’ the truth, the core of me is still waiting for Chad to come back. I don’t really realize that all the time. I’ve done a fairly decent job of continuing to live, to force myself to have experiences, to be in the moment. However, there are instances where I realize I am on pause, counting each moment as filler (not as my real life, just a formality I have to role play until my life starts again). The thought of him eternally absent still feels foreign and wrong—inconceivably impossible. It’s as if the things I do now don’t count. There aren’t consequences—good or bad. However, there are—no matter the sensations of this quasi-life.

I remember I used to be much better at role-playing. Actually, I nailed it to perfection. Having experienced a life where I had to do very little playing of roles, I find that I have either forgotten or have lost the ability.

Over Me

Old smoke stained walls
Dim sultry lights
Dark streaked wooden floors
Will they comfort you when you are hurting

White snow blowing
Everything turning in blurry forgotten haze
Momentary freedom and excitement
Will it desire you when you are old

Life blood of corn fermented
Oats and wheat aged to alteration
Daily numbing and forced forgetting
Will those show you how exceptional you are

Freedom to stay up till the sun
Liberty to shut your eyes until the moon
Autonomy to follow your crowd
Will it lead to fulfilled contentment

Acceptance of the chosen family
Acquiescence to their constant demands
Individuality found through the expectations of the pack
Will they let you be who you are

Independence from the needs of the one who chose you
Each day open to endless possibilities that are all the same
Quest to find yourself by dulling who you are
Will those arms hold you when your beauty dies

World of choices unfettered
Flash of lights and thump of drums
Man of who you are until you are not
Will it love you endlessly for the man you are meant to be

the night visitor

I was leaving the building. It was late, probably around ten or eleven at night. It was unusually dark and hazy. I was mumbling about how much money I had to pay, wondering how I was going to make ends meet. I noticed the tall man make his way down the light post. I didn’t think much about him. He was probably just fixing some problem or another with the light. He murmured something back, seemingly mocking my muffled ranting about money, but I let it go—I just wanted to get home. I turned left down the ally. I couldn’t make out the end, it was too dark, but I knew it was there. There were a couple dumpsters on my left and I glance at them as I past, noticing how I could barely make out their shape in the shadows. I felt him before I heard him. A low, growling mutter, again mocking me. My heart pounding, I turned around. His face was inches from mine, looking down at me. He was backlit by the street lamp blocking out his features, but I could tell he was beautiful, tall, swimmer’s build, and I was positive if I could have seen his face it would be beautiful. Beautiful and dangerous. Fear flooded through me, causing me to pause in terror. Although I couldn’t see it, he’s lips curved into a hungry smile. As his face lunged towards mine, I could see his eyes. His eyes piercing into mine.
I shot straight up in bed, hearing the scream for mom before I realized it had come from me. I looked around my dark bedroom. The clock showed a bright red Two AM exactly. Again, I looked around my room, disturbed and scared, still not completely sure where I was or what had just occurred. Taking in each corner of the room from the violated safety of the bed, revealed that I was alone, again. I was the only one in the room. I lay back down, the man’s eyes shining behind my closed lids, the cry for mom echoing in my ears, the arms of fear and loneliness enveloping me more securely than the blankets were able.

a buzz and a tear

I am starting the third day of school with the kids. I am sick already. Sore throat, chilly, and achy. What is it about children that makes me sick instantaneously? I think it is just a sign that I am supposed to live in the coffee shop, writing, for the rest of my life. You think? (Hopefully it goes away before we leave for a week of camping and outdoor lab with the 6th graders.)
I got my hair cut yesterday—my principal, being as cool as she is, was totally fine with the Mohawk, although she told me that it was going to cause a world of problems when she first saw me two weeks ago…then she laughed and told me she was kidding (poor woman has got a heavily tattooed, mohawked, fag teacher—she’ll be sainted one day)—and walked in the door of the barbershop, who should I see? Chad’s favorite barber, who he went to the whole time we were together. She apparently moved locations, since we used to go downtown and now I go to the suburbs about fifteen miles away. It seems I am learning how to prepare and deal with emotions when I see a situation coming, but I have yet to learn to rally when something unexpected occurs. She instantly got up and gave me a huge hug and asked how I was. I, being the pathetic creature I have become, felt the tears start falling down my face and my throat grow tight. She said that she saw Chad before she moved locations and that he told her that he had broken up with me, and that he loves me (I’m sure he meant it like I love the dogs, not in the way I wish he did). She said that she was totally and completely surprised—she’d seen us together and talked to us every two weeks for the years we were together. She and one other person yesterday told me that they just couldn’t believe that we wouldn’t get back together at some point. I wish they were right. Words are cheap, as are opinions, and wishes.

ashes

The first day of school has come and gone. I am no longer Brandon the Writer and coffee shop-goer. I am Brandon the Teacher. I remembered something about life before Chad. I found so much of ‘myself’ in my work. I sorta defined myself by it. I was Brandon the Youth Treatment Counselor. With Chad, work was something I just did—it did very little to define me. As it should be. Now, unfortunately, I am back in the role of Brandon as Teacher, and attempting to find some solid ground and safety there, as it seems there isn’t really any in the real world. I was really hoping he’d text to see how my day was. I knew he wouldn’t. Why would he remember today was the day the kids came back? His life doesn’t revolve around a bunch of scary children or me. However, it was my first day of beginning school of him not sending me off, texting to see how the day was going, calling after work, or coming home to me when he got done. To him, its just another day in the life he wants and chose. To me, its another reminder of how much he loved me, how much he doesn’t any longer, and of all I have had and lost.

On a completely brighter note, I wish to share a lovely mental picture with you. I was on my way to hear TB teach/preach yesterday. On the way, I drove by a firehouse. In the driveway, four or five firemen had set up their workout equipment, lifting weights and helping each other through calisthenics. Two or three of them had their shirts off. These weren’t the firemen you see in real life, these were the ones that stepped out of the firemen calendars. I nearly skipped church and sat in my car across from them—at least until they called the cops and had me arrested. There are not words to describe the scene. I have no idea why these gorgeous firemen are working in the burbs, but I think I may take another trip out there and set myself on fire.

forcing life

As much as I overanalyze and try to see every possible outcome to most any situation, it always comes as a bit of a blow when something hits me out of the blue—especially when it should have been obvious.

I am leaving for my date in about ten minutes. I have been coming up with different dinner options that he can choose from. What I didn’t expect, but what I should have, was how today has brought back so many specific memories of several first months of Chad pursuing me and our beginning dates. Most of the time, I am bombarded with thoughts of the life we built together and over what I had dreamed and thought we had. However, planning a date has rushed all those wonderful memories back of when we started and how much he wanted me and how much he loved me (I guess he can attest to be careful what you wish for, you might get it). I am going to do my best to push him out of my mind tonight and simply enjoy being with someone who wanted to go out with me. How you push the man you saw as your husband out of your mind while you’re on a date, I’m not really sure. Guess I’ll try and find out.

play, REWIND, play, REWIND, play, REWIND, REWIND, REWIND

Birthday celebrations for TB tonight, one of my dearest and most loved. I can’t believe how long I have known him now, and how much life has changed for the both of us. As always, it was wonderful to see the group of friends that are in that crowd, with the except of four of five people in other walks of my life, the people I love and trust most were there tonight. I got to spend a long time talking to TH. It’s been a long time since we have really gotten to talk, and it was wonderful. Of course, I did most of the talking and him the listening. However, he did the kind of listening where it seemed he really wanted to hear it. It was also the kind of listening where I knew he understood and truly cared. He even understood how stupid I feel still talking about it. It is one of the reasons I have spent so much time with ‘new’ friends the past several months and less with those who have been in my life for so long. Conversations with me come in certain cassette tapes, and you can pick: the black cassette plays all my hurt, confusion, anger, and hope around Chad (fun, I know, however it gets played the most), the clear cassette blabbers on about this book I’m writing and that book I hope is getting published and on and on about the blog which ultimately will lead you to replay the black cassette one more time (one, if you’re lucky, that is), and, finally, the rainbow camouflage cassette that plays self-deprecating humor, mildly amusing sarcastic repartee, and brief grumblings or gushings of being back at work. There you go, folks. You want to talk to Brandon (or Mr. Witt, as he is known from 7-3:10)? Well, pick a tape, those are your only options. You might as well start with the clear or the rainbow one as they both lead back to the black tape. Just in case you’re wondering where the black tape leads, it goes right back to itself. What? You’ve already played those tapes with the fabled Mr. Witt? Oh, too bad. Try them again. Of course, you could just put them down and walk away. I hear it’s fun. Seems to be the thing to do this year. Then, of course, walking away is best paired with immediately going out to the bar and having a rip-roaring good time. Wha, wha. Please insert black cassette into player. At the loud beep, please turn the tape over and hit play.

everything i'll never find again

“You’ve been in the past for awhile, I get a flash and I smile. Am I crazy, still miss you baby. It was real, it was right, but it burned too hot to survive. All that’s left is all these ashes. Where does the love go? I don’t know. When it’s all said and done. How could I be losing you forever, after so much time we spent together? Don’t know why I had to lose you, now you’ve just become like everything I’ll never find again—at the bottom of the ocean.” --Miley Cyrus, Bottom of the Ocean

I dreamed about him. All night. I have always hated dreaming. It only gets worse with time. To have him so near, to remember his touch, his voice, how much he really loved me at one point. Then to wake up and see life is still the way it is.

I wish I could pick one emotion and stick with it. I am so angry. Every day I get angrier and angrier. I think I’d be fine with that if it would drown everything else out. If I could just be angry and not love him, not miss him, not feel hollow. Fool.

His best friend’s boyfriend came home from the Army this week (he’d been gone for a year). I am so happy for them, that they get to be together. But, I am so mad and so jealous. I’ve always been emotional and always pretty in touch with my feelings, unfortunately. However, one emotion I have hardly ever had to deal with is jealousy. It’s just something I really don’t have in me. Except now. And I hate it. I want to just be happy for them, and I am, but I don’t get it.

I’m ready for this to end. Even if it means I somehow lose the love I have for him. It’s not like it does any good anyway—he doesn’t want it, and it only hurts me. I’m ready to quit mourning for him, quit wanting him all the time, quit feeling like my other half is missing. There is nothing that heals it, only distracts me for a time and then it’s back—sharper and more real than ever. I’m so mad. I’m not sure if I’ve ever really been this mad, and I know I’ve never hurt this much. There have been so many things in life that I have finally come to accept that I will never understand and never know the whole truth and/or reasons (until the end, maybe), why can’t I let his leaving me, his stopping loving me be one of them?

Life Continuation

Unintentionally, yesterday seemed to be filled with ‘I-don’t-care-fuck-you-get-on-with-it’ moments. Okay, maybe they were intentional. There were several, some big, some small. As small as having a frozen taco I’d made for Chad and I and hadn’t been able to eat yet (there are around twenty in the freezer) and later eating some of the pepper popcorn we’d bought to eat while we watch movies. I know that these seem silly and little, but they were rather huge for me, both things I’d been saving—things I felt I needed to save for when he returned. Well, he’s not returning. While many people have said, ‘It’s his loss, move on,’ it’s not that simple. It is his loss. He made a stupid decision (I guess the right one for him, since the party life makes him happier than me). However, it is also my loss. He’s the best man I’ve ever met. It can’t be cut down to simply his loss—it’s not. We both lost. However, it is time I move on. In every way. Even when I don’t feel like it. In that vein, there were several aspects of yesterday focused on that. Life may not be how I want it, but I can still enjoy the life I’ve got. In that vein, I’ve got a date on Saturday. Part of me feels guilty and sad for what that represents, but I am shoving that part away. I am choosing to just focus on the excited part of going on an actual date (you know, dinner, movie, the whole thing). It will nice to feel a little buzz of anticipation and curiosity. Just because I can’t have homemade tortillas for dinner everyday, doesn’t mean I can enjoy sonic cheeseburgers the rest of the time. Funny how everything comes back to food, huh?

Assignment during teacher meeting week...

I Am From

I am from fried chicken and mashed potatoes
Gathering on the porch savoring strawberries and pie crust

I am from the deafening symphony of crickets chirping, toads croaking, locus screeching
All encompassed by the magical lighting bugs twinkling as bats swoop overhead

I am from chicken feathers, the call of peacocks, the grazing of buffalo
From the cages of lizards, rabbits, and hamsters, and the love of a squirrel named Scamper

I am from sweaty summer days, shirts sticking to the skin
From frigid icy nights, toasty warm under heated blankets

I am from Praise Jesus, Trust and be healed
A life kept in secret

I am from a treasure trove of girly toys, husky slacks since jeans wouldn’t fit
From Quit Breathing—Brandon, you’re breathing

I am from the fear of cancer, becoming a familiar acquaintance of death
A constant companion of loss, of those who are loved leaving

I am from being held so tightly, being valued above all else
Formed into false perfection

I am from family always first
The Solid Rock, Unbroken around the thrown

meaningless and pretty

I just got back from a walk with the dogs in the rain. It was really beautiful. However, the umbrella with the lightening all around us was probably not a good idea. Got back okay, so I guess all’s well that ends well.

I took my ‘devil my care’ attitude to a new level tonight. I had an extremely cute massage client, so I decided I was going to be extremely unprofessional and ask him if he was single. He said yes. I asked if he was gay. He said he thought so. (right….). I asked him to dinner. I’ve NEVER asked anyone one a date before. Ever. I’ve only been asked. I figured what did I have to lose. It’s not like Chad would care or even look twice if I went out on a real date. The cute boy (who turned out to be forty-one—I about fell over) said no. Actually, he blushed fiercely and said that he was kinda a mess right now and had too much going on. He tried to keep explaining, but I told him that I got it. If anyone could understand being a mess and having too much going on…

I really do think I am ready to start going on dates again. Just dates, not looking for a relationship, but it would be nice to feel romantic and special. Even if it’s not real with the one I love. (Okay, we probably all know that I’m not really ready, but I don’t really care.) I’m not going to force anything, but if I comes up and it sounds fun/feels right, I will probably do it. The stupid thing is, if I thought it would upset Chad at all, I wouldn’t consider it. It make me sad that it wouldn’t bother him, but I can’t keep focusing on Chad and his feelings or mourning him not loving me. Like I tell my kids. Keep living life (fake it if you have to), it makes things better.

On a completely different note. See those stupid blue words above each post? Well, blogger was saying that they will pay the bloggee for each click people click on the links, so I thought, why not? (You know, because of all the thousands of people that follow my blog religiously.) If I don’t get published, maybe clicking can pay for the other half of the mortgage. So feel free to click away! ;)

the funhouse mirror

The Time Traveler’s Wife was great. Not quite as great as the book, but great nonetheless. I sobbed of course. I would have just because of how aching the book/movie is, but with all the connections with Chad around it, I cried even more. I recommend seeing it (or at least reading the book). –Unrelated, but related—I know Chad loves/loved me. I know it. I don’t get it.

Moving on…

I am noticing another strange dichotomy within me. While I am still fifteen pounds away from where I was when I was at my best, and still have many more weights to lift, I am more confident in my appeal than I ever have been previously. Which is strange, especially since I am not at all happy with my body, the love of my life doesn’t want me, and I am still in emotional pain nearly constantly. Rarely a day goes by that I don’t have someone trying to get me to go on a date or at least get me into bed. There are few who write/text/call nearly everyday. Some are nice and I answer, some aren’t and I don’t. I’ve never had the feeling that I could have nearly anyone I wanted (not that I can), but I do have more of that feeling now. For some reason, many people are treating me like a hot commodity. Obviously none of those people read this blog and realize how fucked up I am. Either way, it is a nice feeling—even though I know it’s not genuine. These guys see something there they desire—it might be real, it might not be. For instance when a guy came up and offered a sexual opportunity to me the other day and I turned him down, he got a little snippy and said, “Wow, I guess I shouldn’t have let the tattoos and the mohawk fool me.” This made me laugh. It’s very true. I guess I put out a physical vibe that I don’t really live up to—a vibe that after to talk to me for more than a second you realize isn’t reality. Maybe that is what all these guys are seeing—something they think is there and isn’t. Maybe they smell the raw wounds and think I’m easy-pickings. Maybe even a few of them see something genuine in me that they want. Maybe it’s that I finally, truly, don’t give a fuck what anybody thinks. I really don’t have anything left to loose, romantically anyway, I know that has a certain appeal. Whatever it is, I must say I am enjoying the sensation of so many heads turning and following me when I walk into a room. It’s fun to have the momentary delusion that I can have whomever I want. Except for the only one that I want. The only one I want to spend my life with. The only one I love with everything me. Other than that, it’s fun. Other than that.

seventeen can take so long

It’s amazing how dependent on writing I have become over the summer. I didn’t have a second to write on Thursday or Friday, and I feel like I am about to explode today. Hopefully, getting to write will bring some relief, as I am really struggling today (and last night). Maybe due to today being Saturday and seventeen weeks, staying up till 3AM for CP’s bday party last night, getting into the school routine, or maybe the combo.

I was shockingly pleased to discover how natural it felt to be back at school again. It didn’t hurt that they redid all the lights in the building. It is now so bright it literally hurts my eyes by the time I leave at the end of the day. However, since my classroom doesn’t have windows, I love it. My emotional health is so dependent on sunlight, that it has been hard to be in a dingy classroom—so I am thrilled with the change. And, while I would prefer to be writing all day every day, and have that be my career, I remember that I really do love teaching, I love my kids, and that I work with some truly amazing people that genuinely care about me (nearly everyone asked me immediately how I am doing with the Chad thing and if I got published yet—it was nice to be able to actually tell them progress is being made in both areas). It was also shocking to see how truly out of it I had been the last month and a half of school last year. I didn’t wrap up any of what I needed to do or get anything prepared like I should have. I really am thankful that nothing worse happened during my work hours outside of me turning into a zombie. I don’t really even remember what I did most of those days. While I am not back to my ‘normal,’ it is good to know that I will actually be able to be a real teacher and human with my kids again.

The routine has been hard. The first day, I reached for my phone to call Chad as soon as I left the building, just like I always did. I realized what I was doing before I even had the phone out of my pocket, but it still cut through me. Then, trying to come home and attempting to not think of the evening routine Chad and I had established. I am ready to quit grieving. Part of me feels like I should grieve forever—that I ‘owe’ it to the love Chad and I had, but I can’t. He’s not. He doesn’t have any desire of me, and I have to figure out a way to get over it. Remember and treasure what we had, but also somehow shrug and say, ‘Fuck it.’ I am cutting the antidepressants in half in the next day or so. They are causing some side effects that aren’t conducive to enjoying all aspects of life. However, I am nervous about it. I don’t want to feel wore than I do.

I am going to see “The Time Traveler’s Wife” tonight with RM. It is Chad’s favorite book—he made me read it. It was unreal. One of the most well-written, heartfelt books I have ever seen. I honestly don’t know how she wrote it—I am incapable of writing in such a way. I also don’t see how she can ever write again. It’s perfect. Truly perfect. Not one word or scene wasted, even ounce a treasure. There is nowhere to go but down for her. When I told Chad about movie months and months ago, he was thrilled and we instantly agreed we’d go see it on opening night. Since then, obviously, things have changed. I think he went to see it last night. One of my friends asked me when I am going to stop doing stuff like this to myself. I can see his point. I will be a wreck during the movie. I’m sure I will weep for all the characters lose in the movie, for all I have lost. However, avoiding it would be just as bad. I think it would give it even more power—this terrifying thing I can’t face. I have to face it. I have to. Just like I have to face that he doesn’t love me, that he finds the life he chose much more appealing and valuable than me, that he will never return, and that I have to get over it and get on with my life. Face things (wallow in them like I do for a while, maybe) and hopefully, they will not always control everything that you do. That you will be strong enough to flourish once more. Again, I am thankful for all I was blessed to have and loose, and I am thankful that I have the opportunity to continue to struggle to live the life I have been given and do all that I can to make it the life I desire (at least to the best of my power).

the death of summer

The last blog of summer. Sad. You’d think I was dreading going back to work more than I actually am. True, I would much rather do this each and every day, and get paid for it, but I know how good I have it. Teachers are spoiled rotten, and if I am lucky enough to at least be able to write during the summer and get published (even if only five people read my books) I will be satisfied and continue to enjoy my crazy children. As I have stated before, I am very nervous about what getting back into my old routine will do to me emotionally—cross that bridge when I get there, right…

Just so you can know what I am experiencing at the moment—Across from me, attempting to use the pay phone is a tall woman. Probably well over six feet. Her back ridged straight (she is the original inspiration for ‘stick up the ass’ it seems). She has on orangish Bermuda shorts, a thread bare ‘white’ t-shirt, and her keys on a rope around her neck. No bra. Her belly is large. Large. Hard and large. Like she is pregnant. Several times. All at once. Right now. Her breast hanging on either side of her large and hard belly—nearly half way down her hard and large belly. No bra. Large (or at least long) breasts on large and hard belly with no bra. Oh, and they are jiggling. Maybe quivering. Maybe they are scaring themselves. By the way, she’s not moving as she stands there. Not at all. Remember the stick up her ass? Yeah, well, she’s not moving. However, her breasts (long over large and hard belly, no bra) don’t seem to know that she is stationary. Still, they move to their own rhythm. Maybe they are simply trying to get away. I don’t really know who to feel more sorry for—the long and syncopated breasts or the hard and large belly—maybe neither. It seems her gums (sans teeth) seem the saddest. I tell ya, if I get published, this lady is making a cameo in some novel. You can’t make this shit up. Oh, oh! Maybe I’ll make her a nun! Or a televangelist! Actually, I see her as a dog breeder who raises Pomeranians, lives with her husband Clyde who is skinny (but has long balls [good for him—Jealous!]) somewhere in mid Okalahoma. There will be a tornado, a few lost puppies, maybe a cringe worthy accident with farm equipment involving one of the large twins (breasts or balls), but through it all, there will be love. Love. Love conquers all, dammit. Good thing I’ve started writing fantasy!

prophecies for the week

I just had one of those perfect massages (which is great, since I rarely pay for a massage and half the time I regret that I did). Here’s how you know a good massage: When it’s over, you aren’t sure if it lasted five minutes or five hours—time simply stopped and the entire world became bodily sensation (don’t make that dirty—unless you’re having a hard day, then go ahead). The interesting thing was (and this has happened with three different people in this past week—all of which upon meeting them for the first time), he began talking about what an amazing energy I have. That the love and power flowing from me is palpable. That he could sense that I have been in great pain and that I cannot figure out the ‘why’s’ of my life, then preceded to ask me what that pain was. He told me that there are others coming in my life soon that will change everything and that he sees great things heading towards my path—that I am calling those things to me with all the power and love I have in me. Most of the time I would scoff at this (and honestly, I did—albeit to myself). However, he is truly the third person who has told me the exact same things this week. Different wording, but exactly the same meaning and message—all within five minutes of meeting these random people, and not talking about the stuff that has been going on, nor looking sad or depressed. So either I have more readers of this blog than I actually do, I am getting stalked by a group of people, I am giving off some strange energy that makes me appear to be a hippy, or there is some truth that I need to be hearing—maybe God trying to give me some hope—MAYBE. I don’t really know what to do with it, not that I have to do anything. Most of the time, like I said, I would simply dismiss it all, but after the third time in this short amount of time and with the consistency of the message from three unrelated people, I must admit that I am a little open to what ‘the universe’ might be trying to tell me.

routine inter--rup---ted

It’s the last Monday of summer. I already had my last Thursday and Friday, and I didn’t even think about it. . . hmmmm, wonder why. . .

I am not dreading going back to school, surprisingly. (Although I am dreading a week of 6^th grade outdoor lab that is coming all too soon.) I am desperately going to miss being able to sit at the coffee shop and write all day. It really is the life I want (at least part of the life I want). I am a little nervous of getting back into the routine of things. I was firm in the schedule of wake up, take Chad to work, get Caribou, go to work, go work out, come home, make dinner, spend an evening with Chad, sleep next to the man I loved, and then do it all over again. (No wonder he left me.) I am scared about facing that much of a routine without him. Beyond scared. I’m not sure if I can distract myself enough like I’ve been able to this summer.

Okay, the more I think about it, the more scared I become and the closer to tears—and I’m so sick of that. New subject.

Having lived at the coffee shop this summer has make me just a tiniest touch entitled. My favorite spot is against the wall, sort of in the middle of the shop, snug against the counter with all the napkins and such. I feel surrounded and protected on two sides and I can see everyone around me if I choose to. It’s nice. However, nearly everyday, I catch myself starting to look up at whoever is there adding cinnamon to their drink or whatnot and asking them to get me a stirrer or a napkin or to throw my trash away. Several times I have even opened my mouth to make such a request before it hits me that they really aren’t there to serve me (they are, but they aren’t aware of that yet). Even today (I am one seat over from my favorite spot—now occupied by a young guy with horrible shorts, a faded blue-trying-too-hard tee-shirt, and lots of acne—oops, was that mean? Well, the bitch shouldn’t be in my spot now should he?), I began to lean over and ask him to refill my cup of water. Then I realized what I was doing and stopped (and noticed the acne---your really don’t wanna sit in my spot. Plus, he’s only doing facebook, anyway. I am working. I am writing. I am blogging. I am emptying my soul for my multitude of dependant and loyal fans. I am Writer. Hear me type.) Luckily, I will soon be back to school and there will plenty of little servants to run and fetch me water, wash my car, and pluck my dead chickens for me. Hey, who said teachers just give-away A’s nowadays!

Oh, oh! He must have been looking over my shoulder and reading about his acne! He left and I am now in MY seat! He must have run off to call the Jessica Simpson number for Proactive! Good for him!

the half-way reset button

Yesterday was such a whirlwind of a day. The first half was torture and literally pure, indescribably agony. The second was spent all day at car lots with my folks, trying to find a car. We finally did, and after about six hours, we agreed on the price and finished all the paper work. I hate that I am thirty-one and have to have my folks help me out (who can’t afford to either). My insurance covered half, and they covered the other. I got a 2007 Suzuki Forenza. It only has 38,000 miles (and it was one of the most affordable ones we saw). For only $8,000 (after mom bargained them down—you should see her, she is fearless!). We’ll see if there is a catch somewhere. However, for now, I feel like I have a brand new car, with a little hail damage. It is nicer than what I ever thought I would have again, although I know most people will look at it and tilt their noses, but I love it! Plus, while it seems like all used cars are either red or white (both of which I detest!), this one was black. So, Yay! It felt like sort of a new beginning. I don’t have the man I love and want to spend my life with, and the car isn’t a brown Mini Cooper. However, I have a life that has experienced a love most people don’t get to have, a new little black car (named Bane—bonus love if you can tell me where I got that name) that I love, a editor-in-chief looking at my book, fantastic friends, wonderful family, and a gorgeous new nephew. Through the pain, there is beauty, and reasons to be thankful!

Final Ceremonies

I’m not sure how, but this hurts more than I thought I would. I told myself I wouldn’t blog until later today so I wouldn’t be too emotional, but I have to write. It’s the first place I went.

Chad came and got his stuff. I helped him load it in the back of his borrowed car. Now all the boxes that had his name on them are gone, as is the clothes rack that has been waiting patiently for his clothes to return. All packed up and loaded away. He stood there hugging me so tightly beside his car, so lovingly, before he left—knowing I was hurting so badly. I was the one to pull away from him finally. Then I ran back in the house and he drove away, again, just like sixteen weeks ago today. He obviously loves me (obviously not in love with me, but loves me) and is obviously happy in this new life of his. I can’t grasp it. How did he loose the love he had for me, how did he quit loving the life we were building? Why can’t I stop loving him, quit loving the life we had? Why can’t I let go of the hope that he might come back one day when I know he never will?

When he left, I went a little manic. I threw away all the food and canned stuff he had had here, and I took some of his stuff out in the yard and buried it. I knew I was going to do that, but I didn’t know it would hurt so badly. There was the plant he gave me when I started my new teaching job. It sat on my desk for two years and I loved it so much. On the way home from school this year, it died in the car from the heat. I have been watering it all summer trying to get to come back, moving it to different windows thinking the sun might help. When I pulled it out of the pot (I couldn’t make myself get rid of it too), there weren’t even any roots left. I also put in mints and a matchbox from dinner we’d had that he’d kept by his bedside. The two chap sticks that he always bought for us (really nice ones), were also buried, as well as the list he had written out a month or so before he left, listing all the prices of hotels and flights we could do to San Diego this summer. I also erased all the text messages where he told me how much he loved me that I had saved on my phone from him. I can’t help but hope that the symbolism of something coming up from what was buried in the ground will transpire, but I know the only thing it really represented was death. Death of the love I never thought I’d have, death of the life I never dreamed I actually get to live. Death of whatever love Chad still has for me, if any. I gave myself fully to him. More than I have ever with anyone. More than I thought I could—it was so scary. When he left, that part of me didn’t stay behind, it went with him. It will always be with him. Maybe something will grow to replace what has been torn away, but maybe not. Maybe it just stays ripped, stays gone. Constantly longing for arms that will no longer hold me, lips that will no longer kiss me, a man that I can never call my own or belong to again, a life that was better than I ever dreamed that is no longer possible.

food of life

I just returned from watching Julie & Julia with MD and MD (huh, I hadn’t noticed that now the MS got married and is now MD, she has the same initials as MD). It was a very good, cute movie. It was all about food, so of course I related to it. The very first scene showed Julia Child feeding a bite of trout to her husband as they ate at a restaurant. They were both so overwhelmed by the goodness of the morsel, all they could do was make noises. If I had a penny for all the times Chad and I did that during our trip to San Francisco alone…

I was not expecting much of this movie to make me think of Chad, which may be why I broke into tears more than once. During one scene, Julie and her husband get in a fight and he leaves her for about a day, but she wasn’t sure if he was coming back. The following night, as she turns the corner to her house, there he is walking up to her. She just stops on the sidewalk, tears in her eyes, and asks in heartfelt desperation, “Are you back? Please tell me you’re back.” He said yes.

I, obviously, received a different response.

Another scene made me realize one of the things I miss so much about Chad that I hadn’t been aware of. Julia Child had been working on her cookbook and trying to get it published for over eight years. After another rejection letter, she gives up. Her constantly supportive husband reminds her how much he believes in her and in her work, and demands that she keep going and promises her someone will publish her book. I am blessed that I have so many, many people who have always believed in me, but Chad was the king of that area. Especially in my writing. It is due to him I am even attempting this fantasy series. He never questioned that it would get published. Even before I started writing it. It wasn’t an option to him. I was going to get published. How do you let go of that?

knock out the wind

I had one of those moments today that cut right through you. I had lunch with Chad. He has very kindly been reading my first draft of the fantasy series. It’s only thanks to him that I even attempted it, so it seemed right that it be him that read it first. As I was waiting for him to come in (I was watching for him in his normal blue, green, or pink button down shirt and khaki pants—I forgot Fridays are casual days), this gorgeous guy walks in, white polo and jeans, earphones stuck in his ears. I watch him walk through the door and turn to come towards me, and I hope that Chad doesn’t show up right then and catch me checking out this hot guy. It wasn’t till after a second or so, when he looked me in the eye, that I realized it was Chad. I guess it seems strange, but his looks aren’t what I miss the most, so I tend to forget how beautiful I find him on just a purely physical level. I was glad he hadn’t caught me checking out some other guy (although it would be good enough for him—like he’d even care), but it was an intense ache when I realized it was him. Maybe I shouldn’t date beautiful people.

On a side note, when we were talking about what he hopes will happen in future installments, he mentioned that he hopes the two main characters will get back together. He said he likes a happy ending and that they were so good together. I actually laughed out loud and asked if he was serious. He smiled and said he was. I told him I wasn’t even going to touch that one. At the beginning of the story, when I started writing it, they were never even going to break up. Funny how things happen. Art imitating life.

As ever, it was wonderful to see him and easy to be with him, natural. I love him on such a basic core, gut level. I simply love HIM. Nothing makes sense.

once upon a thursday

Today has truly been a summer day. No working (even though it was planned). Early morning coffee with a new dear friend, tattoo touchups, afternoon coffee with a friend, a two in the afternoon 3D movie, a monsoon of a rainstorm, a hot hair cut, a delightful walk with the dogs, and back to the coffee shop to show of the brighter tats, great hair, new mermaid belt, a super tight black tank top, and two cock rings (worn as bracelets—yep in that kinda mood) and maybe even do a little work on the next book—we’ll see how the night goes.

I have a ton to be thankful for today. While working with pictures of Gavin last night, trying to move them to a disk for his daddy (who is my little brother—how strange is that!), all my photos on my Aperture 2 program disappeared. This included the photo book that I have easily spent twenty hours on this year. Every time an event happens, I add a spread and make comments. Therefore, the first few months of the year that Chad and I were together were all laid out with sweet and memorable comments made at the time—that I didn’t want to loose; also pages and comments from the time since that, documenting were I was—physically and emotionally. I was sick. They disappeared before my eyes and though I tried everything I could think of, they were gone. I couldn’t even cry—it was too much. It was just one more kick in the face—like I couldn’t even keep the few good moments I had left with him this year. Today, I called the Apple help, and after a long lecture of how I need to read such and such and do some computer something another, the man fixed it by having me hit two different keys at the same time. All the pictures (and the book) flashed back on the screen. I did get a little teary. I was so happy and thankful.

I was intending on ranting (in a very fun and sarcastic way) about how the ridiculous people around me today have been. . . well. . . ridiculous. Women drivers (not all, straighten your panties out, but two that for sure fit the stereotype today and yelled at everyone else as they did so), too serious people that can’t get their heads out of their asses to know that if they could just laugh along with the rest of us that they wouldn’t be the ones getting laughed at, too sensitive people (I know, I know—I’m a black pot) who are looking to be offended, and overly loud/overly gay twinks screaming across from me in the coffee shop. It would have been a very fun and enjoyable blog. However, I will end with this little ditty.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to hold on to the memories and photos that I have. I thank you again for the goodness and joy you allowed me to experience, no matter how it crashed around me. If the pain I had gone through previously prepared me for the beauty I got to live in for a while, then it was worth it. And, if this pain is the cost for what I had, it too is worth it, and I am grateful.

quick to crack, slow to dry

I am sitting down getting ready to start planning the second installment of the Men of Myth series. Actually, I need to plan some aspects that will carry on to the fulfillment. Of course, this means that I am terrified. I’m not sure why it is half the time I sit down to write I get scared. Well, of course I’m sure—I’m afraid it will suck. That I am wasting my time. That it will all be for naught. That I’ll poor all my love into it and it will run away and die—or something like that. I wonder if I get published if I will be able to relax and trust the process or if I will always be preparing for the rejection. Similarly, I wonder, if I get into another relationship, when (if ever) I will be able to trust that they really love me and aren’t going to leave. Having been there already, I’m not really sure if I will be able to ever trust that again.

I’ve been doing a really good job of not checking his status on facebook all the time. It helps to not see all the stuff he is doing that is oh-so-wonderful and worth sacrificing our life together for. It’s surprising how much will power it takes to not look. I guess part of me aches for the slice across the heart to see how happy he is in his life. I also can’t comprehend how I pray for his happiness and fulfillment, and that I truly want him happy, yet it hurts so badly to know that he is. Of course, THOSE are the prayers that are answered.

Wow, I am so nervous that I have sat here for ten minutes since writing the last paragraph just staring at the computer. That doesn’t bode will for getting some good planning done. Most of the time, blogging gets me fired up and ready to dive in. Today, I kinda just wanna curl up and be tiny.

Broken Shackles

The hum of the air conditioner and the whirling of the clothes in the dryer give off a peaceful hum through the silence of the house. My fingers making an un-syncopated rhythm over the keyboard. Over it all, the crickets’ singing drifts through the walls separating me from the backyard. The dogs are below my feet, taking shelter beneath the office desk. Outside of this, there is no world. There is no other sound, no other heart beating, nothing waiting on me. If I stay here, if I don’t speak, if I don’t turn on the television, no other sound will break into this evening. I’m not lonely. Actually, for a few moments anyway, I relish the solitude. I can vaguely recall this feeling from before—knowing that I can choose to do anything I want. I can stay here, write all night, watch TV until dawn, curl up with the dogs, get drive through, go have sex, fall asleep early, sit on the porch swing and drift away. I’ve always loved freedom. I still do. There is peace in it, albeit somewhat tortured. I preferred the ‘freedom of my chains,’ but I remember the appeal of this life. There is a beauty to it, but it is a hollow beauty, a forced freedom, a facade to be whole alone. I can finally recall that I used to be at peace on my own. Indeed it was one of the main reasons Chad had to work so hard to get me to date him. I didn’t want to give it up, I was free. So I thought. I can now see it for what it was, for what it is—although having had the alternative, it is now tainted. Whatever choice I make, at least in part, I make to validate the so-called-freedom. Should I choose to, I could change everything tomorrow. Quit my job, change careers, move to another house, change my life. I’ve done it before. More than once. Freedom. Freedom. Such an important thing that it used to be my password for everything (not anymore, don’t bother with the ATM just yet). Turns out, my definition of freedom was unrealized previously. I discovered freedom in the expectations of another, in the happiness of another, in the arms and fears of another. While the walls of the house are not screaming at me in silent torment as they were, neither are they warm and welcoming as they were for a time. So, I have found and lost freedom. I know that I can live, survive, and, at times even enjoy the replacement I have now. However, sadly or blessedly—however you want to see it—I cannot be fooled to call what I have now what I used to call it before. Well, I guess I will call it that, but that doesn’t mean I’m fool enough to know I’m not using its real name. So. Freedom. I think I’m off to experience some of that oh-so-precious freedom right now. Why not? I’m free again, right? Free.

FUCK YOU

If one more person tells me that things work out the way they are meant to be or that since Chad left he obviously wasn’t the right person for me, I am going to fucking rip their heads off. Why do we believe that? If a girl really thought that she was going to meet a fairy godmother, loose a glass slipper, and bam there’s the prince of her dreams with a Johnson the size of a cucumber, she’d be called a fool. She’s no more a fool than those who believe everything happens for a reason. Sure, God can use everything that happens and life continues to go on, so of course the things that happen in the past shape and mold our future, but those are not the same thing. Just because something happens or someone makes a choice, it doesn’t mean that is how things are meant to be or that they are making the right choice! Just because Chad left doesn’t mean that was supposed to happen, and just because he chose partying hard and being free and single doesn’t mean he made the right choice. He made the easy, no responsibility, party your ass off cus it doesn’t matter, I’m too afraid to really love choice. And I am left without the man I want to spend my life with NOT because that is what is supposed to happen, simply because it DID happen! Sure, if I meet someone somehow more amazing than Chad (I don’t see how, with the exception of actually loving me enough to stick around), I will be able to say, ‘Wow, all that was for a reason, to lead me here.’ I’m sure I will. I call bullshit on myself right now. I was Chad’s to loose. Period. It was his choice, not the universe or fate or whatever. He’s the one who is genuinely happier with his mind foggy and blurry than with in reality with me. Yes, things will work out one-way or another…at least until they don’t. And, as you can tell (though I love him no less), I am deep in my anger phase. Deep. Furious. Of course then comes Saturday when he comes over to get the rest of his stuff. I’d like to stay in the mad stage, but we all know I will slip back to the sad. Either way, it is fucking ridiculous, fucking stupid, pathetic, and a waste! If I ever see a block of gold sitting in the street, I will shit on it and leave it behind because I would just be too much damned work to carry it to the bank to get cashed. But, maybe I’ll bother to pick up the penny beside it. That looks easy.

quickie

The BBQ was fun last night. It was good to see people I love and hear how they have been. (JS’s new tattoo is beyond sexy, btw.) More than anything, just to simply be in their presence. Sometimes I forget how beautiful my friends are.
Having been (and continuing to be) so extremely busy—I haven’t even had time to work out in a couple days or go to the coffee shop and write, really write—has reminded me how much I USED to enjoy being single. Also, being around people (no, not those at the BBQ), has reminded me how bored I can get with others, or at least how much it makes me need some Brandon time. I think this is part of the fear/confusion with Chad. I never felt that way with him, and I was able to recognize how rare that was. Obviously he didn’t experience the same. Again, I woke up to Facebook flaunting in my face (without me checking) all the lifestyle choices that he is finding so much more important than me. If I didn’t love the other aspects of it, I would get off Facebook. It’s probably good for it to be shoved into my face, that way I can’t pretend that the man I love still exists. He does, I’m sure, but is being shoved so far underskin that he might as well not.
I am quickly becoming a baby addict. I am struggling knowing that I probably will not get to see Gavin until Monday. It is entirely too long. There must be true love there as well. I can simply sit a stare at him endlessly and not get bored either.
I haven’t time to really blog, but I had to vomit a little bit of my guts just to be able to function the rest of the day. How do other people who can’t afford therapy get by without blogging?