Ghost of Halloween Past

In an act of pure ridiculousness, I popped out of bed at six this morning, bright eyed and ready to go. I normally don’t get to sleep in on the weekends due to the massage business, so two days of actual sleep was pretty amazing. For the first time in weeks, I’m not exhausted (maybe months)! Despite the emotional drama the past two days provided, my body was extremely thankful for the respite—as well as my house, which is cleaner than it has been since before it belonged to one person (thanks, Mom and Dad)!
Today is the school ‘Halloween’/‘Fall Celebration’ Party at my school, which means wild and crazy kids, lots of parents (not of my kids, of course), and teachers in silly outfits. Most of the time I go all out for this, but as I am skipping Halloween this year and don’t have money, I am wearing ‘cowboy’ clothes that I used to wear in high school. Yee-haw! (Which was one of my nicknames in college, btw—You’d think in cow-town Greeley a Mid-West boy in wranglers and boots wouldn’t have stuck out so much, but he did. Course, a fag in those clothes probably does stick out more than the average Hillbilly. And, no, not wearing the wranglers today. I could diet for ten years and still never be able to fit in those again. Good gracious.
I can feel myself starting to go a place I promised I wouldn’t go, so I am going to stop for today, and hopefully, I will be able to make it through tomorrow without blogging—I’m going to focus on seeing Gavin dressed up as a Dalmatian (his daddy’s outfit from when he was Gavin’s age)—yep, that’s how rich we are—recycling costumes from twenty-one years ago. Woo Hoo! However, he will be the cutest Dalmatian puppy ever (don’t tell his daddy I said that.)

Snow Daze

Day two of snow days at school. Overall, pretty great. Except that we have to make them up in June, apparently. It all makes sense that the district didn’t build in snow days into our school calendar. This is the first year Colorado has seen snow in over a century. Everyone was shocked.

I literally spent my last dollar on a coffee at my gay coffee shop, so that I could get out of the house for a bit. It would be a perfect day for multiple massages, with no school, and all. Of course, most people aren’t willing to risk dying for a massage. Although, it would be nice if they did. Risk, that is—not actually die. Unless, they paid me first. Just kidding. Really.

It really is gorgeous outside. It’s the most beautiful kind of snow, never ceasing a gentle decent to the earth, well over a foot deep, brilliant white, making everything magical. Hopefully, you’ve noticed, but even if you haven’t, I’ve done a pretty good job not talking about what I normally talk about the past few blogs (intentional)—not because it’s not an issue, but because maybe if I can stop here, I can force my brain and heart to do a reset. So far, no such luck. But still… This weather doesn’t help. It brings back so many memories (laying in bed in the morning, arms wrapped around each other, watching our world turn into crystal paradise, knowing we had nothing to do but be with each other all day, warm and cozy in the house—the deep snow we trudged through as we loaded up all his things before he drove away—).

Moving on.

While I hate that winter’s here, I wish everyone could see the puppies (even Dunkyn with is drastic new hair cut). The joy they have in the snow makes it worth being cold and wet to take them on a walk. Dolan goes beside himself (which, if you know Dolan, is really saying something). His head barely breaks the top of the snow, but he somehow cavorts all fifty pounds of him into this leaping dolphin and dives in and out of the snow, sheer bliss over his doggish countenance. Then, he shoves his head as low to the ground, and tunnels through the snow like a crazed prairie dog, only to take a final leap and plunge his head back into the snow, burying his nose in the snow and holding it there until he snorts and shakes it all off. Dunkyn, takes much more after his daddy, plods along, equally buried in snow, but constantly chowing down like a cow in the middle of wet dream of alfalfa.

And, so, I shall soon return home (as long as my car can get onto my street—I barely got away from my street) to walk the dogs, wait for massage appointments that won’t come with this snow, watch lots of TV (you really need to check out Vampire Diaries and Eastwick), and eat let over food in my freezer (and a good note, I’ve finally started cooking again—so that’s a good sign right?—now if I can just make myself put the Christmas tree [this Sunday is the day I always do it, but I don’t see that happening this year]). All in all, happy snow day, everyone!

because talking about someone else is easier than talking about me again

What seems like mere days ago, Obama was giving his presentation to the HRC (Human Rights Campaign [equal right for all humans, gay and straight—including marriage, etc {you know, the yellow equal sticker on the blue background…}]). I watched portions of it on Youtube.com. It was very good, as to be expected. He really is a very good speaker (although, I don’t think he is as wonderful as everyone raves—compared to Bush’s public speaking, for sure, but that’s not saying much). Obama was funny, sarcastic and seems to be talking to a room full of friends. He even made pretty good gay jokes (like he knew he had finally made it now that he was opening for Lady Gaga—whether he wrote that, or someone else, who cares—still made me guffaw). He spoke extensively about how he was going to fight to end DADT (Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell [the ‘protection’ for gays in the military put in place by Clinton {paint your face white, maybe no one will notice}]). I only watched a third of it, because I was running late to something or other and then never returned. However, what I did see, I liked. Even as I listened, my cynical side took over and kept going, ‘whatever, words are cheep—like when you said when you were running that you didn’t support gay marriage.’ I was guilty of the same thing that annoyed me so much right after Obama was elected. I didn’t vote for the man, but I wished he could have had a couple weeks of hope and seeing what he would do before we crucified him. However, it soon became apparent that he was like every other president before him, saying whatever he could to get into office and then do exactly what he damned well pleased—no matter what is really best for our country. Same show, different actor. Despite my cynical viewing of his speech, I had to admit, and admit still, that it was very cool to see a president speak at gay event. (Maybe another president has, I don’t know, but I doubt it.) However, even a fox would be willing to give flowery words and cozy up to a coop of hens if he thought he could schmooze them into handing over the newly hatched chicks.
Sure enough, days later, Obama has promised to veto, scratch, whatever correct political word means to get rid of, the bill, proposition, whatever word means to make law or something, the [thing] that is coming up to end DADO. (Best of luck deciphering meaning from that sentence.) Just as his funding of more and more troops is completely the direct opposite of what he said he would do, what he promised he would do (not that I agreed with his military plan in the first place, you don’t just automatically withdraw tons of troops). Just as he swore he would run an open and non-secretive presidency (right…..). He made seemingly genuine and sincere promises and statements to a world of gays and lesbians (and all the other initials they now tack on the GLBT [so stupid] {actually, I think the lesbians made us change it to LGBT—they always steal our toys from the sandbox} and reneged hours later.
None of this shocks or even makes me that nauseous. It’s what they do, and why I am cynical and don’t really believe much real or honest (good) change can happen from a president. Wow, Obama is a liar and a deceiver. Big news! However, what has blown me away (and sadly still does surprise me) are so many people’s reactions. The gays’ responses I read were vastly of the opinion that Obama is doing this so that he can take credit it for it later when he single-handedly removes DODT himself later (among other Christ-like actions)—because that kind of selfish arrogance is exactly what we need in a leader. Maybe that is what he will do, but I have the tiniest inkling of doubt. You know, just a morsel. Thankfully, there were a few gays asking why so many of our brothers and sisters are still drinking the Kool-Aid. They were promptly pounced on and devoured, but still. Likewise, when he won the Peace Prize (seriously?) there were teachers here (and many others that I saw elsewhere) that were in tears by how wonderful and historic it all was. How it said such beautiful and great things about our country and our time. I agree, I still love our country and I wouldn’t live in any other time (Unless I could go back a year or so and hit pause permanently), but the devotion and ridiculous blindness to which people follow this man is terrifying and truly makes me loose respect for so many when they act like sightless, brainwashed sheep. I don’t think you have to hate the man (I don’t), and you don’t even have to see him for the self-serving liar he is. However, have the brains to not see him as a fucking deity for Pete’s sake. Don’t throw yourself into the fire because he says you’d be a pretty sacrifice.

coming to terms with the truth about me

You would think, with my negative attitude and outlook on life this year that I wouldn’t forget how stupid and self-serving people are. And, really, I don’t; however, it still baffles me at times the levels to which people go.
(On a roughly connected side note—for the past two weeks I have had old woman after old woman give me examples of how old women are some of the most rude and self-involved creatures on the planet. You think you see a sweet old lady and you start to smile inwardly at the tender grandmotherly feelings that begin to gestated within you, and then Wham! She darts in front of you, nearly clipping your bumper to then proceeds to slow down abruptly so that you nearly rear-end her—or without a casual glance over her shoulder, she cuts in front of the five full carts in line at the grocery store, and places her eight times on the conveyer belt, only to spend fifteen minutes trying to figure out which store she is in so that she can use the right saver’s card, followed by an extended portrayal of the ‘how I lost my memory’ game as she attempts to either figure out how to use the credit card machine or recall how to write a fucking check. {Wheew, Thanks! I needed that!} Now, back to our previously scheduled blog.)
After I take my shower and get dressed, but before I spend the fifteen seconds to do my hair, I always take a few minutes to check my four or five websites that I loiter multiple times a day. This morning, one of them provided me with a joyous video of Pat Robertson (who is slightly better than dearly departed Jerry Falwell [wonder how long he will have to rot before his very name ceases to cause my blood to boil]) extolling his vast and superior knowledge of the gay culture, agenda, and its people at large. I am very thankful that I got the chance to hear him tell his following minions about me, as I had forgotten who I really am—no wonder I’ve haven’t felt like myself this year—I’m sure I’ll be better now that I can get back to my life’s ambition of destroying marriage. He reminded me that I don’t want to get married. I might say I do, I might have thought I really wanted that with Him, but I didn’t. No, not at all. I just wanted to prove a point that marriage is a falsity and that it is my way of obliterating the so-called marriage of others. What a relief that was. I thought I was depressed, shattered, and heart-broken. Fortuitously, I was wrong. I was just upset that my agenda had been interrupt. Now that I remember, I can quickly return to destroying the liberties of our ‘free’ nation. I had also forgotten that the vast majority of America doesn’t want me to get married, so therefore, I shouldn’t. I also forgot (as did dear, dear Pat) that half of our country wanted slaves at one point—thank goodness the votes finally turned around in favor of all those poor little Blacks. What a relief! I’d hate to think we might have had to go to war in order to give humans equal rights instead of simply waiting for everyone to get on the same page.
So, my lovely Pat, even though I cringed at the increasingly sagging flesh quivering on your jowls, it was good to see you this morning. Thank you for taking the time to meet with all your close gay friends and seeing through their human disguises and recognizing the satanic terrorists that they really are. Hopefully, you did your Christian duty and didn’t just destroy them with words but sliced open their bellies with your sacrificial knife so that you could extricate their souls and redeem them from the fires of Hell. I need a friend like you. It would mean a lot if you could come show me the love of Christ sometime next week. I’d like to see you Monday, but I have my ‘Corrupt Children and Puppies’ meeting that night, followed by a séance to cause the straight divorce rate to continue to swell. Are you free Tuesday?
(And to think I also thought I’d have time to discuss the brilliance of Obama’s Peace Prize—you know, since he’s solved all the world’s problems in a few short months. I guess I’ll have to save that for another day.)

the hands i do have

My dear friend TB often used to talk about how folding fitted sheets was always a sad chore for him. It was that time, more than any other, when he would come face to face with being alone, being single. He is much, MUCH, more stoic than I and can appreciate life alone more than I have been able to muster. However, the act of folding fitted sheets (a job much easier with the help of an extra pair of hands) brought his then-solitary life to the forefront.
I have such an event coming up next month—not folding sheets—and I didn’t think it would bug me as much as it has in the past week. I wasn’t really worried about, I wasn’t happy about facing it alone, but I knew I could handle it (He [I think I need to quit using his name so freely, he said it was fine years ago when we were together, but I realize I have no such permission now that we are not, and that isn’t really respectful of me] was with me the last time and made a truly unfun experience almost enjoyable). However, as I planned for it, a picture of how much life has changed in ways I didn’t want came sharper and sharper into focus and, at times, was even stealing my sleep.
The other thing about me, in spite of being enmeshed, co-dependant, needy, is that I don’t like to ask for help. I don’t want to need and it makes me feel rather pathetic to ask for it. And if I do need something, I want the other person to somehow automatically know and initiate the conversation. While still not reality, that option is a lot more likely when you are sharing your life with someone.
Maybe in desperation, maybe in defeat of my attempt to be solitary, I reached out to TB yesterday as asked him to walk with me through this. He quite literally flew within seconds to figuratively stand by my side. While the event next month will be much different, more lonely, and harder than it was before, God (and TB) provided me with the opportunity to look at the love I do have right here and now, see those that have chosen to continue to walk side-by-side and at times hand-in-hand with me, and see how very loved, blessed, and cared for I am.

Request

Everyone has dreams. I know that. Everyone fantasizes about something bigger than themselves. Something special, lasting. Something that reaches beyond our own scope and touches a multitude in a unique way. I know I’m not the only one with those yearnings. Therefore, I also know that I am in no way guaranteed to see those desires come to fruition (I’m beginning not only to accept that ‘beautiful’ fact of life, but expect it). Sure, I do believe that I will get published (sometime), and see to see my book/s on shelves and hopefully provide to others what so many books have provided for me—then again, I believed that Grandma would be healed and that I’d finally found the person to share my life. What do I know?
Knowing such things to the very core me (or not knowing them, I guess) makes my experience last night so much sweeter. So much more magical. You know I don’t use other’s names unless I have permission (or they are my infant nephew), however, I’m going to break that rule for this blog. Those of you who knew me from childhood already know what I’m going to say.
Patrick Alan Casey is my cousin. Our Grandma’s were sisters. In fact, the last time, I saw him was at my grandmas’ funeral, twelve years ago—which is hard to believe as we were so close as kids (and at times nearly enemies—we both were rather dramatic growing up). Most of my childhood memories have Patrick in them, at least where school and birthdays are concerned. We were together through 8th grade in our little class of seven, and then moved onto public high school where our little worlds were rocked. As a little, and I really do mean little, boy, Patrick was considered somewhat of a musical genius. Before I could even tie my shoes, Patrick was putting Beethoven to shame (and even though I have a tendency to elaborate to make a point, I’m not in this case—he really was that good). In addition, he had a beautiful voice (and he was tall, the jerk). Where I sang like a southern country/gospel singer—he always sounded like a pop star. There were those who believed in his talent and knew he would go places, and there were those who scoffed and ridiculed him for it (as I had a mean streak when I was kid, I’m sure I fell into that camp more than once). There is so much more I could say about the boy I grew up with and the man I have seen him become from afar (We got back in contact several years ago through MySpace—actually, he was the whole reason I signed up—hoping to find him). He never stopped working for his dream and sacrificing to touch his stars. Well, very long story short. Last night, I saw got to see the first of his falling stars that he caught. You can buy his single “Leaving California” on iTunes and Amazon. His album is coming out in the next month I believe. It’s phenomenal, and beautiful. It is humbling and thrilling to see the face of the boy I grew up with on an album and hear the voice I would know anywhere (he really does sound like that—he always has [not to mention his piano playing that is so completely him]).
My request is this: Please go to iTunes and purchase his single. You really will love it,at least if your are working properly. And, when you do, please take the time to write a review to post there and on Amazon. Of course, this is all an option, but I would greatly appreciate it. It would be easy to say that his dreams have finally come true, but really, they just sprouted and now need more watering, tilling, and fertilizing than ever, and I want to do all I can to assist their growth. I am so extremely proud and happy for him.
Of course, as in everything, it’s all about me. Always is. Therefore, in my happiness for him, I see myself, or at least, I hope I do. I hope there is day where he can look at Amazon and see his cousin’s name and purchase his novel(s), and think, ‘Wow, we both made it. We’ve both faced so many obstacles—some the same, some very different, but we both made it!” I hope that happens. But, even if it doesn’t, it thrills me to no end that his dreams are forming in front of my eyes. I hope you will enter and take part on this chapter of his journey and play a small role in its fruition. Thank you!

fear and trepidation

I’m not known for my bravery. Well, at least not in the typical sense. In fact, it’s fairly common place knowledge that I tend to be jumpy and a bit skittish. Especially where masks are concerned. Let’s just say that you’ve been warned not to sneak up on me when I’m carving pumpkins. Not unless you want a gushing open wound to match your hideous Halloween countenance. However, after the initial shock is over (unless masks are involved), I can face just about any situation—once I know what it is that I’m facing.
That being said, I’ve always had an assortment of irrational fears that I have not been able to let go of. The shark in the swimming pool. Spiders crawling up from the drain in the toilet or the bathtub while I’m not looking. Something creeping up from behind the sofa during a scary movie. Zombies. (Yes, I love vampires and werewolves, but zombies? OMG!) Being left all alone, abandoned by the one that says he loves me (Oh, wait! Bwhaaaaa!) {Angry, bitter, party of one, your table is now ready.}
Yesterday, before taking a quick shower after Bible study (yes, after), while I was trying to get ready for the C & P R-L baby shower, I, uhmm, stood up after ‘relaxing’ on the toilet. Yeah, I know, you’d think I’d get rid of all my shit on this blog, but I don’t (Yes, I really did just say that. I really went there—wait to you see where I go next). After standing, but before flushing, I glanced down. Don’t judge you do it too. At least, if you’re a guy, you do it—you women will have to let me know if you suffer from this same compulsion. Just like when you blow your nose and look—every time. Well, I glanced down, hand reaching for the handle. I let out a bellow that caused the dogs to jump up from their resting places on the titles. There, happy and sinister as ever on his sewage playground, was a large, grey spider. Skimming across the water. Looking up at me. Tauntingly showing that he could have attacked from below while I wasn’t watching. The one time I don’t check for something crawling out of the pipes! I flushed the toilet and watched in horror as he spun slowly, going back from whence he came, to await another time to attempt an onslaught when I’m not vigilant.
Late last even, during an unusually warm, silent, and dark walk with the puppies attempting to think through emotions that are oh so fun, I glance up. Dolan straining as always, trying to get to whatever lays beyond, Dunkyn pulling from behind, attempting to capture every scent before covering it up with his own. I squint my eyes, in an effort to make out what is shuffling towards me in a hazy darkness. A child. At least a child’s form, rushed forward in a broken flinching motion, a strange guttural sound emanating from it. (I’m not making this up.) My heart racing to my throat, attempting to expand and suffocate me, I narrowed my eyes further, trying to find reality in what I was seeing. The ‘child’ then appeared to be moving backwards, away from me. Just when I took another step, thinking I was over-reacting and was being silly, it started lumbering towards me again, this time in a jerkily quicker paced fashion. Fully expecting to feel its teeth sink into my thigh, I rushed across the street, dragging Dolan, who desperately wanted to receive attention from the monstrosity ambling towards us. I made it to the other side of the street without losing any flesh, and turned to see how much of a lead, if any, I had on the creature of the night. Whether it was hidden behind the cars parked on the street or if it had gone the way of the spider and descended back to Hell to bide it’s time, I am unsure, but I could no longer see my tormenter. The dogs and I hurried back home and locked the door. I haven’t checked the news; I don’t want to hear some report about a wounded child in my neighborhood who was overcame by his injuries late Sunday night. Even so, better than a report of a teacher and his dogs mauled by the offspring of Hell.

Six

Six months ago (April 18, 3:15 [3:13] PM) the snow was deep on the ground. We’d eaten tacos that I made for us. We’d lain in bed much of the morning, kissing, crying. I helped him pack. We loaded stuff in his friends’ cars. Only one of them would even look at me. He walked out of our home. Out of my arms. He chose everything but me.

Six months later, I’ve just returned from an extremely late night walk. There was snow a week ago, but tonight, I took the dogs out just in my t-shirt. It was quiet—eerily quite. Maybe peacefully quite. It will snow again soon, reminding me of that other 18^th. I’ve submitted a novel to a publisher. I’m twenty pounds lighter. I have another tattoo. I’ve cried and hurt more than I thought I could survive. I’ve met people I never would have known—some have already come and gone, other may stay for awhile. I have a new nephew. I turned thirty-one. I totaled my car. I got a new one. I shut myself off from my friends. Made new ones. Started opening up to my friends again. I wrote a second novel. Went through therapy again. Learned how to make an artichoke. Forgot how to make homemade lasagna noodles and gnocchi (not that they should be made alone). I traveled to Seattle. I prayed a lot. I cursed a lot. I’ve learned to laugh again. I can’t forget to cry. I depended on my family. I depended on my dogs. I trusted my friends would still be here whenever I come back to them—whenever I come back to myself. I got a Mohawk. I gained a fuck-it attitude that I kinda like and serves me well a lot of the time. I started my massage business again. I got a raise at work, happens every year with teachers. I fell in love with working again. I started making coffee. I lost many of my hopes and dreams. I held on to a few. I’ve looked long, very long, into the mirror and most of the time, am less sure of who stares back at me. I’ve gotten stronger. I’ve gotten more cracks. I have nightmares. I dream of him. I slept in our bed the very first night. I sleep in it still. I faced the parts of me that are pathetic and needy. I’ve leaned on the parts of me that are strong and tough. I prayed for him. I’ve been furious with him. I’ve missed him every moment. I ache for him still.

Six months from now I’ll know if I am to be published or not. I will be a year without him. I will have made it through Christmas alone. The tree will go up and come down. New Years will have passed, solitary, bringing whatever omen it brings. I will still sleep in our bed. The mohawk will probably be gone. If published, the sleeve will be in the design stage. If not, my forearm will remain bare. I will have blogged a lot more and written more on the novels. I will have cried some more. Prayed some more. Cursed some more. Missed him some more. I will have continued to rely on my family, puppies, and friends. I will continue to work out. I will have continued to look in the mirror. Maybe I’ll know who looks back, maybe. I will have been weak and pathetic. I will have been strong. I will have faced pain I didn’t see coming. I will have laughed at joy unexpected. I will have still known love—lost, but still. Six months from now, I will look back and see that I have continued to live, despite and because of all the tears, all the unanswered prayers (and some of the answered ones). A lot happens in six months. A lot stays the same.

6

Six months. Six months. Six months.

known

The hearth was warm
small and safe
cozy and known

The hands were gentle
loving and kind
dear and known

The path was clear
constant and straight
smooth and known

The outside was dark
exciting and mysterious
captivating and new

The lights were beckoning
flashing and bright
glittering and new

The break was freeing
liberating and thrilling
unsure and new

The aftermath was easy
free and expectationless
open and known

Capitulation

I prayed a new prayer today (surprisingly, the first time I’ve prayed it). As it left me, I was shocked. I hadn’t meant to pray it, hadn’t even thought it. In truth, to think it now hurts and makes me feel like a traitor.
I prayed for help in getting over him, to put him behind me. I don’t really want to get over him or put him behind me. I want him to wake up and remember that he loved me, remember how great our life was together (at least from my side of the journey). I want my love and faith in him to be proven right. That can’t happen if I truly get over him, if I put him behind me, if every ounce of me looses faith in him and who I knew him to be and who he truly is.
Maybe (I’m sure most would align with this thought) this is a good thing. A good sign. A testament of freedom from constant ache and pain in the foreseeable future. Maybe a sign of health. Or (This is where my heart goes, if not my mind), it simply shows how weak I am. How easily I give up and just want relief. He is worth hurting for and worth saving my heart for.
Whatever the reason or the result, as in everything else, it is what it is. Whether God sees fit to assist in this unintended supplication (this would be the one He’d listen to, not the other ones, of course) or not, it seems that a part of me at least is heading in that direction—or at least needing to head in that direction.
If for no other reason, I suppose it’s a good thing—maybe I’ll look like less of a fool if I can move on and begin to stop the extended torture and tears. It’s just pathetic to have this all be one-sided. There were two of us building a life together. Two of us in love (or so I thought). It’s weak and sad to only have one side lamenting and missing the other half. He sure isn’t. Of course, I guess if it were two-sided, there wouldn’t be reason to hurt after all, would there?
I may not experience again what I got to have for a little while. But life can’t continue being all about what I don’t have any longer. I’ve tried so many things in order to force myself to keep ‘living,’ ‘feeling,’ yada, yada. They aren’t real like that was. As a result, I’ve stopped feeling real to myself. Actually, the only time I do feel real and honestly fully present, is when I do give in the hurt and lamentations. Everything else is forced. That’s not how it should be.

Fun. Fun. Fun. Fun. Fun.

I just finished washing the dogs, which mean the house is flooded and the every inch is covered in fur. Smelly fur. Fun.

I just pigged out on homemade nachos and cereal. Now I’m fat. Fun.

I just watched ANTM, and my two favorite girls came in one and two this week. Fun. Really fun.

I spent half an hour in the sauna with an old man at the gym who talked too loudly and was convinced the government is trying to take control over everything (which I happen to agree), but his rational was stating the shows such as Survivor—the government is promoting a tribal like mentality and is attempting to prepare America by propagating such reality television (don’t stone me—even I couldn’t make this up). Fun.

I have been and continue attempting to deal with the realization that he isn’t texting or emailing because he is trying to make things easier or being kind, but because he simply doesn’t have the desire to talk to or hear from me. Fun.

I fell asleep in tears last night and am worried tonight will be the same. Fun.

I get to go to work with no kids tomorrow. Fun.

I will get to go to see Zombieland with my brother and then spend time with his son this weekend. Beyond fun.

I continue to be driven by my fingers to vomit endlessly into cyberspace in attempts to put pieces together, stay sane, and force some amount of significance into these chapters of my journey. (See Title)

Moot

Parent Teacher Conferences always get me thinking. And, as you have come to know, thinking for me is not always a good thing. Having parents come in who struggle so much with their hostile/angry child. Grandparents that are forced to raise their grandchild who rages against them. Parents who don’t give a shit and either only show up once a year or don’t bother at all. Adoptive parents still living in shock and anguish that the sweet baby they took into their hearts and home had such hidden and covert ‘illnesses’ within them, waiting to blossom.
When I was younger, I literally wanted seven or so children. I was going to adopt and take in trouble children and teens and raise them as my own. After working with the kids I work with and realizing that to some extent every parent fucks up their kid, I decided I never would have children. As in all things, I have finally swung to the middle. I want to two children, biological (not adopted)—of course, I have the specific details of that mapped out, but we don’t need to get into that right now. Having Gavin in my life has only confirmed that intense desire and also taken away my fear that I wouldn’t be a good parent. Of course, I would still fuck up my kid (I’d still be a parent and they’d still be a kid—it’s in the recipe), but I know I’d be a pretty fantastic dad/mom. Of course, the only way I would do this would to be married to someone who wants kids too. If the right one came along (or came back [bwaa haaaaa haaaaa!}) and didn’t want children, it would hurt some, but I would let that desire go—however, I do not plan on having children on my own. The desire and the confirmation of what I feel like I could handle (with the exception of the financial burden) only serves to make me feel old. Let’s say the man I marry shows up in the next year (or returns [insert afore demonstrated hysterical, cynical, bitter, fucking devastated and pissed off laughter]), there would need to be a couple years of dating and then a couple years of married life before kids—ideally. That would put me at thirty-seven when the first baby is conceived and then probably forty when the second one was. My kids graduate high school a few years before I collect social security. Then let’s say they have kids in their mid twenties or early thirties. I’d be nearing eighty, so my grandkids would either have and old senile fag for a grandfather or a dead one (my family tends to die way before we get to eighty). And, of course, this is all best case scenario (no really, it is) as we all know how close I am to finding the right one (or having him return […………..]).
So, let’s add to the tears and pain and worry over how my life is turning out, by stressing about raising a family that’s seemingly not in the cards anyway. Good call, Mr. Witt. Good call.

Subterfuge

I opened my door to an ethereal, yet familiar, world this morning. I paused in the doorway, suspended in motion, as my eyes attempted to make sense of what I was stepping into. I felt like Dorothy, opening the door of her house, expecting to see what she had always seen, but instead revealing some other world. Only, in this case, it opened to a black and white world. Taking an embarrassingly long amount of time, I finally realized I was looking at fog. I couldn’t even see across the street, and all the lamps and porch lights glowed like little planets floating in front of me. As soon as I was able to discern what I was seeing, at comforting little thrill went through me. I love fog. It’s strange, since I am so extremely claustrophobic, but I love the sensation of be wrapped up in something all encompassing and protective.
As I drove, I realized that this fog was more intense that what I typically experience. It was if all the clouds above Denver had grown tired and decided to come rest upon the earth for awhile. The further I drove, the thicker the clouds became. More than once, I was surprised at where I was, shocked I had driven so far, not able to recognize the places around until they were upon me. I couldn’t see what was to the left or right, I was alone in my hazy, twilight world. The other vehicles traveling the opposite way towards me, seemed like stars zooming down out of the darkness, all following each other in a beautiful streamlined dance.
In the vapor, familiar things and places took on a new appearance, some looking more beautiful and special than normal, others looking nearly unrecognizable.
Of course, being the passenger in this life that I am, I couldn’t help but relate the drive to my own journey as of late. I have been traveling in this world that I have known for so long, this world that has become so familiar and known to me. However, for last half-year, fog has descended around me. At times, beautiful in its melancholy simplicity; other times terrifying as the cliffs around me hide themselves from view. Things I used to know and hold fast to disguise themselves as something else, or maybe are finally revealing their true nature. Other things that seem like a refuge in the mist are discovered to be anything but, sometimes altogether too late.
The fog continues to change and shift around me, constantly forcing me to readjust in order to simply function or to continue to take the next step. The fog has seemed to creep inside, causing parts of myself to be disguised as something they are not, and at times causing me to run into the truth of myself without warning, smashing into a mirror I didn’t see in my way. The thing about fog, as in my drive. . . a person is surrounded by fellow travelers, each making their way through the haze. However, as in the nature of fog, each traveler travels alone—at times bumping into another voyager but then reeling off into the isolation of the blur. The longer I continue, it seems like the entire journey is in a fog, only we don’t realize it until the times that the fog becomes extraordinarily substantial. I had a hand to hold through the fog, until it saw beautiful lights shinning off in the mist. The hand pulled away to pursue them, leaving an indentation in the haze by my side that still trails beside me. Whether the lights proved to be as beautiful as they appeared or if the haze proved too thick to find the way back, I pretend not to know. I feel the void of the haze beside me and attempt to make sense of the haze in front of me (and at times behind). Maybe, I will stumble on a crevasse in the midst that will offer shelter and clarity for a time, maybe a beacon that allows lucidity for others on the same path. Or, maybe the fog will simply continue to form shapes and absences around me.

this chapter and the next

Driving enveloped by the complete darkness, the warmth of the coffee in my hands and the heater blowing in my face, the comforting cadence of the man reading the vampire romance through my cd player was such a soothing sanctuary this morning. One that I depend on more than I used to. I loose myself in the warmth and the sounds, at times aspects of my life filtering around in the back of my mind trying to sort themselves out while the rest of me is distracted.
I have kept myself so busy in every aspect that I haven’t really had time to sit and think (which is good and bad—I think more about things than I should; definitely more than the average bear [accurate in several definitions]). However, the things that are swimming through my consciousness aren’t overly soothing. I can’t shake the picture of the man I have become. One that makes me question the belief and the theory that it’s not about the destination, but about the journey (not that I’ve ever been a strong follower of that notion—I am much too results driven to align myself with that premise—but I do find it romantically appealing). I still don’t regret a moment of the life we shared and wouldn’t trade any of it, even knowing the final chapters. However, it does lessen it and makes it difficult to look back on it with as much wonder as I once had, now knowing the end. Knowing that I wasn’t enough. Knowing that I have become the person in his life who pathetically clings onto him and what he no longer feels, the person he wishes could just move on, let go, and leave him alone. Knowing that the moments (much more than mere moments) of the purest happiness I’ve ever known now serve to torment and withhold completeness from me. Knowing that the person who loved me the most and allowed me to be the center of his world for awhile now sees me as a completely different creature than the man he held and loved. I have changed so much over the years. Finally free of really caring what others think and feel about me, not living my life so that my actions fulfill everyone’s expectations and desires for/about me. I am free of that—save one. And that one, I can never satisfy. Maybe, maybe, I’ll get to the place where that is okay. Right now, though, it is the farthest thing from okay that there could be.
The past few days or week have brought with them an increase in my self-depreciation and grandiose idealizations. I feel like something’s coming. I’m not sure if that means in the next couple days (I don’t think so) or the next several months. It feels like a change is on its way—I don’t know if that change is a physical, tangible occurrence or an emotional/mental metamorphosis. Maybe it’s good news from the publisher in December (maybe bad), maybe it’s a winning lotto ticket (or a bankruptcy). Maybe its Chad remembering why he loved me (we all know better), maybe it’s me somehow becoming a full person again (or a much needed vacation in a sanitarium). More than likely, it’s nothing, more self-deception and ostentatious grandiosity. Maybe I am simply creating a feeling of change to give myself something to continue towards. Either way, I can’t shake the sensation that something is over the horizon. Which, is okay. It’s keeping me going. Just like in a book, through the boring or painful parts, you keep turning the pages, sure that the events that are to come affect the story in some pivotal way. And, since most authors commit to the common expectations, that often happens. Sometimes, you find a writer who doesn’t, and the events never come in the closing chapters. I’d like to think the book of my life follows some sort of pattern that would allow me to rest in that simple comfort. However, knowing God’s stubborn (irritating) writing habits, I know there is no guarantee to that.

I am man, hear me roar.

Yesterday, my fingers were covered in paint. It was two showers before my skin and nails were back to normal. Today, they are coated in grease and grime. Something about having dirty hands (not dirt under the nails because you don’t clean, but actual stained and penetrated) makes me feel very manly. Grrrrrrr…..

Before seeing Whip It (which everyone needs to quit doing what they are doing and rush out and see it right now) with MD, I helped her (and several others) paint her new condo. She picked really daring colors, which is new for her, and it seems to be coming along very nicely. So happy and proud of her! I was in charge of the guest bathroom and lavatory. I spent most of the time taping (which I hate) and a small amount of time actually painting (which I enjoy). After finishing, I took off all the lovely blue tape and wondered why I had even bothered. I just can’t seem to figure out how to use that tape properly. Although the same could be said for the painters I paid to paint my old classroom, so I don’t feel too bad. Somehow, in the midst of everything, I managed to get a light bulb stuck in the socket. I had to break it to get it out. Well, that was the plan anyway. Now there is jagged metal and glass sticking out of one of the fixtures and blue tape over the light switch so that it doesn’t get flipped on and electrocute an unfortunate person with a full bladder. That’s how you use that damned blue tape! You’re welcome, MD. The bill is in the mail.
This morning, after attending the first of four weeks of Bible Study with TB, I was very motivated to have a quick, yet, thorough, workout, come to the coffee shop and write on the short ghost story, and spend a few hours with the puppies before going to carve pumpkins with TB and the boys. I made it to gym, parked—my chest workout going through my head—got out of the car. My rear driver’s side tire was completely flat—not losing air, completely flat. I’m not sure how I didn’t feel that, however, I was blaring the new Blake Lewis CD, Heartbreak on Vinyl, (which everyone needs to quit doing what they are doing and rush out and buy it right now) and dancing like crazy, so that could be part of it. For a moment, I really felt a little like crying. In my old car, I had a flat tire at least every two months. I got so expedient that I could typically change a tire in three to five minutes, depending on how much crap I had to throw out of my trunk in order to find the spare. Besides absolutely loving Bane (I’m keeping him squeaky clean, btw), I was really excited to simply have a car with good tires that hadn’t been bought used from men who don’t speak the same language as I do. It was the first time I have felt betrayed by Bane. Promised one thing and left with nothing. The promise to stay inflated, fulfilled, to stay by my side, keep me safe and content within warmth. (Sometimes a tire is just a tire—sometimes, it’s not.) Letting my disillusionment wash over me, I shrugged and got to task finding the spare in my new car in the frigid air. I got everything ready, and started to unscrew the bolts that had a lesson in commitment that men have never received. For over an hour, I attempted to pry the bolts away from their beloved tires. Now, I am not in the best shape of my life, by any stretch. That’s the problem, my tummy really loves to stretch, it seems; however, I am in one of the strongest phases I have been in. The more time went on the more and more frustrated I became. I stopped being careful and put everything in my body behind my attempts to unscrew. Let’s just say, my neck and back now hurt. All I managed was to lift that portion of the car off the concrete. I’m not exaggerating. Four or five times, the left rear corner of the car was lifted into the air. Still, no budging. Confessing defeat, I called AAA, and got put on hold for about twenty minutes—so glad I wasn’t stuck on a dirt road at midnight with a homicidal maniac hot on my trail (well, maybe I’m not glad—how hot is this maniac?—also not sure why I’d call AAA instead of 911, but we both know that’s exactly what I’d do). Unbeknownst to me, where I was parked was in perfect view for the gym to watch my struggle from where they were working out. I’m sure I was putting on quite the show. This came to my attention when this middle eastern (?) petite woman came out that worked in the daycare, her little daughter in tow. She was very, very sweet, and said that I looked very frustrated. She took the bolt remover thing from me (ratchet ?) and jumped on it. The bolt moved. Following her example, I jumped on the remaining three. Before she left, with great concern in her eyes and voice, she asked if I would be okay and reminded me to tighten the spare on firmly so that the tire wouldn’t go flying off into traffic and kill me. I thanked her profusely and told her, despite what it looked like, I really did know how to change a tire and that I would manage. She walked away, thoroughly unconvinced.

time to wake

I’ve long known that I am one of the kinds of people that drive me the craziest. They say you hate in others the worst part of yourself. People who are insecure and feel less worthy than everyone else yet also have this grandiose self view where the world revolves around them and they are larger than life—meant for something great. Two completely conflicting, contradicting, extreme, deluded self perceptions.
Hello, nice to meet you. I’m Brandon Witt, and I am a. . . whatever the word is that describes the above—no, you can’t narrow it down to asshole—well, you could, but don’t. (Now, you all say in unison, “Hello, Brandon.”)
The past several months, as you may have noticed have been pretty eventful, and at the times when it’s not overly eventful in my real life, it has been in my heart and head. This week, culminating with last night (an no, I’m not going to give specifics—feel free to speculate with abandon), events have shown me that I’ve been playing the part of a fool—the part of a person wallowing around in a pit of coals, too distracted by the fire in the distance to notice the sizzling of his own skin.
Part of the afore mentioned personality deficiency has made it where my pain and hurt has taken over every part of my existence—in rather an ostentatious manner. The effect being that while I have been so focused on both how much I am really hurting and a variety of ways of dealing and suffocating the pain, that I really haven’t looked at how much I truly am hurting (I know that makes no sense to anyone not inside my psyche). I am coming to realize that some of the ways I have been trying to make my hurt manageable show how much I have no (or have lost) respect for myself and put myself in negative and at times frightening situations. In other words, the world is wrapped up in my pain, yet I deserve the shit I get—how’s that for fucked up inner talk?
I am only now really beginning to see how truly deep Chad’s leaving affect who I think I am. No matter how gently and compassionately he left and continues to be, the message I have taken (and I know this is where I always go with anything, but so much more this time) is that the core of me is not enough. Not enough to love for very long. Not enough to stay for. Not enough to skip the party or the lures of the world. Not enough to build a life with. Not enough to hold or really desire. Not enough.
The danger of that message comes when you’re so self-absorbed that it encompasses everything within. I knew it was there, but I wasn’t really able to look at how much it really has taken a hold. The events of late are bringing that to the forefront. And, in order for me to change the events and the outcomes and the possibly avoidable consequences, I have to look at it even more—and then sit with it and deal with (fun, fun)—not try to drown it in a variety of ways.
Right now, I don’t where I will end up with all of this, or who I will be at the end or even how much of me will be left. However, it has to be done if there is any chance of any good part of me remaining.
I don’t think the answer is trying to understand why I wasn’t, why I’m not, enough for him. I don’t think it’s in trying to be enough for someone else (not that I want someone else). It’s also not in a bunch of positive self-talk garbage. Nor is it in singing ‘Jesus Loves Me’ continuously. Maybe it’s just in seeing the reality of my life, looking at its darkness and glimmers of gold, not trying to wrap it up in neon cellophane, but just letting it be what it is and teaching myself to crawl and hopefully then to walk, one shuddering step at a time, not shying away from the midnight, and not taking my eyes of the pin-pricks of brilliance that alter the seeming impenetrableness.
I have never felt less capable of something in my life. The thought of it scares. It seems I have hurt so much even with all I have done to numb the pain—the idea of facing it unaltered is terrifying, beyond. However, I also know that there isn’t another choice—not really.

visitor

Last night was Project Runway marathon with the R-L’s. It’s amazing how being with certain people truly make life better. P was busy with work, so it was just C and their daughter SV. We went to dinner (I was supposed to cook, but I wimped out) and then came home and got ready to watch the show. Right when we were finishing bitching about how hard life has been of late, a nock came at the door. We both jumped and looked at each other. It was getting close to nine, so no one should be knocking. My door doesn’t have a peep hole, so that makes things difficult. We knew we couldn’t hide that we were there. We hadn’t been whispering, all the lights where on, and Dolan was at the door growling at whoever was on the other side (Dunkyn, of course, fled to the kitchen, as he is terrified of anything that might come through the front door—unless its me). I have stopped answering the door if I don’t know who it is—too many times I have opened the door to either see someone I really didn’t want to see or ended up having to give money to some cause (How do you say, ‘No, I don’t want to give money to the rape crisis line’, or ‘Nah, let the kids starve’?). By the third round of knocking C and my hearts were pounding and we were chittering and screaming like five year old girls at a slumber party (which, we kinda were). Finally, C got brave enough to peer out the bedroom window, trying to see whoever was on the porch without them seeing her. Turned out to be her husband, P. His phone had died, so he couldn’t call. Laughing hysterically, we let in an un-amused P who failed to see the hilarity or the necessity of letting someone stand at the door and knock (I told him that he now knows how Jesus feels—I’m sure there was a time when I wasn’t sacrilegious, but I don’t seem to remember). The fear and hilarity only added to the enjoyment of the evening.
There was only one part of the night that was difficult (it’s still Brandon’s blog, you knew it was coming). SV just turned four, and she is my second favorite child in the world (Gavin being number one, of course). She is the most creative, precocious, intelligent, and linguistic child I have ever met. Toward the middle of dinner, she looks at me and asked, “Brandon, is Chad going to be at home?”
My breath caught, but I only took a moment before I was able to respond. She loved Chad, but it has been almost six months, so I thought her four year old mind had probably dismissed him. Apparently not. I told her that he was at his home. She asked what his home was like, and I was able to tell her how pretty it was and how he was happy there. She nodded after a moment, and then moved onto another topic. C gave me a supportive and concerned smile.
After a only a few minutes of breaking down in the restroom, I was able to pull myself back together and return to dinner and one of my dearest friends and her gorgeous daughter, and find reasons to laugh. All the while wondering myself if Chad would ever be home again.

Twenty Minutes

I detest the darkness slowly creeping in, stealing the evening more and more. Especially after the time change, when it is nearly dark by the time I get off work and twilight by the time I finish working out. I hate how my normally chipper mood (shut up) evaporates into one of tremulous melancholy. How each instance highlights the warmth and contentment that used to abide in and with me, but flew away (didn’t they say to set it free if you really love it?).
However, I love (LOVE) mornings like this. Waking up to total darkness, a thin sheet of ice over my car, even after I take the time to shower, check the computer, feed the puppies, make the coffee, and do my hair. The shivering as I drive, holding the freshly made/bought coffee, waiting for the heat to finally come on, whatever the book of the moment telling me stories from the CD player. The iridescent egg yolk enchantingly cutting the darkness in my rearview mirror as I reach my halfway point on my journey to work. By the time I finally pull into my parking spot, I have had to turn the heat down, or at least move the vents from my face, and I am always reluctant to emerge from the warm, safe cocoon that seems like the only truly peaceful place on earth—only thing that would make it more effectual would be to have Dunkyn and Dolan prodding my elbow from the back seat.
Obviously, today was such a morning. While this time of year seems to always be one way or the other (depressing or truly content—funny how my hardest time of year historically became my favorites when he was with me), the constant has been my morning drive. I am thankful that this comfort has not been stolen from me and is still valuable to my psyche. I take pleasure and relief and safety wherever I can find it these days—this is one of the cheapest and purest I have found.

on the way home

I wrote this at the airport yesterday and forgot to post it...

Here we sit, waiting on our flight back to Denver. This time, no high-fiving drunk girl to entertain us. Too bad. As ever, I am looking forward to getting back to the dogs. It’s silly how much I miss those little guys. I may have a massage appointment tonight, which is going to be much, much needed after spending so much money (on food alone—the food was excellent!). I also started my Christmas shopping while in Seattle, which is going to be much more frugal this year.

The trip was great. Very pretty, fairly relaxing. The food was wonderful, the shopping fun, the scenery breathtaking, Pike’ Market flawless.

I am sure that I expected too much. Both from the trip and maybe from myself. I expected too much and didn’t expect enough. I guess I should have. I hadn’t been on a trip without Chad in years. Part of the reason I was so excited to get away was to get away from him. To get away from every place I turn in Denver being some form or reminder of him. Seattle was perfect, he’s never been here, and we’d never been here together, obviously.

So, it truly took me by surprise how I dreamed of him two out of the three nights. Even on the plane on the way out here. He was everywhere. Which is so stupid. I didn’t want him to be, at one point I intentionally focused on everything but. It’s one thing to live in the home you shared, in the city you shared, in the life you shared and not be able to shake his hold on you. It’s another when you are somewhere where it should be easy if non-existent. It makes me feel rather weak and pathetic, and as always leaves me wondering why I wasn’t good enough or worth staying for and how desperate he really was to get away from me.

return

In true frustratingly pathetic form, it was a relief to know I get to go to work today. Not that I didn’t have a good time on vacation and not that I didn’t love Seattle, but there seems to be more comfort and safety in the routine (duh) and the so-called pattern of my so-called life—especially work.
The past few days were really nice on one hand. I really do love Seattle (for Pike’s Place alone—I want to live there just so I can go to the market everyday and cook something new every night—how amazing it is there).
I keep saying how in touch with myself I am, yet I keep being surprised when my emotions get the better of me when I don’t expect them. Guess I’m not as enlightened as I thought. Part of why I was so excited was to have a completely good experience post ‘Chandon,’ and that was only ‘Brandon.’ It surprises me how surprised I really was at how painful going on this trip was in reality.
I have felt like the person that keeps choosing to hurt, keeps choosing to not enjoy things. I have to say, I don’t really think that is what is going on. I chose to be excited about this trip, chose to have a good time, chose to enjoy independently. It didn’t seem to matter what I chose. As with everything else, my choices, intention, and desires didn’t really affect the outcome or the reality.
Glad I got away, sortta. Glad to be back, mostly. Glad for my puppies who went crazy when I came home, completely. Glad for my crazy kids that I will battle with all day (Friday did NOT go well with the sub, apparently), resoundingly yes. Glad for my evening with Gavin tonight, entirely!

omen

I’m not overly superstitious, but I tend to be a big believer in how something beginnings is a good indication of how an experience will go. For instance, as I have stated before, New Year’s Eve is a pretty big deal for me. It doesn’t have to be huge or fancy, but historically, I have noticed that whatever the overall theme of the New Years Eve is, reflects what the overarching theme of the year will be. This NYE, Chad and I made it to San Francisco, which was one of the best trips I’ve ever been on. However, NYE was our only bad evening of the trip—due to the drunk, trashy, animalistic people around us as we tried in vain to watch the fireworks. We got doused in beer, threatened by a gangster, and left seconds into the show because we were so furious. It bugged me a lot that night, causing me to worry about what the year would entail. I shoved it aside, both due to the fact that it is just a stupid superstition of mine, and looking at the side that we were still on a romantic trip to San Fran—so that had to be a good omen right—even if my gut tried to tell me differently. And we all know who this year has turned out, don’t we?

Well, in that theme, the beginning of our trip to Seattle has started off swimmingly. We go to see a drunk girl carted off and handcuffed in the airport. She was very happy about it and was high-fiving the cops and trying to kiss them. You might not think that is a good omen, but trust me—it was fun, and anytime I can get a picture of said drunky high-fiving said cop, well, that’s just icing!

Then, to top it off, I told MS that it would be perfect if we got Lobo, the Frontier wolf plane. If you don’t know why that is a good omen, you haven’t read this blog very much, seen me shirtless, or know me very well. Well, guess which plane we got! Yay!

In addition, since MS is a flight attendant, we just got free TV, free alcohol (however, since I only like birthday cake shots and bleu cheese overly dirty extra cold martinis, I am being boring with simply a Sprite—me boring?), and got the aisle where there is NO SEAT in front of me. My little stubby legs are stretched out as far as they can go! Oh, and I found out, that my entire flight was comped! Yep, round trip to Seattle for free! So, see, I can’t help but think everything on this trip is going to be grand. Even if it isn’t, it is. I am not in Denver, there is nothing close that doesn’t want me and screams of the life I had from every corner. Oh, and I don’t have to go to work tomorrow.

And, guess what. . . I’m breathing. Really breathing. At least for the moment, I CAN BREATHE!!!!!

Away

After several hard and rather unfun months in Denver and after a couple weeks of non-stop parents who blame everything their child does on everything but themselves and the child (not all my parents—some are pretty great), I am leaving for the pure enjoyment of leaving. I’ve been excited for a trip before, and I’ve been more excited about other trips. However, I don’t think I have physically and mentally ever needed one more in my life. It feels as if I have been swimming up from the depths of the ocean and I can see the surface just a few feet away, as if I will finally be able to take in renewing air before plunging back to the deep awhile longer.
My friend is a flight attendant for Frontier, and he can add several friends a year to his friends plan. I get to be one of the lucky ones for the next three-hundred sixty-five days. I can go anywhere in the US that Frontier goes, as many times as I like, for fifty bucks round trip. My first reaction was, “Great, thanks for this on the year I have the least money.” I probably would have gone somewhere every other week. In reality, there has never been a year I needed a way to escape more, and I am so thankful to be given the means to do so once in awhile.
So, I am off to Seattle. A place that I have only been once, but holds some of the best memories of my life (at least in one fashion). AA, there will never been another month like the one we had, and I hold it as dear now as I did when we were living it (I miss you).
It’s silly how guilty I feel for leaving my puppies, but luckily my family is wonderful and is planning many visiting trips to my house randomly during the brief days I am gone.
I am off to be away from here. Away from things I still love. Things I can’t have. Things that no longer love me. Away from being the one in charge every minute of the day and trying (and often failing) to know how to change my kids’ lives when I can’t affect where they live. Away from everything. Away from who I have become this year. Away from it all. Towards a city of beauty. Towards wonderful memories and building new ones. Toward simply breathing. Simply seeing. Simply living.