Road

I just returned home from watching The Road. I wasn’t sure what I was getting into, I just knew it was another end of the world flick. I was expecting something along the lines of 2012 or whatnot. Wrong. It was hand’s down the most realistic portrayal of what I truly think survivors of the end of the world would be like. There was nothing fancy or beautiful or Hollywood in the film. Just raw humanity in every form. It was powerful and devastating.

Here’s where I get dramatic. At least I know looking on, it would be dramatic and if I heard someone else say what I am getting ready to, I would roll my eyes and discount everything else they ever said. Comparing heartbreak to the end of world. How cliché and lame. I hope, truly, that I can look back on this blog one day and think, wow-I was really dramatic, I’m so glad I don’t feel that way anymore. I don’t see that day coming, but I hope it does.

The movie clarified something I’ve felt for months, something that I think I’ve tried to say a millions time but haven’t been able to verbalize. Knew it in feeling and in gut, but not in form. In the movie, the characters weren’t trying to build life back the way it was, they weren’t trying for something better or to fix things, it was all they could do to simply keep going, take another step, to survive, and for most, even that was denied them or proved too much. I know the feeling.

Everything in me tells me that I’ve reached the peak. I think I even knew it at the time, and I’m thankful for it. I knew I was living a life I hadn’t even dared to dream of. I knew I had to relish every moment. And I did. I was at the top of my life, the pinnacle of my happiness, contentment, joy. I don’t see that returning. I see days and years filled with people, family and friends, that I love. Maybe even highs in my career and hopefully writing. However, I also see me at fifty, seventy, eighty looking back and knowing that those few years were the greatest gift I’d been given, and nothing else compared. Even as I try to explain it, I’m not able to. It sounds forced and hollow, but my soul recognized it tonight, and it terrifies me that I might be right. I pray I’m not. People say I’m not—people say a lot of things all the time. I’m not sure how it could be so true for one of us and not the other, but that seems to be life as well.

Maybe it is just the grief still talking, maybe it’s the depression singing, maybe it’s reality, but I’m broken, and I’m fully aware of it. My laughter, and there has been plenty of laughter, is never as deep as it was; my smile never Brandon’s smile; my excitement never more than a flicker; my hope nearly, if not completely, non-existent. I am a shell of who I used to be. I am afraid to go to parties because I may see him and crumble. Plus, I don’t want him to see what I’ve become—or anyone else for that matter. I’m afraid to be with my old friends that I love so much because I don’t have their friend to offer them. It’s easier to be with new friends who never knew who I used to be. I don’t speak very much because it’s hard to find something important enough to say. It’s weak to say I lost myself because of a man, and its not like it was his intention, but part of me shattered, and it really feels irreparable. Everything is dulled by a thick layer of ash, including me. But, I keep walking my road, only leaving footprints to prove I was there.

Everything I ever needed to know I learned in. . .

I opened my facebook this morning to this:

“hi mr. witt, i cant wat till monday!!!!!!!! and its weard that a teacher has a facebook???????”

(from one of my sixth grade girls—doesn’t your heart melt at how wait and weird is spelled [let’s not look at the punctuation], as well as your brain cringe at our educational system)

I promptly screamed and asked one my friends who wasn’t yet a facebook friend to look up my page and see what parts of my profile were visible to people who weren’t friends. Turns out, all you can see is my main picture and an option to send me a message. I experienced a sincere heart-calming from near explosion moment, followed by a surprising damn it moment.

I seems I had the wherewithal when I set up my FB page to set the security level high. I had a very bad experience at one of my internships where a gay student found me on MySpace and sent me a message saying, “I knew you were gay! I knew you were gay! I knew you were gay!” Well, duh, kid, that ain’t news. I didn’t respond to him on MySpace, but told my supervisor and my student-teacher teacher about the email, and promptly had a huge meeting and then met with the kid and the school counselor. So glad it wasn’t turned into a big deal. Uh-huh.

I have mixed emotions around it all. If I were in high school, there is no doubt in my mind that I would be out to my kids, or at least not actively seek to hide it. Not that I hide it now, my Para and I have always talked about him in class, but kids tend to be oblivious when it concerns the teachers around them having an actual life. However, teaching 4^th to 6^th grade, it isn’t so clear-cut to me. I really would like it to be out in the open. All the teachers know, but it’s never been an issue with the kids. And when the kids bring up why I’m not married, well, I’ve had thirty years to perfect that blow-off answer, so no biggie. However, I remember how desperately I wanted to know someone else who was gay when I was a kid—younger than the kids I work with now. And I have kids that I know are gay, and I hate that I can’t be a mirror for them. I don’t want to have class about it or discuss sex or dating or anything with them, not appropriate—no more than if I was straight, that is. I don’t have the gay-agenda thing going on that so many of my dear fellow Christians say, but I do hate seeing children struggle in shame and loneliness when I know that I could change all that in an instant. However, I also know (and I know this sounds classist and elitist, and I don’t mean it too, but I’ve worked with this population for over a decade now and I know what I’m talking about) that the culture of my kids’ parents (for the most part) doesn’t have a paradigm for a gay man who isn’t a pedophile or cross-dresser [not that those are the same—as I have friends who cross-dress and none that molest children]. On a purely selfish note, I also know how my kids are and the things they say (or scream) when they are angry, and I really have had Faggot yelled in my face enough to last me a life-time, and I don’t want to hear it from my kids.

So, although this student (who I adore by the way) doesn’t yet realize that 80% of her teachers have a facebook page (I talk to some of them more on FB than I do when we are at school), she managed to scare her math teacher (yes, I teach math—yes, that is should be a crime—not my enjoying men, but my math skills) on a perfectly lovely Sunday morning. Also, she doesn’t realize how easy it would be to find out so much more about her short, red-headed, learning-elementary-math-right-alone-with-her, teacher with just a few more strokes of the keypad. Say, for instance, if she began to read Ramblings. Oh, lord. I am fairly certain this whole gay-teacher thing will come to the surface in the next year or two, how could it not, unless I was willing to lie blatantly or hide who I am, both of which I have done enough of, thankyouverymuch. Plus, I do need to give lessons to my gay kids before it’s too late. Little lesbians, lets talk about mullets, flannel, and power tools and how to avoid them. Little faggies, let’s talk about how you need to dog that’s a good cuddler, cause your gonna need him when the man you choose to spend your life with forgets your existence. And little transgender/transsexual boys and girls, that conversation will have to wait until you get in 7^th grade. Mr. Witt ain’t touchin’ that one.

[pl]uck the turkey

Two days of Thanksgiving. Two. Just in case I was in danger of withering up and blowing away—weight wise. Disaster averted. I wasn’t in that danger, unfortunately, but disaster adverted nonetheless. What a relief. I feel so much more whole now that my pants are more snug and by belly hangs over the button. Life is complete and fulfilled. Oh, wait… Food doesn’t equal love? Are you sure? I think you might be misinformed. Food never promised love and then ran away. Never told me it loved me more than anything in the world only to disappear. Trust me. It sticks around. I have plenty of fucking hot Lucky Jeans I can’t get into anymore to prove it. I’m pretty sure food knows more about love than people do.

It was the first ‘holiday’ with Gavin. He was the reason we had two days of Thanksgiving, as he wasn’t with us the first part of Thursday. Dad put up the tree and the baby liked to look at the lights. I’m excited for a year to two to pass (not in a rush, I don’t want him to grow quickly) so that he will be excited for gifts and the tree and all the Christmas stuff. I’ve never really gotten to experience that since I was a child myself. It will be fun. It really is amazing how wonderful he is. I know he’s not mine, but he probably will be the closest I’ll ever have. Holding him is one of the few times when I can actually get past myself and simply marvel at the life in my arms. To make the holiday about him instead of completely focusing what my holidays had become, even if he is too young to even be aware that the day has any special connotations at all.

Mom could see I was really struggling (what else is new?) and gently reminded me that I need to move on. To me, I feel like I am moving on, sorta. I’m still going. I’m still waking up and moving and talking to people sometimes. That’s moving. I’m not stationary in a little ball in the corner like I would like to be.

I made the decision to not put up the tree. And other than some guilt around not having the house pretty for my friends for Christmas dinner and feeling like I’m not doing what I ‘should,’ the relief of the decision is huge. I hadn’t realized how much the thought and worry of putting up, living with, and taking down the tree had been weighing on me. So, whether it is wussing out and letting my state-of-being dictate my state-of-being or whatever, I have an ounce more freedom than I did before.

On a positive note, differing plot lines have been drifting in and out of my head for where the fantasy series may end up going. Still no definitives yet, but it’s a good omen. This typically happens for a bit before the writing begins in earnest, so maybe, just maybe, I will be able to escape into my created worlds and produce something creative, useful, and productive.

the sheath for a saber, apparently

Gay men are obsessed with sex, with orgasms, with nakedness, and think and talk, and write, and fantasize, and care about nothing else. This is what the vast majority of the world thinks about us. All of which is true really. However, no more than the average straight man. No more than any man.

Here’s the kicker. I’ve heard it before, but I didn’t really believe it. We might be a little obsessed with sex, but it is nothing compared to the level of importance that women give to sex.

I am now on the third book (of like twenty some) in the Dark series by Christine Feehan. They are a fantasy series for women. I have never read books with so much sex, and I’ve read books that are nothing but sex, gay erotic anthologies, and they have nothing on these books. Honestly, I’m truly not exaggerating in the slightest. Blows my mind.

Truly, I’m not sure how many times I need to hear about some heavy manhood sliding into a velvet sheath, or into her fiery heat, or the dew-laden treasure ‘neath her tight dark curls. Seriously? If I weren’t gay before, I would be now. It is honestly distracting to the point I’ve almost stopped reading. The sex scenes are so abundant and each one goes on forever. I like sex to take a long time, but really? Days? I actually am very intrigued by the story lines (which has the exact same characters [even thought they’re not supposed to be] and the exact same skeleton of a plot—however, she has some really cool ideas that I’ve never thought of before and takes some occasional twists on old schemas that are refreshing. However, in addition to all the explicit sex, there is a never-ending flow of lines like, ‘her laughter rang out, a sound that made you wish it would go on forever,’ and ‘the ache for her seared through him, the absence of her causing him physically agony.’ Geesh, girls!!! I thought I was the girliest thing out there revolving around love and the agony that goes with it, but apparently, I have been bested. Good lord. I’m not sure how many more of these of this series I can get through due to all the sex and such overly dramatic and gushy lines that make me lose reality with the characters, but I hope I can make it a few more as they are really fun adventures once you cut away all the crap.

And, again, I tell you, don’t believe the lie. We men, gay or straight, have nothing on the sex lives of women. True, we make act them out a bit more frequently, but I guarantee what goes on in their heads makes our intentions seem like nothing. Of course, maybe this is only true for female writers—however, the longevity of her career and the countless numbers of novels her female followers consume makes me think otherwise. Go girl power, you dirty little things, you!

from this to that and back again

You know you love a place when you walk in and the loud, obnoxious woman screaming (though she thinks she’s just talking) gives you a warm, safe feeling. I spent all of the first day of Thanksgiving break at home, waiting for massage clients to call (they call all the time when I’m at school, so it made sense they would today—obviously not). I also didn’t want to come to my coffee shop because of money and I’m afraid to start editing the fantasy novel again (which is always how it is). By six, I was depressed enough that I thought the coffee shop would be a good investment. It was, while not bubbly and happy (I don’t think I remember how), I don’t feel like shoving my hand in the garbage disposal to make sure I’m still human.

I am thrilled to be feeling so much better though. My mouth and throat aren’t operating as well as they should, but soooooo much better. And, best of all, my brain is starting to work again. I may even have the courage to start working on the 1^st Men of Myth installment editing this week. Maybe. I haven’t looked at it since he read it and gave me feedback at the end of summer, which has something to do with it as well.

Yesterday, one of my best girl-friends, in an act extremely unlike her, texted me to let me know she saw him working at Mary’s the night previous. I’m not sure why such news always hurts so much. I know what he’s doing, I even remember his work schedule that he mentioned to me a couple months ago, but still. I have been doing a pretty good job convincing myself that he doesn’t exist anymore. His body does, which granted, I love more than life, but the man I love and that loved me doesn’t inhabit it. Of course, that is not tested by refusing to go anywhere I could possibly see him and by intentionally avoiding all news of him. I don’t want people to text me and tell me that he’s with someone, that he is having dinner, that he is walking on the sidewalk, that he is still under the same sun and stars as me. There is no good to be had from it, so why do people still do this? I know the intention isn’t to rub my face in the fact that despite my illusions, the man I love is still out there, but that he just doesn’t love me, but that is the only result of such actions. So, stop, world. Stop.

I have my annual Christmas dinner in about three or four weeks. Which only reminds me that I am nearly a month past my typical Christmas Tree putting up deadline. One day I decide that I am going to put it up. Just long enough for the party, then take it back down again. Then, most days, like today, I decide that I’m not going to. I can’t decide which is more genuine and healthy. I don’t feel like putting it up. The thought of it makes me want to rip out my fingers nails—and without exaggeration, I would choose to have one of them ripped out (albeit quickly) if it meant I didn’t have to face this decision. However, the other thought is that I would somehow be giving him too much power and my hurt and depression too much power (and letting down my small group of friends that are coming over this year for our tradition) if I choose to not do one of the things that has always been one of my favorite things of the year, for my favorite day of the year. And maybe that’s just it. I’m not me anymore. There is very little I really care about anymore or find valuable, and a Christmas tree surely isn’t on the list. So, is leaving it alone and not having a tree an act of truth and being genuine of where and am and who I’ve become or is it a weakness and simply asking for a pity party? Would it simply be a cry for people to realize how much I am really still hurting? Like they don’t know. Like there’s anything else I suffocate them with. I really should have just put the damn thing up already so I wouldn’t have to keep going back and forth, but then I’d have to see it in my living room everyday, reminding me of who I was and what I had, and I don’t know if I could handle that. Blah, Blah, Blah!

One last question:

Why are there so many men that want me right now? Why do they all think that they’d be any different? Or that I’d look at them twice after the man I already had? What makes them think I possibly would be willing to try this again? Why are they interested when they see clearly that I’m still in love with him, that I am nowhere near the end of this? When they see that I’m not even a whole person right now? I’ve never had so many pursue me so relentlessly. A small part of me finds it flattering. A much larger part just wants them to leave me alone. Why do people say that I obviously have something better in my future, that it wasn’t just good enough for me? You say that to the person that did the leaving! Not the person who was sublimely happy. Why do they even assume that there is something more in the future (better or not)? Do they not see this world? Do they not see how it really works? Do they not see that although I love the Disney movies, I know I don’t live in one?

serendipitous love

The sickness finally broke today, and I feel about 80% better. I was finally talked into going to see the doctor yesterday, and I’m glad I did. It is a strange feeling when the doctor looks into your mouth and looks afraid. He said he thought I had made it in time—thought, as in, not sure. It seems like I did, as the medicine is working. However, last night was really scary, I couldn’t open my teeth more than an eighth inch apart, could barely speak, and breathing was an effort. It’s funny that I never used to feel worse by being alone before, it was just how things were, now it is an added pain with every ache.

On my way to work yesterday, I realized that I only had two dollars to my name, not enough to get this amazing numbing tea at Starbucks, a massage client canceled and there wasn’t another way to get money (which I wouldn’t have had the strength to work on him anyway—nor would I have gone to the doctor). Again, being alone now heightens every flaw and trial.

A few minutes before school started, one of my sixth graders and I were just going through our morning ritual—he comes to me twenty minutes early every morning so his dad can go to work, and a parent walked into my classroom. She doesn’t have any kids in my class, but is very involved in the school. She handed me a card and said that even though I don’t work with her kids that she is impressed with the work she sees me do with my kids and wanted me to know that she appreciated me being here and the work I do. Mumbling a thanks, both due to the pain in my mouth and to taken-abackness at her words, I took her card. When I open the card to a lovely, heartfelt hand written note, two gift cards fell out. A $15 card to go to the movies and a $10 card to Starbucks! In my already weakened state, I burst into tears and made it to the bathroom before my student would notice. It was an instant of perfect timing. Where I couldn’t feel much lower—physically, emotionally, lonely, failure at ‘grown-upness paying for stuff’, etc. Talk about perfect. I was so humbled and felt so grateful. Felt loved for a moment, both from her and from God—taken care of by God. I really don’t know if I could have gotten through the day without the throat numbing tea. As it was I still left early to rush to the doctor.

It was a big sacrifice--$25 bucks for a teacher that doesn’t even work with your kid. They may have done it for every teacher, they may not have—either way, it was a gift that was not required or deserved. There is no way she could have known what my life has been like this year, or more specifically this past week, or that very morning, nor how perfect her offering would rescue and bestow love on me.

There is no Arizona, and I’m beginning to think there is no America either. However, there are passing islands to let us keep swimming, and yesterday, I got to rest on one such island, and my life is a touch better today because of it.

decay

Sickness is really just an evil, wicked thing. It saps your strength in everyway. Not only does it take enormous effort to breath and walk, and even more to speak, but it tears down the walls of ‘strength’ I have been be building the past couple weeks. Luckily, I’m still able to shove as much away as possible, but it is getting harder to do again. For the most part, I’ve gotten myself to where I am numb to about everything, but being sick is putting little chinks the armor that allow him to slip through. Blah.

blurp

So, I returned home from California and promptly got extremely sick. Yay. California was great. It was nice to get away by myself and not have much of an agenda in the slightest. I wish I could do it again this weekend. Even more amazing was getting to see my cousin, Patrick, after so many years. To be able to see him live out one aspect of his dream was so humbling. His concert was wonderful, and his CD is fantastic. I really hope that it somehow takes off for him. It is so overwhelming to think about all that will have to happen for it really to come to fruition—just like me thinking about my novels getting published.

I have laid on the couch for two days, sweating and sweating. Fun. I hate being sick, one just because it doesn’t feel good to be sick, however what is just as bad is that my brain quits working. I can’t write, I can’t read, I can’t do anything overly creative or useful. I hate doing nothing. Complain, complain, complain. And since I’m on the complain rampage, I’ll put this out there as well—this is my first time being really sick since the life change in April. He was always so amazing when I was sick. I miss sharing life with him. However, I’ve been pretty numb the past couple weeks, which is a good change.

bittersweet reality and upcoming words

Of course, after a genuine effort to harden my heart and deal with the fact that he cares so little that he doesn’t even make contact, who should email me yesterday? I only let it hurt me a little. I only let it make me happy a little. I am glad he cares enough to at least check in a say hello and see how I am. I also have to remind myself that it means nothing more than that. He doesn’t miss me. He doesn’t think of me often. He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t have any inclination to return. He is happier now than he was with me. None of that changes and I can’t let myself hope for the ungrounded fantasies that would say otherwise. However, I can take some comfort that at least I crossed his mind. I will not expect it from him again but will let myself be please if he does.
On a different note (yet still operating out of what my heart wants most), I am starting to think of the news from the publisher that is supposed to happen in mid-December. I’ve done a good job of letting it go and trusting that whatever will happen will happen (which is elementary and doesn’t take much faith, I know). I have hope (ungrounded fantasy) that he will write and say, I would love to publish your novel, I just need you to make such and such changes. However, I know that is not realistic. How many publishers and books did Stephen King go through before he go published? How many publishers told JK Rowlings that Harry Potter would never go anywhere? What are the chances that on my first attempt, with the publisher I want the most, that he would have a positive reaction? Regardless, as I have demonstrated to my detriment before, I can’t stop myself for hoping for the impossible. He is supposed to get back with me by December 17. However, I plan on leaving him alone until after the New Year, if I don’t hear from him. It is fun to look forward to, no matter what the outcome. However, it would be really amazing to have this year bring one fulfillment of the deepest longings of my heart and soul. Even if it is the one I would choose secondary—it still would be beyond wonderful and I would weep with joy—which would truly be a wonderful experience this year!

flaky crust

While I prefer driving to work in the dark and driving home from work in the light (which is the opposite of what I have been doing since the damned time change), this morning’s drive was rather dreamlike. The eastern half of the sky was transformed into the underside of ocean waves that were painted gradient hues of iridescent egg yolk, bubblegum, and tangerine, while the western mountains reflected back the same color pallet. It was like swimming through a Disney version of the sea. If only Ariel had been beside me, could have been near perfection. Not to mention that I have finally perfected making my coffee concoction. Honestly, it is better than anything I have ever had at Starbucks (however, not Caribou)—which makes it strange that I still have to resist the urge to not stop at Starbuck everyday—I love my addict personality.
The past several days have been better. The hard crust around my heart is starting to solidify somewhat. While still fragile, if I can keep nurturing it for a bit longer, I may just stand a chance of it beginning to thicken and taken root. I hope so. It’s been a relief. I have actively taken some steps to aid in its hardening. Constantly repeating ‘there is no Arizona’ helps, as well as focusing on the negative aspects of him (he wasn’t perfect, no one is) and playing them up in my mind is preferable to the reality of who he really is. I hate doing that, as none of them greatly endangered our lives together—except for the one that caused him to leave, but it helps. Despite how enmeshable I seem and how much I want to be with him, by nature, I am typically a pretty independent person on the whole. I can’t be around people very much without them getting on my nerves and needing time to step away and let my mind breathe. It was the thing that finally convinced me that I wanted to be with him (if you’ll remember how it all started—he was the one that chased me, that wanted me, I wanted none of him), but from the very first date, there was truly never a moment in our years together where he got on nerves or I needed time away from him to be able to deal. His presence was like a balm to every part of me—an experience I have never had before with anyone. All that said, I am spending more time in solitary confinement, with my dogs, with my books, with whatever my mind decides to occupy—when it starts going into dangerous territory, I turn to my coping skills that I have mentioned above. I don’t know how long I can last like this, but I hope I can pull it off. There is no reason to continue to grieve profusely over a love that doesn’t want me and isn’t morning my absence, indeed is relishing the lack of me.
In similar vein, when I go to LA to see Patrick’s CD release concert (which I am beyond ecstatic about), I am leaving a day early (mostly in part to make sure I can get a seat flying standby—thank you Mouse for providing airfare for a most needed year); I am going to spend the first day and night in Palm Spring and explore and see what this little Mecca has to offer, then spend the following day in West Hollywood until I am ready to hurl from all the gayness and rush thankfully to the concert before having to get up several hours before dawn the next morning to return home. Keep living. Keep breathing. Stop crying. Stop actively loving what doesn’t give a shit about me. Focus on family and best friends. Focus on puppies. Focus on writing. Focus on reading. Focus on moments with a God that seems both more foreign and more precious every day.

a big fruit

When MS stayed with me a couple weekends ago, she bought some apples to take home with her. When she left, her apples were forgotten and remained behind in the fridge. I hate apples—not as much as bananas, but still. I really don’t like any kind of fruit raw, except for berries, and sometimes peaches. I hated seeing those three apples sitting in my fridge, just waiting to rot and be thrown away. I also hate seeing food that’s not eaten. So, late one dark and lonely night, I went to foodnetwork.com and got a recipe for baked apples from Sonny Anderson. I went through tons of recipes, but I wasn’t willing to go to store, so I kept looking until I found one that needed only the scant few items I had in my pantry. It turned out pretty good actually. So good that for the next three nights, I had bakes apples. I didn’t feel too bad about them, it was just oats, cinnamon, cloves, brown sugar and butter. And there wasn’t too much sugar or butter. I thought I had found a fairly healthy way to eat an apple. Then, I made it for a friend that came over, and he suggested ice cream with the baked apples. This week, I had three more apples in my fridge and I have chowed down on a huge bowl of ice cream covered in baked apples, which now includes molasses in the mixture. It’s pretty amazing, you don’t even know the apples are there. Of course, I’ve literally put on five pounds this week, but that’s what you get from having to eat fruit.

let it hail, let it hail, let it hail

I was up late because of Project Runway Night with P,C,&SR-L last night, and then my brain was whirling so much I that I couldn’t fall asleep until well after midnight. During the day, when my brain goes there (at least for the past two or three) I literally start to sing “There is No Arizona.” Reminding myself that there is nothing left of all I had, all I thought I would have. Strangely, it works. Focus on right now. The moment I have control over. The things that can soothe and help me function at that minute. Shove out all the memories that assail me constantly throughout the day, as soon as I realize they are reliving themselves, kill them, send them away. Rush to something else. However, these strategies seemingly do not work, or are at least much less effective, when my brain is in bed and trying to fall asleep. Maybe compensating for what it has lacked during the day, or in an act of open, rebellious, opposition it runs rampant with memories, theories, irrational hopes, and projections.
Such insanities have made me very tired this morning. Therefore, I made an offering to the happiness gods by stopping to worship at my Starbucks chapel. As the tall, thin, cute blond boy (could not be more opposite from ‘my type’—except for the tall part) handed me my Venti Pumpkin Latte, I nearly yanked my hand back in revulsion. Instead of the normal fairly plain white cup with all their ‘oh-so culturally and environmentally friendly’ writings, I was handed a maroonish-red container with a reindeer and Christmas baubles with wishes written all over them (cus wishing works—and other such ‘tactics’). There was one other Christmas I didn’t feel up to celebrating, but it was nothing like this. I’ve heard people bitch about how angry they get over Christmas starting so early. I have always hated those people. I wanted Christmas to start in July and just keep going. Now, I am those people. I don’t want to see wrapping paper or think about color schemes when I go the store. I don’t want to hear the music (it was being piped in over the sound system at Barnes&Noble the other day). I don’t want to see ads on TV. I don’t even wanna see the beautiful, magical snow cover the ground.
I want no holidays. Instead only long endless hours of sunlight and warmth, a monotonous daily routine that is uninterrupted by things to celebrate or be happy about. I want my coffee cup to be a pompous attempt to disguise materialism in the form of awareness and sensitivity. Scrooge was lame. He should’ve yanked Tiny Tim’s crutch from his trembling little fingers, laughed joyously as the little brat fell to the floor (while trying to find the brighter side of things I am sure), and then used him as a festive, low-hanging piñata.

in the dip

In addition to all the emotional shit this week (and last), I have been experimenting with something old. Something I haven’t done in years. I’ve been staying home alone. Not going to the coffee shop. Not having old friends over. Not running away to my family. Not having new friends over. Not keeping the computer on and chatting the night away. I’ve been sitting at home, a lot of the time watching TV (which isn’t like before, I used to watch very minimal TV—at least compared to most people I know). This week, I’ve started reading downstairs with the dogs again (the new Kelley Armstrong book—fantastic, so far), and then falling asleep with the dogs. I think before long, I might even be able to sit at home and write again in the evenings—which would be good, as I need to finish editing and revising the fantasy novel, and writing is such a healing thing for me. I haven’t sat down and read a book in my house since before he left (we used to do that together frequently, each reading our own books). It’s amazing how scary it is, and how I have to force myself to start. One of the benefits is that I am older now, so I find I can only make it forty pages or so before I discover myself asleep with the puppies, which helps a little bit with the perpetual exhaustion.
I’ve always been an extremist, not as much as others in my family, but I do tend to be all or nothing a lot of the time, and the pendulum seems to have to take a wide arch several times before finally coming to rest in the middle. I can tell it’s not done swinging yet, but I seems like it will soon find its place. The emotions that go along with each station of the arch (including the middle ground) have differences but are similar. This journey with the pendulum has taken me places I’ve never gone before, places that are daring and liberating, dark and risky, strong and grownup, weak and childish. Things I’m amazed of, things I never thought I’d be bold enough to do, and things I will treasure forever as well as things I may regret for a long time. Actually, that’s probably not so true, there are very few actions I truly regret and those all revolve around severely hurting others—I don’t think my actions will hurt anyone but myself at times as of late, and I go by the belief that the choices I make (good and bad) turn me into the person I am, the man I will be. Granted, I’m not in love with the shattered man caged within me right now, but whatever. My gorgeous little sister, SH (not really sister, but yet she is), told me yesterday that she thought I was in the dip before the wave. (The wave being a good thing.) I don’t really think I believe her, but she put it in a way that I hadn’t been able to really feel before, and it made me cry—as revolutionary as that action is for me.
As ever, I hate the process of change, and I don’t go by the theory that all change is good or for the best, so I’m not convinced of the final outcome of this particular change. However, I know I am in the midst of some of my chapters of change. I don’t know where I am, if I am in the middle or nearing the end—I pray that I’m not still at the beginning. Of course, I like it better when the choice to change was just that—my choice. Obviously, these chapters of change were the farthest from my choice as possible, leaving me ever more convinced of the very real lack of power we ultimately have over the twists and turns of our lives—despite my weakness, these changes are leaving me stronger, as well as harder and more bitter. Maybe they are leaving me a little more in touch with reality—although if this is reality, fuck it—give me my delusions back please. If there is no Arizona, if there is no semblance of lasting, I need to come to terms with that and figure how to deal and who to be within that truth. For better or worse, I think that may be starting to happen.

why, yes, I would like that grenade sandwich with low-fat mayonnaise

Being an emotional basket case (I don’t know where that saying comes from, but it should be casket case)/insane mess must present itself as a good time to me or something. Maybe I call it to me. Either way, the few quiet tears from last night through this morning gave way to near hysterics as I drove home today. Fun times, and at this point, great oldies.

You’d think since I truly knew it was coming, seeing the update on the computer wouldn’t have affected me so greatly. You’d think. If you didn’t know me.

I made it through work without tears. I will wait for your applause to die down. However, Mr. Witt was not a happy, funny teacher today.

Yesterday, the check engine light came on in my new car. Yay!!! Long story short, I got it back into the dealership today. The 90 day/ 3,000 mile warrantee didn’t work (I was 200 miles over—of course I was). Turns out it was just a faulty gas cap. That was great news, as it wasn’t the engine exploding or plotting my assassination—that’d be too easy. They were going to charge me a $100 diagnostic fee, but they lowered it to $50—somehow bringing the whole bill to a little over $100!!! I, as is my new pattern, argued with them for about ten minutes. They couldn’t understand why I was making such a big deal over $50. I told them that I didn’t think they understood how much $50 is in my world right now. While I was waiting, there was a service guy who kept calling a client on the phone. Every few minutes, I heard, “Hello, Brandon, this is Chad, can you please call me back?” Not kidding. I thought I had lost it the first time, however, after five times, I knew I wasn’t hearing things. I’m not exaggerating—he was very persistent. (It doesn’t count that I’m using his name right now—this Chad was some guy with a truck at MedVed.) After my little break down in the car after this, I decided I was going to go nuts on the cardio, get the endorphins up that natural healthy way. A few minutes away from the gym, I realized I left my iPod at home, and I refuse to do cardio without Gossip Girl. Still, I could lift weights for a bit. I got to the gym, entered the locker room. Took off my clothes and got my gym clothes out of the backpack. Two pair of shorts. No shirt. Never been good at math. I couldn’t workout with the work shirt I had on, it was way too heavy. So, I hot tubbed it. Then came home watched two hours of TV and pigged out on ice cream. Yay! Fatness. Maybe if I get so fat that I can’t leave the house, that will fix everything.

I’ve decided my new motto is ‘There is No Arizona.’ It’s a song by Jamie Neal. Only remove Arizona and replace it with the name of the guy with the truck at the MedVed. Maybe if I take that song to heart, sanity or its ilk will ensue.

Oh, yay. It’s almost bedtime. Joy.

new prayer, restated

When I am going to get it? you ask? You didn’t ask? Well, I did. When the fuck the fuck am I going to get it?
He wanted to leave. He needed to leave. He wasn’t happy with the life we had. He didn’t love me as much as he thought he did. I didn’t make him happy. He wasn’t content. He didn’t want to spend his life with me. I wasn’t the man he wants to be with. He left so that he could be happier, so he could breathe easier, so he could be free to live life. He left so I wouldn’t give my life to someone who didn’t really love me and who didn’t want me. He didn’t do anything bad. He didn’t do anything mean or cruel. In many ways he made a hard, strong choice for himself (and maybe for me). He’s over it. He’s over me. He left me to live his life, to enjoy it more, to be happier without me. He’s doing exactly that. Just as he should. He’s not wrong or bad or evil or mean because he doesn’t love me, doesn’t miss me, doesn’t think of me—or because he’s relieved to not be with me and likes his life better sans me. He’s not bad because he’s free of me or because he will date and love someone else, give his life to someone else. It doesn’t change any of the good things about him that he will never come back to me. He is who is with or without me. The man I love doesn’t cease to exist because I’m not in his heart—because he’s never coming back.
He’s never coming back. When will I get it? You’d think I would already. You’d think after weeks of no contact, him taking the final vestige of his dead feelings for me out of existence, that every part of me would accept it and let it sink in. I’m really trying to let it. Trying to kill the hope that clings to me even as I try to scrape it away, after I’ve tried everything I can think of to kill it, to make it sink in, to make it share the grave beside his love for me. I’ve gotten to the point where I hate it. I don’t want the hope anymore. I regret that I asked my dear friends to hold the hope in prayer for me even when I couldn’t. I don’t want it. I want it gone. I want my brain to be able to have that realization that he really isn’t coming back. That he doesn’t want to at all, that it’s not even a possibility. Even if I can’t get it to make sense to me, I want my core to accept it. Even if it shatters me more than I have been. It hurts too much to continue to hold on. I’m not even trying to hold on—I’ve tried nearly every path I can think of to sever the hold and it refuses to let go. I don’t need to be as happy as I was. I don’t need to as loved as I thought I was. I don’t need to have anything as good as I did, but I don’t want this. Better to come to terms with the fiery blade keeping me out of Eden than to take a section of the flame with me, constantly burning, devouring from inside—a cancer. At this point, I don’t even care if I fully recover from it or if I regain full function again. Let me be the amputee. Sever the gangrene that continues to eat me before there is nothing left. Cut out whatever part of me holds the damned and insane hope so that the rest of me can function instead of every other molecule of my existence being consumed by the infection. This is not the man I want to be, and I can’t continue to be this man. I no longer care if I can return to who was, or if can experience the good that I did have. I just don’t want this. I don’t want it.
I DON’T WANT IT!

nail

I knew what I'd fine when I looked tonight. I knew he'd change it today. Just did, not sure why. Maybe combined with not wanting to talk to me anymore. Either way, he no longer says on his profile that he loves me. And, I've done a great job not looking, but I knew what I'd see tonight. I already knew he didn't. He doesn't. I'm no longer even an afterthought.

pathetic loathing

Like a bulimic whose heart calms as she swallows her fingers. Like a murderer climaxing as his knife sinks and twists into a belly. Like a dog rejoicing as he rediscovers his vomit. I blog. I’ve white knuckled it as long as I can. I’ve trembled as I attempt to keep the emotions and thoughts at bay. I’ve tried to be strong, to be manly, to be healthily independent and sanitized.

In order to breathe, to see the sun shinning, to experience the love I do have around me, I must return to my fingers, my knife, my vomit.

It’s been over two weeks since I’ve heard anything from him. Not a text, not an email, not a thought. Halloween has past. The day I usually set up the tree is nearing halfway over. The snow days are gone and the snow has nearly melted. Everything that could possibly make me think of him specifically is on hiatus. Except for the very real aspect of being awake—or asleep.

Maybe he’s read the blog and sees how pathetic I really am. Maybe he realized I blocked him and all his friends on facebook so that I don’t have to see each update and be reminded of everything that is more important than me and what we had. Maybe he simply decided that enough time had passed and he doesn’t have to give the obligatory contact. Maybe, and here we are at the truth, and that one that hurts the most, I haven’t even entered his head and there isn’t a desire there on his end.

I’d gotten used to hearing from him at least once a week. I hadn’t even realized it. I’d start thinking that it was about time to hear from him, and bam, there’d be a text or an email. Seemingly those days are now gone, and so I have to deal with truly being in his past (I know, I know, I can be a little slow on the uptake).

It’s a strange thing. The bad things, the hurtful things, that have happened in the past with others are still with me at times. When I don’t want them. They can be as real as the moment that I live in. However, the good times seem to fade into fairytale and myth as soon as they pass. The years with him never occurred. It was a dream, a fantasy. Of no more substance than the mermaids that cover my books, walls, and body. Only things that last are real or things that cut and leave scars. The things that were healed and blossomed and grew during the interlude where ripped open, stampled, and suffocated in the aftermath. I was nothing more than a moment, an experiment, as taste of one option that was deemed lacking. I was built up, made to believe and see the man he thought I was—the man I could be, the man I never dreamed I could me—only to have the illusion ripped from my eyes and a mirror set before me.

Now, like the girl, her stringy hair hanging around her face, dangling in the toilet water, guilt rushing into her; the killer with a conscience, tears streaming down his face as warm blood makes its way over and through the hair on his forearm, the blade trembling in his hands, I read my words and am disgusted with myself. It’s bad enough to be the one who was left, the one who had all he dreamed and lost it—to be this man, the one who refuses to shrug and move on, to believe there is more to him that what was ripped from him, the one whose pathetic state-of-being causes those around him to cringe in embarrassment. At the very least, I could choose to be like the dog, who not only has no apologies of his regurgitation buffet, but anxiously awaits the next feast of bile.