Mt. Michelle – revisited

I came across all of my old blogs from when Myspace used to be “a thing” and I’d write all the time. This blog, circa 2004, was inspired by a PM sent to me via the motorcycle forum to which I used to belong. In case that doesn’t make sense in 2017, the motorcycle forum was a message board. A place where like-minded individuals would gather, virtually, to discuss their common interests. In this case, it was motorcycles, (duh) and the riding of them. Or in my case, passengering on them. But, REALLY passengering. At 120 miles per hour sometimes, leaning so deep into curves, our knees almost touched the ground, and for hundreds of miles at a time.

From Myspace:

Me:  He sees my photos, he reads the words I write, (not here, elsewhere) has limited one to one email interaction with me, and based on these things he says I’m like nitroglycerine…. I’m not sure why he started to write to me, but here is how he thinks men view me. (asterisks are mine, reference at end of writing)

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“yes, it’s clear that your volatile* personality is a draw…your ability to change looks from mother to rock groupie chick** to biker to manager……. you are like nitroglycerin. “taking” you would make a man feel very powerful. king of the world. look at this fine specimen of a woman that I have slain / subdued / seduced / caused to fall head over heels in love with me / fucked her brains out. however… mishandle the nitro… and THAT’S YOUR AZZZZZ! this scares many men off, because it’s too much responsibility. all they are in it for is to meet a cutie, have sex with her, go out to eat and the movies, maybe fall in love and have a family. they really aren’t prepared to deal with a forceful personality. other guys will see it as a diamond in the rough. a needle in a haystack. something different for a change from the easily duped and quickly swooning volunteers…”

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Me:  So apparently I’m Mt. Michelle, waiting, much like Everest, for the brave souls willing to attempt to conquer me?  And what happens when “they” perceive they have conquered me? What if they have the idea that getting me in bed is something that won’t happen until they pledge undying love to me but I decide to allow it to happen before then? Do they think they’ve conquered me, and then I’m not a challenge? And what if “they” are one of the few that get to experience what I think are the best parts of me? The affectionate, romantic, nurturing, tender woman I am. The woman who will in fact cry for their hurt more quickly than she will her own. And who sometimes doesn’t want to be strong, but rather wants to lean on someone for a moment. Are they let down because Mt. Everest isn’t supposed to be touchy/feely, romantic, or emotional?

This is all very timely and interesting. I know it’s only one man’s (unsolicited) opinion. And a man who does not in fact know me. I see elements of truth in what he’s said though. So it leaves me to wonder, if I’m perceived as this challenge, but then instead of playing those silly dating games of making a guy chase me, I am just who I am, is “their” idea of me destroyed and I then cease to be appealing? A friend of mine once said about herself “hard to get doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. If I’m in it, I’m in it.” And I feel the same way.

Which brings me back to the thought of destroying the illusion of Mt. Michelle waiting to be conquered. I suppose the ones worth my time will realize that whether I wait 3 days or 3 months to have sex with them, it’s not indicative of me having been conquered. And they will also know that number of phone calls or email isn’t indicative of anything other than I friggen communicate with everyone, all the time! And if I seem excited to see them it’s ’cause I enjoy their company, not because I’m whipped. And that if I want to help them out, it’s not ’cause I’m madly in love, it’s ’cause that’s what I do. And that while I’m not complex in a drama queen way, that “conquering” me isn’t based on what they might think it is!

Overall I guess this is much better than being viewed as an easy target though. But for my part I guess I have to try and figure out who’s just in it ’cause they think it would be neat-o to say they stood at base camp at Everest, vs those who plan on actually trying to reach the peak. Mostly I wish that I could ask the guys I’ve let close to me in a boy/girl sense if what is written above was their perception of me as well. I don’t know if anyone would be that candid with me though.


*His use of the word volatile is perplexing to me. I can only extrapolate from the rest of the content of his email that its because I so passionately state my case when I feel strongly about something.

** This made me laugh! Groupie! HA! I’m the antithesis of a groupie. I’m the chick who has intentionally NOT slept with rock stars because they are rock stars! Its all about the music for me! Its just a bonus if the music is made by a super hot guy(s). PLUS, dress like a groupie what? Yeah, my tits and ass are always hanging out at shows and I can barely stand because I’m wearing my come fuck me shoes and my feet hurt! As evidenced by the photos I’ve posted here!!


My take on this, today, 5/16/2017

I’ve lived about 100 lifetimes since I wrote the above blog. There have been a lot of deaths, a lot of births, there was travel a plenty, music (always music) 3 long distance moves, love, and marriage, (a thing I hadn’t counted on happening) and within that marriage, the effects of sex addiction (his), and domestic violence. The writer of the nitroglycerine thing also “predicted” the demise of my marriage, before I got married, because my ex is 14 years younger than me. Nitro dude said ex would want to find someone younger, once I got “old.” Oh the irony that my age had nothing to do with the demise of our marriage.

But about the blog, and nitroglycerine, my thoughts are; I am not Mt. Michelle. Nor am I nitroglycerine. (Although I can be explosive! Which I have worked very diligently to change, and which doesn’t mean only anger, just emotion.) If anything can be learned from the marriage formerly known as mine, it is that the only blast created by the mishandling of me, was an almost irrevocable (it seemed at the time) implosion. That’s not to say that would always be the case, there was a systemic, and subtle, breaking down of the me over years. I dig that this was a plot twist no one saw coming, least of all me, but, I didn’t explode.

I don’t think anything *bad* was meant by what was said to me, about me. But I think it shined a not so flattering light on men, with words on what their perspective is (might be) of me. At least from my view of what I think men “should” be like. I don’t think it was being said that I should make myself small for men to not be scared of me, but, maybe it was. Me, and my forceful personality!

What I know now, that I didn’t know then, is that it doesn’t matter to me how I’m seen by most, or even many, men. But I am not to be conquered, or owned, slain, or subdued. In my experience, (see above referenced former marriage) the one(s) who see me as that, are those who are viewing me through the lens of their own insecurities. I’ll go with the diamond thing, if we leave out the rough. Perfect, I am not (Yoda, I am channeling!) but I don’t need to be shaped, and polished, to the eye that is deserving of beholding me. Unless of course, I wish to shape, and polish, me, for myself.

Most importantly what I now know is that the one who will get me, deserves me, is one who doesn’t need to subdue me as means to make himself to feel stronger. Almost conversely, he gains strength from supporting me as I rise, and grow stronger in myself. There are so many things I have learned about myself because of the introspection, the years of being single, while being married, and being alone so much, and part of that is exactly what I am looking for in a man, and none of that includes someone who feels like conquering me is a cool thing. Lucky to have my attention? Yeah, that I’ll vibe with, because I don’t give my attention easily. But that will only be the case for someone whose attention I hold too, who also doesn’t give it easily.

I’m writing around this again because the last several months of my life have been a lot about deep introspection. As I re-read many of my old blogs, I realized how much I lost myself during the years of my former marriage. Its kind of cool to revisit this time, when I used to think any of what was said in the original email mattered. I’ve still got my insecurities, but really, I’m just me. I AM the needle in a haystack, and its one crazy lucky dude who gets that. And me.

Also, to the friend who sent me the email originally, I wish I remembered why you sent it to me, but, in this moment, I mostly want to say thank you for it. It was an unintentional holding of a mirror to myself, to see how I felt about all of it. About me. I’ve come to the conclusion that it was a ballsy move of you to send the email back in the day! I could write so much more about how I feel, and what I think, about all of this, but, meh. The important part was me going inside, taking another deep look at me, so, thanks for that!

“…So We Must Love While These Moments Are Still Called Today, Take Part In The Pain Of This Passion Play…”

Listening to:  Everything Indigo Girls (again) which started (this time) here “Galileo”

12 years ago, 2005, in the span of 5 months, my confidant, greatest supporter, in many ways my mentor, my teacher, my almost-mother-in-law become dearest friend, Roxy, 5 days before my trip to Denver to see her, lost her (2nd) battle with cancer; dear, sweet, YOUNG boy, sound engineer working with the band I was managing, Chris, just starting his career making music beautiful, was taken literally by fire; and my niece, Cristina angel completed whatever it was she’d decided to come here for, and crossed back over to where she was free from the medical mystery of a body she’d occupied for not quite 11 years, this time around. And what I thought was forever (and real, and passionate, and nurturing, and healing, and spiritual, and healthy, and everything beautiful) love, found me. I wonder sometimes, had it not been for all the death that preceded the finding of me by (love?) might I have made different choices. Maybe. But I made the choices I made, and really, who the fuck knows. And now here I am… exactly where I want to be, at my core, happier than I’ve ever been.

In 5 days, in a courtroom far away, a Judge will wave her magic wand, and the life, and marriage, formerly known as mine, will be legally, formally, officially, eternally, over. And it’s good. I have outgrown that marriage, and the person I was when in it, and the person to whom I was married. I never understood until a few months ago that people can outgrow each other, their relationships, their marriages. I got it in terms of friendships, but not beyond that. I get it now. From my own experiences, and those of some others who have, or are going through this. They don’t have to involve things such as domestic violence, and addiction, for one to outgrow the other. Or both to outgrow each other, and the situation.  Moving on, walking away, is not something bad. It is not a sign of failure, or of lack of integrity. In fact, it is likely the exact opposite of that in some cases. (Such as for someone I will be quoting later in this writing, who helped me to shift my perspective on this topic.)

In one month’s time, my littlest angel, Ari, will be ascending a level higher toward her dreams, starting out on the road-trip, that is really a (permanent) move to Los Angeles. So much everything cool, and good with that. But cool, and good, isn’t always synonymous with easy, and free of sadnesses of sorts.

In two months time, I’ll be moving, locally, somewhere. As (accidentally) as accustomed as I am to moving, for some reason I didn’t think I’d be doing so again, quite this soon. I have always been “lucky” or whatever it is that has my back in this life, so things always work out, but, this just feels a little heavy this time, which is throwing me a bit off balance.

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I’m over-thinking, and under-doing, and not breathing enough, but also, breathing sometimes too much. Maybe I need to get high? Or laid? Or swim in the ocean? Take a road trip. Spend more time in meditation? Allow myself to fit into a box, and be suited to a label? Live more in this world, and less in whatever the one is that so often calls to me? Drive until I get lost, and found again? I definitely need to sing again. And to dance more often, with absolute abandon, in a crowd of people doing the same, to share that energy.

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From Elizabeth Gilbert – one of my favorite authors, and humans:

Yesterday, I asked my Fear, “How are you doing, my old friend? What’s going on with you?”

My Fear said, “I’m so tired. Trying to keep everyone and everything safe has completely exhausted me. I can’t do this anymore. Somebody else needs to be in charge now.”

And then I heard Love speak. She said, “Let me take it from here, babe.”

That’s when we all started breathing again.

Elizabeth Gilbert – Love this lady

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I am now self-aware enough that I have been watching myself slip into where fear, or something similar to it, which is not shiny, or beautiful, has started to be a little bit in charge again. Not fear of a something, or a someone, or an event. Non-specific fear, that I’d thought was relegated to my past as a way of life, or even just an interlude. Not to say that I don’t know what some of the “triggers” are, but, triggers aren’t inherently the boss of me. And also, sometimes triggers only have the slightest hint of a fragrance past, which strikes the chord of a memory of a something that wasn’t pleasant, so making the decision to believe that the top notes, and finishing notes, and all in between, are exactly the same as the scent of experience past, is just, stupid.

So I look deep inside myself to see what’s going on, and I look to the planets, and stars, sun, and moon, to see what is maybe their part in all of this. I wrap my arms around myself when need be, remind my me that this healing is a process, and that my shade of crazy is actually quite beautiful, and that which sets me apart. Not above, or below, but apart. I (for once) reach out to others to talk to them about it, this (slightly) off balance moment I’m having.

The origins of fear –

Knowingly putting myself into situations which may result in me getting hurt in the end. But that’s a little bit what this human experience is about in total, so I kick my own ass, widen my view, and remember that I’d be bored, and filled with regret, if I didn’t take the risks of LIVING  vs the safety of existing.

Never afraid of change, but sometimes when a lot of it comes all at once, and when at least a part of it means (physically) letting go (again) (because it has seemed sometimes that universe has wanted to say to me that my super power in this life is letting go of anyone I love, but not because they die, but rather due to circumstances I’d never seen as remotely possible) I stumble, and momentarily clench my hands to grip more tightly, instead of releasing.

Feeling a lack of contentedness for my todays, because I’m very excited for my tomorrows. I got a little high, I think, on the fast pace at which things were changing, and moving (inside, and outside of me) for a while. Instead of appreciating the calm, and matching my energy to the rhythm, and in spite of knowing that a slow groove builds the foundation, so that when the crescendo comes, it is of mind-blowing proportions, I focused on the “high.”

That my wants will be perceived as neediness. That I’ll forget, again, that “no wo/man is an island” and won’t let myself be held, or nurtured, because that means vulnerable. And that vulnerable is scary as fuck for everyone who has any amount of living under their belt, and as far as I can tell, a lot scarier for those who have experienced years of betrayal, and betrayal by everyone in their life ever sworn by lineage or deed, to protect “you.”

That I will be seen (not by anyone in particular) to be “less than” because I don’t have a plan for 2 months from now, much less 10 years from now. Because all the good people, right people, best people, have a solid foundation, a firm plan, own a house, aren’t divorced, have a college degree, and a linear career path. They also don’t feel as if their life will be incomplete if they don’t travel to certain countries. And especially by 50 years of age, they have very firm roots planted somewhere, with someone, the end.

That what is before me, which is burning inside of me to know, and has been since before I knew it was, is held by unseen forces, and just carrot on a stick, with which I will later be smacked.

I want to write about shadows (in which I am not meant to live) because I am the girl who (metaphorically) sings from (metaphorical) sun drenched mountaintops, and dances on them too, not in the shadows. But also not in spotlights. Sun light. Glitter light. Neon light. Lava lamp light. Strobe light. Because I have a primordial need, and unquenchable thirst, for all that is light, and bright, but am not concerned with getting attention. Its not that shadow dims my light, or that (momentary shadow dwelling) is forced (because it is my choice). I’m just not very good at it. So now I’ve written about shadows… without saying anything at all.

These words that are my own, which had such another meaning to me, for me, when I wrote them 2 days ago.  My lovely Bloom says “Why are you doing that to yourself? You’re missing out on the joy of today!” And I know she’s right.  So I take a night off from the weight of all I’ve been carrying, am amused by the couragesness, or craziness, of those much too young for me to take seriously, and take more shots than I mean to. I have another conversation filled with laughter, childhood memories, and connections that defy space, time, and logic.   I allow vulnerability to have a moment or 2. And then hours of poetry in the form of lyrics, and harmonies, and melodies, fill my world. And I let love take over,  recall that vulnerability is absolutely precious, sacred, holy, rare, remember I’m not in shadow, I’m bathed in light, just not in the same way I’m used to, and again throw my arms wide open, and step forward without fear, into whatever might be, in every aspect of my life. 


Listening to: Still on Indigo Girls – Below quotes are from some of their songs. Brilliant, inspiring, intelligent, thought provoking, evocative, lyricists, they are.

“Of all my demon spirits, I need you the most”

“Working through the grammar of my fears”

“The hardest to learn was the least complicated”

“Now we all are chosen one’s”

“My place is of the sun, and this place is of the dark”

“The less I seek my source for some definitive, the closer I am to fine”

“And when you’re learning to face the path at your pace every choice is worth your while”

Coming Down from Clouds

Listening to: Shannon Curfman, Linkin Park, The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus, Lucerene Blue, Dashboard Confessional, The Storys, Tori Amos, Christina Perri, Ed Sheeran, Papa Roach, Cash Cash, Adele

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Adele “A Million Years Ago” “…Deep down I must have always known, That this would be inevitable, To earn my stripes, I’d have to pay, And bear my soul…”

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One last phone call, not taken, because (without malice) there is nothing left to say, and nothing left to hear. At least not for me. And now, names written on dotted lines. A judicial “In nomine Patri et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti” and what once was a beginning, is ended. And its perhaps symbolic, and synchronistic, that it is also the first day of spring. The first day of new life, or life renewed, or something that if I was a poet, or lyricist,  I could capture, and express, with ease.

Today though, I’m “just” a girl in New Jersey. (Just, in quotes, because I KNOW my value, and worth, that I am intelligent, that I am beautiful, for whatever that means, that I am witty, talented, lovable, and worth loving.) So even though unicorn says “never just” to me, about me, when I say just about myself, I am today, just a girl in New Jersey, who has spent a lot of the day crying. I think my tears are similar to a person who is in pain, laughing. There isn’t really a reason to laugh when you’re in pain, but sometimes it happens. So today, I have no reason, really, to cry, in fact, there is real relief. But I’ve cried. It occurs to me that maybe part of the reason for the tears is that I have been in some ways, holding my breath, waiting for this day. So maybe part of the reason for the tears is that they are almost like an exhale.

I’ve spent a lot of time today, too, not writing, and thinking, while listening to music, and crying. Because I really want to feel this, to move through it, to put it absolutely behind me.

A very long time ago, I cried, a lot, about the thought of giving up on another human being. Of having to turn my back on someone, and not spend another minute caring about them, or what happened to them. It was utter heartbreak to me, the thought of doing that. In spite of all that went on, I thought that it would make me a monster to turn my back on another human. In particular a human whose fate is likely to find them in prison, or dead. That is what those of us who have loved someone with an addiction, married, family member, friend, have to contend with. Loving ourselves enough to walk away, and loving the other person enough that you allow them to be master of their own fate, no matter what that looks like. Those 2 things are mother fuckers. They eat you alive, until you erect impermeable fortresses around your heart, and soul, because you have to, to survive.

Today, I don’t feel like a monster for walking away. Maybe because its my nature, I find myself wanting to believe that he isn’t a monster either. I want to believe that he will be able to get his shit together, and stop hurting himself, and other people. I want to believe that it makes me a normal, healthy, semi-decent human being to feel that way. To have finally found the balanced level of empathy which allows me to feel for this soul that has been so damaged that I send nothing but love, without allowing any harm to come to myself.


Now Tuesday, the 2nd day of spring. I read a news story earlier about a woman, who was pregnant, whose husband (or perhaps boyfriend) killed her, and their unborn child, and then himself. She had a son, who is now left without a mommy. After reading the story, I began to shake. Because I don’t know, nor do I think anyone else does, what that line is, where beating your “girl” turns to killing her. I don’t know if any man who beats a woman is capable also, of killing her. I do believe though, that I could have been accidentally killed, or paralyzed, easily.I think it is by the grace of God/whatever, that neither of those things happened. When his rage was in charge, whether i fought him back, tried to run, or just let him do whatever he was going to do, there was no “right” response. And that last time he beat me up, or what I think was the last time punching, and/or kicking occurred, he left me alone for a bit, curled up on the floor, unable to move for the pain, crying, phone hidden from me so I couldn’t call for help, and after a bit, he came back to the room I was in, and punched me, and kicked me some more. …

Enough of that memory though… all I meant to say is, I am lucky, or whatever.

So now the tears of  yesterday are just that… None of this belongs in my today, or my tomorrow.

…Let me photograph you in this light
In case it is the last time
That we might be exactly like we were …


I don’t wish to write poetically of how much love there once was. I don’t wish to write poetically, or of love, at all. My singular wish is that I could give to you, that which I always sought to give. The ability to see yourself, through my eyes, as I once saw you, so that you would know how much more you are, than you allow yourself to be, should you ever choose that to be your reality. Unless I’m wrong, because certainly, I have been wrong, about a lot, in life. But just in case I’m not…

This is not about love, this is not about love, this is NOT ABOUT LOVE. This is about one soul to another saying; I believed in your ability to be everything you once said you wished to be. Your ability to overcome the past, handed down to you. There is no singularity to mates of souls, in my way of thinking, in my heart. Which is to say I have encountered more than one mate of my soul, to greater and lesser degrees in this life. But you will forever be, for me, the twin spirit I saw next to me, in utero, during a past life regression, in which you do not believe, who didn’t make it out that time, but then found it’s way back to me. (This IS NOT ABOUT LOVE) I hope that wasn’t, for you, in vain. If my voice is ever in any moments, still in your ear, it is my eternal hope that something of what you hear lifts you, strengthens you. For you. For her. For her daughters. Or for any “her” who might come after your current “her.” Mostly though, for you.

I don’t know if you’ll ever see this, but I leave it here, just in case. Because here it may help you, but here, you cannot harm me, even if harm “only” means to attempt to again use me as your ego’s masturbatory tool. This is NOT about LOVE. As in, not about “in love.”


For anyone who may have just read this, who may have been in, or who is currently in, a relationship with an addict and/or in which there is domestic violence, if what I’ve written above illustrates anything, it would have to be that I am fucking bonkers. Haha. Not really. Except sometimes a little. Occasionally a lot.

“For realsies” though, for me I needed to get on “paper” the extreme, and unexpected tears brought about by divorce papers being signed. I process by writing. I remember a few years ago, sitting in a counselor’s office. A lovely woman, who wanted me to cut straight to forgiveness. I kept telling her that I had to get into my anger first, sustain it Pavarotti belting a high-C, style, until I was out of breath. And then hold it a few more seconds. And then let go. She kept telling me I was wrong. So I told her to suck it, and peaced the fuck out. I then found my anger, held it until I didn’t need to, and a few months ago, stumbled my way to forgiveness. I’ve seen many women go immediately to forgiveness. I don’t know how that ultimately works out for them.If it’s really forgiveness, or if it is repressing what they really feel.  And I’ve seen many go to, and stay in, anger, indefinitely.For each of us, all we can do is find our own way, but I (still) don’t think anger, or remaining in it, is beneficial to anyone.

I’m 100% not going to be some preachy pretend guru, ’cause really, I have no idea at any given moment what the fuck is going on. Except for, I know for myself, I had to return to a place of kindness within myself around this whole thing if I was ever going to return to what passes for sanity in my world. And for as non-linear a person as I am, I had to take a pretty linear path this time, from anger, to really fucking enraged, to feeling the pain, to vocalizing the pain, to letting it all go…., and to now sending love (NOT IN LOVE) on a subconscious level, from a distance.


And now its Sunday. It’s been a busy, crazy, weird week, and each time I started writing here, I had to walk away. Sometimes because of me, and sometimes because of things outside of me. And I’m still just a girl in New Jersey, feeling her feelings, and trying to figure things out.  I really thought I wanted to finish this on the 1st day of spring, but, I guess I “needed” more than one day for it. By it I mean, the emotions, and blah blah.

So back to you, those for whom I have chosen to break my silence; you’re not crazy, even when you cry about signed divorce papers, when you no longer are in love with, no longer want to be married to, no longer miss, no longer think about, no longer have anger toward, your ex. You’re just someone who has been through at least a little bit of hell. You’re also not alone.

Listening to: Van Morrison ” Into The Mystic  “…I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the days of old, Then magnificently we will float into the mystic…”

Triggered and Release

Listening to: Ed Sheeran “Save Myself” “…I gave you all my energy and I took away your pain, Cause human beings are destined to radiate or drain…So before I save someone else, I’ve got to save myself But if I don’t then I’ll go back to where I’m rescuing a stranger
Just because they needed saving, just like that Oh I’m here again, between the devil and the danger But I guess it’s just my nature…

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trig·gered
ˈtriɡərd/
adjective
adjective: triggered
  1. (of a mechanism) activated by a trigger.
    “a triggered alarm”
    • (of a response) caused by particular action, process, or situation.
      “a triggered memory of his childhood”

A friend posted on Facebook a few days ago, an article originally from Time Magazine several years ago, which contained pictures of a woman being physically abused by her boyfriend. (I’ll link at the bottom of the blog) Not reenactments, but actual photos. The why is explained in the article, so I won’t go into it. I clicked the link posted by my friend, wondering what would be my reaction to seeing a woman abused, as not so long ago I had been. My only real reactions were to feel sad for the woman in the pictures, and of the abusive man to think “wow, I know him. That posture, and ‘poses’ are so familiar. What a fucking asshole he is!” Other than that, there was nothing. Which didn’t really surprise me because the physical hits were always easier for me to take than the mental/emotional hits, so it stands to reason now that I’m healing (was always so fucked up?) that seeing the images, didn’t trigger me.


What had happened was…. A few days ago something was said to me, that in the moment I had questions about, which I didn’t ask, and I have since then (unintentionally?) ruminated on what was said. Or on the story behind what was said. And I held my past against it, but not in the accidental good way that I discovered those words can mean, but rather in the “here is what my truth has been,” and I decided that a something that is happening now is a lot like something that had happened then, and I (subconsciously) started to hold my breath, and get scared, and decide what is going on, is what had gone on, and that everything beautiful is blurry. And maybe its not beautiful. And maybe this, and maybe that. And the bottom line is that I fucked up, because I didn’t ask the questions. And I’m not sure why I didn’t ask. Except the thing about questions asked is that they get answered.Sometimes answers are “nothing you wanna hear.” Also, I have (had) been conditioned to believe that it was not OK for me to ask questions. That I was a crazy bitch for thinking questions needed to be asked, or just trying to start fights, and rock boats for the sake of it.

So the triggering thing for me, (what has triggered me) is a scary closet monster, that also has an equally scary Siamese twin attached to it.  I’m triggered by a something, and I’ve also “reverted” to a response which is familiar, and painfully comfortable/uncomfortable, in it’s familiarity. And I’m really, really hard on myself, so, healing isn’t supposed to be in total a process, it’s supposed to be instantaneous, and I’ll never again feel anything like I’ve felt before, and I’ll never fuck up again. But I am, and I did, and here I am.

This is all written for me, and you…(the person who will one day, and unexpectedly, find themselves triggered as fuck)  because I fully plan to be one of the human beings who radiate, not drain! Its not the words that were said to me, or the story behind them, that matter, at all. It is my reaction to any, and all of it, that matters. Had I taken a beat, and in the moment, asked my questions, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to get spun out. I also though, could have chosen to not get spun out. I could opt to be one of those brilliant, beautiful creatures who always remembers to breathe all Pranayama style, through everything, instead of being spun girl, even with unasked, and unanswered questions floating about in the ether.

Its been several days since I started this writing. I’ve revisited it several times, but couldn’t quite pick it back up. What I have done though, is step back from myself to remember that I spent a good 10 years having my head fucked with in really major ways. I do not play the victim card here, or ever. Because fuck that. But also a little bit, go easy on yourself girly, its not even been a year, and you weren’t that “normal” to begin with! Add to that the last week saw too much interaction with the ex, again for purposes of getting the divorce mutha-fuggin DONE, and having to deal with his – interesting version of everything -. Try as he might, he doesn’t hurt me anymore. He does exhaust me though, and I can’t wait to never have to deal with him again.

Something else has been hitting me the last week or so, in spite of being triggered, (read: a little bat shit crazy) and that’s how lucky/blessed or whatever it is, that I am. (I get very confused about the blessed thing, because that almost implies to me a deity on high, choosing like some omnipotent, omnipresent, Oprah, who gets good shit, and who doesn’t.) Anyway, long before I started talking about the domestic violence, I started joining groups for those who had experienced it, and while I don’t wish to minimize anything, I also have to say, all things being equal, my ass got lucky! Some of the women who share their stories, they are still running, and hiding, from these crazy fucks trying to kill them, AGAIN. They have children with their abusers, and they have to allow their children to spend time with these thugs. Or they were stay at home wives/mommys, who now have to figure out how to support themselves, and their kids, without their spouse. So I’m lucky I didn’t have the baby I wanted, with the ex, and that he never was the sole bread-winner in our marriage, and that even in his abuse he is apathetic, and won’t exert the effort it would take to do to physical harm to me, now that I’m far away.

Those are of course not the only reasons for which I consider myself lucky. Right now, as I type this, I am listening to the sound of a (beloved) beautiful voice singing brilliant songs, trying to figure out how I got so lucky/blessed, to be listening to them. Don’t get me wrong, low-self esteem girl has been kicked to the curb. I actually do know that I’m a pretty cool person, and that, just as I am lucky (that fuckin word!) to have the people in my life that I do have, they too are lucky to have me. But that being said, the confluence of stars, and planets, or spells cast, intentionally or otherwise, or whatever it is the magick that has made it possible for me to be hearing this music right now, is mind boggling to me.

So anyway, I’ll sort out the what triggered me, Don Miguel Ruiz, Fifth Agreement style – “Be skeptical, but listen,” and the conclusion of that situation doesn’t actually even matter. What matters is the awareness I have of everything in this moment, and the really real emotions which accompany the awareness. I’ll at least try to remember to go a little easy on myself, as I walk through this process, for whatever that means. If I start to spin again at some point, I’ll try to get myself to stop, the moment I become aware of it. And I’ll ask questions in the moment, instead of delaying! I really DON’T think there is anything to lose by being exactly who, and how I am, so I’m just going to keep putting my me out there, and trust that all is as it should be, whatever the fuck that means.

Last, because yesterday I found out a former co-worker, and long time friend, passed away, much too young, younger in fact than I, I wish to commit myself to remembering to tell people I love, that I do in fact love them, while I have the chance to. And to say kind things to people, even total strangers, just because. I WILL radiate, in every beautiful way possible. I will also keep releasing to the past, and to the winds, all that does not serve

It’s 4am, I’m sick again, and clearly in the throes of a great bout of insomnia, so I will NOT be proofing this before publishing, because I’m lazy and need sleep. Hopefully something of it makes sense. And to my friend Adam Andrews, I will dedicate this writing. You never did tell me what it was that I had done for you, so many years ago that touched you so deeply, but, whatever it was, I’m glad I did it. Rest in Peace friend, free from the pain you fought here. I’ll see you on the other side.

Portrait of Domestic Violence

“…I guess this is growing up…”

Listening to:  “Poems, Prayers, Promises” – John Denver “…And talk of poems and prayers and promises and things that we believe in. How sweet it is to love someone, how right it is to care. How long its been since yesterday, and what about tomorrow….”

…And now when I start to write I find myself wondering how to honor my desire to reach out to, and be a voice of encouragement for, those who are or have experienced domestic violence/abuse, who may read what I am writing, and may find something of it value in it.

It is 6 days to the date of the one year anniversary of when I moved to New Jersey, putting hundreds of miles between myself, and the life formerly known as mine. With the exception of the on-going legal stuff, nothing about that life seems real.  Or at least it for the most part doesn’t. I am very far removed from the feelings I had while living in that ridiculous hell, kind of being in labor with a child, or at least my experience of it. I have a distinct memory of how intense was the pain. I know it was painful, but I can’t FEEL that pain anymore, and that for me, is the key to moving forward.

For most of my life, I have been comfortable in my own skin, (well, except for body image issues which have always plagued me, and my loathing of my distinctly Roman nose) other than that, at some point in my life, I became pretty cool with me. Right up until, whenever it was, that I started to question everything about me, and how I am, how I treat people, what I look like, how I dress, speak, walk, think. And then decided I had nothing of value to offer the world, and that there was nothing beautiful left for me, to include nothing about me being beautiful. My own skin, then, became my prison, as did my life. And how  unfathomable to me now that I was broken down to that point. I’m obstinate as fuck, so I really don’t know how someone managed to get so far in my head… or why I’d stay in that ridiculous hell for so long. It took me a long time to realize how far-reaching were the effects of the ridiculous hell.

A little over a week ago, I celebrated my 50th birthday. It exists in the realm of possibility that had I not been through the ridiculous hell, and the subsequent transformation to a person who is happier than I’ve ever been, that I might have approached that date, and that number, with some trepidation. Maybe I’d feel OLD, and the desire to hide that number from the world. Instead of that, to me it is just a number that doesn’t signify much, except for 51 times around the sun, and 51 years of experience as this person known as Michelle. And MAYBE, because of the ridiculous hell, and current happiness, I feel the most remarkable sense of freedom to be just exactly who, and how, I am. Where in the past I might have felt the need to justify or explain who I am, while being who I am, now my attitude is much more fuck it, I dig me, and if you don’t, that’s cool. I’m, just…. me. I don’t want to waste any more time in this life fighting with others in the hope that they’ll become OK with me, being me.

As turning 50 relates to the life that was formerly known as mine, beside being back to cool with who I am, one of the most profound changes for me, about me, is my appearance. I place very little value on my appearance, with the exception of how I personally feel about the way I look. I was taught a very valuable lesson long ago, that my looks may open doors for me, which I did not ask to have opened, but once they were, the “wowing” with my intellect, with the deeper parts of me, would be what led me to where I really wanted to be. Maybe that’s why I didn’t notice the changes. I had no idea that while I was going through the ridiculous hell, I looked about 100 years older than I now do. My posture changed, along with the way I carry myself. My smile became rare, and reluctant. My weight too, changed, thanks to the back injury, the medication for it, the months of immobility, and the years of being unable to work out, and for a long time, to even stand or walk for long stretches. Mostly though, it was my eyes that changed. My eyes which are green, sometimes light, sometimes dark, and other times are grey, except for when they lean more toward blue. The best way I can put it is, they lost their “light” as in, illumination. Rarely did they become wide with excitement, and wonder. Or soft, gentle, with the comfort of giving love in moments brought on by being able to deeply trust in the knowledge that I was safe to do so.

More than any of that, though, what having been through the ridiculous hell, and “growing up” have given me, is finally understanding what self-care means. To those I love, I will give everything I have, even when it may not seem that I am doing so to anyone on the outside. While that’s cool and all, I did, in the life formerly known as mine, even as I was fighting in words for myself, often forget about ensuring my needs were met. This of course increased 10 fold, as I imagine it does for everyone, due to the nature of the marriage formerly known as mine. Although I’ve no doubt he would say this isn’t true, because it is impossible to fulfill ALL the needs (which are really wants) of someone capable of breaking another emotionally, and being physically abusive, I was constantly chasing my own tail, in an effort to please him, placate him, meet his expectations. I accepted life in an abusive, passionless marriage, in which none of my mental, spiritual, emotional, or physical desires were met, FOR YEARS, with the hope that somehow doing, or not doing, something, would fix everything. Or at least fix something. Instead I became empty, and exhausted, hopeless and bitchy. Not to mention lonely.

While I do forever aspire to be a person who gives to those she loves, and I DO derive the most pleasure in life from giving, whether it be actual gifts, or just doing thoughtful, caring things, I also now know, I have to give to myself as well. I currently find myself in uncharted territory, and it would be VERY easy to lean too far to the meeting the needs of others, over my own. BUT, it would be equally easy to think of only what I need, and be inconsiderate, and quite honestly selfish. Having seen both sides of that coin, and finding both to be lacking in anything shiny, or happy, my chosen balance point is now more a “non-zero sum game.” Where I once may have held an inflexible boundary, albeit for what was meant to be my own good, I now place as much value on perspective, as I do on values.

I could stray now into deep-thoughts on the potentiality for situational ethics to be that about which I’m speaking, (which I am not) or further elaborate on what I am trying to say, without actually saying it. Instead of any of that, I think it is sufficient to be said that what I have learned at such a deep level, is that I can be loving, and giving, and do my sincere best to do no harm to others,  and still take care of myself. I was never much for black, and white thinking, but am even less so now. What I have often been though, is one who spins herself out, over-thinking things. I want always to be thoughtful, but I also want to not spend so much time thinking about things, that I miss out on living my life! 

I absolutely adore the idea of having a man in my life upon whom I dote, to whom I give caring, and pampering, and whose wants, needs, desires, I meet, and whose dreams, I help to see to fruition. But while also doing those things for myself! And accepting getting those same things in return! All while dancing around, singing, sometimes leaving a trail of glitter, and hopefully always, leaving a smile on a (beloved) face. I want always to give to my kids, and my grandson, and future grandchildren, but not to the detriment of myself. Same holds true for anyone with whom I cross paths. I don’t wish to ever again find myself empty, because I gave so much. Especially I don’t wish to ever again be giving, and be abused in return.

So for anyone who may be reading these words, who may need to read them, and who may find value in what they say, because I write of my experiences with you in mind, if it has not done, know that the pain WILL recede. It will fade to a memory, and it won’t hurt at all anymore. And when you finally find the strength to start giving caring again, because I get how it feels to think you’ll never have the energy to give a fuck about anyone or thing again, make sure your priority, in the most unselfish way possible, is you. Also, 5o is the new 30 so, there’s plenty of time to re-write the script, and the plot twists of your future, can be pretty amazing.

——————————-

Maybe because tonight, which is now actually last night, is (was) the new moon, and rooms, and people, were smudged, hearts, minds, and souls were opened to ask for wisdom, overtone chanting was listened to, to raise the vibration, and intentions were written, and then burned, I am moved to (told to) include in this writing, some additional words.

To him, I offer my thanks for finally giving me the push to get, and stay away. To her, that is now with him, I thank her for her actions, which further aided me in staying away. I’d say I wish that I’d done sooner, but, I wouldn’t be here now, and here is where I want to be so, I guess it’s all perfect. To him I also say, I forgive you. I have released all anger I had toward you, and her. Go with God, or whatever/whomever you want.

To anyone I may have hurt in the past, I sincerely ask your forgiveness. To anyone I may unintentionally hurt in the future, for your forgiveness I also ask. And to you, I also send love, and wishes for everything beautiful.

To the most amazing extra-terrestrial unicorn, with whom I have traveled the ages, (or with whom I am currently sharing life, in times which parallel the one we know currently as our reality), I give endless thanks for space-holding, given, and accepted, for always, always seeing me, hearing me, encouraging me, trusting me, and for the brilliant words, wisdom, laughter, tears, and moments of magick of all sorts, shared. You are remarkable. And I send love enough to span oceans, and time.

And to my daughters, the most beautiful, amazing creatures, for your forgiveness I also ask, for anything I have done, or not done, which may have hurt you, in any way. You are that of which I will always be the most proud. I am every single day amazed by your strength, your resilience, your intelligence, your humor, your kindness, your beauty in every sense of the word. It is my profound pleasure to watch you both, in your own ways, find your wings, and fly. I love you beyond measure. Never forget, you can do, and be, anything you wish!!!

 

Listening to: The sound of silence. Not Simon and Garfunkel. The literal sound, of silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“…the hardest part of ending, is starting again…” (except not really)

Listening to: Emmylou Harris covering The Beatles “For No One” “…she wakes up, she makes up, she takes her time, and doesn’t feel she has to hurry, she no longer needs you…”

It’s weird to have “light at the end of the tunnel” thoughts, about the (much belated) end of a thing, which when it meant something, meant, everything. But tunnels there are, and light too. Light toward which I am running. Also, there are tears, that aren’t of sadness for endings… which I am trying to understand.  I’m sure it makes absolute sense that there are tears.

Is it possible to mourn the final death of something you don’t wish to have? Not even mourning memories of what had been hoped for, or the ideas of what had once been thought to be… (I’ve read that a hundred times and still don’t know if it makes sense). I see too clearly now just how much what I had for the majority of my marriage was nothing like what I ever wanted, to remember what it felt like when I thought it was something good.  Maybe the tears are for the (nearly) 12 years which I won’t call wasted, but I will call, not the best spent. But even that I say with hesitation… the smallest change to them would have meant I wouldn’t be here, and here is exactly where I want to be…

~ Traversing dark shadows in mental hallways of memories, in search of the moment(s) in time during which I was told stories comprised of lies, and deceit, written by the shaky hand of someone who made and re-made the choice to stay locked in their own unhappiness. Lies which I then chose to make my absolute truth. ~ (unfinished?)

100% stealing words right now, “…10 years ago. I knew so much more back then…”  Not supposing to know what the words meant to the person from whom they’ve been stolen, I know exactly what they mean to me. Because I was so certain then, about so much, 10 years ago.  There is no nostalgia here, there is only (morbid?) curiosity… Who was that girl, who thought she knew so much, but, as it turns out, had a lot wrong? That girl who then (let herself get) got beaten, so far down.

There is a reason that we (those who have experienced domestic violence/abuse) are told that no contact with our abuser is a must. Because I had purposeful contact, initiated by me, with mine, last week. Contact which, in spite of it’s purpose, speeding the fuck up the process of divorce,  and it’s hopefully favorable result, sucked. The me of a few months ago would have crumbled during, and after, such a call. I mean, I would have told him to fuck off, but it would have been while crying, and hurting, and afterward I’d retreat into solitude and depression.

—————————————-

He said…

“You’re just doing this to harass me. You’re just a woman scorned, trying to get revenge. That’s the only reason you want any alimony.”

“You can’t PROVE that the injury to your back is from anything I did to you.”

“You’re psycho.” “You’re a nut job.” “You’re so dramatic.” “Shut the fuck up and let me talk.”

“I have a lot of stuff I’m sure you don’t want made public. I can show emails and texts (from your deepest, most dark, terrifying time, when you felt utter despair, and hopelessness) to the judge that will show that you’re unstable. It will speak to your character. The Judge will never award you anything if they find out about any of what you said.”

“What would your daughters, and your mom think, if they saw your emails, and texts, (from your deepest, most dark, terrifying time, when you felt utter despair, and hopelessness)? I should send everything to them, too.”

It was only after much thought that I made that phone call. The last time I spoke with him, a couple of months ago, which was purely accidental as he called with blocked number, the tone of the call, while still decidedly manipulative, was very different. Likely the billion ignored calls since that one, telling him he no longer has any control/affect, pissed him off, so there was no (feigned?) kindness. If I’d believed for a minute that speaking to him, irrespective of which him showed up, could in any way hurt me, I wouldn’t have done. I also spoke to my attorney before making the call.

There’s a lot of  grey area in my life now, and I think it’s better that way, than when I was so certain of so much, about which I was so wrong.

Things I know for sure are that in 9 days, I’ll be 50 years old, and am a little mind blown by that. I’m not freaked out by it. It just used to seem like 50 was olllldddd. But it is so, not! My littlest angel will be 28 on that same day. I remember my 28th birthday, down to the outfit I wore going out that night. And now I hear in my beloved Nonna’s voice, “Quando ci passa tempo.” which conversationally translated means, “how quickly time passes.”

Also I know that at the very latest, the divorce will be final April 7th. Much longer than I wish to wait, but, at least there is a definitive time frame.

In May I’ll be moving, somewhere. Maybe locally for a while longer. Maybe Arizona. As much as I’d love for it to be London, that’s too short a time frame to make an international move. My littlest angel, Ari, will be moving to Los Angeles, my heart aches at the thought of not living near her, but  it has long been her dream. If there is only one gift I can give to my girls, I wish it to be wings, and the courage to use them to not just fly, but to soar to their chosen highest heights. If I move away (or rather when, as it is inevitable) I’ll be far from my biggest angel, Lauren, and angel baby grandson, Gabriel, also heart wrenching. But if I don’t choose to fly, then soar, to my highest heights, for whatever that means, how can I hope that they will? And here was only every a stop over, on the way to, wherever.

Why am I even writing all of this? This isn’t writing about poor me, or anything like that. This is a written deep think, which I’ve been working on for days… I’m dancing around words… over-using ellipses as part of incomplete thoughts, or just holding back, something. And this has a purpose, this writing, so I can’t do that for me, for anyone who might be reading this, who might need the words, or find value in them. This which has now taken so many days, and should be as brilliant, and long, as War and Peace, and is neither!

What is it that’s trying to work itself out, which also feels it needs to be non-journal writing? Is it to type out those cruel words as some form of catharsis for myself, and to say “if your husband is saying anything like this to you, you are being emotionally abused, get the fuck out! Or to say, don’t take, or make, phone calls, until you KNOW you are strong enough? And only if you have to. And if your attorney says its OK. Also, don’t forget to use your wings, (which you do have) to not just fly, but soar…

—————————————————

A thank you,  for threatening to use my lowest point in life, against me. A point to which I’d sank, because of the mental fucking so frequently given me, to the degree I didn’t know which way was up. With each threat, with each attempt at manipulation, and intimidation, with each name you call me, you remind me of who I have become, which is who I always was, and I RISE. I grow stronger. I become someone whose light shines so brightly, you can’t bear to look directly at me, because you’re too content your self-imposed darkness.

——————————————————

Listening to: “We’re Still Fighting It”

“…you’ll try, and try, and one day you’ll fly away from me…”

“…and you’re, so much, like me, I’m sorry…”

 

 

“…A one woman riot…”

Listening to: Milck “Quiet” (Song preformed in flash mobs at, and now going viral as a result of, Women’s March in Washington DC, now become anthem for Women’s Rights and Human Rights, and for me, personally.)

“…But no one knows me, no one ever will, If I don’t say something, If I just lie still. Would I be a monster, scare them all away, If I let them hear, what I have to say…I can’t keep quiet…a one woman riot…”

When I woke up this morning, my laptop, and my little laptop desk thingy, which had been on my bedside table when I fell asleep last night, were sat on top of me. As in, sometime in the middle of the night, I sat up, reached over, picked up my laptop, and put it on my lap, and then laid back down and fell back to sleep. I have NO memory of this. Although it was, and is, really weird, I decided that it was just my subconscious telling me I needed to write, because that’s less scary than any of the other possibilities I came up with!

It is no longer morning as I am writing this. My sub-conscious should have known better than to try to MAKE me write. I’ve never done well with being TOLD what to do. (Want to prove this out, just send me a text saying “Call me.” just like that, telling me to call. Great way to assure I absolutely do NOT call. Especially if I’ve already, literally or through my silence, said no.) Anyway, I knew I’d write today, but didn’t have a thought about what.

And then I read this: From the Elders of the Hopi Nation & Marianne Williamson

Instantly upon reading it I was captivated by “we are the ones we have been waiting for.” I can’t explain why, but in their simplicity, they are very profound, and they “made me” want to write about them. The whole story also reminded me of  one told when I was in Arizona having my magical (magickal) healing weekend, by one of the speakers, Denise Linn, who is Native American. I am writing from memory…so I will not put it in quotes as I’m certain I’ll get the wording very, very wrong.

~ It is said that there was a time long ago, when the Tribe’s elders gathered everyone together, and asked that they as a group make a fire. A fire so large that it burned taller than any of the members of the Tribes. The elders then shared with the Tribes that there would be a time in the future where there was a lot of chaos, and turmoil in the world, and the world would need the spirits of some of those who stood around the flame to be come back, to help fix what was so badly broken. So the strongest, and most brave warrior stepped forward, and walked into the flame, sacrificing himself for the future, and his ashes floated upwards, into the sky, becoming a star. After him, another warrior did the same. Then another, and another. Women of the Tribe also stepped forward, and walked into the flame, sacrificing themselves for the future. The elders of today’s Tribes have said that this is the time, now, for which the warriors and women of the Tribes sacrificed themselves, and that they have come back. ~

And now, from what Marianne has written, I read “…we are the ones we have been waiting for.” and it’s a little bit like a lighting bolt, to me.

I know that they, Denise, and Marianne, are giving us this wisdom as related to current events on a global level, and in particular because of the shit show that is the government in the Untied States at this moment. But I’m feeling these words on a very personal level, which I think can then translate into a global level.

… And in this moment I am again finding myself WISHING that I could paint, or draw, or write music. Because what I am FEELING is much more in colors, and shapes, and sounds, than it is words that I am thinking. … oh to be a Unicorn, and be able to do all 3…

I think everyone waits for some sort of hero or champion, at some time or other in their lives. The person, or people, or deity even, who will right the wrongs, and the injustices, or who facilitates the taking of the next step towards whatever it is they are striving for. Christians are waiting for Jesus’ second coming. Jews are waiting for the first coming. Scientologists are paying for their meeting with a deity, or alien super power, or Tom Cruise. Who the fuck really knows. Hopeless romantics are waiting for someone to “complete” them. (Tom Cruise is EVERYWHERE!) In the life formerly known as mine, I was waiting for the wrong person to decide to be the right person, so I could stop hurting. (To be very clear on this, the hurt I wished for him to take away was the hurt he was causing. I wasn’t looking for him to be my personal savior.) As it turns out, I was who I had been waiting for. No Messiah needed. No conversion of wrong person into hoped for right person. Just me, saving my own life, and being happier than I’ve ever been, possibly because of it.

“…waiting, for your modern Messiah, to take away all the hatred, that darkens the light in your eye, still awaiting, I…” Disturbed  “Liberate”

So what if each of us is who we have been waiting for, personally, and collectively? What if each of us is THAT person? That Messiah. (Waiting for bolts of lighting, and mean texts, and “unfriending” over this one!) That warrior? That complete person, in and of ourselves? What if we all saved ourselves? Or what if even most of us saved ourselves? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that in doing so we would create a better world as a whole? If the majority wasn’t so concerned with whose deity was more bad ass, or who has the best toys, or biggest penis, (this isn’t about men, women participate in a figurative most impressive pink parts contests too, they just often don’t admit it)  wouldn’t what the minority thought have less impact? Or none at all? What if in our very act of waiting, we are hindering our own growth, in every way imaginable?

What if I become a one woman riot, of love? Of spreading hope, happiness, good vibes? A one woman riot of spreading the message that YOU, who might be reading these words, who may need them, are strong enough to walk away from a man who is abusing you?  And what if I join my riot, with “her” riot, and “his” riot? Because he and she, if they are already rioting, likely know on some level that they are the ones they have been waiting for.

“…let’s start a riot, a riot…” Three Days Grace “Riot”

Its scary as fuck to let go of what we thought we knew, and to throw our arms open to the unknown, to say “we are the ones we have been waiting for.” But what if we are? What if we didn’t even know we were waiting, until suddenly some sort of awakening occurred, and we realized we had been waiting? And in front of us stood the “we” for whom we’d (unknowingly) been waiting, and together riots were started, because they were meant to be started?

Maybe this is all bullshit. Maybe this chaos, and turmoil in the world is the precursor to some quantum leap in human beings that is going to happen, wherein the dark overlords of AI will control everything, and those of us who oppose their evil regime will be phased the fuck out if we won’t assimilate, irrespective of our riots. Or maybe the current regime will keep their heads so firmly planted in their asses, that the number of terrorists on the planet will grow at an exponential rate, because good people will turn bad, in response to being treated as bad people, and America will be torn apart by their attacks . Or maybe Jesus will come tipping through the door, look at me and say, “you fucked up Michelle, you chose the wrong path by not choosing me” and I’ll be done for. Or maybe it’ll be Tom Cruise who walks through the door and says, “you chose the wrong path Michelle, you fucked up making fun of my teeth and weird behavior all these years” and I’ll be done for. Who really knows.

For now though, I’m laying money on us being the ones we’ve been waiting for. I’m rolling the bones, and throwing my arms open to walk forward into a future where riots are started, and combined. I’m going to spread happiness and hope, good vibes, and my words of encouragement, and strength, and art in any way I can, along with some irreverence because its just damn fun!  I’m not saying I’m anyone’s savior, except my own, but I KNOW anyone (thing) I’m (subconsciously or consciously) waiting for, is already here. And  even though I’m sounding like a hippy, I won’t be wearing patchouli, because I don’t like patchouli. Just in case you wanted to know…

Listening to:  Huffamoose  “James”

“…He answers to a higher calling the moon and the sun and the stars are falling through his time and his space and I am lucky to be part of it all…”

“Fallin’ down, I can’t find my feet, and I don’t know why I’m trippin…”

Listening to: Joe Satriani –  “Always With Me, Always With You”

Once upon a time, there lived a crazy but cool Princess. Princess Consuela BananaHammock, we’ll call her for this story. One Saturday night, Princess Consuela decided that instead of going out, she would have a mellow evening, stay home (alone), eat some mushrooms, and watch “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.” Why did she decide this? Who the fuck knows. But, content with this as a plan, she ate a couple of stems, a cap, pressed play, and waited for the ride to start. When that didn’t happen in what she felt to be a reasonable amount of time, she ate a couple more pieces. Then a bit later, a couple more. At some point she realized that not only had she eaten the whole 1/4 ounce of mushrooms, she had her back to the TV, but was seeing in the most vivid, detailed technicolor, some brilliantly bizarre movie, set to the sounds of Fear and Loathing. She in fact realized that she was tripping balls, and shit was about to get real.

For the next 8 hours, Princess Consuela (who’d had the foresight, before things went too far off the deep end, to call a friend to keep her company) talked almost non-stop, found herself unable to sit down, and was feeling every single emotion known to man, and probably some not known, in flashes, lightning bolt style. The highest of highs, the lowest of lows, and everything in between, but to their extreme. Although the Princess knew that everything she was feeling was due to the mushrooms she’d consumed, and wouldn’t be permanent, she was still in moments, a little scared of the intensity of it all. The only thing that brought her comfort in those moments of being in fear of the intensity, was The Goo Goo Dolls song, “Slide.” She would dance around her apartment to the song, and when the “what you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful” part of it came on, she would SPPPPIIIIIINNNNNN, like a patchouli wearing hippy chick at a Ratdog show, (She sadly never made it to a Grateful Dead show) remind herself that she just had to ride the snake for a bit, and all was again cool. After 8 hours, the high wore off, she had a snack and a nap, and regained what passes for sanity in her world.


Today marks week 2 of being sick. And day 1 of divorce court, for which I thankfully do not have to be present. It was mentioned to me earlier this week that this “sick” that I’ve been experiencing may have roots more deep than just bronchitis. Not in a physical illness sort of way, but as part of the overall healing I’ve been going through. Which for me, makes sense, so, I’ve begun approaching my healing with that in mind.

When I went back to the Dr on Wednesday, in addition to cough med with codeine, he gave me a steroid to add to the cocktail of drugs I’m already on. I expressed my concern about the possible side effects of steroids, and doc said those are really only a concern at higher doses than what I was going to be taking. He was wrong.

Even in my whiny moments, or moments of tears large and small, over the last weeks, and months, even in the moments where I have found myself in situations that would have in the past triggered me, I’ve been pretty steady, emotionally speaking. That means to say, where in time’s past I might have let insecurity, or fear, or anger, take over, and plunge me into a shitty place, I haven’t done. And let me tell ya, I have been challenged. Not in “bad” ways per se. But really, really challenged to keep checking in with myself to see where I am, what still hurts, what needs work. I’ve been challenged to think about what energy around a situation is mine, or that of someone else, or from a past experience that looks a little bit like a current one, so that I act or react accordingly. I’ve been challenged to keep my momentum in my healing, no matter what is or isn’t happening.

After so many years of letting the outside influence, or control, how I was feeling, I’m very committed to not allowing that to happen again. While I don’t aspire to be one of the floaty, so sweet sugar wouldn’t melt in their mouth, “deeply spiritual” people, (because I find them phony, and insincere, and kinda want to punch them in the neck to break them out of their Stepford style trance) my intention is very much to choose peace, and happiness, in every possible moment.

So, yesterday, having taken 2 doses of the 6 total of the steroids prescribed for me, and being all hopped up on codeine, which helped me to finally be able to sleep for a few hours straight, BAM, fucking steroid side effects slammed me. After waking from weird dreams, during which a few of my ex’s made appearances, I woke up and felt my “vibe” had plummeted to a depth I am no longer used to. Something that had happened hours before, that in the life formerly known as mine, would have triggered my fear and insecurity, but through which I simply breathed without issue, came back to me, and started the voices in my head filling me with negativity, and doubt. My emotions started flashing like lighting bolts, and not one of them was a good emotion. I found myself suddenly crying, and a few minutes later wanting to tell people to fuck off, who hadn’t actually done anything deserving of those words. Or mean words in general. I’d literally said to someone earlier in the day how for the first time in my life I was finally living in the moment, and without fear, or overthinking! Then this happened, and for about 5 minutes I was freaked out that the steroids were going to undo everything I’ve been working so hard to change within myself.

And that’s where Princess Consuela Bananahammock comes in. I remembered her story. Remembered how she’d said she felt, to their most intense degree, as the result of a “drug” in her body, every emotion possible, in brilliant scary flashes, and came through it just fine. So I decided to borrow a page or 2 from her book. First, I smudged the fuck out of myself, and my house, to get rid of anything which may actually have originated with me. Residue of emotions from the life that used to be mine, or anything else for that matter, that no longer serves me. But I also wanted to clear emotions, and energy, that weren’t mine, whether they were from steroids, or ghosts, or whispy strings of karma.

Smudging completed, it was all about me, and the Goo Goo Dolls, and “Slide.” Volume cranked, singing (through coughing, and with stuffy sinuses, which was no doubt horrible for my vocal chords) at the top of my lungs, and DANCING around my kitchen… “…what you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful…”  I sent love to those I’d earlier felt fake ‘roid anger toward, and to myself as well. I told depression, and sadness, and darkness, that they aren’t allowed to have control of me ever again. I also told steroids to fuck the fuck off, and threw them away. I can get healthy without them! This peace that I feel now, I will not lose to a drug that didn’t even give me the pleasure of a happy buzz!

Just those actions were enough to bring me back, to me. Mind over matter, or whatever you want to call it. That’s a lesson I won’t ever forget. Not just about steroids, but about how I can choose how I will feel. I’ve felt such an amazing sense of freedom lately, not living in fear, or hurt, or anger. I have NO idea what’s going to happen down the road, or tomorrow, but for today, I choose happy, and LOVE, and to be open to the possibility of everything beautiful.

If you’re reading this, and you’re in a place where the dark icky is still around you, I’m not saying choosing happy in the midst of absolute fuckedupness is even a little bit easy. But I am saying, maybe throw the Goo Goo Dolls on, and shake your ass a little bit, as you dance through your house, letting the words, “what you feel is what you are, and what you are is beautiful” wrap themselves around you. Maybe it will help, even just for a minute. Sometimes a minutes peace is enough to make it possible to get through to the next minute!

Listening to: Eric Johnson “Cliffs of Dover”

…i had to face my own grief
because i can’t bear to cry
like that
again
don’t offer me pity
all i ever wanted was to be brave
the ability to fly above this lost feeling
and laugh despite my broken days
sacrifice
burn this and let it fly away…
(Credit dD for this)
Lyric excerpt in Title from The Extinct “Humor Me”

Accidentally tripping down memory’s lane

Listening to: Blue Murder “Save My Love”  (Entirely possible that John Sykes’ guitar tone is the most sexy to exist in the history of guitar tone. At least in Michelle world.)

Been 10 months since I moved to New Jersey. 4 months since I first started talking about domestic violence. Except it’s actually been lifetimes for both. But also, only since yesterday. Or just now, in other realities. Skin has been shed, cocoons escaped from, and transformation continues to be one of my words of the day.

And I still have poetry dancing just beneath the surface that wants so desperately to find its way to where my fingertips meet the keys of my laptop. Pretty words about love, or lands far away, or flowers or puppies or anything that isn’t the life that was formerly mine, or pain, or deep thoughts. Maybe its day 12 of being sick that has me longing to escape serious, and heavy. Or maybe it’s something else that has me dreaming of jumping off of edges, into everything that is magically mundane. Or the south of France. Or Holland.

“…I’d like to see you in the morning light, I’d like to feel you when it comes to night. Now I’m here, and I’m all alone. Still I know how it feels…” (Musical interlude brought you by: Dokken – “Alone Again” )

Sometimes trips down memory lane are filled with realities that are difficult to look at with honest eyes. Not so mine, today. As I look over my shoulder, whether it be a peek or a stare, all I see is beauty. Maybe because its all punctuated by the sound of power-ballads ringing in my ears, and nothing can be less than beautiful when listening to power ballads, (and if you weren’t around for the power ballad era, your life sucks! Just accept that fact, and move on.), music, friendship, (platonic) love, adventure. Or it could be that as it was, before the life that used to be mine, was filled with so much magic. My life of permanent impermanence. My only roots the ones deep inside me, that I take with me everywhere I go.

“…saying I love you is not the words I want to hear from you. It’s not that I want you, not to say, but if you only knew, how easy it would be to show me how you feel…” Extreme – “More Than Words” (Oh Nuno… you sexy Bostonian, Portuguese, guitar God!)

As a young teenage girl, my bedroom was covered with the two B’s that mattered to me most. Baryshnikov, and Bruce. (Springsteen). When I was 14 years old, I saw Mikhail Baryshnikov dance with American Ballet Theater. I could have died that day, and been at complete peace.  Our seats were crap, and it wasn’t a full-length ballet, but rather variations from Balanchine ballets. But all the same, it was him, there, on the stage, in his absolute, flawless, and incomparable magnificence. From as long as I could remember, all I wanted was to be a Prima Ballerina, and to dance with him the grand pas de deux, “The Rose Adagio” from The Sleeping Beauty. Instead of that, I, shortly after seeing him dance, was “gifted” with, large, attributes, that aren’t suited for a dancers body. But I’d seen him dance, and for a broke ass kid living in Detroit, that was nothing short of a miracle.

“…I’ll see you, in my dreams. Back in my arms again, and no matter what tomorrow brings, I’ll see you in my dreams…” Giant “In My Dreams”

And even though my career in dance was summarily crushed before it began, I still danced. Mostly in classes, but when not in classes, in the basement of my childhood home. I’d strap on my toe shoes, and I’d pop the “Born to Run” album on the record player (and if you weren’t around for vinyl, and record players, even though they still exist, but not like they did, then your life sucks. Accept it and move on.), move the arm to “Jungleland”, put that bad boy on repeat setting, and dance to exhaustion. That same year, the year Mikhail and I were so close, but yet so far, I went to not just my first concert, but my first Bruce concert. It was 4 hours of no warm up band, poetic, story-filled, ass shaking (me not Bruce) brilliance. Kind of like having a skilled, and well-endowed lover take your virginity, having your first concert experience be Bruce, almost spoils you for everyone to come after him. ’cause it was absolute magic.

“…but if I was blessed with just one wish, to take me through my lonely life,  I’d wish to go back to the day that I met you…” Lillian Axe – “The Day I Met You”

In my teeny, tiny little life, I’ve won spelling bees, and been selected to sing solos in choir concerts, and won the lead part in plays. Choreographed dancers for school concerts too. I graduated high school early, because I could. I’ve gone on vacation, and never gone back home, except to pick up my stuff. I’ve jumped out of airplanes, and done so at the drop zone where literal world champion skydivers, jump. And in fact, I jumped with world champion skydivers. Don’t read that wrong, I was tandem jumping, but I was strapped to the front of world champs doing it! I’ve swam in numerous oceans, and been to the vast majority of the states in the U.S. I’ve lived in a ridiculous number of them as well, along with a couple of countries in Europe.

I’ve taken spur of the moment road trips, just to see the ocean, or a concert. Or the mountains. And not only, in my teeny, tiny life, have I been to more concerts than I can remember, for which my tickets were almost always comped, but I’ve met many of my heroes of music. People whose talent drops my jaw, and who I wanted nothing more than to just breath in the same room as. I got to do that. Not to mention all the work I got to, by really dumb luck or coincidence or providence, within a teeny, tiny beautiful sphere, within music.

Even when I fucked myself, and accidentally developed a coke problem for a very brief period (it was the 80’s, and I had a friend from Colombia, how was that NOT going to turn out bad!), I always had some sort of roof over my head. I’ve always gotten back up, even when I’ve been knocked the fuck out.

Most importantly, in my teeny, tiny life, I have found, and continue to find, my people. My tribe. My soul grouping. Or something cute about a bunch of crazy people who hang out, that I can’t think of. Anyway, its them I’ve found. Sometimes I add to the group, sometimes I subtract, or someone subtracts themselves. But they’re always my people. I even gave birth to a couple of them. And one of them, gave birth to another of them. If me and all of my people were ever in the same room altogether at the same time, there would be so much love, and so much music, and so much glittery shiny awesomeness, that I’d probably die of happiness.

Even now, in my state of permanent impermanence, where I may end up in a few months living in Arizona, or London, or Barcelona (’cause I hear it’s cheap, and awesome), where I still don’t have even most everything figured out, there is ridiculous amounts of magic. Opportunities, and offers keep coming my way. There is happiness, and laughter, and learning. Unicorn wisdom, and caring, and magick, abound, in this teeny, tiny little life of mine. And snuggles with the Babes, which are beyond perfection.

I’m not sure how I forgot, in the life that used to be mine, about the magic. But I did. I don’t want to ever let that happen again. And if you’re reading this words right now, and you’re in the middle of some sort of shit storm that you can’t seem to find your way out of, and all seems hopeless, and lost, look for the sliver of magic, that’s probably just to the left of you, just out of your line of site, but still close enough to reach. Grab it. Hold onto it. And while you’re doing that, look to your right, ’cause there’s a little sliver of magic there, too.

Listening to: “…photograph, I don’t want your, photograph, I don’t need your, photograph, all I’ve got is your photograph, I wanna touch you…” Def Leppard – “Photograph”

It’s 4AM, and I’m finally tired enough to sleep, but too tired to proofread. I’m launching this bitch anyway.

If I Were Going to March Today – 21st January 2017

Listening to: P!nk  Dear Mr President

“…What kind of father would take his own daughter’s rights away? What kind of father would hate his own daughter if she were gay?..”

It would be really easy for me to be a man hater. I mean, based on my experiences in life, it would be really easy for me to “join” the marches today as an angry woman, railing against our new President, and to make my focus how much men in general, and white men in particular, have hurt me, have fucked me over, and irrevocably changed the course of my life. I could throw insults, or bricks, and feel very justified in doing so. On behalf of so many others I know, who have experienced hurt at the hands of men, or “the man” I could do these things too. ’cause I’m seeing a LOT of that online today, around the world. A lot of it.

The very first man in my life, the man who I am, genetically speaking, half of, my father, he wasn’t a good father. That’s not mean, that’s true. It’s said without anger. I don’t doubt for a minute he wanted to be a good father. But getting in the way of that was his lack of desire to be married to a woman, because, he was gay. Gay, and Catholic, except he had been Jewish, but then had to be Catholic. And it was the 60’s when he married my mom, and had his kids, and was gay. I can only make some assumptions about the things he did, and choices he made, because when he was here, he didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t really ask about it. For me, it was enough to know that he participated in the making of kids, 4 of them, and in his fucked-up-ness, and hurt, he bailed. Like, tipped out, for 17 years, only returning to my world at my request, when I was pregnant with his first grandchild, and had been having dreams about my “daddy.” Which was essentially for me dreaming about Circe or Pegasus. Just a mythological creature I’d heard stories about, but had no real life experience of. At least not that I could recall. He chose his shit, and his hurt, and his confusion, over being at least a dad, if not a daddy, which didn’t require marriage to mom. You absolutely don’t have to be married, or even in relationship with, the other parent, to be a parent to your children. So I tried to build bridges that were his to build, and then, because of his shit, and his hurt, and his confusion, he set explosives to those too. I’m not trying to speak poorly of him. Really, I’m not. He was a lot of good things too. He had his demons, and let them win.  Because of him, I could hate men.

The 2nd man in my life was my stepfather. I think I was 4 when he came into the picture. Maybe 3. When I was 7, he molested me. For maybe a few months, or maybe a year, or maybe I don’t really know. I know how it started, and I know how it ended, and I have more exact, horrifying, disgusting memories of things he did to me, and made me to do him, than I wish I did. This “man” stole my innocence in every way possible. He turned into ugly distorted shapes, my thoughts, and feelings, about sex, and love, and body image, before I understood what those things meant. From what I’ve been told, I had been a chipper, bubbly little kid, who bounced around, happily, in her own little world. Until I wasn’t. I remember my mom asking me why I was always so angry. Why I fought anytime I was supposed to do something alone with him. (Haven’t thought about the absolute terror that were those moments, in a long, long time. Weird.) I remember him “telling on me” to my mom, about what a brat I at times was, and her being upset with me for it. And for always referring to him as “HIM” with disdain she didn’t understand. I remember him buying me gifts to keep me quiet, and showing off the special piece of jewelry he bought for me with my initials on it, to my mom, so I had to wear it, even though it was like wearing a noose. When the truth finally came out, to everyone, he told people I was exaggerating. Or outright lying, depending on for whom he was spinning his tale. I have few other memories of him, the only father I, as a child, knew, outside of the molestation. As cruel as it sounds, I was relieved last year when he died. The world has enough monsters, one less is a good thing. Because of him, I could hate men. But instead, for a while, I chose to hate myself.

The 3rd man, he was my (1st) husband (which makes me feel nauseous every time I see or type it, because, I was only ever getting married once, in my romantic little girl’s head). And he is an alcoholic, and all which that entails. We should have never gotten married, or had more than a first date. But I was fucked up about love, and sex, and I was 19, and I’d just the year before told everyone about the molestation, and it didn’t go great. And he kept calling, so, I ignored the Everest sized, flashing neon signs of THIS IS NOT YOUR GUY, and got married, and had kids, almost in that order. For all that he was, and was not, and all that he did, or did not do, as a husband, it didn’t have that big an impact on me, past when it was happening. It was what he did after I left him, and by his own admission to hurt me, get back at me for leaving, which ended up hurting my daughters more than anyone, that more than anything else, changed the course of my life, and fucked me up, deeply. Because of him, I could hate men.

The 4th man, was my (2nd) (bleh) husband. The reason this blog in total was started. For all the deeply fucked up deceit, manipulation, emotional, and physical abuse at his hands, I could HATE men. But instead, for a while, I chose to hate myself.

There are of course other men sprinkled around in my past. Friends. Lovers. Loves (totaling 3 in life. Maybe 3 1/2). Some are absolutely beautiful souls for whom I will be forever grateful to have met, and experienced, to whatever degree I have done. They have shown me what fiercely loyal looks like, as friends, as fathers, boyfriends, and husbands. They have shown me what falling down, and getting back up, looks like. They have shown me that marriage not being forever doesn’t have to be construed as a bad thing, if ending a marriage happens because people change, and grow apart, and love is inexplicable, and weird. They have shown me that, few and far between, there does exist in this world, the mythical creature called “daddy.” They have shown me that drive, determination, persistence, hard-work, and heart, sometimes actually pay off. They have shown me that “real” men have hard, and soft sides.

I know that the marches that have happened, or are happening, today, are about women’s rights being human rights. And I SO firmly stand behind things like a woman’s right to choose, (stay THE FUCK out of MY uterus!) and I fully support gay marriage, “choosing” (which isn’t really a choice) to be your REAL gender, instead of what your outward appearance says your gender is. I absolutely support the ideals that we MUST help those whose situation makes it more difficult, if not impossible, for them to help themselves, wherever we CAN. Equal pay for equal work? Fuck yeah, that should always be a thing! I without question stand up for the rights of EVERYONE to practice their religion, whatever that religion is, even if a whacked out group of people who follow a hybrid of that same religion, are terrorist evil killers.

All that being said, and having said so much more than I intended to at the outset of this writing, there are some things that I simply do not vibe with, that are being thrown into the mix. This last part I will preface with, I have no answers. I’m just some chick, who currently lives in Jersey, who in a few months from now may be living in Arizona, or London, or in a van by the river (not really) who has been hopped up on various drugs for a cold, which turned out to be bronchitis, for a week. I’ve definitely, in the last few months, remembered that I’m kind of awesome. But I don’t have the answers to the problems of the U.S., or the world. I do, however, have some thoughts about what I vibe with, and that with which I do not vibe.

So, if I had been marching today, it would not be in protest of Donald Trump, or other men, as related to things like “locker room talk.” If I were going to get my panties in a twist about that kind of thing, I’d have to hold myself to that same standard. And not only do I have a potty mouth, I have been known to have conversations which can not just be construed as, but are 100% the equivalent of, locker room talk. I’ve spoken candidly with my girlfriends about men, in general and specifically, and things of a sexual nature that I’d like to do to or with them. (If my daughters or mom are reading this, that’s a lie. I’m sweet and innocent. Still a virgin. 2 immaculate conceptions. Never even kissed a boy. Would never indulge in conversations in which men are objectified by discussing their things like abs, biceps, or pert glutes, without even noticing the face attached to the body, much less specific sexual situations with specific men, because I’ve never even had sex.)

Don’t get me wrong, I think the whole “grab women by the pussy” thing, was stupid. And gross. Not for nothing, if Donald, didn’t have money, he (probably) wouldn’t be nailing many chicks, much less hot chicks. I don’t know his wife, but, she’s bangin’, as far as appearances go, so I don’t get it. Because his money wouldn’t be enough for me to do him. He could be a master of kama sutra, with the most perfect package in the history of ever, AND all that money, and still, nope, nope, nope. But I’m not remotely offended, or angered by what he said. And so many people in the world think that if anyone SHOULD be angered by it, it should be, the woman who has experienced less than stellar treatment by men, but I’m not. I’m sure Bill Clinton said things equally unsavory, if heard by people other than the intended audience. As have any number of the Kennedys. Or my girlfriends.

If I were marching, I would also not be protesting his inauguration as the President of the United States, or saying “he’s not my President.”  We have an allegedly democratic system (that is stupid, archaic, broken, fucked-up, corrupt, ridiculous, and just a steaming pile of poo), and we voted him in. Had Hilary won, it would be that same system which allowed that to happen. The same system, which I’m pretty convinced, prevented Bernie Sanders from being a real contender.So I’m more concerned with how we ended up with 2 shameful, ridiculous candidates, from which to choose? Why do we still have a 2 party system? Why aren’t we fighting back against special interest groups REALLY controlling elections? And likely, everything else. Trump having won the election is just the symptom. Wouldn’t our energy be more well spent trying to cure the disease?

Because this is the longest blog I’ve ever written, and cough medicine is starting to make words swirl in front of my eyes a little bit, if “we” are saying that women’s rights are human rights, we need to mean it. We need to as a race, the HUMAN race, stop with the divisiveness. All white men are NOT to blame for the plight of everyone else. Yeah, I understand that historically, they have gotten a pass on things because of their whiteness, and maleness. Guess what? I’ve gotten a pass because of my tits. I’ve gotten in places free, I’ve been given stuff, I’ve been moved to the head of lines, I’ve been picked from the audience at concerts, and taken back stage, because of how I look. And I am NOT some little skinny, Barbie Doll typical of what the American male finds attractive, woman. Nor did I seek those things out. I get the impact of me getting taken to the front of a line is much less than the true injustices that have come about due to a historically vanilla, and patriarchal society. I’m not stupid. But I’m not pissed at white guys, for their whiteness. Or their guyness. I’m taking each one as they come.I know white guys who have been molested, abused, abandoned, had their children unjustly taken from them, etc, too. I know white guys who have gotten the really shit end of any number of sticks.

And I actually kinda feel bad for them. I mean, men in general, in a lot of instances. How fucking confusing must it be, to be a man, in this day and age. Too masculine, and you’re a dick. Too emotional, and you’re a pussy. Good luck figuring out how you’re allowed to be, dudes, much less whether or not I’m gonna get pissed if you do, or don’t, open the door for me. And what if you have sex, and the chick gets pregnant, and she decides to keep the kid? That’s all her choice. But if she decides to abort, also all her choice. (And this I get, see above about stay the fuck out of my uterus) but what exactly do YOU, dude, do with that? What if you wanted that baby? Double-edge sword right there, isn’t it. And I feel that for you, I really do.

I think it’s beautiful, and amazing, that so many have come together today to rock the boat. I’m ALL about boat rocking! But let’s pay attention to how we are rocking boats, and why. Maybe the revolution is supposed to be about ALL OF IT. Maybe it’s time to, as lovingly as possible in the face of some really scary shit, give the status quo a kick in the (ass)? Maybe it’s time for us to stop seeing EVERYTHING as us VS them, if we really want to affect change? Maybe our anger is supposed to get us off of our couches, but our compassion, and love, is supposed to be that upon which we act? I do believe that women have tremendous amounts of power. I do believe that the Divine Feminine will create a brilliant shift, if we act genuinely from a place that is DIVINE. Which means from love.

It could be really easy for me to hate men. Or to be honest, people in general. And I could throw insults, or bricks. Or I can try and find a different way. The way that shows my sisters who have been hurt by men, that to raise themselves, to fix themselves, they don’t need to hate all men, or any men. For as much as I abhor politics, I can always seek to try a tiny way to make a positive change, and I don’t just mean writing this blog. The least of that which I can do at this moment is to NOT send a bunch of negative energy to Trump, and his presidency. If ever any situation, and person, needed love in enormous, overflowing, sloppy buckets-full, it’s this, and him.

So, Dear anyone who might be reading this, who might be a woman, who might have gotten really, really hurt by a man, or men, it’s to you I actually want to speak. It could be really easy for us to hate men, and send that hate out into the world in every single thing we do. Or we can choose a different path. We can choose to show our strength as love whenever possible. We can meet “their” ugly, with our beautiful. We can try to be the most dope souls the planet has ever seen. Damn, coulda just cut to the chase, and typed that part, right? Anyway, that’s for what I “marched” today.

Listening to: P!nk Slut Like You

“…You don’t win a prize with your googly eyes
I’m not a cracker jack
You can’t go inside
Unless I let you jack, or Sam?
Fuck what’s your name again ?
You, male, come, now
You, caveman, sit down
You shh don’t ruin it, wow!
Check please…”