tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73781858682470596702024-03-14T02:46:55.323-07:00Mo' HomoGoing Beyond the GayTabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-76707720967125178232016-09-07T15:19:00.000-07:002016-09-07T15:19:06.893-07:00RoutinesI think we're starting to fall back into old patterns. I can feel you drifting back into the daily life we had before you left. I can feel myself drifting back into caregiver, peacekeeper mode. I'm not entirely happy with either situation. I don't want our old routines. I don't want our old relationship.<br />
<br />
I want passion, I want boundaries, I want commitment, I want respect, I want love. I don't want the kind of love we had before, the kind where I bring you a glass of water and you get me an ice cream on your way home from work and those are little "I love you"s.<br />
<br />
I want big love. I want hot, rough, fast, or loving, smoldering, slow sex, all day, every day. I want heat when you hold my hand, I want you to look at me like I'm the person you want most in the world by your side every day.<br />
<br />
Instead you look at your phone.<br />
<br />
I want, I want, I want. I've always wanted but never taken enough. Never taken enough for myself or spoken up for myself. I just compromise, and by compromise I mean that I say, "whatever you want to do," and "whatever you're hungry for," and "wherever you'd rather go this weekend."<br />
<br />
I compromise myself and what I want and that's not okay. I don't want that anymore. I feel like you burned me and out of the ashes is rising someone newer, more confident, more selfish, more demanding. Someone who is going to be an equal rather than a doormat and I don't know if you're going to like the new me or if I'm even going to like the new me.<br />
<br />
But I'm tired of giving and giving. Maybe you'll look back at this, even if we're still together ten years from now, and go, "I lost my girlfriend who loved me and gave with all her heart when I did that stupid thing." Because you did. You lost her.<br />
<br />
Now you have choices. Me, or someone new, or be alone, or run back to the girl who has proved that she doesn't love you the way you loved her and she never will.<br />
<br />
I can't tell you what to choose, I don't even know what I will choose.<br />
<br />
But I do know we can never go back to who we were.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-69695070995742991202016-08-28T19:00:00.002-07:002016-08-29T12:11:02.414-07:00BirthdaysI had so much fun part of today. The part where I was swimming with my friends and taking photos and playing games. The part that felt carefree and relaxed.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And still you turned away from me. I didn't wake up with you and you rolled away when I tried to snuggle. Instead, I was awake at 6am on my birthday, alone and drunk in the dark in the pool. I watched the sunrise and thought it would help me feel hopeful about the year to come. A new day, a fresh start, a new beginning. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Instead, my new beginning felt lonely, disjointed, cold, shaky, and disappointing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And now I'm ending the day the same way. We fought, I cried. I'm sitting here and you're sitting over there and you don't want to touch me or be near me and I get worse. Everything gets worse. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The loneliness increases. The feeling that I'm going through this and there is no hope it's going to get better hits and I just sob and sob and sob. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This is what my birthday is this year.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hate it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I want to feel better. I want you to love me and hold me and never stop. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I want a lot of things. I don't think I'm going to get them. </div>
Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-62488732732594714182016-08-25T16:36:00.001-07:002016-08-25T16:36:22.190-07:00On Fire/MorphineI can't put it down. I can't seem to walk away. I know I should, everything in me is screaming that this is not going to get better. That, fundamentally, there is a lack of respect for my feelings, there is a lack of prioritizing me first.<br />
<br />
But all I want is to be closer. I want to crawl inside you and sleep inside your chest so I can feel your heart beating. I want to crush you, I want to kiss you, I want you to want me, I want you to fuck me- honestly, passionately, brutally, bruising me. I want you to claim me and never let me go. I want your purple handprints on my body so I have some confirmation of your presence when I leave for work or you leave. I want to cleanse you with my body and my love so that the last person under you wasn't her. I want to claim you. I want to erase what you did.<br />
<br />
But I can't. I'm on fire, torn between pushing you away and pulling you closer. I can't think, I can't breathe, I can't tell if I'm crying or gasping because I feel your hand on my back as if it burns down to my bones and I want you but I don't because I'm picturing you and her and she's awful and I want you to shed your skin like a snake so I don't have to touch any part of you that she's touched. I want you to touch me and never stop; I want you to never touch me again.<br />
<br />
And I'm hurt, so hurt, but you've always been my comfort. I want you to hold me and tell me this was just a nightmare and it wasn't real and you love me so much, how could you ever do that to me?<br />
<br />
I can't cry. I can't scream and swear. It's like my emotions have been running high this whole time and now that you've told me the worst someone turned the dial back down. Is that because it can't get worse? Do I have no more anxiety because it's over? What I was dreading already happened?<br />
<br />
Now the only thing amped up is desire. I don't get it, I don't understand it. But it's there. I feel like I hyper-sexual being right now when I should be a mopey awful mess. Is there a term for this? Is this normal?<br />
<br />
Is everyone going to judge me for staying when I was packed up and ready to leave?Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-39195000272134344672016-08-23T21:02:00.000-07:002016-08-23T21:02:59.249-07:00Countdown/MorphineI'm counting down again and this time it's my stomach that's in knots.<br />
<br />
I don't want to do this but I know I have to.<br />
<br />
I'm like a morphine addict. I know this is the fun phase, the sweet phase, the kind phase. I love kind T. I want to be with kind T. I want to stay with her and hold her and live with her and have babies with her.<br />
<br />
But kind T doesn't stay.<br />
<br />
I have to remember that.<br />
<br />
I need index cards for tonight:<br />
1.This is not my fault.<br />
2. You cannot blame me for your actions.<br />
3. I deserve better than this.<br />
4. I did not look outside of our relationship to make myself feel better. Only you did.<br />
5. How could you spend three nights with your ex-girlfriend and come home expecting to still be in a relationship? How do you justify that for yourself?<br />
6. You will do this to me again.<br />
7. You don't respect me or my feelings. You betrayed me on the ultimate level.<br />
8. You had an emotional, if not physical, affair. You had an affair. You had an affair.<br />
<b>You had a three and a half month long affair.</b><br />
9. You still think that what you did was acceptable.<br />
10. You expertly planned and executed how to lie to me on multiple occasions to continue your affair.<br />
<br />
Put down the morphine needle. This is one drug that is fatal. This is one time you have to walk away. Love doesn't always conquer all. Not when two people don't love the same way, the same amount.<br />
<br />
I love you, but you love yourself.<br />
<b><br /></b>Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-41798223146276015612016-08-23T13:44:00.001-07:002016-08-23T20:42:53.628-07:00Cycles<div style="font-size: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Domestic abuse falls into a common pattern, or cycle of violence:</span><br />
<br />
<img alt="" class="irc_mi iXLyhpygUotw-pQOPx8XEepE" height="312" src="https://www.helpguide.org/images/abuse/im_cycle.gif" style="margin-top: 41px;" width="250" /></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><img src="webkit-fake-url://07e5a801-d424-4a97-b6db-04a1835f6810/imagegif" /></span><br />
<ul style="font-size: 14px; padding-left: 20px;">
<li style="background-image: url(https://www.helpguide.org/images/global/bullet-icon.png); background-position: 0px 5px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin: 8px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 17px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><strong style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Abuse </strong>– Your abusive partner lashes out with aggressive, belittling, or violent behavior. The abuse is a power play designed to show you "who is boss."</span></li>
<li style="background-image: url(https://www.helpguide.org/images/global/bullet-icon.png); background-position: 0px 5px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin: 8px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 17px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><strong style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Guilt</strong> – After abusing you, your partner feels guilt, but not over what he's done. He’s more worried about the possibility of being caught and facing consequences for his abusive behavior.</span></li>
<li style="background-image: url(https://www.helpguide.org/images/global/bullet-icon.png); background-position: 0px 5px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin: 8px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 17px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span id="lw_1279218798_0" style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Excuses</strong> </span>– Your abuser rationalizes what he or she has done. The person may come up with a string of excuses or blame you for the <span id="lw_1279218798_1" style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">abusive behavior</span>—anything to avoid taking responsibility.</span></li>
<li style="background-image: url(https://www.helpguide.org/images/global/bullet-icon.png); background-position: 0px 5px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin: 8px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 17px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><strong style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">"Normal" behavior </strong>– The abuser does everything he can to regain control and keep the victim in the relationship. He may act as if nothing has happened, or he may turn on the charm. This peaceful honeymoon phase may give the victim hope that the abuser has really changed this time.</span></li>
<li style="background-image: url(https://www.helpguide.org/images/global/bullet-icon.png); background-position: 0px 5px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin: 8px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 17px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><strong style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Fantasy and planning</strong> – Your abuser begins to fantasize about abusing you again. He spends a lot of time thinking about what you’ve done wrong and how he'll make you pay. Then he makes a plan for turning the fantasy of abuse into reality.</span></li>
<li style="background-image: url(https://www.helpguide.org/images/global/bullet-icon.png); background-position: 0px 5px; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin: 8px 0px; padding: 0px 0px 0px 17px;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><strong style="background-position: 0px 0px; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-shadow: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Set-up </strong>– Your abuser sets you up and puts his plan in motion, creating a situation where he can justify abusing you.</span></li>
</ul>
<div style="font-size: 14px;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Your abuser’s apologies and loving gestures in between the episodes of abuse can make it difficult to leave. He may make you believe that you are the only person who can help him, that things will be different this time, and that he truly loves you. However, the dangers of staying are very real.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><b>I may have to read this a few times before tonight. </b>I may have to read and re-read and a third and a fourth time as I wait in the parking lot for the apologies that have already started.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">They've happened before too, and just like this cycle. "I'm so sorry, I was such a jerk, I didn't think about you. I won't talk to her anymore...We have so many more problems than her and this is all your fault because you were mean and fighting with me before B and I ever starting talking. But I won't, I won't talk to her."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">You'll be so sweet to me, you'll buy me dinner, you'll promise you'll get me to trust you again. Then you'll call me out for something stupid, "you rolled your eyes at me." "I didn't even feel it happen, I don't know what you're talking about." "Oh my god, I can't believe you won't just apologize for rolling your fucking eyes at me. I can't believe we're having a huge fight over this!" two weeks later. And right after that I'll have to sit through 57 minutes of agony as you talk to her in our dark bedroom with the tv on because you don't want me to hear.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">It's exactly this cycle. You set me up to justify what you're doing.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I can't believe that I thought I deserved this for so long. I can't believe I let you talk me into thinking that you and B was my fault.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I can't believe I can't believe I can't believe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Thank you for finally pushing me so far that I couldn't bend anymore. </span></blockquote>
</div>
Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-45639365127907222022016-08-22T22:19:00.001-07:002016-08-22T22:19:45.698-07:00No/ControllingThat's not how this is going to work.<br />
<br />
You can't just text me when she's done with you, when she has to go back to her life and you start to get scared that what you've done might be wrong.<br />
<br />
I know the moment you find out I've blocked you on instagram. You text me you're sorry for hurting my feelings, that this whole trip was a "poor choice." On your last day. When I am your ride home from the airport. When B is gone, back to her life because she's not going to leave a guy who drives a BMW and lives on a tropical island.<br />
<br />
And then you try to be magnanimous. "I'll sleep on the couch for however long it takes."<br />
<br />
<b>No.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
You don't get to choose your consequences. You don't get to tell me how to be mad at you. You don't get to tell me what kind of crime you think you did and then choose the punishment <u>you</u> think fits.<br />
<br />
You lied to me. You straight up lied to me and said you'd meet her for lunch, maybe. Then you posted pictures, so you <u>wanted</u> to get caught. You shoved her in my face, left and right. She's in your cover photo on Facebook! You confessed to the 3 day trip with her. You've lied over and over more times than I can count on my fingers and toes. You checked out on our relationship and expect me to be here working on it for you when you get back.<br />
<br />
You expect to walk on me like the doormat I've been for you for the last two years.<br />
<br />
And you're sorry for "hurting my feelings."<br />
<br />
I found some autonomy and some self respect today.<br />
<br />
You're not sleeping on the couch. What couch?Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-17778640313367559532016-08-22T10:41:00.000-07:002016-08-22T10:41:31.388-07:004 Days/3 Nights4 Days. 3 Nights.<br />
<br />
That's at least how long you were gone with her, the numbers that you confirmed for me. That's how long you guys took off for a weekend without your fiance or her fiance to a remote island. Without telling me. Did you guys tell him? By the lack of an instagram tag, I'm betting you didn't.<br />
<br />
I didn't think about who used to read this blog. I didn't think about the kind of feedback I would get, but K is right. I'm putting the pieces together and everything you are doing is sneaky, and lying.<br />
<br />
You <u>know</u> that what you're doing is wrong.<br />
<br />
I protected you. I found out on Father's Day and I still went to dinner because your relationship with your dad has been so rocky, and I pretended everything was fine, and I talked you up.<br />
<br />
When you were short with me on the phone before your sister's wedding so I got the time wrong, which, by the way, I was doing errands for <u>you</u> and then I was 15 minutes late to pick you up, and then you didn't talk to me the entire evening, even though <b>you weren't dressed when I got there <i>and </i>we weren't late, </b>I still praised you to all your family members.<br />
<br />
You know what Sarah said to me at the reception? She said I make you better, that I support you, that I lift you up. And I had to listen to her and nod and smile and not cry because I knew we might not make it past that weekend.<br />
<br />
This has been the summer of pretending. Of me pretending I'm fine when people ask, and you pretending you love me, when you've been deciding how to best cheat and sneak behind my back.<br />
<br />
You'll wake up later this morning and if you even care to look, you'll find I've blocked you on twitter and instagram. You probably won't find this, or remember it. I've left facebook for now because we still have to talk about things and I can't just shut you out completely, but I don't want to see any more photos from Hawaii and now I don't have to.<br />
<br />
How could you text me you love me last night while you're with her? Maybe you slept together, maybe you didn't. I don't pretend to know. But I do know that I wasn't comfortable with you having lunch so I <u style="font-weight: bold;">would never be comfortable with you spending three nights with her.</u> But you did it anyway, and then texted me that you love me.<br />
<br />
You don't love me, you pretender.<br />
<br />
<br />Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-76689594764392549892016-08-21T21:34:00.000-07:002016-08-21T21:34:21.365-07:00Testing 1,2,3You're testing me, obviously. You're testing me, right? You're trying to see how I'll react? And I'm failing, obviously.<br />
<br />
Why else would you tell me you're not posting any pictures because you don't want to rub it in my face that you're having a good time, and then all the sudden it's a video of you and her, clinking bottles on the beach.<br />
<br />
Of all the things NOT to rub my face in, why would you want to bring attention to the fact that you're with her? Why would you want to remind me that you're alone on an island with your ex girlfriend?<br />
<br />
Do you want us to break up? I mean, I feel like the only sense I can make out of all of your repeatedly hurtful decisions is that you are too cowardly to break up with me. That you are trying to drive the knife deeper and deeper until I can't handle it and I have to stop it before you kill me with it.<br />
<br />
Is that right?<br />
<br />
Or are you so overjoyed by her that you have to tell the world, my feelings be damned? Do you forget about me and about consequences when you're with her? Do you forget about how I feel? Do you forget about hurting me? Do you forget about the promises you made me?<br />
<br />
I don't know which is worse.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-52473335832301637742016-08-19T20:25:00.002-07:002016-08-19T22:19:52.653-07:00Hate You/Love YouThese are things I can't manage to say to you in person, because if I do, I can't take them back. I'm not sure if I mean them, if I'm venting, if I just need to get it out so I can hear how it sounds and see if I recoil or if I grow. Some are things I wish I could say and others I wish you'd just fess up to. Some I wouldn't ever dare say. Some I'm afraid of.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I hate you. Since June I have said that many times a week, usually crying in traffic. Sometimes it's a deep, anguished yell, sometimes it's a whisper or a punch to the steering wheel.<br />
<br />
No one has EVER hurt me the way you have. Not even <a href="http://queeridentity.blogspot.com/2012/11/firstgirl-part-1.html" target="_blank">first:girl</a>. I loved her deeply, but I hadn't planned my life with her. I hadn't put her ring on my finger and worn it for nearly two years. I hadn't started to plan our wedding together, hadn't set a date, started a pintrest board, started picking out the style of my wedding dress.<br />
<br />
I hadn't had a real plan of growing old with her. I hadn't lived with her for two years and created a family with three baby cats with her. When she hurt me, she hurt a girl who still had a place to live, friends to lean on, family nearby.<br />
<br />
I have none of that. My home was with you, my family was with you, my friends were your friends. And you cut me out of all of that.<br />
<br />
And now you're gone and you say you don't want to be responsible for my emotions and I get that but also, fuck you. What are we doing here if I can't come to you when I'm upset, ESPECIALLY when you're the cause of it? Or when you can't tell me about your day because you don't think I'll be happy for you? Of course I'll be happy that you're having a good time! My goal is not to make you miserable and depressed and I think it's really awful that you think of me that way.<br />
<br />
Our conversation last night left me angry and upset, unable to talk to you any further about it because you don't care to know about my emotions, because you're too drained from dealing with them. You should have thought of that before you started having a relationship with your ex, before you put me through shit of "I need you both in my life romantically," before putting yourself first over and over again every week since May. Obviously I'm going to be really emotional when you do that.<br />
<br />
You say you've sacrificed, you say you've tried to make me trust you again. You've told me you love me. You've planned my birthday. You took a sick day to drive me to the ER after I almost died the night before, I actually really do appreciate it. But how does that rebuild trust? Then when it comes to the ex in question, you flip flop on your plans over and over again depending on her plans, proving that she is still so important to you, but you still decide to go see her a week AFTER I go to the ER and coming home two days BEFORE my birthday.<br />
<br />
You refuse to stop talking to her. You refuse to cut her out even though I hate having her as a part of our lives. You asked me to include her in OUR lives ROMANTICALLY. I DON'T WANT HER AROUND. PERIOD. I don't think that's ever going to change.<br />
<br />
So you're not willing to cut her out, and you're not interested in being there for me emotionally, and you're afraid of how much we're fighting and now you're "guarded" (give me a fucking break, if anyone should be guarded it should be me.)<br />
<br />
And yes, I was mean, and I said things I shouldn't have said because I was hurt, and I tried to apologize but I shouldn't have said it in the first place. But I am also just learning that I don't know if I see a future with you. I can't be with someone who can promise to marry me and then throw our monogamy away. I can't be with someone who can hurt me so deeply and then only think about themselves and what they need. I can't be with someone who doesn't want to visit my family, who says their friends are a "package deal" and I can't talk about it with them. Who asks me not to leave but then pushes me away.<br />
<br />
I wish we could have been better to each other, but we just weren't. I wish I hadn't been so awful this spring and maybe you wouldn't have reached out to her and started this whole mess. I wish I'd handled this better and you'd handled this better and maybe we could have gotten through it together.<br />
<br />
I hope you can come back and we can spend my birthday together and make happy memories so that we don't end it like this. I hope we can share the boys and it won't be so painful to see each other. I hope we both get to live happily ever after. Maybe by some act of grace it will be together, but more likely it will be apart, and I'm learning to accept that. I look back at when we were first <a href="http://queeridentity.blogspot.com/2013/01/dating.html" target="_blank">dating</a> and it makes me smile so wide and I ache because I miss that. Oh, I miss you so. But that's not who we are anymore.<br />
<br />
You wanted me to be more independent and autonomous, so here we go.<br />
<br />
I will always love you,<br />
XOTabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-75089878679937513352016-08-18T21:14:00.001-07:002016-08-23T20:49:08.533-07:00Work, Work, MomI've called the hotline a few times now. I know what they're going to say, almost by heart.<br />
<br />
We take deep breaths. I apologize for calling. I apologize for crying. Vaguely, somewhere in the back of my mind, I wonder what their stories are; I wonder what led them to this point, sitting on the other end of the phone.<br />
<br />
This time she has the same name as my sister. I want to tell her, but I can't get the words out. Her voice is calm, quiet, soothing. She feels so reassuring and there is a small part of me that hasn't been able to be comforted in a long time that feels calmed.<br />
<br />
"Have you seen a professional?" she asks. "Do you have a safety plan in place?"<br />
<br />
We talk about what's going on. She validates me, tells me that my emotions are okay. That I'm really struggling with this and it is so understandable.<br />
<br />
It's what I've been wanting a friend to tell me. It's what I've wanted with hugs and kisses and apologies and whispers that it will be alright, but I've promised not to tell our friends.<br />
<br />
We make a plan to get through the night. Stop looking at social media. Stop expecting phone calls you're promised but not going to get. Give up control over other people and just focus on yourself.<br />
<br />
Self care, she calls it. Take a shower if I can, journal, read a new, intriguing book, watch a movie I know won't trigger me, something I can get engrossed in. Doctor Who sounds great. Keep yourself occupied and maybe take 2 Benadryl so you can get some sleep.<br />
<br />
Every moment now is a countdown. How can I get to the next thing? How can I get to work in the morning? Then after that I'm alone for 18 hours, then work again the next morning and then finally relief. Finally, I get to see my Mom and my day will be easier.<br />
<br />
I can't think about the three days after that, filled with hours of loneliness and no way right now to make it better. I can't focus on that without crumpling, so right now I just count down. Work, work, Mom. Work, work, Mom. I can do that. I can make it to Mom.<br />
<br />
T tries to tell me that I'm overreacting. That this is not catastrophic and I am making a mountain out of a molehill. Maybe I am, I don't know. I just know that I'm not handling this well. I feel so isolated, I feel so uncertain about my future, I feel so hurt, I feel so betrayed. It should be getting better but it's just getting worse. I know T needed space but all that space is doing for me is putting me back in that dark place. I'm right back to the middle of June. I'm right back to not eating, to sleeping all the time - I can hardly breathe, I don't want to be in our house by myself.<br />
<br />
It's so hard but I'm trying. I'm making plans. Work, work, Mom. I'm thinking about my cats, but they don't want anything to do with me. I feel like they're mad that T is gone and that I'm such a mess.<br />
<br />
Work, work, Mom. I can do this.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-51649198209401724692016-08-11T10:04:00.002-07:002016-08-11T10:04:27.862-07:00Upside Down/BlameI wanted to place the blame on others, but it's so clear to me that it's my fault. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm letting these things get to me, break me, twist me until I'm literally sick-</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Until I don't even know what I'm saying anymore. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How could I be so cruel, so hurtful? How could I be so narcissistic to not see how that would affect someone I love? How could I push and push and push when all I want to do is pull closer?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What the fuck is wrong with me?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For a while I just said everything was B's fault. Everything that she did was dragging me down, was ripping me to pieces, was shattering my soul until I couldn't stand in the shower without crying, drive down the freeway without thinking too much and having to pull over and bawl my eyes out. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But this was no one's fault but mine, and maybe it's been this way for two, three weeks now? Maybe it was my fault the whole time? I don't know. Actually - it probably was and I was too egotistical to realize it. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I'm digging my own grave. I'm making my own fears come to fruition. And how do you handle the arguement you've been waiting for when all of the sudden you are on the other side?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How do you handle your life and dreams and plans for the future being turned upside down, inside out, until the options are unrecognizable and that's not at all what you wanted in the beginning?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How do you handle losing grip of everything you've ever wanted and it's because your hands are just too weak?</div>
Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-52880576855394509502014-11-02T00:53:00.000-07:002014-11-02T00:53:35.884-07:00Everything has ChangedI'm getting married.<br />
<br />
Isn't that wonderful? It is, actually, since I started this blog in a place of sarcasm and jaded bitterness wherein I truely believed I was working on myself because happiness with another person just wasn't in the cards for me.<br />
<br />
And then I met T. Perfect, wonderful. Kind, smart, handsome, ambitious, compassionate- great with kids and a social butterfly. And she could make me laugh so hard I would cry, could make me feel so full of love and so loved in return, could make me feel like I was the only person left in the world, and the only person she could see was me.<br />
<br />
Fast forward two years. We live together with a cat (how cliche gay) and most days are relatively happy with each other, being in the same space, sharing a couch and watching Gold Rush. But some days are filled to the brim with little things, little nags, nit-picks, digs at this or that. We get over them, we move on, we apologize and say I love you and continue to grow in our relationship.<br />
<br />
She gets down on one knee and I don't know what to say, what to do. I'm ecstatic, I'm thrilled. I've been waiting ages for this, but also it's so fast. I don't want to see her with anyone else, I want to take care of her and her to take care of me for the rest of our lives- but there in the tiniest corner in the farthest back of my mind, I'm also thinking of all the arguements, of all the times I want to call her an asshole but don't, all the times T gets frustrated with my Resting Bitch Face.<br />
<br />
I say yes, because this is love like I've never felt before. Because she makes my heart swell and music crescendos and we sing and dance to T.Swift in the car, make doing laundry a date night with good food, can do all the choreography to Fantasmic, and cuddle with our cat-son and I want to make this my family. I want her for life. I want to see the good and bad, I want her to want me, I want to be there when she needs to cry, I want to make life better for her.<br />
<br />
But all I can do is make it worse. We fight more often-she goes out with her friends and I work late.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to tonight. We argued earlier over something small. My tone, I think, when I corrected her about what time a TV program was on. I get off work- "should I meet you guys at the bar?" I ask, where she is with her friends. "It's up to you." Comes the reply. It's not the one I want. "I'm kinda drunk."<br />
<br />
"Kind of drunk like it would be nice to have me there or kind of drunk like you are having fun letting loose?" I try to be tactful. I shouldn't.<br />
<br />
"Everyone is asking for you. Come if you want." There it is again. That apathetic response that makes me want to scream 'FUCK EVERYONE ELSE, I JUST WANT TO KNOW IF YOU WANT ME!'<br />
<br />
But I don't. I sob my face off. I sit in the car for a half hour, twisting my engagement ring. I look up Red Flag Warnings for relationships. They're troubling. I look up engagement doubts and that freaks me out even more. I don't want to leave. I don't want this to quadruple our chances of getting divorced. I don't want anyone to tell me we don't get a happily ever after.<br />
<br />
I just want to stop crying, to stop fighting, to feel secure in my relationship, which T has tried to help me with more than once. But I don't feel secure. I don't know why I feel insecure. I know she won't leave me, I know she loves me. But nights like this it's just not enough. And I don't know what to do about it and I don't have the right words to give to her to talk with her about it.<br />
<br />
I feel powerless, helpless, less than, and unwanted. And of all of those, unwanted is the one that hurts most.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-82037192385010064972013-11-17T12:59:00.000-08:002013-11-17T17:56:35.647-08:00Thoughts AnsweredOften, I have tried to figure out the moment I decided I was gay, or I first knew I had a girl crush, or I knew I was attracted to girls, at least sexually because I fantasized about them while I made out with my boyfriends - going back in time to try to understand why I never knew I was gay.<br />
<br />
<b>And then I met someone</b>. I stopped asking. It didn't matter anymore why I hadn't known at 13 or 15 or 17, because I met my love and that was all that mattered. Her friends accepted me in a way that I had never known before, because all they saw was my out and comfortable side. Over the past months I've settled into a beautiful serenity with myself that I've never felt before.<br />
<br />
And then last night I had this dream. It came out of nowhere, my last thoughts of the night solely focused on British TV show Doctor Who, and somehow answered all the thoughts I'd left alone all those months ago:<br />
<br />
<i>We arrived in New Zealand, my lovely boi and I, and were driving to a little vacation spot, eager to see the exotic animals and the rainforest. The water was pouring down and the road was narrow, slicing a thin path between two vast bodies of water, but we were so happy just to be together.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>We arrived at the camp to see a few others, a man and his girlfriend or wife, and another girl with them, mingling in the main kitchen. They greeted us and helped us with our bags. Before I knew it I had been dragged off by the separate girl, who was offering dry clothes and towels. She brought me into a bedroom where I gratefully took a towel from her to help with my hair.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And then she started pushing, asking about having sex with men and why shouldn't I just try it? She kept talking about how much she enjoyed it, how much she enjoyed the taste of men and I couldn't handle it. I wanted to find my boi. I stalked into the kitchen where my boi was wrapped in a towel at the table, and clambered to sit at the tabletop where I felt safe.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Why are you in a towel?" I asked.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"My bag fell in the river and everything is wet," she responded and I laughed, heart relaxing.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Sorry. I stole a shirt and underwear to sleep in. I'll get them, they're in my bag," I offered with a smile and a kiss. The lighthearted moment faded as I pulled away because the girl was in the doorway again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I don't understand why you won't just try it. You'll like it," she promised. I wanted to rip my hair out, I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell her about the time I was almost raped in high school, or when I was molested in college, but I knew I'd only be proving her point by showing her my bad experiences.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"I <b>have</b> tried it," I insisted. "I have had it sweet and nice, I have had normal relationships with men, but it was never right. It was always wrong, so inherently wrong, and no matter if I gave consent to them I wasn't giving consent to myself because it was <b>never</b> what I wanted. It <b>always</b> felt like being molested, and I can't even blame anyone but myself because it was me who allowed it to happen," by now I was shaking and crying, but I could feel their eyes burning me.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"<b>So can we drop the subject now, please?!</b>" I slammed my fist on the table and turned into my lover's side, not wanting to hear what anyone had to say. What I felt mattered, and I had said my piece.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I was worried about my boi's reaction, but I shouldn't have been, as I felt an arm protectively curl around my back and I cried into her shoulder.</i><br />
<br />
When I woke up, I realized that maybe the moment doesn't matter, maybe I don't need to know exactly when I figured it out, or why I didn't realize it earlier. All those years of discomfort still take a toll on me occasionally, still sneak up on me when I don't expect it.<br />
<br />
When I think about girls who are coming out later, I can't help but wonder at the sneers they endure from lesbians, at what other pain they must have to face. Do they also have years of giving consent to others without giving self consent burdening their backs? Though I'm now part of the "always been gay" club when I go out, I have to remember never to pass judgement. It wasn't that long ago that I wouldn't have been accepted.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-88646734212637762822013-06-12T09:51:00.000-07:002013-06-12T09:51:23.776-07:00Feeling ProudLA Pride was a big hit with me. Of course, you know that I live in a little tiny village where my neighbor churns butter and we all sing in the streets as we bake bread and open our shops, so Pride seemed <b>huge</b>.<br />
<br />
I spent the day with the boifriend and a bunch of friends. There's something about being surrounded by people who are happy and excited, by people who are a part of our culture, by people who smile when I hold hands with my boi, or we dance together, or kiss. There's something about making friends with the people standing nearby, walking down the street, passing too close, ordering at the bar - something about the easy way our bodies ebb and flow and belong to everyone and no one as the good vibes keep rolling in.<br />
<br />
The parade went on for forever and a day and I made out like a bandit with stickers and a free flag and lots of other stuff. I was fairly tipsy and warmed from the sun by the time we decided it was going to continue forever and moved into the shade of a bar. I don't drink a lot, especially in the beginning when my boi's friends made me nervous and I wanted to make a really good impression.<br />
<br />
I felt so comfortable, so alive, so happy and free, so in love, that I felt free to drink and keep drinking, though I had water between - felt free to enjoy myself and my relationship and our friends and this beautiful community full of beautiful, glittering people all around us. I felt connected to all of them.<br />
<br />
Of course there was some drama, I mean, we're still lesbians, but none of it was between me and my boifriend. I feel so lucky for that. Lucky that I feel like we're on the same page. Lucky that I feel so loved, lucky that we're communicating, lucky that we fit in all these little jigsaw ways, lucky that we can see an outline of something on the horizon that doesn't seem crazy, that's not a complete compromise for one of us.<br />
<br />
<b>I feel proud to be gay, proud to be part of this family, proud to have found friends in my boifriend's group, but the most proud to be with the one I love.</b>Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-5377333165601795852013-06-01T22:44:00.000-07:002013-06-01T22:44:45.882-07:00RadarSome people spend every minute of their active days noticing the people looking at them. Maybe it is the touch of makeup he is wearing or maybe she is paranoid because she is still so closeted and uncomfortable, or maybe because the danger of being gay is still so very real in our society. But they walk down the street and they worry.<br />
<br />
I don't ever think about watching, because no one looks twice at me. Some days I stop to peer into the faces of passers by with a broken heart, wishing that someone would recognize me for what I am. Some days I long for a kindred spirit, for a judgemental glare, for some sort of reaffirmation that someone else can see in me what I see in myself.<br />
<br />
A gay woman.<br />
<br />
But they all keep walking, so absorbed in their lives. I'm not pretty enough to turn heads, nor odd enough to attract attention, and so I am invisible to them as they talk on their cell phones or rustle up their children or dig their keys from pockets and purses.<br />
<br />
And I spend long afternoons with my boifriend's head on my lap or our fingers interlaced and my heart swells with joy. Our eyes meet and there's so much between us and I know someone is seeing me, really looking into me.<br />
<br />
I'm so glad someone else can see it. I'm so glad I can have this loving, caring relationship with someone so wonderful and beyond my wildest imaginings.<br />
<br />
But I also can't help but wonder sometimes what's wrong with me, that everyone else pings on the radar, and I don't. Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-1332623787314956672013-05-12T22:48:00.001-07:002013-05-12T22:48:38.744-07:00Slam PoetryIf I could perform slam poetry<br />
I would stand up with the women<br />
Whom I admire so greatly<br />
Who SPEAK<br />
with simplicity about complexity.<br />
The spoken word is our<br />
HISTORY<br />
Passed down from mouths<br />
To ears to hearts.<br />
Stories of victories, losses,<br />
Lovers, and legends,<br />
All preserved throughout generations.<br />
Literacy replaced<br />
With rhyme and rhythm.<br />
<br />
If I could speak with such<br />
VORACITY<br />
I would tell the world of my own<br />
SHORTCOMINGS<br />
Of my misdeeds, my misheards<br />
My mis-nameds, my Miss Less.<br />
I would tell of how I got to be<br />
My age<br />
Without becoming a<br />
WARRIOR<br />
Without learning how to defend myself<br />
Or manipulate the field.<br />
Of how sometimes I am<br />
Cornered<br />
And I don't ever fight back<br />
Instead going silent,<br />
Retreating into my<br />
TURTLE SHELL.<br />
If I could breathe slam poetry<br />
I would not be the victim <br />
I am the survivor<br />
Without needing to take up the<br />
Spears and daggers of this<br />
VIOLENT world.<br />
<br />Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-58291782255006669872013-03-13T23:23:00.000-07:002013-03-13T23:23:05.962-07:00Grief/Silence<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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When I need it most, my brain goes quiet. In the ugly radio
silence and white noise, the ruined meat shudders and whimpers over all the
collective thoughts I should have, should have had while I had the chance. As
if I were suddenly rebooted into some safe mode without networking or the
capacity to connect to my drives, I curl up, cut off from all possible methods
of recovery.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Of course, I’m still talking and functioning. I still laugh
and think about other things, still call my boifriend and have full
conversations. But once I hit this trigger I shut down. I become useless. I
refuse to call my best friend back and talk about the memorial arrangements.</div>
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<br /></div>
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And then this sick, awful part of me wonders why this hit me
so much harder than my grandfather’s. Why is it my family's deaths are so
normal for me but my friends' tear me up inside? Is it all the broken promises?
Is it all the unfinished business? Is it that I know my family knows I love
them unconditionally but maybe my friends felt less than cherished, less than
cared for?</div>
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<br /></div>
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Because I don’t think he knew how much he meant to me. I don’t
think he knew everything he did for me or how he shaped my life or brightened
my day or saved my family. I don’t think he knew that he made such a huge
impact on us, or how much we all loved him. How his laugh could make all the
horrible things of the week run for the shadows, or how his crinkling eyes
always reminded me of the kindness and wisdom I imagined in Dumbledore’s.</div>
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<br /></div>
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When I was a freshman in high school I was teased and told I
didn’t belong in a certain group because I wasn’t smart enough. He was having trouble
with a case and asked us for help finding a defense. I don’t think he really
expected any help, but I piped up with a pretty solid way to get the warrant
thrown out. It was a totally “Legally Blonde” moment, and it boosted my
confidence by a million miles. He always had faith in me, even when I didn’t
have faith in myself.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m going to miss that.</div>
Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-22256044576182211942013-01-28T12:36:00.000-08:002013-01-28T12:36:38.235-08:00Complexes/Femme InvisibilityLast night I had a dream where I was at some sort of summer camp and all the lesbians I've ever known were outside playing/having sex/joking around/<i>whatever</i> in the water trough/pool area outside. <i>I felt hurt, embarrassed, left out.</i> My friend Lauren was with them even though she's always been straight and since we were the closest, I joked with her first, calling across the courtyard.<br />
<br />
"Lauren, what the hell?" I tried to laugh. "Did you think I wasn't cool enough to invite or something?"<br />
<br />
She looked at the girl next to her and then smiled at me, "We thought you were busy otherwise we totally would have invited you." She swam to the edge of the pool near me and I knelt down in front of her. I could feel them, <i>all of them, </i>staring at us while their hands skimmed along skin under the water.<br />
<br />
"I can handle it," I assured Lauren, and then out of desperation and anxiety and fear I grabbed her and kissed her quickly. I felt nauseated. I wasn't attracted to her and everyone knew it. She was my friend, my good friend, and instead of making myself fit in I was just floundering further, drowning in the sea of manipulative games and subcultures and titles. Lauren looked at me - angrily, harshly, and I tried to backtrack. "Look, this doesn't mean you're gay or that I like you, I just-" I tried to explain that I wanted to prove myself but she cut my off.<br />
<br />
"I don't know what you take me for," I'd never heard her so cold and harsh, "but I'm not gay. And if I were, I'd definitely go for the pretty femmes." I recoiled. <i>Which you're not</i> was implied in her sentence. I'd never been attached to the title of femme, but the way she<b> tore</b> it from me left me reeling - empty handed and wanting to cry.<br />
<br />
<b>I feel this a lot. I feel this all the time. Constantly defending and proving and feeling like my sexuality is not broadcast clearly enough. Constantly feeling as though "lesbian" is an exclusive club to which I am not invited or wanted. Constantly aggravated because I'm subjected to male gaze and overtures while easily passed over by lesbians and dismissed as less than or an outsider.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Maybe I'm not femme, but Femme Invisibilty seems to apply to me so easily.</b><br />
<br />
I understand that it is my own shortcomings and brainwashings and past manipulations that have given me this <b><i>not enough</i></b> complex, but just because I know that doesn't make it go away. It's a trend in all my writings<i> - not enough - </i>and I'm trying so hard to tamp that down but then it rears up in dreams like this and I know it's still plaguing me.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-34589888480694767602013-01-24T13:54:00.000-08:002013-01-24T13:54:00.712-08:00PersonalitiesVictoria over at <a href="http://victoriaoldham.wordpress.com/2013/01/21/my-blog-knows-me/" target="_blank">Musings of a Lesbian Writer </a>picked up this fun link from a blog she reads, where you type in your blog address and it tells you what sort of personality you have. I thought it would be fun to try. Try your own <a href="http://www.typealyzer.com/" target="_blank">Typealyzer here</a>. It was pretty spot on, however, I think my brain would be more focused toward the intuition/symbols quadrant rather than organizational. The only time I'm ever organized is when I'm working at a desk job :)<br />
<br />
Also, how well dressed is my drawing? Thanks, much! <br />
<br />
<h2>
ESFJ - The Socializers</h2>
<div class="post">
<div style="margin-top: 0px;">
<div style="float: right; margin-bottom: 30px; text-align: right; width: 50%;">
<a href="http://www.typealyzer.com/images/ESFJ.gif" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://www.typealyzer.com/images/ESFJ.gif" title="ESFJ" width="215" /></a> </div>
<div style="padding-top: 20px;">
The
social, warm, enthusiastic, energetic, structured and opinionated type.
They are especially attuned to the feelings of themselves and others.
They tend to be very aware of the values of their peer-group and tend to
see things as either right or wrong, good or bad. They tend to be
traditional and value their friends and family the most. People love to
be around ESFJs and they are extremely good on bringing out the best of
others.
<br />
<br />
They take pleasure in other people's happiness. They give
generously, but expect appreciation in return. Sensitive to the physical
needs of others, they respond by offering practical care. As expert
people readers, ESFJs often adapt their manners to meet the expectations
of others. However, they may have difficulty recognizing the
shortcomings of loved ones.
<br />
<br />
The Socializers are down-to-earth, practical people and very keen on
making sure everyone is alright. This quality makes them enjoy social
work places. Since they enjoy being and keeping things neat and tidy,
they often also enjoy working in such environments.
<br />
<br />
Common satisfying careers:<b> Teacher,</b> Office Managers, Administrative
Manager, <b>Child Care, Special Education Teacher, Counselor,</b> Dentist and
HR Manager.
<br />
<br />
Notable ESFJs: Harry S. Truman, Bill Clinton, Tom Clancy, Barbara
Walters, Tyra Banks, Jessica Alba, Jennifer Garner, Woody Harrelson,
Sarah Jessica Parker, Jessica Biel, Victoria Beckham and Mon Mothma.</div>
</div>
</div>
Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-68606277761441824502013-01-23T13:11:00.000-08:002013-03-13T23:25:20.102-07:00Dreaming/RealityIf I talk about my date you're going to think I'm lying, or making it up. <i>It was that fantastic. </i>I wasn't dreaming. It really happened.<br />
<br />
It's the kind of date you see in movies - fun, full of laughter and warm fuzzies, a wholly unnecessary <i>sappy love song playlist </i>not-so-discreetly playing in the background at the restaurant - when the table seems to shrink and it all feels very intimate.<br />
<br />
And then the setting moves and I love being in the car with Prince because we sing and we talk and we're so close and I can't help but touch, <i>constantly, compulsively</i>, because touching is so rare across the distances and in public places and in not-friendly-to-gay areas and the car feels safe and warm and comfortable and I want to touch and be touched.<br />
<br />
But then it <i>has </i>to be a movie because I've never seen the sun set over the ocean like that, never seen someone smile at me with heaven in the eyes, and I feel so amazed, bewildered, content, and I don't even want to run off for sex because I just want to stand here, forever, drinking in the sunlight with our arms brushing, laughing at the little girls next to us and all their questions and comments.<br />
<br />
I could have sat forever and watched as the city flickered to life at our feet, almost as the Egyptian Pharaohs must have done thousands of years ago from their golden thrones and their city blazed to life in the darkness. I felt like royalty from my stone seat, hand in hand, the world laid out before us, the stars shining overhead, the moon casting a silver blessing over us, so bright, so clear.<br />
<br />
And it's <i>laughter, laughter, </i>between all the other moments and places and quiet and feelings, there's this <i>laughter. </i>When Prince laughs it's the most wonderful sound in all the world - the sound I want to hear every moment of every day. I want to be the cause, I want to hear when others inspire it. I want Prince to laugh all day long and I want to be there for every moment and open myself up and fill myself with golden laughter, because just maybe there is real magic and this laughter is it.<br />
<br />
Maybe I'm just an idiot :)<br />
<br />
I don't have a five year plan and I don't know what I'm doing or where this is going. But I know I never want to hang up. I hate going to work and sleeping alone, and I get really nervous and pack two weeks of clothes for a three day trip. I know that I'm flawed, <i>so flawed,</i> and I want nothing more than to be better - than to be the best - than to be deserving of everything Prince is.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-43100369713713818692013-01-19T22:30:00.000-08:002013-01-19T22:30:59.403-08:00Special DaysToday was one of those special days.<br />
<br />
The ones without any snot or tears, where your kid <b>runs bang on into a wall</b> and instead of melting down like she usually does, she shrugs and sits until she stops feeling queasy and then joins in again.<br />
<br />
The ones where moms come up to me at the park and say things like:<br />
<i>"That's the first time I've heard a parent say 'Watch out for the person behind you,' all day. Thank you."</i><br />
<i>"Why you got like four kids on you? Either the redheads or the Mexicans aren't yours."</i><br />
<i>"Do you have Mary Poppins pockets in your dress? Where are all those water bottles coming from?"</i><br />
<br />
It's the kind of day where I notice how far Mexican culture has come, because there were four little boys in colored skinny pants and converse and that <i>never </i>would have flown fifteen years ago. When I smile because Abuelo still uses a bandana instead of a bandaid, and little Crystal realizes I can understand her 3 year old Spanish as she begs me to push her on the swing.<br />
<br />
It's the kind of day when "Mom," slips out more than my name and I remember that the kids fall into this charade as much as I do. When we laugh and make brownies and lick the bowl and learn to crack eggs on our foreheads. It's when a king size bed seems too big for four people because we're all piled on top of each other.<br />
<br />
It's when she's in the bath and I come in to check on her. "Are Mom and Dad home?" she asks.<br />
<br />
"Yes," I smile.<br />
<br />
"Oh," her brows are furrowed and she's thinking. She doesn't seem excited or ask if she can rush to greet them. "Will you wash my hair?" she asks instead.<br />
<br />
"Sure," I murmur and she leans forward for me and we don't discuss it further. She knows I'll stay until she's tucked in bed.<br />
<br />
Perhaps we've all grown too dependent. Perhaps my life is too entwined with theirs. Perhaps when they hold me and refuse to let go, or read the bedtime books with my voice bound in each page when I can't be there, it is a sign we should all pull back.<br />
<br />
But I've taught them how to ride a bike, how to make a sandwich, how to properly eat whipped cream from the can, how to do a handstand and make it across the monkeybars. The time for pulling back passed eons ago.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-11123538117410474612013-01-15T12:25:00.001-08:002013-01-15T12:36:14.747-08:00DatingThis may possibly make you want to throw up, because I'm going to be <i>that girl</i> right now.<br />
<br />
If I was exceptionally quiet here, it's because I was on a date. <i>A lovely date.</i> <b><i>A very lovely date</i></b> with the person whom I've been <a href="http://queeridentity.blogspot.com/2013/01/crushing.html" target="_blank">crushing</a> on. <br />
<br />
Real life gets in the way and you can't stay on a date 24/7, but I'd like to. All day at work yesterday, I was reminded by the small piece of folded paper in my pocket, by the picture on my phone, by the taste of cherry cough drops and chapstick - all tangible evidence that I wasn't dreaming.<br />
<br />
It's the smile, the eyes, the hair, the skin, the tattoos, the way the waitress comes up to the table and I blush <i>because I'm pretty sure she can see what we're thinking when we stare at each other <b>like that </b>over our water glasses.</i> It's those <i>stares. </i>It's the collar tugs and the hands in my hair and the sweet, amused glint in the eyes when I just can't stop myself from feeling all that soft skin.<br />
<br />
It's the door opening, the effects of two beers, the laughter when I'm awkward and silly, the sleepy smiles, the hot hand on my back through my jacket, the singing and the dancing. It's the protector and protected, it's the talking and the not needing to, it's how everything feels like we've done it already - the easy rhythms and moments that should feel so uncomfortable but don't.<br />
<br />
It's in the way I didn't feel self conscious once, about my body or my hair or my makeup. It's in the way I felt proud, in the way I never wanted to let go, in the way I wanted to hold hands and show off the amazing person I was with. It's in the quiet way I wanted to go unnoticed, in our little bubble, invisible and free to make out without my hatred for PDA getting in the way<i> (looking back on it you'd have no idea I hate PDA.) </i>It's in the way we say things and then look to see if we got the reaction we wanted, and if we didn't, we try to fix it. <b>It's in the way we listen.</b><br />
<br />
If I go quiet here, it's because I'm finally speaking out loud.<b> </b>Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-37230549515242404822013-01-10T23:14:00.000-08:002013-01-10T23:14:11.601-08:00Safe SpaceI use theater terms a lot - terms which have come to apply to all aspects of my life. "Safe space" is a favorite. A physical, mental, and emotional space free of judgement, filled with support and understanding and trust, where honestly is valued about all else. I think of this very much as my safe space.<br />
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Sacred space - a place to connect, to breathe, to become a part of something or someone bigger and you leave your personal crap at the door. You come in as a blank slate, ready to learn, to be open, to explore.<br />
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I have a sacred space that I enjoy visiting, a short hop, skip and jump from my front door where the sounds of running water and birds whistling take away everything I was ever worried about. It's here that I can curl my fists in the sand or dip my toes in the water and feel as if the earth is surging inside of me. It is here where I become grounded.<br />
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I haven't visited in over a month, since my two jobs became exhausting and I wasn't sleeping at all, so I was shocked to come upon my sacred space and find it <b><i>violated. </i></b><br />
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Because I place such importance in this place, the attack felt awkwardly personal. Horrifyingly meant for me. On top of that, the ducks who usually swim to me and beg for bread at my fingertips swam upstream immediately at the tall, dark figure I presented on the bank. They were terrified of me.<br />
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I was upset. I was angry. I seriously wanted to yell at someone or stand as a watchdog with pepper spray and a slingshot. I understand that kids tag urban areas and I've seen some really cool, beautiful street art, but this is in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of nature. This was an ugly word for an ugly reason and I hated it with every fiber of my being.<br />
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But I'll go back. I'll get used to it. I'll take it back for myself and find a way to make it part of my place. If there's ever a kid with a can of spray paint down there, however, I may just slap him/her.Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-33098059722466744582013-01-09T09:17:00.000-08:002013-01-09T09:17:50.193-08:00CrushingI've never run across this problem before. This problem where I'm talking to someone who knows I blog, who reads my blog, who understands what and who I'm writing about.<br />
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Does this take away from my "safe space?" Will this cause me to censor myself? I'm not sure. I've always tried to keep this as a space where I can take off the filter about everything I want or need to write about. I'm still sort of feeling this out and how it's going to work for my blog and the things I write on here. Usually it's all <i>personal, personal, sex, personal </i>and now I need to be considerate. And that's okay :) I'd like to be considerate.<br />
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I'm crushing and I'm crushing <i>hard, </i>and I don't think it's something you guys have actively seen me go through. You see the beginnings, perhaps, the flirtations and the putting myself out there, and then of course you've been privy to the aftermath. But this, here, this in-between, this something new but something familiar coiling inside of me is not something you've borne witness to.<br />
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I can't sleep. I can't stop smiling. I can't stop checking my phone or hovering my finger over the "call" button even though I know I'll eventually tap the lock button and put it away. There's a nervous feeling fluttering inside me and I feel like an idiot but I also really enjoy it. I am now I'm exactly like all those girls I make fun of. <i>The irony is not lost on me.</i><br />
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Is it always like this?<br />
<br />Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7378185868247059670.post-86197664001259753192013-01-08T11:07:00.002-08:002013-01-08T11:08:17.012-08:00Apocalypse<strike>I'm pathetic</strike><br />
<strike>You know that song-</strike><br />
<strike>I realized you guys have never seen me when</strike><br />
Ugh. You know how many different times I've written this post?<br />
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So, I'm on wonky meds, I'm flirting with someone, I'm coughing all over my guitar and spending my days watching things like Pitch Perfect and reading books and trying not to let my fever reach boiling status.<br />
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The apocalypse is coming because I'm running out of meds and all out of orange juice and will eventually have to go to the market. <br />
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How's your day?Tabithahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07195357241445425427noreply@blogger.com0