It's Halloween. I thought I'd tell you a scary story, so scoot back in your chair, plant your feet firmly on the ground (so you don't get the urge to run away) and read on. It's kind of long but I promise you'll want to read to the end.
First a little history lesson: In the early 1900's a well noted doctor, Dr. Zellar, designed and help build a state of the art Hospital for the Criminally Insane just outside of Peoria, IL. You see back then, anyone that was nutso, was labeled 'criminally insane.' It didn't mean you really committed a crime, it just meant that being a nutjob was a crime in itself. This hospital performed lobotomies - a new procedure. They removed certain lobes of the brain in the hopes that it would make patients calmer, more sane. The hospital was closed in 1970 after too many inquiries into Zellar's techniques caused the state to pull all it's funding. The hospital, surrounded by iron fences with two iron gates at its entrance - was abandoned. It was said that the grounds were haunted by the patients who had died and who lost their way, lost their minds, lost anything and everything that tied them to reality. It became an urban legend.
When I was a kid there were always stories floating around about ghosts at 'Zellar Zone'. People reported hearing wailing sounds coming from the grounds near the hospital. Vandals often broke into the hospital and tried to destroy what was left of the building windows but as the legend goes, many vandals were never seen again after entering those iron gates. So of course every curious seventeen year old that I knew, wanted to visit the grounds every Hallow's eve. My parents refused to let me go. Even though they denied believing in the urban legend about ghosts wandering the grounds, they said it was dangerous and I was absolutely not to go anywhere near those grounds. So, of course I listened. Instead of going with my friends, I stayed home and studied. Yeah right. No, I lied. I told my mom we were going to hang out at the mall then spend the night at one of my girlfriend's house. Damn she was naive - she let me go. After making an escape from my parents my friends and I met up at the local Steak-n-shake. My boyfriend pulls up in his Chevy 4x4. He jumps out of the truck and shows me he's come prepared. In his possession, a flashlight - of course so we can see where we're going, a bundle of rope - in case we need to tie something up, a flare gun - in case we need to shoot off a flare to alert the need for help, and a case of Budweiser - in case we're too scared while we're sober, we'll drink ourselves into oblivion and head off to the mental grounds. Ironic. So we pile into the back of his truck and head off into the night. Turns out we didn't need the Bud because we started thinking what if we're so drunk that we can't run fast enough to get away from the ghosts, we might have been young and gullible - we weren't stupid (ok so maybe we were). Since the grounds were private and there was security that patrolled the place every few hours, we parked the truck in the back woods about a 1/2 mile from the entrance of the hospital. I remember thinking that the walk up to the gates was actually the longest 1/2 mile I've ever walked in my life. It seemed like forever from the timeI hopped out of that truck and I was standing in front of two of the biggest iron gates I'd ever seen. The guys kept pushing us girls up in front of them. "Go on, you go first," they kept saying (so much for chivalry). We stood there for what seemed like an hour but was actually more like 5 minutes, until one of us was brave enough to crawl under the gate - it happened to be me. I was young and stupid back then and I still had the mentality of, 'try anything once.' I scooted myself under the gate and stared back at my friends - there were 6 of us all together. Two of my girlfriends followed and crawled under the fence behind me. The guy just stood there - stupified. "Cowards," I yelled. "How about you girls go take a looksy and then let us know if it's safe," my brave knight yelled back. Pathetic. "Yeah you sissy boys wait right there and we'll take a look around and come back with a full report." So off we went - flashlight and rope in hand. I didn't take the flare gun because I actually thought I might get scared and end up shooting someone instead. It was cold, I remember this. The wind wasn't blowing at all, in fact everything seemed very still, quiet, peaceful. Here we were, the three musketeers, daring to go where no MAN dared to go. The place was set back off the main road a bit so you couldn't really see it from the front gates. When we came upon the main building I felt a shiver run up my spine. It stood there with every window in tact and the front door was standing wide open. It was as if someone was inviting us in. I took my lead and headed up the front steps. Just before I was about to step inside my friend whispers, "Wait, did you hear that." "Hear what," I respond. We stop, we listen - nothing. "Ok then, let's go." Just as I was about to step through the front door I hear a sound, it's almost like....crying sounds. We stop, we listen, there it is again. "Someone is crying, did you hear that?" We duck down and hide behind the stone columns and peek over the edge to see if someone has spotted us. No one. The crying sounds stops - it's quiet again. We decide to crawl on all fours around the pillars and into the front door. "I think the coast is clear," my friend says. As we stand up we notice that a light keeps dancing off the walls. We look down to see if our flashlight is on - it's not. We press up against the wall - because it feels safer, and we start to make our way around the room. It was amazing really, the place still had furniture with sheets over top of it; it was just like the movies. The light keeps dancing off the walls and it's really starting to freak me out. Is someone else in here? You have to know that I was kind of a brave kid, my dad always taught me to confront my fear straight away so that's what I did. I jumped out in the middle of the room, "Who's in here, come out and show yourself." "Whaaaaaaaaa." and then "Bang." The light got brighter, the front door slammed shut, the wailing got louder. We run - up the stairs because that's what they do in horror movies. A few of the stairs are broken or missing so we almost trip and fall back down. We make it to the top and we scatter each running into a different room thinking that the one behind us will follow. Then it's quiet again - and dark. I have the flashlight, my other friend has the rope. I'm wondering how to get the hell out of this place because it appears my feet will not move, my legs are broken. I close my eyes and I breath, softly and quietly so no one can hear. Ok, open your eyes, see what's in here. A window, a frayed curtain, I can make it over there. I scoot my bottom along the floor until I reach the window sill. Slowly, carefully I pull myself up and peer outside. I see a man, he's holding a flashlight. Ok, now I get it, it's the security guard. Whew, now we're safe. I stand up and head out to the hall way and call softly to my friends, "hey come out, there's a security guard down there - we're safe." Each appears from behind closed door. Instantly we run to each other and fall into a group hug. "Wow, that was freaky wasn't it." "Yeah well I wasn't scared, " I reply. We're still a bit cautious so we descend the stairs quietly. Before we can reach the landing, the front door swings open and a man appears. He doesn't say anything but he motions us to come outside. We follow like good little students eager to please our teacher. Once outside I turn to look at him, his eyes, there's something about his eyes. They seem empty and lost yet vaguely familiar. He says nothing - only points in the direction of the front gate. "Ok, we're going, you know you really scared us," I say. He says nothing in reply. "Come on, let's get out of here," my friend whispers. We start to walk away but I can feel something, someone, pulling me back. I know I have to leave this place but this feeling, it's the strangest...ok well whatever, I'll go. My friend is pulling my jacket, tugging at me to come along. As we're walking back to the front gates I can't shake this nagging feeling I have. There's something about that guy. Why didn't he speak, he wasn't even wearing a uniform, was he really security. I turn to look back at the house, the man is standing on the steps watching us. He sees me looking at him and then, he motions to me, he motions for me to come back. I pull away from my friend and slowly jog back to the house. "Are you crazy," my friend yells. Maybe I am, but I have to go back, there's something else, something, something....there's just something else. When I reach the stairs the man is still there - staring at me. "Who are you," I yell. "Don't you speak, say something, anything." "I knew you'd come," he said. "You look like her," he said softly. "I look like who, who are you talking about, how do you know me?" He just smiled and said, "now you have to go, don't come back here." "Go, please, just go," he commanded. His voice, it scared me this time but not in a wa y that makes you want to hide, it scared me in a way that makes you remember something. I turned around and walked back to my friends, when I reached them I looked back to see him - but he wasn't there, no one was. We made it outside the gates and of course there were no guys waiting for us. Those sissy boys left us all alone to walk back a 1/2 mile through the woods. That walk seemed like the shortest 1/2 mile I've ever walked. No sooner did I come down those steps of that hospital and I was standing in front of my boyfriends pickup. There they were, in all their glory. Locked inside the cab of the truck holding a flare gun for protection. We snuck up beside the truck and each grabbed a hold of a side. We started pushing and pulling the truck every which way causing it to bounce and squeak. The boys, they screamed and evern though the windows were up you could hear them freaking plain as day. I laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. As soon as they figured out it was us - and not a ghost, they started cursing at us for scaring them. That night the boys rode up front in the cab and us girls, we rode in back. The whole way home, we said nothing. I'm not sure why, but maybe it was because all of us knew that something more than what seemed to be - happened back there. We knew that place was haunted, but none of us could speak of it.
They dropped me off at the end of my driveway. I was supposed to be staying at a friends but I needed to go home, to some place familiar - and safe. When I came in the house my parents were sitting at the kitchen table. I thought for sure I was going to get in trouble, after all it was 2 a.m. and I had a curfew of midnight. They just looked at me as if they knew where I'd been. Turns out they did know, but I'm not sure how. "Sit down," my father commanded. "We told you not to go there, it's dangerous." "Yes dad, I know, I won't go back." I wanted to tell them what I'd seen, what I'd felt, how strange it all was. "You know we didn't get far when we were there." "There was a guy, a security guard I guess, he stopped us." "A guy," my father asked. "Yes there was a guy, but it was weird, he wouldn't speak to us, he just motioned for us to leave." "Oh, wait, he did say something." "What did he say," my mother asked. "He told me I looked like her," I answered. My parents looked at each other and it was clear, there was something they were not telling me, something they thought I couldn't handle, couldn't understand. "Damn it, just tell me what you are both so tight lipped about." "I'm not a child anymore." "There's nothing really, it's just that your great grandfather, on your father's side, well he lived there." "Lived where," I asked. "He lived at that place, that hospital." "What, he was insane," I asked. "No dear, he worked there." "He worked there, he helped Dr. Zellar perform some of his procedures, sort of like a nurse's aid." "Well what happened to him," I wanted to know. "He left one day and never came back," my father answered. "Some say the stress of being with 'those' people was too much for him, he disappeared and we never saw him again." That was all they could tell me. My great grandfather disappeared and that was that. I didn't believe them. My grandfather didn't disappear - he just got lost.
Incidentally, I've been told my whole life that I resemble my great grandmother, the black Irish one. I have her dark hair and eyes, her olive skin, I've even been told I have her voice. I have a theory about that man I saw - I think finally, he wasn't lost anymore.
Happy Halloween. P.S. this is a true story.
I made a comment on another blog, not a bad comment - actually it was quite compassionate. But, as it turns out this person really doesn't want people to comment on her posts. Makes me wonder then, why not turn off the commenting feature? Anywho, I was a bit taken back by her tongue lashing to all those who did leave comments. She said we didn't know her, didn't understand her situation and that she didn't need people telling her how to feel. I suppose she's right, we fellow bloggers don't know her. It got me thinking about the reasons people blog. I know why I do, I have so much to say - yet so few people to listen. Maybe it's the same for most people. Maybe some of us blog out of boredom, frustration, or in the hopes of being discovered - for something more than we are. The reasons I'm sure, are all different. Regardless of why you come here, one thing remains the same, typing your thoughts onto a web-o-sphere journal is inviting someone into your life that you otherwise would never extend that courtesy. If you don't want people looking - close the shade.
Mouths can be wonderful things. They can whisper sweet words of love so softly, so magically - it will send shivers down your spine. A mouth can suck on things....come on now I'm talking about tootsie pops and pop rocks and things that you can curl your tongue around (now really, get your mind out of the gutter). A mouth can smile a smile that will melt even the hardest of hearts...it can frown a frown that will make even a grown man cry. A mouth can also be someone's downfall. A mouth can open itself up without warning and let words slip pass with no fear of consequence. A mouth can reach an unbearable likeness of being. A mouth can be the reason something ends or the inspiration something needs to begin. The mouth is a powerful tool, if you use it correctly. Do you - use your mouth the right way?
I work for lawyers. I develop customized applications that lawyers need/want. I don't like lawyers. I can almost say that of all the lawyers I know, which is a pretty high number, I like exactly 2. One of them is a government attorney so she gets paid less and works harder - it humbles her. The other one actually quit being a lawyer - because she couldn't stand lawyers, so of course I like her because...well, she's sane. Luckily I can do the duck and cover most days and avoid direct contact with the 'higher ups' but yesterday my luck ran out. I'm running across the street to our other building to catch a meeting that I'm already late for. After making it through security (which is ridiculous since 9-11) I make a mad dash for the elevators. I see one with the doors open and going up....I think to myself how lucky I am. Just as I make it to the doors and am about to step through, the doors start to close. I'm half way in the elevator, my foot is in between the doors and they're closing. I look up and see this guy pushing the 'close door' button furiously. "Excuse me, can I get on this elevator?" He doesn't answer, instead he keeps pushing the 'close door' button. Well I'm a bit of a stubborn lass so I refuse to move. I know I actually wasted more time than if I would have just stepped out of the way and waited for the next one, but I was pissed, and I'm Irish, and I have a temper. If you know anything about elevators you know that if the doors are open too long, an alarm goes off. So guess what happens next, "Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz." The alarm is buzzing, which alerts security, which pisses the 'guy' on the elevator off, which makes me laugh (on the inside). Sometimes I love being difficult. So anyway, security comes over, "what seems to be the problem?" I'm debating on whether to answer them because really...who the hell are they? They get paid like $8 bucks an hour to stand at a security desk all day and look important. I'm not scared. They ask the guy on the inside of the elevator to step off, he refuses. The security guard asks him a little more forceful, "Sir, we need to you to step off the elevator." He replies, "No, I'm not stepping off the elevator - I have to be somewhere." Security guard answers, "Sir, if you don't step off the elevator I'm going to have to call in reinforcements." Ok so now I'm really laughing. Call in reinforcements, who, like ghost busters? Finally the 'guy' steps off the elevator and follows the security guard over to his little desk. They tell me to stay put and they'll be back to ask me a few questions. Oh Jesus....this is getting a bit melodramatic isn't it? So I stand there, already 20 mins late for my meeting that I'm supposed to be the host speaker, nice. I wait. I wait some more. I wait exactly 11 mins and 23 seconds. Mr. Security guard comes back. "Mam, did you know this man was an attorney?" "Um, I'm sorry, I forgot to look at his finger tips." "What do you mean you forgot to look at his finger tips." "Well see if I would have looked at his finger tips then I'd know he was an attorney by the calluses on the ends of them from pushing that pencil around all day." He doesn't laugh. Damn I thought it was funny. "Mam, this man is an attorney, he needs to be somewhere and you held him up by refusing to let the elevator go." "Well I have to be somewhere too," I reply. "Are you an attorney Mam?" "No, my God do I look like an attorney?" No reply. They then escort the 'guy' over to a 'private' elevator, one used for 'special' guests. After the 'guy' gets on his elevator and the doors close, they finally let me catch one of the 'common folk' elevators. By this point I can't decide if I'm boiling because I am so late for my meeting or if I'm a bit giddy from pissing off such an important figure of our community. I decide on giddy, it's much easier on the brain. I make it to the 55th floor, I sprint towards the meeting room, I peek inside to see if people are still waiting for me or if they've decided to leave. The room is full. I make my entrance and give my apologies, one of the attendees asks me what kept me. I reply, "I'm really sorry I'm late but the most amazing thing happened on the way up here this afternoon. "What," they all reply. "I met God on an elevator and he looks exactly the way I pictured Him to be."
The only difference between doctors and lawyers is, lawyers think their God, Doctors know they are. What a tough job to have.
Imagine knowing things before they actually happened. Knowing the outcome before the action. Would it change your choices, change what you think or what you believe?
If you knew that love could break your heart, would you stand still long enough for cupid's arrow to strike - or would you run like hell?
If you knew that lying could come back to bite you in the ass - would you tell the truth?
If you knew that telling the truth was so hard, would you lie instead?
If you knew that letting someone get close to you meant being vulnerable, would you still open the door?
If you knew that education really didn't guarantee you a successful career, would you still go to college?
If you knew that sitting too close to the tv didn't really make your eyes go bad, would you sit within inches of the screen so you could get a birds eye view of your favorite cartoon?
If you knew that making funny faces didn't make your face get stuck that way, would you stick your tongue out at people more often?
If you knew that money was the root of all evil, would you still play the lottery?
If you knew that your parents really weren't perfect, would you still wish to be like them when you grew up?
If you knew that friends really were not forever, would you make friends?
If you knew that there really are starving children in China, would you never waste food?
If you knew that it was true - what comes around goes around - would you be a nicer person?
If you knew that having kids meant that some day they grow up and hate you, would you still wish to be a parent?
If you knew things, knew the outcome, knew the pain it may or may not cause, would you still want to know anything?
I think I wish I didn't know anything.
I've discovered, as I'm sure many of you have, there are two types of people in this world - givers and takers. I'm not sure when it is exactly that you become one or the other, but you will become one of these types, it's inevitable.
I became a giver at a very young age. At first it was with little things, I'd give the last bite of my candy bar to my brother who claimed to be starving. I'd give up my favorite doll to the cousin or friend that came over to play - even though I secretly wanted to keep her all to myself. When I was a gymnast my abilities came quite naturally and often I'd end up feeling bad for winning the medal so the next meet I'd purposely fall off the beam or take an extra step after my double full so my score would be less and someone else on my team could win. When I was a teenager, if I had a crush on the same guy my friend did, I'd graciously step aside so she could pursue him even if the guy really liked me. When I got older the 'gives' got bigger, most times not tangible items, but things that cost a whole lot more. I'd listen and offer advice, lend a shoulder or a hug to the friend crying over a broken heart. I'd be a friend even when the friendship fell into the background because of some new guy on the scene. I'd be there - no matter what. I suppose some of those things make me a good friend, the way friends are supposed to be, but when I look back at those things and think about what I got in return -I realize I gave and never took. Why is it that the givers never run into other givers? Instead they seem to search out the takers and let them take residence in their lives?
I'm in my thirties and I'm tired. I'm tired of being a giver. Can I turn my cloak in and get a 'taker' cape instead? Although I've often told myself that I'm going to stop being so generous - with my time, my money, my love....I never stop. I open myself up for the taking...and there is always someone there to oblige. Some say giving is part of love - but isn't taking part of it too? I hear people claim that it's supposed to be equal when you are in relationships, friendships or romantic, but honestly - it's never equal. There is always one person that forgives more often, one person that falters more often, one person that is selfish more often, one person that is selfless more often. There is always one person to be the giver, one person to be the taker. Why? Who raised us that way? Who can I blame for the fact that I give and give and give, and when I finally decide to take - there's no one there offering me their bounty? I sound bitter, maybe I am. Maybe I'm teetering on the edge of self discovery. Maybe soon, I'll figure out how to give while still keeping a tiny piece to myself. Maybe I'll be able to teach my daughter that giving to yourself can be much more fulfilling than taking from someone else. Maybe she'll learn that the only things in life worth having are the things we work for - not the things people hand to us on a silver platter. Maybe she'll be the only taker in my life that's worthy of everything I have to give. Maybe when I'm empty and I have nothing left to give, she'll fill me up with all the gifts I've passed along. Maybe there comes a time when we really can switch roles, lay down our 'giving cloak' and take residence in something else, something better. It makes me wonder though, what happens to the takers, the ones that never played the role of giver - who fills them up after they realize everything they have, everything they are - is make believe? I almost feel sorry for those 'takers' but that's just my giving nature.
I finally made it off my couch. Thanks for all the well wishes yesterday. It's nice to come back to work when it's Friday, it sort of gives you a bit of motivation to make it through the day. Yesterday while at home on my couch, I had so much time to think - not really a good thing. I actually was thinking about how every time I get sick, I want my mom to be around. It's sort of weird but comforting in a way too. I remember when I was a kid and I had the flu or something, my mom would make me chicken soup with stars, give me saltines crackers and let me drink 7up - as much as I wanted. She'd get me all comfy on the couch and let me watch endless hours of cartoons or videos. Every hour or so she'd come in, kiss my forehead to see if I had a fever, then disappear to do mom stuff. I remember her holding my hair back as I bent over the porcelain god, all the while telling me everything would be ok. It's strange, I've had a guy or two do the same for me over the years, none had the same effect. My mom could make me feel better just by being near me. I guess that's what makes mom's so great, they have hidden powers of healing. Yesterday I wanted my mom but she's off cruising the Pacific on some ship - not fair, she's supposed to be here when I need her. Since I couldn't talk to her, I called her voicemail and surprisingly enough I felt a little bit better just hearing her voice. I wonder why that is. It still amazes me that in my thirty some years of living the only person on this planet that can make me feel the tiniest bit better when I'm sick, is my mom. I wonder if I'll have the same effect on my daughter. I wonder why my significant other can't make me feel this way. I know he loves me, he tries to pamper me when I'm sick but it just doesn't feel the same. Why?
I had a dream last night that about when I was 8 years old and I had the chicken pox. My mom brought me home a 'baby feels so real'. She was awesome, she ate baby food and peed and pooped in her diapers. My mom took off work to stay home with me and every day for a week we played house and pretended to be princesses. She cooked me tomato soup and grilled cheese and she hugged me - she wasn't afraid of catching the 'pox'. God I loved her; I felt safe. Why can't I have that back - even when I'm not sick. I hate being a grown up.
Wouldn't you know it...it's Half Nekkid Thursday and I'm home with the flu. I don't play the sick person very well...I have way too many things to be done. So this week you'll have to settle for a little half nekkid pic of my sweet pea. This is one of my favorite photos because it reminds me of a time when happiness seemed simple to achieve. Walking in the ocean feeling the sand between your toes, made you happy - that's all it took. I've come such a long way from that place....every day I'm trying to find my way back.
Happy Half Nekkid Thursday.
My friend was telling me about this guy that she's been dating. They've had about 6 dates and the other night, she invited him to come up to her place....so they could talk. So anyway, they're talking, and things are getting pretty hot and heavy. He's running his hands up her bare back, she's trying to press herself up against him to feel if he's, well...hard. First of all, it seems you would be able to tell right away if the guy you have your body pressed up against is hard, right? No. She tells me that she's starting to worry that he's not really into her. He seems into her, after all he has his hands all over her breasts. She decides to undo his belt, he lets her. She runs her hands up his stomach and plays with his chest hair. She's really just stalling until the moment she can shove her hand down his pants and check out his 'goods'. Finally, she thinks she's provided enough cover so she slides her hand in his boxers. She feels around. Um, where'd it go? She panics. Hand sliding around, go a little deeper, oh, there's a lump. Yes that's how she described it, a lump. It's semi hard...you know...a chubby. Ok, maybe she just needs to play with it a little and it will 'grow'. So she starts playing, gently at first, then she's getting frustrated so she tugs a little harder. Nothing is happening. In the mean time he's moaning and she can tell he's really turned on - except his willy doesn't appear to share his sentiment. He tells her they should 'retire' to the bedroom. At this point she's a bit skeptical. She likes the guy, has a good time with him, but she likes sex and she's not sure sex with this guy will be worth the effort. She gives him the benefit of the doubt and takes his hand and guides him into the bedroom. He tells her he likes to have the lights on...Uh Oh, she's actually afraid of what she'll see - or won't see. She flips the bathroom light on so it casts a faint glow over the bedroom but doesn't light it up like the 4th of July. He starts to take her clothes off, tosses her panties over the easy chair in her room. She starts to undress him, his pants drop to the floor, she tosses his shirt to the side. Ok, all that's left are those boxers he has on. She plays a little more, procrastinating. They are laying on top of the bed, he has his legs intertwined with his, she thinks to herself, maybe they should just cuddle. Oh please, this girl likes cuddling like a fish likes being out of water. There's a lot of heavy breathing, he's excited - she thinks. Finally he removes his boxers then takes her hand and places it - where his c*ck is supposed to be. Yeah that's what I said, he places it where his willy is supposed to be. She feels his 'lump', his chubby, and she starts to freak a little. She wants to look at it, just to be sure. Ok, open eyes slowly, carefully...OH MY GOD. There it is, all 3 inches of it, and that's while it's hard. What sort of cruel trick has been played on this guy. He's gorgeous, he successful, he's nice. Why oh why is this happening to her. She's trying to figure out how to get out of having sex with him. She really has no desire to lay there and pretend it feels good to be poked with....that. He's kissing her, she starts to pull away. He asks what's wrong. She tells him she's just not sure they should continue. She tells him she's really into him and sex changes everything. Yeah, it changes everything when it sucks. He holds her, she can't really tell if he's lost his chubby, it wasn't that chubby to begin with. After about ten minutes he tells her they can wait, he likes her so he'll wait. Damn, she's starting to feel really guilty, really shallow, really RELIEVED. They get dressed, a few hugs and kisses are exchanged, he leaves.
So she's there, talking to me, explaining her dilemma. She wants to know what to do. Should she try and get over her fear of 'small things', or should she just be honest and tell him she likes to be poked - but she also likes to 'feel' what's poking her. I'm not sure what to say to her, after all I'm shallow, I'd dump him, I have a man with a big 'poker'. It's like this, c*cks are like diamond rings, once you've had a really big one, you just can't settle for a cheap imitation. Fact.
Do you remember your first kiss? Apparently my daughter got hers yesterday at play group. He really man handled her..don't you think? Looks like I'm going to have to teach her to keep those boys in line.
I remember my first kiss. I was in second grade and there was this boy named Robert in my class. He was mean. He used to grab a hold of me on the playground and pull my hair or punch me in the arm. I really liked him. One day just before lunch bell rang we were outside under the jungle gym and my friend Stacey told me Robert smelled. "No he doesn't," I yelled. "He smells and his mommy dresses him funny," she exclaimed. Come on now, we all wore uniforms to school so how funny could his mama actually dress him? Ok, he did wear those funky rubber boots even when it wasn't raining but hey, he was eccentric. Anyway, we're outside and she's making fun of him, that is until he walks up behind her and hears what she's saying. The next thing I know he's grabbed her hair, swung her around and planted a kiss right on her lips. "Gross," she yells. Since I was one of those types that wanted to do everything first, I was quite upset. I ran over and punched Robert in the chest, pretty hard I might add. He actually started to cry....wimp. I see this big bull headed woman with a habit coming towards me, "Oh crap, it's Sister Leona," I yell. I knew I was in trouble, this nun really hated me. I ran over to Robert, he was still sobbing, and I kissed him full on the lips. I didn't stop until Sister Leona whacked me on the head with her prayer book. "Oh God, damn, that hurt." Uh Oh...now I was really in for it. She dragged me right to the principal's office, Sister Mary Ann. Let me tell you this....nuns have no compassion or understanding for a young girl's hormones, after all they did take a vow of celibacy...how awful is that? So I'm sitting there in her office and she wants to know what I did to make Robert cry, why I kissed a boy - that's a mortal sin you know, and where I learned to swear like that. So I told her, I punched Robert because he looked under my skirt, he saw my goods which according to my mom, makes us married - so then I kissed him. I learned to swear by spying on Sister Leona when she's in the boiler room with Father Michael. She's always saying "Oh God, Oh God, Damn that hurt." Apparently Father Michael saw Sister Leona's goods - so she punched him.
Over the weekend, my significant other and I had an argument. First you have to know I hate to argue. I'd much rather stomp off and be angry for an hour then to try and resolve the issue, that usually never works. So anyway, we're fighting. What we're fighting about is really not important, what is, is the fact that when I decide to stomp off, my boyfriend comes chasing after me. I say chase because he literally came running down the hall and blocked the doorway so I couldn't make a mad dash outside. "Why do you always do that," he says. "Do what," I ask. "Run away instead of staying and working things out," he answers. "Um, because it's what I do," I respond. What a lame answer. The fact is, I don't know why I do that. It's what I have done for thirty some years. I must have learned that somewhere. Later on, after I've gotten my way and dodged the fight, I think about his question, "Why do I do that, run away." I remember when I was a kid, if I got in trouble I'd go and hide under my bed, or in my closet, or any place I thought I couldn't be found. Strange thing is, my parents never came looking for me, they just let me hide. When I did finally come out it was as if nothing had happened. Maybe that was it, maybe them pretending that nothing happened started me down a path that I would follow for a lifetime. In my teen years when I would fight with a boyfriend, I'd usually hang up on them the minute we started to fight. If we fought in person, I'd pretend to not hear them or I'd just walk away. Now that I think about it, they never came after me either. No one ever confronted me or made me listen. I learned that avoiding a conflict was a solution to having to 'feel' anything. What was I afraid of? Why did I hate conflict so much? The more I thought about it, the more I remembered. It's scary you know, remembering things you never thought you knew. What I remembered was watching my mom run to her room and lock the door every time her and my dad fought (which was very often). I remember my mom pretending not to cry every time she found out that my dad was off with some other woman. I remember my dad pretending not to notice that my mom had run off and locked herself away. What I remember, is pain, every time I watched my mom close herself off. It's what I remember, it's what I learned, it's what I became - someone who runs away. Eventually my mom left my dad but I think it was too late to change what I'd already become. She showed me how to run far enough away from something or someone, so that you could avoid feeling things that were unpleasant.
So now I remember why I run away, but how do I stop? How do I keep my feet planted firmly in place and face whatever unpleasantness may come? How do I teach my own daughter that it's never ok to run away, because whatever you are running from - will surely follow? I guess where I start, is right here on this blog. It's writing down the things that scare me, making them real, then figuring out how to 'feel' them and let them go. I think that's the trick - letting them go.
At the end of the day yesterday I went back, I returned to the place that I ran away from. "I run away because I'm scared," I told him. "What are you scared of," he asked. "I'm scared of feeling things," I answered. "It's more scary not to feel them," he said. I guess he's right, after all, that never works anyway.
A new road to follow.
I come to this place each day; a box labeled from the outside with my name. One foot in front of the other, I make strides towards a temporary end, the last day in a five day excursion. I've stopped wondering who booked this trip, it seems I've wasted too much time looking at brochures that paint pretty pictures of places that don't really exist. Sometimes I wonder if the price I paid was too high; I should have shopped around instead of relying on a travel agent. But the ship has left it's port and we're setting sail, I can't help but look towards the shore; it's a long way to swim. Can I hold my breath long enough to make it back? Will someone throw me a life preserver when they see me drowning? Sometimes these trips go by quickly, sometimes it seems they will never end. There's not much to explore, this ship is large but I'm faceless to the crew - it's not their job to entertain me. I bide my time, speaking when spoken to, offering useless knowledge to other lost passengers all the while waiting for our return to port. I've tried to make my box comfortable for my stay. I've strewn pictures around the walls to remind me that a life exists outside of this one. Often I put on my headphones to drown out the sound of waves crashing against the hull, that sound can drive you mad if you let it. I should have taken a pill to stop me from getting sea sick, the motion - back and forth - back and forth, it can knock you off balance. And so I wait, for five days to pass - all the while anticipating the last day from the very first one. When it happens I'll be ready to run ashore without looking back - because I know my return is inevitable; I have a round trip ticket. "Watch your step as you exit," the captain announces over the loud speaker. "Those steps can be hazardous."
Now it's time to focus. Move those eyes from last week's position, to the windows of my soul. Can you tell who someone is by looking in their eyes? I think if you look hard enough, someone really can appear to be naked. You can look past the facade and see what their hiding. My grandpa always told me that if someone couldn't look you in the eyes when they talked to you, they were hiding some part of themselves they didn't want you to see. I wonder why that is...that you can tell who a person is by looking straight into their eyes. I'm not saying you can know everything about them, but you can know whether or not they are worth your effort or time. I think about all the people I've wasted my time on in my thirty some years of living...there are a lot of them. I'm trying to remember now - did I look in their eyes. Surely I didn't, or maybe I didn't look hard or long enough. Maybe I looked only deep enough to see my own reflection and it scared me, so I looked away. Maybe I didn't look at them, so they didn't look at me - maybe I was the one with something to hide.
I just read this post from a new blog I found...it really moved me. A better wife posted a survey she found taken from kids ...it asked them what thought love was. Check out her site to read it. My favorite though has to be this one:
“If you want to learn to love better, you should start with a friend who you hate,”
Nikka - age 6
or this one:
“When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth.”
Billy - age 4
Why don't we believe in those things anymore....or do we? Maybe we just need to be reminded.
Last night I'm strumming my guitar and I start to reflect on my day. It's a little promise I made to myself some time ago, to reflect, to ponder - what is and what was. Strange I know, but it helps me put things in perspective. Anyway, I'm sitting there thinking about the blogs I read that day. It's kind of strange this 'blogosphere' thing. There are all these people connected without ever laying eyes on each other. They interest me, these bloggers. I read their words and somehow I see a reflection rather than a revelation. Bits and pieces of their lives mock my own existence. I remember, I laugh, I contemplate...and I feel I know them. I think that thought in itself is strange because so many times in my life I've been reminded how little we really no anyone. Maybe it's because when we're faced with the physical presence of someone we immediately put on our 'pretend' masks in order to live up to who we think we are supposed to be. In blogosphere we can be whomever we want and most times we find it easiest to just be ourselves. The self that can talk about the pain of losing someone or the joy of falling in love. We can tell our readers how much we want to be loved or how being loved can be the scariest thing in the world. We complain and we vent, we laugh and sometimes we even cry, but every emotion we feel is ours completely and without regret. We can be the types of friends that everyone needs, the type that listens and offers advice but never scolds you when you don't take it. We can admit our wrongs and gloat on our triumphs. We can be real. When we log off our computer, we can go home or go to bed or walk down the street and feel - like someone out there cares about you for all the right reasons, because they saw a side of you and kept on reading. Sure you could pretend to be someone else, but eventually you would fail to keep an audience because we all know how incredibly difficult it is to be something you're not. In blogosphere we are what we are, people, with hopes and dreams and fears and insignificant bits of ourselves that may seem, well...insignificant. This place we come to visit, it's a place I look forward to coming every day; a concept rare in itself. So I'll write my life on these pages and I'll read your life on yours, and I'll be grateful that I got to know you.
My step dad has Alzheimer's. He told me the worst part of the disease is not knowing why you can't remember.
Do you remember being young? Remember when the biggest decision you had to make was what you wanted to wear for school or take for your lunch? I remember feeling so grown up when my mom finally let me stay out until the street lights went on. I remember being happy because I caught the ice cream truck after chasing it for two blocks. I remember when the only requirement to having a friend, was whether or not you had cool toys or a pool in your backyard. I remember learning to swim, and when I did, I knew I was invincible. I remember believing that the more my knees were skinned, the tougher people would think I was. I remember thinking that tree in my backyard was just about as tall as a sky scraper. I remember telling myself that if I could climb it, I'd be able to reach heaven. I remember digging holes, in hopes that I'd dig my way to China. I remember thinking once, I'd dug to China - and they were not very friendly. I remember mending my cats wounds after he'd been in a cat fight, and thinking that one day I'd be a veterinarian. I remember when blood didn't gross me out. I remember believing in Santa Claus and one time...I thought I saw him. I remember - thinking my parents were old and that they didn't know anything. I remember when I thought boys were gross. I remember when I thought boys were cool. I remember when I thought no boy could break my heart and then one did. I remember when I wished I could run away. I remember running away then coming home, and wishing I'd never left. I remember being young, not knowing what it was to feel old. I remember wishing I could be a grown up. I remember wishing that growing up, was easier. I remember thinking that I had grown up...then realizing I hadn't. Yesterday I remembered....and was thankful that I could....remember.
I went home this weekend to visit my family who lives 3 hours from me. It's strange driving back to the place you think you grew up, the place that seems like another lifetime ago where some faded memory of a self you used to be remains unchanged. Getting behind the wheel and hitting the open road, is like therapy. As I drove yesterday this feeling of nostalgia came over me. Every corn field I passed reminded me of the many nights I spent parked in my boyfriend's pickup making out in the bed of the truck with only the stars to shed any light on who we were. I think of him often, this boy who I gave my heart to. He wasn't my first, but he was the first who meant something. I remember him, his face, his voice, even his touch. It's almost as if no time has passed between what was and what is, although in reality I know too many mistakes have paved a highway I must travel forward - not back. You see, even if I wanted to go back, which sometimes I do, I can't. It's hard really, to admit that you screwed up. It's hard to remember yourself as someone you never wanted to be, someone you never want to know again. Even here typing the words, it's hard, to tell the truth. The boy who laid me down in his 4x4 as if it were a bed of roses, the boy who told me he'd love me forever - and meant it, he became the man I married. He became the man who needed me, the man who I couldn't need back, the man who's heart I broke...because I didn't now how not to break mine. I lied, I cheated, I hurt - him, and myself. I wanted him - not to want me. I loved him, yes, I loved him, but I could not - did not, understand what unconditional love really was. He gave it to me but instead of making me feel safe, it made me feel guilty. Somehow in the years I pretended to grow up, I convinced myself that unless love hurt - it could not be true love. I thought love was supposed to shred your heart, make it ache, turn it inside out then back again. After all the kind of love that I knew, never wrapped itself around you and kept you safe. From my father, to every guy I dated through high school, love became my battle - something I hated to have but couldn't live without. So when that boy, so sweet with his soft spoken voice and his eyes of blue asked me to marry him, I said yes because inside - I wanted love to be different. It was different...for him. So many details led to our eventual destruction but only one defines this memory. He came to me pleading that I give 'us' one more chance, I couldn't. I told him I didn't love him anymore, it was a lie, but those were the only words strong enough to make him go away. He did go away but amazingly enough we stayed friends. That's how great a man he was - or how much he loved me.
That person I was back then, has disappeared - or maybe grown up is a better choice of words. I spent so much time beating myself up for hurting him that I spent little time trying to figure out why I ran away from everything that was good in my life. I went to therapists, none of them could heal me. I spent so much money trying to figure out how to fix my life, that I didn't see how the only thing that could possibly mend me, make me whole, was forgiveness. Not forgiveness from my ex, forgiveness from me to me. It's hard to forgive yourself, especially when you think you don't deserve it. With every one night-stand I had, every guy I pushed away that maybe could have loved me, I punished myself. I did a damn good job making myself feel worthless. So I drove many miles and never seemed to get any distance between where I came from or where I wanted to be. The walls around me were built brick by brick upon a solid foundation. No one could, would, penetrate my fortress. I thought I could live my life untouched, unloved, keeping my pain and walls in tact. And in one moment a shot blasted through the walls built tall and strong. They crumbled. Destroyed, gone, only dust remained. Her hands were tiny and frail as they tossed those bricks aside, but then I caught a glimpse of her, so beautiful. I called her Alice. It wasn't the driving that finally helped me sort through it all, it was the staying still.
I'm better now. I still remember the pain every time I drive back to that place I was raised. I don't call it the place I grew up anymore...that happened years away from there. As for that boy...the one who tried to heal me with his love, he's still my friend....and every now and then he tells me how wrong I was for letting him go..."I know," I tell him. "But I was broken back then." "And now," he asks? "Now I'm just a little sore," I say. You see it's hard work being good to yourself, hard work...I remind myself....every single day. Now when I drive back home, the place I live now, I remember that self I left behind....and I don't hate her anymore.
Now that my boobies are tucked safely back in my shirt (at least for another week) I have to tell you how awful I am....truly awful. I was on the train this morning and I'm staring at the ground, like a normal public trans whore does. So anyway, I'm sipping my coffee, trying to read a line of my book while balancing coffee in one hand, a book in another. The book is having a hard time catching my interest so my eyes start to wander. The only good thing about public trans is that it gives you a chance to people watch. That is...watch people, make fun of them in your head...notice how much better you are dressed than them, and laugh (to yourself of course). Today this real prissy b*tch catches my attention. She keeps flicking her hair back over her shoulder. It's hilarious because she's doing that whole, 'I'm pretty, look at me' move...women...you know the one I'm talking about. I swear she must have flipped that damn hair back ten times within 2 minutes. Ok, so here's the good part. My eyes move down her body (not in a lesbo sort of way) checking out her outfit. Not bad, simple brown suit, white blouse underneath and some killer boots. I'm thinking to myself that I need to dig my own 'ho boots out of my closet since the weather is turning cold. Ok, back to the subject. She looks good which kind of pisses me off because I can tell already I don't like her. She's never actually said anything to me, she's never looked at me, but I HATE her. Maybe it's the hair flip, maybe it's that she's taller than me, maybe it's that she has cute shoes...but hey my boobs are better. So Miss Thang turns around. Oh MY GOD. Get this....her skirt is stuck in her panty hose. Know what I mean? Her arse is hanging out for all the world to see. Didn't she feel the draft? Who cares...I'm laughing my arse off. She just stands there all cool like while on her backside her damn skirt is tucked into her panty hose AND she has no underwear on. Ha Ha..ok I know some of you males out there are gettin' turned on on by that but DON'T. There she was in all her glory...looking the part of the fool. I look around to see if anyone else notices, turns out the only other gawker is the PP smelling guy wedged against the door. I start thinking to myself how awful it would be if that happened to me. Would I want someone to tell me? Yes, I would absolutely want someone to tell me. So I'm mulling this idea in my head contemplating on whether or not I should say something. I should but...I HATE her. Oh the dilemma. Three more stops my lips are still sealed. Well, I only have one more stop, I'll say something as I leave the train. Damn...the moral side of myself really sucks sometimes. Ok, so I'm still looking at her, laughing, watching the PP smell guy get his rocks off enjoying the view. Here's my stop...here's my chance. I push my way past her. I start to open my mouth, here come the words....."Hey chica...nice outfit." Yep...that's all I said. I quickly leave the train and realize how utterly awful I am. God I love myself.
This is about all the skin I can show...without being fired.
In other news, Katie Holmes is having a baby. Tom's baby. Stupid girl. I used to think Tom Cruise was hot, until he opened his mouth and became an advocate for Scientology. He's also short, and he talks too much. Two qualities I don't find attractive in men. I always say...just shut up and look pretty for me baby. Shallow I know. Just can't figure out why Miss Holmes would want to marry, carry a child for...some guy almost old enough to be her dad. If she has a thing for older men she should at least get one like Sean Connery, Harrison Ford, Robert Redford....or Sean Connery. Oh, I already said that. Yes, Sean is hot...and he talks way cool and.....he knows how to use all those cool little gadgets, could come in handy.
So...show me some skin Nekkkkid people. Oh, and in case you are wondering...they are REAL.
Have you ever wished that you had a super power? If you could have one, what would it be? Lately I've been giving this a lot of thought, not that I actually think I'll ever get one, but sometimes I'm bored and my mind wanders. There are so many to choose from: to be able to fly (without the help of mechanical contraptions)...now there's a good one. I could get from point A to point B without taking public trans, avoid all the traffic, just go for a spin when I feel like being somewhere else, fly on over to visit a few overseas friends (WDKY). Yes flying would be nice. But, there's Xray vision. Oh my. I wouldn't use it to see people naked...mostly I can get that just by asking nicely. If I had Xray vision I'd look through doors, walls, people. I say people because sometimes you have that annoying person who stands between you and something else that happens to be the object of your desire. If I had Xray vision I could look past them instead of pretending they are not there. I'm not very good at pretending. How about the ability to read minds? Dangerous. I'm not sure I want to know what's on the minds of most of the people I know. If I could read someone's mind, would I make different choices? If I could have read the minds of all the jerks I wound my heart around, would I have walked away before they had the chance to hurt me? Would I have seen that the only thing on their mind was how to get laid? Would I have cared? Maybe I would have let them get laid, but after it was done, I'd be the one to never call again. If I could read minds, would I be able to read my own more easily? How about having super strength as a super power? I'm not sure what I would do with this one. Maybe I could run circles really fast around the people that annoy me, so fast, they would never know what hit them. I could play any sport I liked, and always be the person the crowd is cheering for. I could battle the bad guys and always win. Maybe I could save people, maybe I could save myself. No, I don't think I want to be strong, then people would expect me never to cry...sometimes I like to cry. I know....how about if I could be invisible? Yes, this would be wonderful. I could go to movies for free, go backstage at concerts and check out the bands...and no one would ask me for my stage pass. I could scare people...how fun would that be? Make little noises like "oooooh, niccccceeee" while they are doing things they never want someone watching. Ha, I could really f*ck with people. I could be with whomever I wanted and when I got tired of being there, I could just invis myself. They'd be like, "What the f*ck happened?" I wonder if I could be invisible, would I be able to see myself? How about mind control. I could do so much with this one. First, I'd make people listen to me. I'd make them believe that what I'm saying, is important. I'd make the president smart and the politicians honest. I'd make people do what I wanted them to, like...I'd make that guy at the coffee joint leave more room in my cup when I ask him to "LEAVE ROOM FOR CREAM" so that it didn't spill all down the front of my shirt. I'd make that "schmoozer" that's in my department realize his nose is covered in brown sh*t. I'd make my boss realize that she wants to pay me more...and make me work less. I'd make that guy on the El realize he smells and that bathing is a good thing. Oh, I'd also make him realize that the smell of urine, is NOT sexy. I'd make all the guys who treated me badly realize "I am the best thing that ever happened to them." I'd make them cry, and I'd watch. If I could control people's minds, could I make them ultimately good people? Could I stop wars, make liars truthful, criminals non-violent? I guess mind control could get dangerous too if it landed in the wrong hands. I wonder if I could control someone's mind, would I make them love me? Maybe that's not mind control...maybe that's control over the heart which no one seems to have.
Super powers....maybe I have them already and I don't even know it.
Have you ever had a one night stand? Or are you one of those people that had one, but don't admit to it because it makes you sound easy? I used to think I'd never do that (that was when I was young and still had morals). I had one, well ok, probably more than one but it's not like I made a habit of it. Anyway, I was forced to recall one because of circumstance, which I'll get to in a moment.
I sat there at the bar wondering if anyone noticed I was sitting there alone. It's ok, I told myself. This is a big city, women can go out by themselves and drink alone. I sat there nursing my Guinness, I knew if I didn't, I'd end up throwing myself a pity party when I got home. So anyway, I'm sitting there staring at the tv pretending to be interested by the game on tv. I'm not, although I'm a huge sports fan, tonight I'm not in the mood to watch a bunch of grown men run around a field and smash into each other. Too much testosterone for a lonely girl to deal with. I get up to go to the bathroom, I wonder if someone will take my prime seat I've managed to score by the front bar. I go anyway. When I return I see this hottie in my seat. He's hot, but I can tell he's into himself. He's the kind of guy I despise. So I go up to him, "um, excuse me, that's my seat." "Oh yeah," he replies. "Well yes, so kindly move your arse." "No," he says. What...the f*ck. I asked nicely. Now I'm going to have to be a bit more aggressive. So, I sit on his lap. Yeah I know...that was a bold move but I'm at the point I really don't care what he thinks. Now it's me that's shocked because he actually doesn't say anything. Instead he puts his arms around me and says, "I've been waiting for you to do that all night long." "Oh really," I say. So there I sit...atop a really hot guy, I can feel his hard c*ck grinding up against my....kitty. My God I'm easy...I don't even know his name. I almost stop myself, or my morals do, but tonight, it seems other thoughts prevail. Oh well. We sit there for awhile until another seat opens up beside him. I guess I should move...I think to myself. But at this point I'm so frickin' horny that I can't get up. But I should, so I slowly slide myself off his lap, I feel him harden. Good, I think to myself, he wants me. I sit down beside him. He starts to talk about himself. I think, God I hate men like him. I listen, sort of. Really I'm wanting him to shut up and sit there, look pretty, make me forget why I should get up and walk away. He finally gets around to asking my name, "my name," I reply. "Don't have one," I say. "Ok then, so where does that leave us," he asks. Instead of answering, I take his hand and lead him to the door. I live exactly 1/2 block from the bar so it's a quick and easy trip to somewhere else. Up the stairs we go, I pull him through the doorway and we barely make it inside before we're ripping each other's clothes off. He keeps giving this sort of narrative of what's happening, "and she takes it off, and her body craves my touch." Jesus, shut up already. Finally I take my panties and shove them in his mouth, there, now he'll be quiet. We never make it to the bedroom, we end up f*cking right there in front of my 'wall to ceiling' windows. Not something I practice often, but I decided to go with the moment. Back to the f*cking. It was amazing. Long, hard, soft, hard again, and there were moans and exclamations of greatness. It was easy to let it all out, because I had no intentions of ever seeing this guy again. It lasted awhile, more than most, but when it was over, he was the same guy, talking about himself and I couldn't wait for him to leave. About 5 hours later I finally tell him he has to go, I like to sleep alone. As I'm shoving him out the door I realize I still don't know his name, should I ask, no, it would ruin it. So he goes. I don't ask for his number, he doesn't ask for mine. I don't watch him walk away, he just does...go away. It was simple and I've rarely thought about it since it happened. Every once in awhile I get an attack of conscience and smack myself around for being so easy. But it happened, enough said.
So I go to take the elevator up this morning, it's empty...ah...nice. Just as the doors are about to close this hand comes in through the cracks and forces the doors back open. I'm thinking to myself how f*ck*ng annoying this is....wait for the next one d*ckwad. First comes the hand, the doors open. I look down at the ground, it's early and I have not had a cup of coffee so I don't feel like facing anyone. The elevator starts it ascend, this guy is talking on his cell phone, again...annoying. I finally look up, and I freeze. Can't move. Can't even get off the elevator when the doors open at my floor. No, couldn't be. It's been 4 years, what are the chances? He politely asks me if I'm going to get off. "Off," I ask. Just then the realization hits him, almost as hard as it hit me. It would appear, I got off quite some time ago.
I still don't know his name.
Read this then puke. I'm going to produce my own song entitled, "I'm a loser but I'm a minority so let me blame someone else for my failure." I'm sure it will sell.
I'll ask the same question I have asked a million times before, why or why is everything about race? Who cares if you like Bush or not....he doesn't hate black people. Kanye West is just some uneducated pompous arse that spouted off when he shouldn't have. Maybe he needs a few lessons in class. His music sucks too. Ok, done venting.
Some of you read my last post about my advice to my teenage niece who's thinking about having sex for the first time. Well, over the weekend she called me, crying. Seems she told her boyfriend that she wasn't ready, she didn't want to make a mistake, she wanted to feel loved - but not at the price he was asking her to pay. Smart kid. She actually listened to what I had to say, which kind of floors me since I never had the smarts to listen to my elders when I was her age. As we talked, I told her how proud of her I was. She asked me a really hard question though, one I'm not sure I answered correctly, or even could answer correctly. She asked me why love hurts, why it feels good at first, then changes so drastically. Here's what I told her:
Love is like pumping your blood full of an illegal substance, the kind that makes you euphoric and makes you feel invincible. It makes you want to wrap yourself in it and let it consume you. It wears off, because it's like any drug, it's affects are only temporary. I'm not saying that love isn't wonderful, it is. I just think it takes years and years of living, to find the 'real' kind of love. The kind that doesn't judge you when you fail, the kind that isn't demanding, the kind that forgives you your mistakes because of love, not in spite of it. The kind of love that sometimes may not engulf you in it's prettiness, but comes on subtly. She sounded confused. She asked me if I'd ever found this type of love. I had, or at least I thought I did, many many times. I told her how I'd spent the better part of thirty years searching for that someone that made my heart flutter. That someone I would go to sleep dreaming of, and wake up longing for. It's amazing how many someone's seemed to fill that role. I told her how they all missed one important element. They all failed to make me happy. I had promises of love, I had the "I think I'm falling in love with you" guys...and one day I woke up and realized that I had it all wrong. No one would ever make me happy, that was one job only I could fulfill. "Then how did you eventually find it, the real love," she asked. "I stopped searching," I replied. It's something that only a grown up can figure out, not that I'm insulting the wonderful power of being young, it's just that being young = being naive. One thing I've learned, you have to have the heartbreaks, the pain, the loneliness, because it's the only way you will ever realize that being loved, starts with yourself. "It sounds cheesey," she said. "It is," I replied. "It's also the single hardest thing you will ever do in your life." "The single most important too," she replied. I could only agree.