The Burning of a Phoenix

Posted: February 18, 2011 in New Attitude

The Burning of a Phoenix

The definition of me.  …I’ve been spin-cycling the depths of that phrase lately.  The world’s view, your perception, my aspiration delusion opinion…  I describe “addiction” not how one uses/abuses a thing — but rather how one behaves when DENIED that thing — and I think the same holds true for self-identity.  How do I see me when you don’t see me the same?  What/who am I really,… when stripped of all the notions that I formerly identified myself with?  If everyone in my life is my mirror, holyfrell somefreakingtimes I do not want that reflection staring back at me.  At others, I take pride that the company I am keeping must be what I’m ready to become, because I am surrounded and enveloped by fathomless love and truth.

I happen to have a personality glitch — I do not act as you expect, I act as I am.  This has contributed greatly to instances when I have not fit in. I wince when I face this, but I have never blended easily.  So ironic when I’ve dealt with a pervading theme in my development,… the tendency to make myself invisible.  I grew up needing to be the good-girl.  Be quiet, don’t call attention to yourself.  Don’t rock the boat, don’t feel your emotions, don’t lose control, don’t don’t don’t.  For those who know me — I can be in a group of people, not say a word, and be the loudest person in the room.  The energy and passion and power of me is something that the universe has determined, I will be unable to throw a cloak over no matter how hard I try.  This is a righteous albeit troubling thing since I have yet to amalgamate the identity I think I’m supposed to have, with the one I DO.  But I’m getting there,… I’m learning.  I’m lining up my intuition with reality and whether I want to or not, I am learning.

Growing up means letting go of who I thought I was and becoming who I am meant to be.  Sometimes this is a natural organically-occurring process and sometimes it is a cauterizing forced amputation.   The issues of self-esteem and self-worth are duct-taped together with screaming-demon cassette recordings, while whispering wispy angels try to unravel them with the gift of life-lessons.  The death of old ideas comes with the price of stages of mourning.  The “world” comes along and burns you to the ground.  And what you get to do is build yourself back up, proper.  Right the foundation, receive the enlightenment, cry over spilt milk, deal with the reality-check, slough off the bullshit… wake up, WAKE UP.  Being true to yourself means,… actually knowing who yourself IS.  And integrity isn’t being true to you, it’s being true to ME.  I have met myself many times and often, I wouldn’t have wanted me as a friend.  I have seen myself through others’ eyes and poignantly, I didn’t want to be seen.  So each beta version evolved.  And IMHO, improved.  I started to appreciate and like the me I was trying to be — until I loved the me I am.  The good, the bad, the ugly — the strange, the unique, the glorious.  The loveliness of my constantly growing up, is that God has decided I am special and don’t need to waste time with a sparkler igniting my genesis.  No,… He’s determined that I’ll get this shit niiiice & quick, so there’s no pussy-footing around, I get a fucking SUPERNOVA to clear away the refuse in one fell swoop — then I get to rise from the ashes,… a new me.  A REAL and authentic me.  Me.

It’s a good thing I’m fire-retardant.


The Little Mom

Posted: October 24, 2010 in Family Craziness

The Little Mom

I miss my little mom.  She’s been in Okinawa for many weeks visiting her sister and I haven’t heard her voice in so long… too long.  She lives alone now and goes through phases when she doesn’t interact with people since she’s busy quilting or mowing the lawn, so sometimes when she gets on the phone she talks forrrEVER and I find myself doing the dishes or checking email while I murmur “uh-huhs” intermittently at the right time (fooling her into thinking I’m listening.)  But I’m pining for that today — the long run-on sentences that jumble from one subject to the next with no segue, no coherent plot-line — not giving me time for input or response.  I miss that.

The relationship between a mother & daughter is such a strange animal.  Talk about love/hate.  When I was young I ABHORED it when someone said “you’re just like your mom!” — What the…?  Anything but THAT.  My nemesis, my critic, my disher-out of this-is-for-your-own-good MOM.  Me?  Ms. Sophisticated Worldly Gift-to-the-universe-for-forward-thinking… like HER??  But now… I love it when people say it.  I’ve known her for all my life, and I have watched her grow up, witnessed her go through many hardships not understanding what it must be like in her shoes, wondered how she stayed in a marriage for 40+ years when I think I woulda dumped ‘im a LONG time ago (then again there were many times she needed a good thunk upside the head, we’ll call it even),… I learned where she came from and was frankly astonished at how she survived what she did.

She’s vibrant and full of life.  4’11” of still-can-probably-kick-my-ass, walks every morning at 5am, does step-class, drops the buzz-phrase “my trainer”, has tried CrossFit (hates wallballs, liked pullups with the mondo-huge band), buys random figurines from yard-sales to repaint to keep her mind fresh.  She’s imprinted me with many values that I hated imposed on me when I was an ignorant know-it-all girl, but now that I’m a (ahem) wise all-knowing woman, I embrace and am grateful for.   I do quirky things that I never knew were quirky until others express how impressed or thankful I turned-them onto that idea, and realize it came from her.  She does some majorly crazy shit that helped me become a strong independent PERSON, not succumbing to the myths that a.) girls can’t lift heavy things or move furniture, b.) you’re old, wrinkled, and over-the-hill at 35, and c.) it’s better to be polite and keep your mouth shut and fit-in with society.  No, she lived the example to speak your mind because it’s better to live with having asked, than live with regret for wishing you’d said something.  And boy, with me, did that last one take.

One time when my mom called out of the blue, I asked her what’s wrong, she sounded down.  She sighed heavily and said “I guess I’m having a sort of bad day… I’m disappointed in myself,… it’s kinda scary being up on the ladder painting the house.”  My heart stopped.  Up on a fucking ladder painting the fucking house??!!  What the FUCK??  The fucking woman is in her 60’s, my dad is dead, she’s alone, and she’s damn frikkin’ painting the HOUSE?!  Oh my GOD I am a failure as a daughter(!) If word gets out about this, if she falls off that GD ladder, frrraaaaack, I’m going to hell.  Instead I take a deep breath, put my eyeballs back in my head, exhale, pretend like I’m not going into cardiac-arrest, and say calmly, “Yea that’s a little scary, it’s okay to be scared (please be TOO scared) — mom, you knowww me or my brother could (drive 5-6 hours like right now ohgod) to help you… um I didn’t know you were planning that, I don’t think he knew it either (because he’s going to burn in hell too for being a terrible son)… orrr we could hire some Mexicans or teenagers…” (something, ANYTHING, fuck.)  She’s like “yeeeaaa, I just got the idea in my head then just started in on it…”  (I’m shaking my head trying to extricate my fingernails from the surface of my desk) “…Or at least mom, you shouldn’t be alone when you’re up on a ladder like that, I’ll call one of our friends to come help you.”  (Gets off phone fast with psycho mom and immediately calls high-school buddy who still lives in town and BEGS him to please just stop by the house please PLEASE.)

When I was playing flag-football I’d take the team down to Florida and we’d stay at my parents. I’m talking like 14 of us.  We’d bring a boat, go skiing at the bayou ½ a mile away in the mornings, then go to Destin 20 minutes away midday, then come back to ski at dusk.  Really what our schedule was more like, was wake up to a million biscuits and omelets, eat.  Then go ski, we didn’t need life-vests because our bloated asses could float the Nile, come home eat.  Then we’d squeeze our fat selves into bathing suits then go to the beach and lay around like beached whales, come home, eat.  Then we’d eat.  My mom would just cook and cook and get new schemes of what to cook.  Homemade sushi, grilled salmon, ribs, cake, springrolls, cake.  Cake, muffins, cookies.  Cake.  More cookies.  We’d be like “mom, it’s okay if you don’t cook so much…” (steps on scale to find out it IS possible to gain 9 pounds in 2 days, wants to commit suicide.  At the same time as stuffing another friggin’ cookie in mouth.)  She responds with “that’s the way I show love.”  I say you’re killing us to death with love.  We virtually had to leave so we would stop eating.  As she shoves take-home bags in the car which we immediately dig into.

When I first watched ‘The Secret’ I already knew I had good parking karma.  Whereas others drive to the mall during Christmas season and think MAN there’s not going to be any parking spaces, so they park at the back, NO WAY.  I always drive straight to where I want to be fully EXPECTING for my spot next to the entrance to be there.  And it usually is.  I also got the epiphany that it’s probably the reason why I don’t have many wrinkles.  Cuz it’s DEFINITELY not from lack of hard living(lol) — sleep?  You can sleep when you’re DEAD haha.  Okay I do have good genetics, my mom has less wrinkles than MANY of my friends (once you go Asian ya won’t go caucasian hee hee) — but I believe that because I did not grow up with those American-woman stereo-type mentalities imposed on me “ooohhh when you reach your thirties your skin will start pruning up” — “Ohhh you know, when you reach your forties you won’t be able to jump up on the counter to get shit off the top shelf of the cabinets because you just won’t be ABLE to do thaaat (gasp) plus your ass would have slid down your leg” — “Ooohhh you know, hormones.”  I don’t know if it’s because we didn’t talk about looks when I was growing up so I was also protected from the limited thinking warnings — but when I look in the mirror, I FULLY expect to see the same thing staring back at me.   I notice what’s there and it’s the same.  So I think that’s why I don’t have wrinkly old skin because I’m not WAITING to see that.  I just expect to look as good as my mom.

Once my mom was visiting me here in Atlanta (yup she drove her own dang self) and while I and my then boyfriend were still lounging in bed at the crack of dawn at 8:30am on Saturday morning my cel phone rings.  I see on the caller-ID it’s her, I answer the phone, “You are so weird, you’re a weirdo, it’s okay to just knock on the door you know, duh.”  She says, “I went out for a walk this morning.”  I say “Okaaaay.  Mommy, we’re dressed in here, it’s okay if you just come in ya’know…”  She says, “Now I don’t know where I’m at.”  I mean really, do I have to finish this part of the story?  I’m like “EH?!”  Yea, she went out walking, got turned around, and couldn’t figure out how to get back.  Thank sweet Jesus she had her PHONE with her.  I mean wow.  She’s seriously phone-challenged as it is.  COUNTLESS times she’d call and say “Where have you BEEN, I have been trying to reach you!”  Puzzled I’d say, I didn’t get a voicemail message from you…”  Invariably she’d say (peeved, like it’s my fault)  Well, I didn’t LEAVE one.”  One time I drove to Florida, got there, and the front glass door was locked.  The regular wood door was wide open inside, I could see IN there.  I realized I didn’t have a key to the flippin GLASS door (we actually installed that the week of my dad’s funeral, I didn’t even think it locked.  Hell, I don’t remember much that week alcohol-haze, oh whatever.)  Anyways, I call my mom.  I can hear the phone ringing inside.  No one’s home (in more ways than one.) I walk around the house, maybe she’s in the back yard, nope.  I call her cell, no answer.  Screw it, I went to the liquor store, then sat on the front porch drinking scotch.  The cats just sat inside the glass staring out at me probably thinking what is this fool DOING?  Why is she sitting out there?  My mom drives up, SORRRYYY, I had to run an errand I didn’t think you’d make it here that fast, you were so fast, was the drive good, you hungry?  I’m like, “Mom, why didn’t you answer your cell?”  Deadpan she admits, it’s inside, in the house.  You know, with the cats.

Travis/T-rex from CrossFit North Atlanta just knows her as the lady that sweeps.  Everything.  She came to the gym one time and just swept.  For like 4 hours.

My little mom is the queen of knick-knacks.  Holyshit that woman has her house decorated with every sort of collection known to mankind.  Alright well maybe not EVERY kind, I’ve seen her other Asian friend’s house and SHE has every sort — but what my mother has, is in freaking massive abundance.  We had to’ve started her on birds like a thousand years ago.  Some Mother’s Day present when we were kids, so okay yea, maybe we’re to be blamed on that one.  But now it is just out of CONTROL. Her latest thing is photos.  We’re talking framed, laminated, cork-boards, her bedroom mirror is no longer a mirror but a collage.  My dad died a few years ago and we didn’t even like him then, but now the house is a SHRINE.  It’s a little bit weird.  Two grandkids, the walls are like one gargantuan storyboard of their lives.  From birth.  To now.  And Mads is TEN.  Once when I needed to change the “Kath & her current boyfriend” pic, I opened the frame and no shit, there were layers and LAYERS of the chronology of failed-relationships immortalized right IN there.  It was creepy.  It was fucking HILARIOUS.  She didn’t throw the old photo away, she just stuck the new boyfriend on top of it. OMG.  No words.

Here are 3 awesome FB videos to explain my mom:  Not Enough Valium (on the eastern seaboard), Infomercial Mom, and Maddie’s Puppet Show.

Below is the latest item she bequeathed to me.  An owl house.  I think.  She shifted from regular birds to specialize in owls because that’s her sisters “special bird”.  Whatever the hell that means.  So now I get one.  Yea for me.  I have it in my office stashed behind the bookcase.  Man,… I really miss her.

Take My Own

Posted: October 6, 2010 in Getting Therapyized


Sometimes when I say things with my mouth, it’s for my OWN ears to hear.  Ya’knoooow, when you’re spouting off some shit to your friend “what you need to do is…” — and then I actually ABSORB the words I’m going-off about and have to stop.  CRAP.  I’m giving advice to myself.  They say “others teach what they need to learn.”  And some people think I’m wise for the things I feel compelled to say, but mostly I know the universe has me saying what I need to listen to.  That’s why I don’t usually give advice or ask for it.  Because it’s all relative.  And it’s just trouble waiting to happen because I am not a QUIET person lol.  The advice they’re giving to ME, is usually what they want to employ for themselves… “you need to tell him to go fuk himself…”, “what you need to DO is take charge of the situation and blankety blank…”, “what you should think about is…”  On and on and WHATEVVEERRRR.   And today I told a girl what she should say to a guy and dammit if it wasn’t the exact thing I needed to be saying TOO.  Crap.  Crap crap CRAP.  If everyone in my world is my mirror and they are a reflection of me, I need to take a good hard look.  What are they hesitant about and why?  What am I dragging my feet about WHY??  What I realized at that moment, is that no matter how fearless I usually am — there are some things that I just don’t want the real answer for.  YET.  But I WANT the truth!  And yeaaaa, it might not be what I’m ready to know right now.  Wondering why THEY aren’t taking the action I think I want from them.  Soooo REALLY,… I must want to bitch about the circumstances I’m keeping myself in limbo about.  Which translates to having an attachment to them alleviating ME from taking the action.  I want you to have the balls I don’t.  I want you to ante up first.  I want YOU to take the risk of putting yourself out there to protect me from ending up with egg on my face.  But nothing of worth comes without taking a chance.  THE chance to speak up for myself and ASK for what I want.  You never get what you don’t go for.  And if the door closes or IS closed already, wouldn’t my path be easier if I quit banging my head up against it?  Instead, I like to stand there paralyzed like a dumbass and whine about things not going my way.  (I’m sure none of y’all have ever done this <grin>.)   I said a wise thing once, “if you want your life to be different, it’s up to you to change it.”  I’m just pissed-off that I need to take my own advice.  I need to learn to keep my mouth shut HAHAHA!

Sometimes Nothing IS Something

Posted: September 5, 2010 in theSlice

Coug & Pistol

Sometimes Nothing IS Something

I haven’t blogged in a minute.  I think about it every day.  I jot down ideas and start blurbing — but the seeds didn’t blossom.  There was a time when I would get down on myself when I went through lazy-phases but I shifted my attitude by leaving myself more open to things chemicalizing inside,… like the yeast in bread making it rise.  (Funny coming from someone who doesn’t eat yeast or gluten lol.)  An important aspect of creating is stepping back and assessing what you’re making… or letting the pieces parts fall into place.  Like resting for recovery after working-out — if you miss that facet, you’re toast.  Like giving yourself regroup time after a breakup — if you charge into the next thing you’ll probably ride back into the same groove.  I changed my thinking that it was ALL,… a part of the process, that not-writing was contributing to the eventual writing.  Some ideas just need to bake.

Time in a relationship is like that.  Sometimes you’re together, sometimes you’re not — but somehow the time passing does something to glue things better for the future.  The time invested puts a confidence in myself and the other person in how faith happens between us.  Proof of truth, nobility in action, reliability in what to expect, delight at being surprised.  Ultimately, we do what we can and then can only sit back to see what unfolds.  Life happens, and when I sit down at the computer, we’ll see what comes out of my fingertips.

I planted some lavender, rosemary, mint, & basil.  A huge tree fell down in my front yard.  I saw a hummingbird at a feeder my mom gave me.  I think I will do another Adventure Race.  I shredded a bunch of crap and threw away a shitload of junk.  I got a two presents in the mail.  I have my muscleup no problem but I think I lost my double-under.  I found all my notes from a screenplay I thought I lost when my laptop crashed.  I met Daisy Luna.  And I’m seriously crushing on a guy.

When you’re going from day to day it’s so easy to float along thinking nothing is going on.  We have come to think in terms of momentous occasions and tend to overlook the mundane.  In Anthony De Mello’s book Awareness, it’s about getting caught up in the daily regular stuff to witness the joy there and appreciate it, appreciate ourselves.  I derived a lot of self-satisfaction from making my little garden.  I made the special effort to go to a particular nursery and choose what I wanted.  The pots had been sitting there, dead.  My last foray ended in predictable outcome given my black-thumb tendencies — but I really wanted to try again.  I always love to pinch off a leaf and smell that savory aroma on my hands.  It just feels so earthy and naturey, breathing in that scent just reconnects me.  Now the pots are teeming with life and invitation.  When I come to my door, it’s the first thing I see — and it pleases me.  Pure ego, I smile because I made the effort to make my home welcoming to ME.  Please God help that shit to grow because I’m really trying HARD this time lol — and that’s all I have to do,… do my best then wait to see how the weather and seasons and time affect these plants.

I want to take a picture of that hummingbird for my mom.  She gave that red-bulb-sugar-thingy to me and I swear for a year it’s been hanging in that tree and I’ve never seen a freaking hummingbird at it EVER.  But I have a voicemail message saved from the other day when she called me whispering in the phone, “Kathy, (only family calls me Kathy), the hummingbird is here again… it’s there outside the window, it’s been coming about the same time the last few days,… I think it comes to visit me…” And yes, she is whispering, like the bird could overhear her or something — and I could picture exactly where she was standing, in the kitchen looking out the window, because I know where her feeder hangs.  She just had to call and share that moment with someone and it made me smile because it was me.  She’s a pain-in-the-ass but my mom is just so friggin’ CUTE.  And she made me and she loves me and I’ve seen her grow and change and TRY.  We have gone through some major ups & downs, so much grace, so much righteous fighting.  …And then maybe the same day, I was sitting outside and there was the hummingbird!  The first thing I wanted to do was call my mom.  How silly is that?  No really,… how perfect is that?  So now, I’ve been spending a little time every day sitting and waiting.  I’m not irked that I haven’t seen it again… I’m just kind of excited that when I do, and get the picture, I’ll give it to her and it will make her so happy.

I threw away a computer monitor.  I’m talking a gargantuan behemoth from when big was NOT good.   I’d been carting it to every place I moved thinking I was going to do something with it.  I mean, the flatscreen is so streamlined and light — but you’re SUPPOSED to refurbish or sell-on-ebay or bequeath it to the needy,… SOMETHING, right?  Well I got tired of staring at that thing and just said fuckit.  My landlord had put a bunch of stuff on the street after their not-so-successful garage sale, and when I found myself perusing THEIR junk to see if I needed anything to become MY junk, I mustered up the backbone to say NO THANK YOU, and then garnered up the resolve to add some of my crap to the pile.  I know people drive around in trucks just collecting this stuff, so I put a sign on the screen that said “yes this works, ENJOY” and left the rest to fate.  Within an hour it was gone and I was filled with HALLELUJAH(!) gladness.  I felt so much lighter just knowing that when I pack up and move to Beverly, that I would NOT have to lug that sucker around.  The relief to my lightness-in-being was worth more than the $12 I probably would’ve gotten for it.  Plus what I’ve gotten by releasing an anchor is I created a void for the universe to fill it with some new.

One of the best things on the planet is watching a baby grow.  You don’t make it do anything, you CAN’T.  You just be quiet and look at her and hold her and marvel at how tiny and wonderful her fingernails and ears are,… and you observe her taking in the world.  You watch her watching.   You wonder what she sees what she thinks, how things must look from her perspective.  It makes you think about your own life and that you used to be in a place like that, and now we walk through our day not noticing things.  Stopping for a moment to spend time with that new baby makes one realize the time we waste.  Because there is nothing more precious than doing nothing, with her.

So about this crush… Aren’t crushes just GREAT?!  They fill you with this shy zingyness inside, that you can’t really do anything about.  But you suddenly got the motivation to take care of business.  Contemplate how your body is, consider how your life looks from the outside in, daydream, fantasize.  I remember once a girl said about a boy paying attention to her, “He’s so sweet but I don’t really want to encourage him, I think he has a crush on me and I don’t have one on him, and I don’t want to hurt him.”  I said “Who are you to deny him his crush?”  I went on to say how I love that I’m secretly in-love with Keanu Reeves (not that he really counts, since he’s actually one of my soulmates that I think I will eventually end up with hehe) or Vin Diesel (whose birthday is in my outlook calendar 😉 — that I get a certain zestiness and spike in my creativity when I make-up scenarios in my mind for when we will meet and I’ll be the one for them and we’ll marry and live happily ever after.  And how limp would my fantasy-life be if they found out I had a crush on them and they said “don’t have a crush on me, it’s not allowed, I don’t have a crush on you, and I don’t want to hurt you.”  I mean puh-leese.  Movie-stars are put on this earth FOR us to have crushes on.  And I said to this girl, what harm would it do you or sweet-guy if he’s allowed to have his crush?  You should LOVE the idea of someone having a crush on you, you should relish it, CHERISH it.  How lucky are you to have someone moon over you?  It’s not leading him on.  You should enjoy it, not squelch it.  The energy of putting up a wall to repel his “like” seems cold & aloof really… to be not-receptive to his adoration just feels somewhat destructive.  I like it when someone LIKES me.  You should let him like you.   And like it.  So as crushes go, I think I have my act together.  I am reveling in this phase when I’m a little bit giddy and have butterflies.  He might not like-like me, but I’m okay with that for now, I don’t have to make it into something more — because this is about ME.  The dancey feeling inside that makes me want to do it on the outside.  The wishing he would call.  Smirking when I send a suggestive innuendo text and he reacts GOOD.  Feeling awe-shucks when he gives me compliments on my legs.  That is all about ME.  About being brighter inside and having it spill as happiness onto others.  Letting myself have this is not turning it into a full-blown dating scene.  We don’t even date, I’m just sighing from afar.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not unrequited — this is just the beginning waiting will-you-be-my-brother-or-lover phase.  Gotta make it through this one to get to the next.  So I am jigging-it-up with appreciating this new-ness of the IDEA of having someone in my life.  Having a crush is basically the foreplay of a relationship.  And right now, all I have to do,… is nothing.

So that’s what I’ve been doing lately… sitting back, letting things simmer.  I wonder what kind of soup destiny is going to give me.

Kissing You In My Mind

Posted: August 26, 2010 in Poetry

black n white or color


You’ve touched me beyond measure in my soul,… and I don’t know how to journey the creation.
The voice that thrums deep into the recesses of my receptivity, you captivate my interest like no other ever has or will. The energy of your presence envelops me with the melted-butter of white-light, covering me caressing me carrying me into a haven of possibility.
All the flurry of life coming and going, another ship another night — still, there you reside,…  In that cave of my imagination being built into the perfect fit.  The quirks of personality that others may find abrasive I find comforting.  The brash of brutal-honesty soothes my confidence that your truth is always what you say. The vulnerability of sharing your insides not fearing rejection teaches me that I can return in kind.
The past looms like memories lost in lack of closure yet your determination to not keep record intrigues me.  What is this that we are becoming when the distance of who we were and who we are have not met?  Do you ever wonder,… do you ever dream,…?  The culmination of gathering all the incongruous pieces of me to now cause a longing to know the outcome.  What am I willing to create,…  How long am I willing to wait?


Posted: August 16, 2010 in Real Men

dads hat


I am an incredible woman.

…But I can’t take all the credit on my own — because I have been ruined by many a man. To all those men who have helped to ruin me, this is how I choose to see it…

You saw the potential in me, the raw natural talent of a gymnast who found a calling late in life. You demanded excellence and coaxed-out the best in me with words of encouragement, gave me productive tools to build on, and committed to me through giving me your time and attention. You dished it as fast as I could learn, helping me to blossom in this new-found form of vital expression. There’s been nothing to ever really compare to how you impacted my life, so it’s been difficult for me to subscribe to shitty coaches or crappy teachers who couldn’t muster.

You forced me into submission by guilting me into a recovery program for eating disorders. Through my hating you for this, I received the knowledge that if I hadn’t been jerked-off that destructive tangent at that point, I’d have imploded and would probably be dead.

When I said lamentingly in woe, “I am a trouble-magnet”, — you said “No. …You are a truth seeker… situations ‘find you’ because the universe knows that you are strong enough to be involved for ferreting the truth.” It made me see myself in a whole different light all the while seeing you with a whole new respect.

You danced me in the kitchen while we were cooking, withholding the words ‘I love you’ for months and months while we lived together, causing me much confusion. What I learned, is that I felt more love from you with one look of cherish and adoration in your eyes, than with many men who said the words too-freely and didn’t back it with action. The vibe between us was inexplicable and irrational due to lack of compatibilities, but I learned that connection between two people isn’t always logical.

You never hugged me or told me I was pretty and smart. What this did in my life, was cause me to investigate the fact of whether these things were true or truly important to me. It gave me the perfect spring-board for determining if this is acceptable behavior from a man to never do or say those things. I found out that real love doesn’t always look like the picture I think it should, but that doesn’t make it any less real.

When I had knee-surgery and was bitchy, drugged-up and wanted to fight, you let me throw a tantrum and didn’t abandon me. I chose this lovely opportune moment to bring up all our childhood dysfunctions and resentments and still, you didn’t leave me.

You continued to love me when I felt completely and utterly unlovable. I wanted to loathe myself and no matter what I did, you were fucking consistent and maintained an unconditional desire for me, unwilling to budge on your opinion. You loved me despite me, stood by me through all my craziness and nervous breakdowns. It perplexed me that you saw these qualities in me that I could not comprehend, but after time, I started to believe what you saw.

You told me to shut-up and listen, then gently oh so gently told me that I had a tendency to make myself a little bit of a victim/martyr in situations aaand I needed to pull my head out of my ass or I was going to fuck-up a new relationship. You showed me that sometimes others can know what’s best for me better than I and that you would honor what is between us by always telling me the truth even if I didn’t want to hear it.

You cried in front of me and shared your greatest fears and pain. You let me follow-through on my demand to not leave you alone even after you told me it was okay… you let me hold you and read a children’s book to you soothing and hypnotizing you with my voice until the traumatic moment passed. You let me witness that a person doesn’t die from being vulnerable and that asking for help and allowing someone to be there for you even if they can’t really do anything to alleviate the situation — is EVERYTHING, in being a friend.

You dumped me and told me to call your therapist. This started me on a journey of self-discovery and awareness, beginning to truly honor myself — thereby living with purpose and choice, authentically knowing myself and presenting HER to the world.

You believed me when I said I could read minds, energetically heal others, and predict the future. You took it one step further by being able to do it yourself. You gave me the bare bones of your demon-ego riding you like a bucking-bronco, sharing all the ugliness of yourself battling with reaching for enlightenment. We lived a path of light-warriorness that burned me to the ground and rebirthed me into a glorious phoenix.

You let me hold your hair back while you puked from chemotherapy. Regardless how long between speaking to each other, whether it’s 2 weeks or 2 months, we are ALWAYS. Always. On a parallel in quirky could-be-a-movie life-circumstances. We’ve learned to find our own answers through seeing it from the others’ perspective. We have shared our dirtiest secrets of the lowest, vilest things that a good-person shouldn’t do, and didn’t judge each other. Mostly because we were laughing too hard at how we are probably going to hell but at least people will LIKE us while we do it.

You were an answer to my prayers toward the universe for wanting a child. By being a perpetual peter-pan, you taught me the invaluable lesson that loving someone through all their neurotic childish behavior is a rare gift in grace and patience and that I could do it(!). And,… that it was something that should be given to my own children (should I have them), not to the men I date.

You didn’t give me compliments. We merely existed for the time that we had together sharing that moment, sometimes (often times) not even talking, because simply being in each others’ presence was enough. When I heard you giving compliments to someone else, I bristled and asked you why you gave them to her and not to ME — you said it was because she needed it. And you never saw me as needy.

When we noticed after several weeks that your mother was refusing to talk to me, you confronted her until you got the story (which was a weird not-even-close-to-the-truth theory she made up in her head that had nothing to do with anything.) You cried heart-wrenching tears in the shower thinking I couldn’t hear you — and later told me, you knew the truth, supported me in my hurt, and that you chose your commitment to me, over her.

When I said I had a vision that you were my brother in a former life you unequivocally accepted it as a resonating truth and even sighed in relief to finally having an explanation as to why our relationship wasn’t going to the next level. From that day forward you stuck by my side and never tried to make it more, and our fights are just as beautiful.

For my birthday you told me you were going to take me out to dinner so get dressed up. Then a limo arrived and we had delicious sex in the back seat, then drove to a quaint mining-town for a romantic candle-lit dinner where the wait-staff brought a shitload of presents to the table. Then we went on a horse & carriage ride through town, to our hotel room that had a jacuzzi and fireplace. You had packed lingerie and clothes for the next day for me. (How does any other guy afterwards ever top that one? 😉

When I told you about the traumatic break-up I had and the gory details of the straw being that he forgot to buy me a Christmas present — you laughed your ASS off. You called me retarded and told me that the NEXT guy I auditioned for the position had to be pre-screened by you, so that I don’t go making the same dumb mistake. You saved me from giving the situation more life than it deserved because you were exactly right and sometimes I get carried away. You made me feel safe in being able to be real with you and be real about stupid shit that can screw up a woman’s mind if we let it.

You thought I was the hottest thing in the world and let me live in jeans, flannel shirts, and no make-up for a year while (you didn’t know) I was depressed. When my mom told me she wished I would marry you, I knew immediately I had to break up. You were the first reasonable, loving boundary I learned to set for myself — that it is not right to date a man because I didn’t want to be lonely or without, and to only date men who display the traits that I would consider worth marrying.

You beat me to a pulp because I smashed your car windshield in with a hammer after you punched a hole in the wall, threw all my clothes down the stairs kicking me out of my own place, shoved me up against a wall and smacked me. I knew it was over when I went back to the condo a few days later, took one look and knew I was still in-love with you. We went into therapy together and I had to join the Air-Force to get away. Years and years later you found me on and with your lack-of-remembering-what-really-happened and professions of how I was your first true-love, came the loveliest, most humbling realization understanding to the core of my ESSENCE in being — that it takes two to tango, that God and destiny are in charge, that we are ALL young/dumb and make stupid decisions and that it doesn’t have to be about being evil inside,… and that contrition and forgiveness can heal anything.

Sometimes when I was bad and tried to apologize you cut me off with an “I already made up my mind about you.” You kept playing practical jokes and doing the language of sarcasm to me even knowing it pushed my buttons to no end. You never stopped being your crazy authentic self, sharing the bawdy audacious ludicrous stories of your childhood no matter how much I protested. I grew more about true acceptance and love-of-a-comrade-in-arms and how to be much funner and funnier, with you, than with ANYONE else in my life. You didn’t take me too seriously and it helped me to lighten-up about what was basically unimportant, and to give focus to the meaningful things. Whenever I think of you I either want to laugh, kick you, or hug you. And it fucks me over — because the mate that I choose for myself, has to measure up.

THESE. Are the way that men in my life have ruined me. They set the bar for how I thought I should be treated, and any man that comes after has to meet the standard. I have learned love through much process — if pain is growth, I am obese. By society’s standards, I may have been treated badly yet I have been treated like a QUEEN — and through it ALL, I am blessed because I appreciate men for being men, because I LOVE MEN!! I love how they are different than I — I love that they don’t think the same way I do — I love that they can simplify anything that I want to over-complicate — I love that they just know what they want and don’t fucking CARE if they have the flowery words to express it. I love how they can lift heavy things and how they glow and puff-up with pride if they can help you FIX something/anything. I don’t care if they put the damn toilet-lid down because I’m a smart enough woman to freaking CHECK the fucking thing before I sit down.

I am ruined because so many myths about men are thrown out the window with my experience, because MY men,… have been giving enough, and emotionally-forthright enough, resolving enough, brave enough, and cool enough — to be the most perfect out-picturing to teach me what men are REALLY. Made of.

Can you see now? …How it’s easy to see how I have grown into an incredible woman? I have all these men to thank for it. And I am ruined.


Posted: August 12, 2010 in Aspirations, Poetry

two halves


Mind blown, senses reeling, what IS this full-circle that’s come to me of me…
For myself I never dreamed that you would come back into my now, and so the memories are waterfalling back into my consciousness — stirring me, moving me, provoking me to nameste the chaos into an ethereal embrace.  Don’t know what I think, don’t know what I feel, this unreal reality such an overwhelming culmination of everything that was so right gone wrong for a beyond-righteous reason.  How many are as lucky to receive the message of exactly why things happened as they did, how many are grateful enough to flow the blessing into their veins as a deserved reward and sigh of validation.
So strange so strange, I remember the acceptance but don’t recall the pain — yet we were always the haven where I couldn’t remain.  Your resonating voice brings me to a place of wonder and awe, that we both could’ve grown to become what we were destined to be, but only because we were removed from each other to see what the universe would deem.
Flashes in time from when we were being made, to finally understand the why of the shredding of our attachments to render us blank and empty so we would be receptive to the surrender of us choosing to build the monument of honoring ourselves.  The crashing that came before seems insignificant in comparison to the light that grew, emanating from the divergence and destruction and annihilation that sprung forth a phoenix.  From the flames we arose a reincarnated spirit of energy, flying and flying into the unknown because we knew that was where we belonged…  To reside in the nothingness until the priority of truth came awake — our warriorness strode forward onto a guided path of unmapped destiny.  No longer who we were, no longer who we were not — we were chosen to be that something other, of strength, of divine intervention, of magnitude of what it true,… we are the prophesied promise that a seed in the sun of love can become one with the stars.  Pure,… clean,… new.  Reborn.


“…Because I remember the past, I am worried about the future…”
— The Power of Kindness by Piero Ferrucci

Do you ever get that (what I like to call) i’m-going-to-take-a-test-tomorrow-but-i-forgot-to-study feeling?  A churning in your gut cascading from the roller-coaster in your mind, where you’re not sure if you’re going to puke or pass-out, but GAWD you want it go awwwway.  You’re doing something normal like driving to work, standing in the shower, or paying the bills (not contemplating Fran lol.)  And you’re NOT going to take any sort of test tomorrow.  That is the direct result of not living-in-the-now.  It’s because you started thinking about the what-ifs or if-onlys.  What if I don’t get enough money to make the rent?  What if he’s a playah?  What if I die on the bus?  If only I’d told her how I really felt.  If only I hadn’t’ve drove home drunk.  If only I wouldn’t have lied…

Dwelling on the past or projecting into the future means you’re not LIVING IN THE PRESENT, you’re not participating in the right-here-right-now.

Wanna know the trick for getting yourself out of the mind-fuck?  Return yourself to the moment you’re in.  Sounds simple, huh?  Beam me up Scotty.  No really, there’s like a zenny tao mantra you can recite to yourself — it’s complicated,… you say to yourself, “right now I am BLANK.”  And then you fill in the blank with whatever you’re doing, and say it over and over until the frelling feeling-of-ick goes away.  “Right now my ass is in the seat of the car… right now my hands are on the steering wheel… right now I’m driving on the freeway… right now I am turning on my blinker…”   What it does is return your consciousness to the same moment that your body is in.

When we’re in the future or in the past, we’re not in the now.  It’s like your brain takes your spirit hostage and puts it on a merry-go-round with Alice in Wonderland as Julie the cruise director.  Like that movie The Fly when pieces parts of Jeff Goldblum get caught up in different transport pods and well… you know what happened with that one.  The solution is to realign everything in the same place at the same time.  Our MIND is always a bulldog terrorist, brainwashing us into thinking it knows best.  You know — logical,… impersonal,… protected (don’t get hurt don’t ever get hurt.)  Our HEART is like the friggin’ pms romance-novel angel-on-our-shoulder sap, compelling us to open ourselves up to love, do what is right.  Emotional,… irrational,… way-too-personal,… vulnerable (take a chance, take a risk, run free, bleed.)

MIND is ego, HEART is instinct.  Mind says all the shoulds.  Heart says all the cans.  Your mind tells you that you will never be a writer because you’ve gotten all those rejection letters. Your heart tells you to keep trying, don’t give up, JR Rowlings got a dozen for Harry Potter.  Your mind tells you that you probably won’t PR that 30-muscleups wod because you’ve only ever done two.  Your heart tells you who the hale cares, everyone started off with two at SOME time and if you do two every minute, you’ll finish in 15 minutes.  Your mind tells you you’re never going to meet the man of your dreams.  Your heart tells you eliminating all the knuckle-dragging-neanderthals is only INCREASING your odds of running into the knight-in-shining-armor.  Your mind tells you that you’ll never qualify for the Games because shit, it’s just effing HARD.  Your heart tells you to follow the cosmic law ( sometimes ya juuust gotta say fuckit), make a schedule, train, and GO for iT.  The ego tells you what is logically possible.  Your instinct tells you to believe in the IMPOSSIBLE.  To believe in unlimited possibility.

Either do something about it, or don’t.  Those are the only two choices to resolving something from the past or future that you kind of don’t have control over when THINKING about it. Thinking is not necessarily strategery.  It’s not planning, it’s not deciding, it’s not ACTION.

My rule of thumb is, if something comes up in my consciousness three times after I thought I let it go, then it’s time to DO something about it.  Do I regret what I said to that person?  Then I need to apologize… or buy them flowers,… SOMETHING.  Am I running sort of an instant-replay video-tape in my head about what I REALLY wanted to say?  Then I need to figure out if I really need to say it, fess up, clear my conscience.

Meat of the tongue is the sustenance you give another with your time, attention, and kind words. It’s paleo, hell why not LOL.

Don’t waste your time (or mine) by not giving yourself the most you deserve.  To live authentically — being true to you — living as if today is your last day — if you had a chance to do it all over again, you wouldn’t change a thing.  Pay attention to who’s in front of you right now.  Pay attention to who YOU are right now.  Pay attention to what you have the power to change.  Pay attention to this moment because you can never get it back.

Be present.  Be present.  Be present.

She steps off the soapbox and takes a bow.  CFCMup over & out.

Snapshot of Life

Posted: August 11, 2010 in Perspective

Last weekend I decided to go through a bunch of old photos. By old I mean printed on actual paper lol.  I’m not a photographer, I just like to take pictures.  I take a million and then some turn out good (gotta love digital.)  I had a few boxes to go through… they were taunting to me to clean them out because I knew there were shadows hiding in there tainting up the purity. I’m just too sentimental and have a tendency to hang onto every(frelling)thing — I have a hard time getting rid of pix because I guess symbolically I feel like I’m throwing away a piece of my past.  But there’s this thing called a ‘past-ectomy’ (think appendectomy), surgically and purposefully extricate the extraneous bullshit hanging around, not really needed, but boy can it cause some trouble when it decides to flame-up, it can kill you by dragging you down with poison.  The past can do that if you don’t exorcise some of those ghosts.  In the laws of the universe, there must be space for NEW things to come in,… so you have to clear out the clutter in order to create a void,… create a receptivity to invite the NEXT thing.

As I was going through the pictures, I was flooded with so many recollections of what was going on when that snapshot was taken,… who I was during that moment in time.  I made PILES.  Piles of hairstyles, piles of ex’s, piles of “former lives” by state and phase.  The memories were overlapping, conflicting — some I remembered being happy, some I couldn’t remember if I was happy or not, some I wondered why I was not happy… I looked so smiley and bright in the pictures.  When they were in the piles I couldn’t help but think “wow, I’ve done a lot of various shit(!)” — my bucket list just gained a bunch of check-marks from stuff I’d forgotten got done.  There is a big portion of my childhood I don’t seem to remember, not sure why…  maybe I blocked it out, maybe there was nothing significant going on, maybe kids just don’t remember things from that way back? There seemed to be many of them by my parents that made us look like a normal family… Easter,… Halloween costumes,… school, picnics.  At any rate, there were some photos I could look at and know EXACTLY what happened before, during, and after.  What I was thinking, what I said, what prompted the picture in the first place. It was a little overwhelming, slightly baffling, somewhat a marvel,… but I knew in my heart, that I had to revisit these residual echoes, touch them, and choose either to release them or reaffirm them.  It felt so productive to gently smile at the “that was then, now is now, it was good while it lasted” pix, then toss into the ‘goodbye’ pile.  It still felt productive to frown with angst, bite back tears at the “how did I survive that destruction and annihilation” ones, then ceremoniously place into the ‘goodbye’ pile.  Others, it felt FUCKING productive to flip-off, dance a fuck-you JIG, then rip up in tiny pieces and slap into the ‘goodbye’ pile.  It felt like closure.  It was my choice now.  I wasn’t keeping the pictures because I couldn’t bear to cauterize wounds — I was consciously CHOOSING to cut off the dead-branch so the tree could grow unencumbered. I was letting it go, going with the flow.

As a writer words are important to me, as a pseudo-photographer the capture of the moment is fodder for my creativity.  I love how I can look at a flower, or newspaper article, or photo and instantly conjure up a story or fairytale or poem to encapsulate that moment further.  We are all conduits of some sort, processing the information of life that comes our way. Some people are visual, some are oral, some are aural.  My family didn’t grow up with a lot of words.  We didn’t say ‘I love you’ or ‘you are pretty’. My dad was especially distant or non-participatory,… the time he grew up in I suppose.  This caused me a lot of dilemma because I thought I needed the validation, feedback, of being told what they saw so I’d know who I was.  At my father’s funeral, I found myself in the chaotic situation of the first-born to have to speak at his eulogy.  I didn’t want to, I didn’t have anything to say because if you don’t have something nice to say… you know.  My brothers said they weren’t going to speak, one of them said all they could think about was that Harry Chapin song “Cats in the Cradle” — “When you comin’ home dad? I don’t know when, but we’ll get together then son, You know we’ll have a good time then…” It was that Seven Habits for Highly Effective People situation on crack. Picture your own funeral, what would people say about you, would it be what you would want to hear…  But I HAD to.  I had to think of something.  I wrote a few notes,… I looked around at all the pictures in the house… I absorbed the atmosphere in the house with the 25 drunk relatives who’d just witnessed my dad dying and were doing their best to deal with the fucked-up surreal I’m-stuck-in-a-holodeck situation.  The next morning, I don’t know how I did it — but standing up in front of everyone and focusing only on what was in front of me, I got the insight that our family didn’t say words TO each other, but they kept the history alive by telling and re-telling stories ABOUT each other.  (Keep in mind here, my dad was the first of 15 children, yes that was fifteen — back in the olden-days with out-houses, so there are some friggin’ STORIES man.)   An uncle wouldn’t say “my brother was smart and inventive” — he’d say “there was this one time… my brother took the hood of an old chevy and we used it as a SLED. We piled the kids ON and rode down that big hill in back of the farm…your aunt stoved up her legs when we ran into a fence. I guess those were our brakes.” He wouldn’t say “your dad took good care of me when we were little” — he’d say “one time, your dad taught me to play a game… he took me into this big field with ping-pong paddles, told me where to stand, and then he was going to stomp on the ground, and when the bees flew out of the hole, I was supposed to HIT ‘EM with the paddle” (I mean, these guys were POOR, so I guess they came up with their own toys & entertainment.)

When I said this to my big family,… I said that THAT, was the way they said they loved each other,… by holding the memory sacred enough to retell it — they started looking around at each other, tears in their eyes.  They had never thought of it that way.  Maybe they thought of it the same way I formerly had, “our family doesn’t SAY ‘I love you’ therefore maybe they don’t.”  Now we all had a different viewpoint, a different twist.  I took what was and put a spin on it to bring a new perspective.  I did it for myself.  I had to create a memory before it happened.  I wanted to look back on that harsh moment and feel proud as a person and feel I had done my utmost to honor my position as a daughter and therefore honor my father. Even if the words from him were never there, I had to believe that the LOVE was.  That maybe it didn’t look like something I would recognize because it wasn’t in the “form” I wanted it to be (words, or affection.)   I told my mom once, “Daddy says I love you to me” — she said, “are you shitting me?” (yea, she actually said that) — I said, “when I say ‘I love you’, he says ‘okay’.  And that ‘okay’ means ‘I love you’.”

See, it’s like a photograph.  You can look at it, at a certain time in your life and it can mean one thing.  Look at it years from now and it might mean something entirely different.  Sometimes we don’t know how to be IN a situation and appreciate it,… see it for what it IS — but after the dough rises and bakes for awhile, you have a whole other product that seemed unpalatable before.  As I was doing the photo-pastectomy, there were a lot of pictures I could look at fondly when I had avoided putting myself to the test because I THOUGHT it was going to hurt.  It was nice to feel some distance and glance over my shoulder at what was behind me and not have to bring it into my now, not have it pull me in and drag me down. I could look at them and just know that they played a part in recording the circumstances that made me, me.

There were a lot of photos of me as a baby with my dad.  I was the first child and the first grandchild so I was the lucky one (cuz with each subsequent kid, you KNOW the pictures and videos get less & less haha it’s just the way it happens.)  I look so cute in my dad’s arms,… he’s cuddling me so close and smiling and has love and adoration in his eyes.  I choose to believe that some of those pictures say things he could not,… so it is true, never doubt it… a picture can be worth a thousand words.

Intimacy is Forged Through Conflict

Posted: August 10, 2010 in theSlice

Intimacy is Forged Through Conflict

My heart is hurting because a guy kicked me in the teeth for doing something he didn’t like.  Cut me off at the knees, no warning, no 3-strikes you’re out. Foregoing the debate as to whether the transgression was wrong or not, the situation brings up my introspection on the idea that resounds through my ache — that through conflict, intimacy is forged.

Breaking it down, all the words in that phrase are relative — through,… conflict,… intimacy,… and forged.

Our individual concepts of CONFLICT are based on our history and teachings — patterns, imprinting, bad/good-habits, desire to be better.  Conflict is running 5k and feeling like shit yet doing it anyways and ending up stronger.  Conflict is having a friend tell you you’re being an ass and you realizing they’re right.  Conflict is wanting to do the wrong thing.  Conflict is feeling lost and having to learn how to ask for help. Conflict is letting-go of the self-imposed rigidity of being everything to everyone and giving yourself permission to take care of you.  Regardless of whether it’s physical, emotional, or mental, they are opportunities for self-growth, which basically I believe translates to spiritual.  The PERCEPTION of conflict is almost more important than the actual reality of whether it’s true or not.  If we feel stress/strife/struggle/indecision/paralyzed/onslaught… it’s a conflict. How we react or respond to it (being two separate actions),… how we feel about it, what we DO about it,… how we resolve it and how we grow from it (learn), is the ULTIMATE truth.  Do we avoid it at all costs, run (hide)? Do we stand and face it boldly, deal with our situation? Do we repress it and pretend like everything’s okay or not-happening? Do we deflect, joke, retaliate, reject?

FORGED is what I’d like to think, a warrior term — we are made noble and honorable when we authentically deal with adversity.  To make a sword, metals are amalgamated, melted, pounded, folded, then cooled — to become something sharp and stable, able to defend,… or maim.  It isn’t about the instrument it’s about how it is wielded. It isn’t about being metal, it’s about the fact that it had to go through a PROCESS — to become, transform, into something… potential. Meaning it’s not about my killing you that stops war, it’s about your perceived threat of deadliness that that will. And true power isn’t about pushing it on you, it’s about us having a mutual respect that it’d just be dumb for us to go at it because I might end up losing an arm (even if I end up winning the argument.)  A person secure in their own right feels no need to impose their will on you, but to live peacefully because it is the right thing to do.  They learn this from mistakes, they learn this from growing up, they learn this because it’s just nicer to have people love you, not fear you. Forged,… is what happens after complications turn into a rich blend of serene coexistence. That means, I might be Sybil, but once I grasp that all those different pieces within me are still me,…accept the unacceptable and be okay with it.

INTIMACY is a tricky one. To steal from a wise teacher of mine, it is “into me, see.” Similar to muscular ability, it is something weak or strengthened, atrophied or powerful. It is a pain in the ass to let the real me out, it is accompanied by the angst of letting you see it, judge it.  And pain is conflict.

THROUGH — is that place that none of us feel we’ll make it to the other side. The one beyond whatever wonderful gift-of-an-ordeal the universe has determined will be the best thing to make us grow.  For many, for me, even positive-appearing things cause disturbance. Too much of a good thing makes that scared(and scarred)-kid-inside wonder when the other shoe is going to drop. A lot of blessing coming in one whack, we feel overwhelmed and unworthy… untrusting. Why is this happening to me, what have I done to deserve this? Have some BAD shit conflict come your way it’s always difficult to grasp that in TIME, it might be the most righteous thing that ever happened to you.  You have to make it through it — to get it. (Experience is that thing you get right AFTER you need it.)

When we’re caught up in a world alone, we decide things from a chorus of voices inside us — ego, instinct, reprimanding-parent, petulant-child, kicked-dog — contradictory dreams affect our history and tap us in different directions in a maze. We become confused as to which voice is OURS… muddling trapped between the parts,… the angelic, the retaliating self-protecting fear, the adult, the demon.  All of those… are in me.  But the discerning guideline I’ve coaxed from the braid is… is it based in LOVE? Am I doing this, kicking you, because it’s based in love? Am I watching out for me because it’s based in love, or trying to teach you a lesson? Am I striking out because you hit too close to home and I don’t want to see the truth? Am I breaking up with you because I am afraid that I’m not a big enough person to see it through? Am I running because you’re not-good for me, or am I staying because I don’t have the guts to leave? Am I simply unequipped to handle the throes of intimacy so I have to push you away? Am I afraid of love because I’ve never had it before so I don’t know what I’m dealing with.

Ask yourself — is it based in LOVE.

I had a traumatic childhood (my perception) and I’ve learned self-defense-mechanisms to survive. Growing up meant that I had to learn the difference of when NOT to apply those tactics when it was NOT a matter of survival, but rather an echo of my own fear. (I will never ever EVER let anyone do this to me again or make me FEEL this way again because it was bad and wrong and who cares if you’re not the person who did it to me.) I have made vows to not let anyone close — let ‘em in, and they could strike a death blow.  Keep ‘em at a distance, they might not be able to do so much harm.  But keeping away the POSSIBILITY of love… now that one… that’s damaging to ME.  The possibility of love through closeness means I have to get over my damn self, my damn FEARS, risk rejection, risk pain, risk embarrassment — so that maybe I might find an ally, a friend.  So that maybe I might BE a friend.  In order for me to be a person that you might trust and rely, I have to ante up — and allow you to be that for me.  Sounds contradictory, huh?  But nowhere on this earth, have I learned that God has a “get one to give one” policy.  You show me you love me FIRST, then I’ll return the favor.  You trust me FIRST, then I’ll show you I am trustworthy.  You be a good person FIRST, then I’ll be good. NoooOOooo, he likes to fuck with our heads and do it ass-backward.  The universe has always rewarded those who follow law-of-attraction — give what you want to get, BE who/what you want to receive.

I grew up with the intense fear that anyone who found out what I was really like, would leave me. They would run away in disgust, screaming. I tried to do the self-fulfilling-prophecy thing for awhile, but yea, that didn’t work out so good. I was saved by people who for some stupid REASON, decided that I was a redeeming person worth loving, worth KNOWING… and I started to believe that I was worthy.  Worthy to contribute, worthy to participate, worthy to have a voice, worthy to make mistakes — worthy to not be so afraid of rejection and abandonment all the time,… that I.  Could stick around through the pretty and the ugly — to see where it would go.

My real friends saw my heart underneath the bad behavior.  My real friends made their mind up to give me chance, after chance, after chance — even when I wouldn’t have wanted to give me another chance.  My real friends saw me for me and accepted it even when I couldn’t.  My real friends had enough balls to tell me when they knew I was screwing up.  Every moment of those instances were CONFLICT.  I lived through them, WE lived through them.  I didn’t DIE when someone saw the real me.  Our relationship grew from what we knew of each other, our trust and faith grew, our love grew.  I am not even halfway through my life and the most important thing I have learned?  Is that I KNOW nothing.  It is love that saves me.

To the guy who kicked me I bless you and release you to your fate that you will make.  I am an amazing woman — someone worth knowing.  You will not reap the benefit of this, but my friends do.  You wanna know how I know this?  Because they tell me.  And I trust my real friends.