I was so completely underwhelmed in the first few chapters. To sum up for you:

“Hi, baby,  my name is Christian Grey, baby. I am hot, rich and like to fuck, baby. I have commitment issues, baby. I have control issues, baby. I have rules, baby. I’m a bad boy, baby.”

“Hi, I’m Anastasia Steele. I am 21 and have never had a sexual thought in my entire life. I have never kissed, I have never wanted to be kissed, I have never touched myself, the extent of my experience is what my friends told me about Judy Blume books ….. Sir. My inner goddess peeks her head out, smiles and says ‘Oh I can TOTALLY change a man as totally fucked up as this. My subconscious is so naive she can’t even begin to understand how much that will never ever happen. You can’t fix someone else’s fucked up.”

The first time they make love, fuck hard, do it, she is instantly lubed up, the condom package opens easily and rolls on without effort, she not nervous at all, and she is banged with about all the finesse of the infamous Brokeback Mountain scene. She comes repeatedly from very little effort on the part of anyone, she never chafes, never wonders if her cervix is going to bruise, never questions, never inadvertently gets a wad of hair in her mouth and has to spit it out. She also has no gag reflex and, even though, she has never thought about anything sexual, she knows to cover her teeth with her lips whilst doing the oral thing.

Right. Riiiiiiight.

So clearly, fiction.

I kept reading. What I am getting out of it is different than what some will get out of it.

These people talk. And talk and talk. They are very clear about what they want . . . well he is, to the point of having a written contract about it. Which, really, how awesome would that be? Here is a list of things that I will not tolerate, you make up your own list and then we know. Hard limits. How nice would it be to know that upfront, if you call him Sir or Darling that he will recoil. How fantastic would it be to feel free enough with someone to say what you are comfortable with, what you would like to try.”

So it is about communication. It’s also about trust. Trusting that person you are naked and vulnerable with. Now, I’m not suggesting that we all need a Red Room of Pain and nipple clamps, but what about pushing a personal boundary? Sex with the lights on? No? Sex in the dark, yet NOT under the covers? What about touching him *there* if you want to know what it feels like? What about saying “SLOWER” when you want slower, instead of letting him assume the pace he has set is right for both of you?

What about letting your inner freak flag fly? Getting over trying to be perfect for someone else and instead just being you?

I’m at the start of something new. All that newness and boundary setting and establishing how things are and how things can be. I’ve never talked so much at the beginning before. I’ve never been so much just ME with a man before. Can I tell you how fantastic that is? To embrace the whole “this is me, like it, hate it, here is a list of the fucks I give about what you think about who I am, because I like me, if you do – great, welcome to it.”

I refuse to live anyone else’s life again. This is my life. It is still scary to be open and vulnerable and take the risk of sharing actual me. Yet, I can not tell you how good it feels, at last to know who I am and have the icing on top of being adored for being that person.

I’ve never had fantastic luck shopping for sex related anything in mainstream stores. Either I have to dodge buying my pleasure packs from teenage boys, or I have to have a friend buy my condoms because I’m in the line behind the oldest teacher in my building (this was a real event when I was student teaching.)

As a single thirty whatever woman, I realized it’s probably a wise idea to have SOMETHING on hand. If you build it they will come kind of thing. (Yes, I realize there are all kinds of dirty puns available there – quick – dirty pun me in the comments below.)

Long, long time ago, I reviewed sex toys for Eden Fantasys.  I was contacted last week and realized – problem solved – tell you about what they have going on – load up on condoms for if things go well, toys for if they go less well. (Or, I suppose that could be if they go REALLY well.)

So here’s what they have to offer to you:

Save 25% on all Evolved Novelties products and plant a tree -  http://www.edenfantasys.com/presents/one-toy-one-tree

Save 30% on all rechargeable California Exotics products -  http://www.edenfantasys.com/promotions/sales/calex-earth-day-promotion/

Leopard Print Thigh Highs with Garter Belt

Couture Pink Inspire

Milk Made Nourishing Bath and Shower Bubbles

If you need me, I’ll be shopping online for safer sex – which is way more comfortable than shopping with kiddo in tow whist not wearing a wedding ring. (Bible belt or not, I know I’m not the only woman who just cringes over that shopping trip.)

Tonight there are 314.

For the most part, I decided there is a difference between people I know and people I once knew. People I wanted to know, and people I *do* know.

I had a friend who once redrew the biblical story about the woman who looked back and turned into a pillar of salt. What’s made of salt? Tears are made of salt. Continually looking back at what was, instead of looking forward to what will come can turn you to stone . . . er . . . salt . . . if all you do is grieve what is behind.

Today I have bitten off all my fingernails (nasty habit, man I hate it), I have finished all the chocolate in the house, and I am on the last day of the year after getting my heart smashed up.

I am celebrating with the people who matter. I am celebrating by buying an obscene amount of lingerie. I am celebrating by planning an epic trip to NYC with a bestie.

I made it. I made it to here. If I could bring you all right here for a party, I would totally be the girl dancing on the table with the lampshade on her head.

Instead – here’s a toast from me to you – Damn I loves ya.

I *adore* extroverts. I don’t want to be one, but I do sometimes imagine myself as one – the person yelling the loudest at a baseball game – the one who runs in front of people and starts the wave – the one who dances on the table with lampshade on her head . . .

Give me an extrovert as a partner in crime and I’m a happy, happy girl. Especially if that extrovert has a healthy appreciation for my straight woman role in public situations. Bonus points if they love me more for not having to compete for the spotlight.

In my head, I’m acting out right now. I’m rounding out my year since the dumpage this week and I’m flying between the poles of re-feeling the fucking hurt and anger of how shittily (is too a word, spellcheck) I was treated over the last year by people who were supposed to love me . . . and the other pole of *screw it* no one will get close enough to hurt me again to the other pole (apparently I have a triangle of emotion) to frankly wanting to be rowdy as hell, push the envelope and flaunt my inner badass.

I’ve been told more than once that I’m taken to be timid, shy, quiet . . . which can translate as tranquil and easygoing at best and doormat at worst. I’m trying to decide what descriptor *I* think is right. What descriptor I want to live up to . . . which one do I own, rather than what has always been.

It’s cozy and easy and comfortable to stay small and quiet and hidden. Tonight I’m tired of being small, of shoving myself into some box that makes me easy to understand. What is it when a sun explodes? Supernova? I feel like trying one of those on for size . . . and hopefully not just because of the pounds of chocolate I’ve scarfed this week while letting my mindfuck work itself out for, I certainly hope, the last time, over this particular batch of fuckwith.

So this week I’m going to try. I’m going to look ahead. I’m going to be a little bit bigger (again, not talking about the chocolate faceshoving). Each day I resolve to do one thing that pushes my edges just a little bit . . . and a little more.

I think anytime we make a decision, it comes with a certain amount of grief for the road not taken. Having a child or not. Having another child or not. Which date to take to prom (yeah, cuz that was my life, but anyway). Which house to buy. Leaving a job. Doors closing, windows opening, sunrise, sunset, circle of life. Whatever you call it, whatever you can relate to, that is where I am at.

The chapter of me looking for love with a happy ending is closed. Closed. The page has turned, a fresh one is open with a new paper smell and a freshly sharpened pencil ready to write this next chapter.

Before we move on, let’s take a look back at how I got here.

Scout and I got unmarried. We chose to stop living an unhappy life together and see what would happen next. Best move for all of us. We are better parents and we are far better to each other than we were living in the same house. (I miss my wedding ring though, I love that ring.)

I took a chance on my childhood love – and at almost the same moment the promise of happily ever after came true, it exploded in the worst possible way – left alone – for someone who is beneath me in every way possible -

I pulled it back together. Started the first of the thousands spent on therapy and general screwing my head on and moving forward with my life. I read books, I prayed, I dug in, I tried.

Just as I was in a better place from that, and letting go of the Dude, I made the list of what I wanted in a man, I revisited my old list, I refreshed my memory of what I held most dear. Love came walking in. Amazing, exactly what I was dreaming of, and in his arms, as he kissed me, and the words “I love this man” formed in my heart and my head, he stepped back and said “we need to talk” . . . he didn’t have time for me, and now he’s found the time for someone else. Ouch.

I kept trying to move forward. I kept trying to be open and ready. I bonded with my friends, I prayed for the one I loved, I waited, I took care of myself, I got rid of the Dude’s shit, I made actual open space in my home – my closet, my bathroom, my garage, my car (a la “The Secret”) I made drawings, vision books, I talked from my heart.

I finally took a step with someone else. Someone I was sure was a bad idea, but he had been so gentle and so persistent, I decided it was time. Perhaps I was missing something good . . . ignoring the open window while staring at the closed door. I let him in . . . and got discarded shortly after. Even when I guarded my heart and very cautiously tried to see if I should share it . . . blammo . . .

When I say I am done, it is with an absence of pity for myself, it is a whole lot of self-preservation – I can’t take the hurt anymore, but also, it’s clearly not meant to happen for me – I’ve done *everything*, and I do mean *everything* to bring that rosy pink love to my world, and friends, it ain’t happening.

So I simply stop. I turn that page over to something new. To something better. I look to those friends who never break my heart, I will find a better joy in my people because I will not be comparing it to something else, I won’t be selling it short because it doesn’t look like what I was hoping for. I have great big beautiful plans for myself and I’m not going to change them for anyone. It’s my time.

As for love. I’m not saying never. The last time I said “never” was about “never having my baby sleep in my bed”. That ‘baby’ will be five in two weeks and I’ve had one morning in the last 5 years I’ve slept alone all night. It’s not never, but my heart is like the runner who keeps running, even with an injury. My injuries have finally sidelined me from the love games, the only way to get better is to have complete rest. Rest with myself, rest with my home, rest with my son, rest with my friends.

I told you I was getting better, I’m moving into a time of quiet, of healing, of growing, and after that? Hold onto your hats, because I’m gonna be amazing, and beautiful, and whole.

You’re in right?

On that day, I started picking up the bricks of the rubble of my world and throwing them back. I starting tearing things down on my own terms.

On the surface, deleting facebook friends isn’t that big of a deal. However, when clicking that unfriend button released some tension in my soul – then it DOES become a big deal. It’s empowering to take back my time. It’s joyous to know that the people I keep around are actually GOOD FOR ME. Just because we were friends 20 years ago doesn’t mean we are now. Just because I *wanted* to be friends with someone, doesn’t mean it actually ever came to be. Let go, move on. Delete contacts in my phone as well. Redo that fave five.

I went out with friends on Saturday. They helped me get makeup to be beautiful. I came home and chucked out a bunch of old makeup that just wasn’t working for me anyway.

I went out with Kim and her family Saturday night – I walked through rooms most sacred to them and they shared it with me. I felt trusted to be taken on that journey.

I sat in church with Scout and Alex on Sunday and felt a sense of rebirth, which is supposed to be the point of the holiday and all, I suppose. So after all the things that have crucified my heart (so to speak) I have finally (at last) chosen to climb down off my cross and get on with it.

(go buy this button and tons more at Geek Details. Please.)

I decided a mini-step to being healthy and went to the big box store to help me accomplish that (drink more water, bought a water bottle with a filter so I can keep track of the water I drink more of.)

While I was walking around, I thought of love and how it just isn’t happening for me, it hasn’t been, it’s been painful, and frankly I’m sick of painful. Pain in all it’s forms (and spellings) can go screw itself.

So I clean out that hope from my life. Which feels alternately sad and relieving. Twenty-nine days of school left to focus on and do a good job wrapping up. Then some days with Alex, then a road trip to take him to his dads. THEN I’m going on the epic single girl roadtrip to North Carolina to see girls I love, but never get to see. That will kick off summer of awesome. Summer of better. Summer of MINE.

You’re in right? Can I hear a hell yeah?

The Dude had to drop by to give me my payment. You know, for the shitloads of cash he still owes me.

I was working on installing a shelf along the fireplace wall – down by the floor – with the front door open . . .

When I heard the car door slam, I leaned forward at the knees to drill an anchor into the wall. I inspected it closely.

Very, very closely.

My ass in the air.

In tight jeans.

The doorbell rang.

I tossed my hair as I looked over my shoulder.

“Oh hai.” I said. Ass in the air. Because after all this time – I know how to yank that chain.

Yank, yank mother fucker. How’s yer life?

I stood. (Wearing my tight lacy cami.)

Oh. I see how yer life is. All 340 pounds of it.

We talked. I showed him the kitchen projects. Because I am awesome. I just redid a fucking kitchen looking hot ass.

Before he left – I gestured – “What the FUCK is up with all this?”

He said, “The mismatched outfit, the weight gain, or the whole project?”

Uh yeah. That whole thing.

After he left and I snarked to my girls about him, I was all fired up and I sent a text.

“You realize I can tell how much you hate your life by the weight gain right? Is she really worth killing yourself over? Is she really worth being sick and not having a life with your boys? Which, aren’t questions you have to answer to me – but you might consider sacking up and answering them for yourself, cuz Jesus dude.”

Which, I was expecting no response, but he answered the truth smack with “Thank you.”

So I went on and dug that knife on in.

“Which isn’t JUST because if you die I will never get paid back, and that her skanky whore ass getting dumped makes me smile, BUT goddamn, believe you are worth SOMETHING. I hate your face, but you still hate yourself more than *I* do.”

And there it is. The growing up of Dawn. Callin’ it the way I see it. I may not want to be his friend, be his partner, take care of him, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit aside and not say the truth any longer.

So when I *DO* let someone in. When I *DO* let someone close – it’s because I have gone with my gut, followed up with my head, reconferred with my gut, filled out paperwork in triplicate . . .

I have dear friends I have hugged only once – because I have only seen them once. I have people I work with every single day, who I care about, but who are locked very securely in the category “work friend.”

I don’t give any part of my heart easily, but once I do . . . it’s yours . . . I am forgiving, I am loving, I am kind.

I crave safety. I have yet to find it for long. I find that safe, that home, and I am devastated when it is gone – because I only rest into that safe when I am sure of it.

I don’t understand how I can be sure enough of someone . . . after all that carefulness . . . and still end up battered and alone. But it’s happened every time. I don’t think I would be as shaken by it when it happens – but I’m careful – I keep trying to learn – to make better choices – yet . . . again . . . the safe is gone.

Which.

Fine.

It’s fucking painful. I spent my time in bed with the covers over my head. I had my fantasy of 50 cats and giving the fuck up.

I then located my big girl panties and hitched them on (they are attached to my bootstraps.)

I sent Scout a note – read the blog at your own risk – back me up or close your browser.

I went to facebook. I unfriended the boys of my youth who have lost their place in my adulthood. I’m a damn good friend – they can earn it back.

I unfriended several others – being cheered on by people along the way of the comment thread. And sometimes surprised by who showed they gave a damn about my place in their day. I kept people I’ve known for mere months – people who have offered to get my back, who have made me laugh, who have looked after my kid – people worth keeping.

(Funny enough, one of them is *another* boy from my youth, who has, at times, lost his place in my world. Who, after years, we have found where we fit correctly in each others’ world. Who, just yesterday, sent me a photo of a coffee mug I made him . . . TWELVE years ago . . . that he used for tea to soothe his cold. Funny how far reaching my influence of friendship is. Dawn’s Friendship = Powerful Stuff. Stuff of the Lifelong Variety. Treat it with care. Bitchez.)

I’m almost a year out from the days of wine and xanax. I can’t believe that life is still this hard. I truly thought that after all I’ve fought, that there would be butterflies and sunshine. Part of me really want to throw up my hands and give. up. Because. Dude. Seriously.

And yet.

I can do so much more now. I can redesign a house with my bare hands. I can tile, I can grout, I can move furniture, I can scratch the wood floor I put down myself while moving the furniture, I can creatively use wood fill to hide some of the scratches in the floor, I can wash windows, I can hang shelves, I can knit afghans, I can put together an outfit, I can cook a meal, I can also order takeout, I can stretch a buck, I can shave mystery places, I can get Alex to try new foods, I can call BULLSHIT on people, I can say no, I can live alone, I can rise from the worst, I can NOT QUIT.

I can fucking survive. I can make my home safe for me. For Alex. For Scout who comes to visit. For the friends who want to be here.

I can do many, many things. I have not yet figured out how to find a man I can be safe with. A man I can find rest in. I’m so exhausted from being so strong for so long.

So. I need energy. And I’m going to get that energy back. I’m taking that energy away from friendships and relationships that are all Dawn-sided. I’m throwing down the wall. So if you are in, tell me you are in. If you are with me. Let me know now. Tell me I am safe with you. Tell me my heart can rest with you. Tell me you will be my friend. Tell me you are worth it. Then please, please, show me.

So. Post Dude, there was a new boy. We’d known each other for years but were never close. We re-met one weekend last summer and as it has been described – it was gang. busters. We clicked, he was perfectman, he matched my list of needs and ideal things. We had a great time. He threw on the breaks because he “didn’t have time” and because he had too much on his plate.

I continued to be on his side, in his corner. I supported him every time he needed it. (I would link to all the posts that mention something on this, but it’s safe to say that if it involves a guy and was written last fall, it’s about him.)

Today. Through the glory of facebook. There it was. “went from single to in a relationship”.

And then my head exploded.

And rather than crying and hiding. I picked up the phone and shot off a text. Raw and honest. Even sent in a fit of rage, I was still right on it.

“I see you “found time” for a relationship. Just so we are clear. I love you. I have been a wonderful friend to you. I have supported you and been loyal to you. If you ever realize all that I am, look me up. Till then, good luck in all you do.”

Which, in my head pretty much said:

“Fuck you, I see you “found the fucking time” for a fucking relationship with someone who was not me. Just so we are clear, because I have nothing to lose and I’ll be damned if I am going to let this one slide by without laying this shit out on the line. I love you. Which I have never told you before and apparently it took anger to give me the courage to tell you. I have been a wonderful friend to you, all you, all about you. I have supported you and been loyal to you, even when you didn’t do the same for me, I got yelled at by my therapist because of how understanding I have been of you. If you ever realize all that I am because I am fucking hot and brillerz and kind and funny and talented, you look me up and let’s see how hard you decide to work at making me a priority and treating me how I deserve. Till then, good luck in all you do. Oh and fuck you and your relationship.”

His response makes me thinks he didn’t read the actual text, much less the SUBTEXT of the message.

“Thanks. You have been a good friend. Good luck to u too.”

seeeeeeriously?

And then my head exploded again.

In the meantime, I had a “date” of sorts last weekend. With someone who I’d been down that road with before, but he had been gently persistent for months and months and I decided, well, perhaps this is something I should look at.

So he came up, we had a good night, he left with plans to return this weekend.

Then he changed his mind and gave a whole bunch of “I paid bills don’t have funds, and also made other plans . . . etc etc. . . have a good weekend.”

Which me being up in subtext today read that as, “I proved I could get you, so fuck off I’m moving on.”

But rather than let this pass I asked “Is this the brushoff?” and his reply was, “Call it what you want! Sorry . . . ”

And then my head exploded. And then I went to Amanda’s and drank wine. Because wine is good and friends are better. Especially when we’re taking one shitty day and making it into a celebration of being a TFB instead of a doormat.

It’s another to sit in this breathless fear after sending a message to someone with the reminder, hey, remember me? here’s a fucking tip – answer when I talk to you (paraphrased).

The good girl pleaser (see also: doormat) me is thinking, “what if they don’t like me after this?”.

The cynic is saying, “Well no shit, buy a clue, they DON’T CARE now, they won’t care what you say anyway.”

The growing person soothes, “Better to know now instead of waiting for later to prove that you aren’t a priority.”

It’s just time for me to stop being kind to people who will only take and never share. My kindness is something I’ve tried to cultivate. I think now it is time for me to prune it back, be choosier about who I share my kindness with.

Starting with cropping some people from the facebook list that gets to see the links to here. Why, why, WHY am I trying so hard to share myself with those who just don’t get it?

I’m growing tougher skin. Right now it is very, very difficult to have the stomach for it.

*Total Fucking Bitch

My answer was immediate. Person didn’t want to know the answer, person shouldn’t have asked. I’m a little dangerous healed.

“I want to come real close to first. I’m done being 5th or 6th or whatever, I want to be first.”

The follow up, “That’s how it’s been for you?”

… uh yeah. My whole life.

I thought it was my responsibility to take care of my dad, to fill his cup, to make him happy.

He’s dead. I failed.

I tried to take care of Scout. Couldn’t do it in a way that matched what he needed.

I failed as his wife, but damn if I’m not full of win as his co-parent and ex-wife. I do better now to watch his back.

I took care of the Dude and his heathen boys. Got cheated on and lied to in repayment.

#callingbullshitfail #liveandlearn

I found someone else. I held his hand, I listened to him, I did a great job of standing on my own while watching out for him. Letting him take care of his business while I gave my full support. I made him a priority. He didn’t return the favor. Apparently I don’t have a birthday. At least as far as he seems to remember. Or yannow. Care. He was great at accepting my attention, I wish he would learn from my model – treat me how I want to be treated.

The friends I have who have lasted the longest, who mean the most . . . we know how to make the minutes matter. 160 characters or less and we can say all we need. 3 days straight of late night talks and we can still not have enough time. Damn I love my girls.

So what do I want? I want to come first . . . or if I must be realistic . . . first after the absolute necessary responsibilities already in place.

I want to be taken care of. Not that I can’t take care of myself. I’m pretty good at it. I have a kitchen full of fresh tile to prove it. I can pay my bills, get my oil changed, have a full time job and be a full time mom. I’m gottdamn superwoman I am.

I want a 1950s wife in a guy’s body. “Hi honey, how was your day, here is your drink, your dinner is on the table, wow your tits look awesome in that top, let me rub your back and your feet and put Alex to bed for you, then hold the vibrator for you so your hand doesn’t cramp.”

I’m ready to be taken care of. Not because I am weak and have to be, I have a choice and I know what I fucking want. I’m sick of settling for less, and I deserve better than what I’ve said ‘okay’ to. I’m sick to death of how I’ve rolled over and died so many times, instead of owning my damn worth.

So world, I’m putting you on notice. The bar is raised again, I’m done being a doormat. I’m pissed and ready for BETTER.

I think I’m about to get into it. I think I’m getting ready to get better.

Last time I saw my shrink, which was 2 months ago, she chewed my ass up and down. She told me to quit living in a fantasy and pull my head out. She told me to quit making excuses for people. She told me I am not better. She told me I am still depressed. She told me I am still angry. She pressed about why didn’t I just pull out that anger and deal with it. Why did I only let it out tiny bits at a time.

She called my bullshit.

Since then, I’ve been wretched. I pick the word wretched because of Talyaa’s post “On Being Wretched“. The word clicked with me.

I’ve been healing. Recovering. Learning to forgive. Learning to be.

I haven’t been getting any better BETTER.

In all this wretched, my body has said no. I’ve been sick almost this entire school year. In mid-February I gave up doing anything but sleeping and keeping Alex safe. No laundry, no cooking, no dishes, no cleaning. All I had left was the need to get well. Finally. It took realizing I’d had two consecutive healthy days ONCE since before Thanksgiving to really shake me awake on needing to super duper reboot myself on the health front. Had to get out of survival mode at last.

Once I felt healthy again, I had to start climbing out of the house mess hole that was left behind.

Slowly. Laundry got done. Dishes got done. Outfits got put together in my closet so dressing was fun again. Alex’s room got cleaned. My room is clean.

There are still spots of total disaster in my house (guest room, my bathroom, kitchen table), but it’s getting BETTER.

I sit here tonight, knowing I am healed. I didn’t know this was what I was looking for, but now that I sit in the bed I chose, covered with the bedding I chose, literally surrounded by the two cats I chose, on the flooring I chose, in the house that I chose . . . I am healed. Past tense. No longer the active “healing“. Healed.

Last spring, on one of the most painful days of my life, I threw my phone across my kitchen, sobbing, “I don’t want to live in this house without you!” I was in agony. I was destroyed. I was . . . I was as far from healed in that moment . . . yet I got ripped apart more and more in the months to come. It was summer before I began to heal even a little.

Now.

I love this little home of mine. Filled with the choices I’ve made. I’ve messed a lot of things up. My housekeeping continues to be lacking . . . disastrous . . . sometimes lazy. There’s been a good bit of half-assing up in here . . . my whole life.

I am healed.

Which is different from okay.

I am angry.

Oh God (which I say as a prayer of sorts, because God help me . . .) I am angry. Set me on fire and fuck off angry.

I am healed, which means I can finally feel it and not be destroyed by it.

Each day I drive past his work, or our old apartment, or pass them, or meet them at a stop sign. I am angry. Today instead of trying to take the high road, I began whispering out all my hate. It’s time. I hate them for what they did, for how I was treated, I do not wish them well, I wish them nastiness that makes their parts fall off, I hope they are miserable together. I hope they get what they deserve – which might just be each other.

I’m not sure where the anger at Dad is going to fall. I only know that when it creeps up … which it will, because we are in the thick of “4 years ago today…. blah blah happened” time of year . . . that I get to be angry at him too. He screwed up and it screwed me over, time and again, and it’s okay for me to be angry about that. Him and the restarting families rather than caring for the one ONE child he was supposed to take care of always . . . yeah, I get to be white hot pissed about that if that’s how I feel.

To the one who was all I hoped for . . . who showed me “my WHOLE list” existed in a man . . . and then went away . . . no matter the reasons . . . or excuses I made for him . . . yeah, guess what, I’m livid about that . . . which is complicated due to the whole “fucking miss him” and as long as I am just laying it all out and being honest at long, long last . . . well I love him too. Without being loved back. Which is completely crazy making in my head. Even if I won’t pick up the phone . . . love him I do . . .

This honesty stuff is not easy. I write that above paragraph and wonder how I would feel if he read it. I’m in a nice fuzzy denial that he ever will. No matter how old I get, I seem to stay terrified of showing my heart for fear it gets trampled.

I’m healed. I’m okay. I mean, clearly I’m a mess, but I’m okay. I’m not worried for myself, my health, my job, my home, my son.

I’m okay. I want to be better.

I won’t get BETTER without honesty. I won’t get better with this anger inside me. It’s taken me two months to stop pinging from being called on it. I’m healed, now I want to get better.

We were standing together, wrapped in our winter to spring outdoor wear. The sun bright, the breeze nice. Your arm wrapped around my shoulders.

You looked like Matthew Broderick (Ferris Matthew, not Broadway Matthew), but I knew it was you. The way one does in a dream.

I pressed my lips to your jawline in a long kiss.

“I love you.” You said.

“Love you too” I returned. Without thinking.

Then we both seemed jolted then, that the words had come out. I wondered if we had just automatically said them because we were in some “moment” where we had run out of anything else to say ….

But the feeling of security told me it was true, not just kneejerk.

Even if you DID have the wrong face