Pride/Humilty

Pride

Stiff rigidity and tempered steel.

To bend this habit is like breaking bone.

But in the days following my stark refusal to release my pride…

It’s sharp regret.

I find myself unable to say what I think is expected.

It’s like dirt in the throat. Sand in the mouth. Broken glass along the tongue.

Wishing I had learned differently.

Grown up in a house of strong affection and open emotions.

But such is not my world. I wish it were.

It’s entirely a weakness, pride is. I know this. I know this with every fiber of my being.

And yet I still cannot break the habit.

The masks, the boxes, the robotic responses.

Co-dependency crippled me all those years ago. I carry a scar so long, so deep that I can feel the rippling skin tightening with thought. So calloused yet so paper thin.

Don’t show weakness. Don’t show need. Don’t show want.

Don’t break character. For the love of god, do not cry.
Do not ask for help. Do not show desire. Do not be vulnerable.

Just let him go. Just like you let them all go.

Pride is a prickly bedmate. A cold companion.

But I know no other better.

---

Humility…

That fear bubbles up and locks my tongue so neatly when I think to be otherwise. And the moments happen more and more. I think of every bright shinning piece of the past years.

When he’d go out of his way to check on me when I had been my quiet, reclusive self.

When he knew what joke to make to get me to smile.

The way the heat rushed through me so easily when he brushed his fingers over me.

The natural way my head tilted against him when I sit close.

The way he knows to stroke my hair when I’m feeling nervous.

The way he gets just the right level of teasing and sarcasm to make me smile.

The way he kisses the top of my head as an afterthought of affection.

The way he knows I carry all my tension in my neck and shoulders.

The way he recognizes the look of self-loathing in my eyes and knows the right words to make me actually feel solidly beautiful..

I miss that syrupy thick feeling while lying on the cool sheets and allowing his fingers to dance over me.

But that fear, that victim mindset leaps to attention.
It hisses-snarls-screams at me…

“Remember what happened last time.”

The one time I tried handing my heart over. I tried full, unconditional trust.

Unconditional trust is overrated.

Unconditional trust is what turned me into the victim.

Conditions are safe.

Source

Katherine

She is red siren lipstick. The color that I can never pull off with my red hair. The kind that she always wore when she was feeling especially feminine. The kind that was next to impossible to get off my neck, breasts and thighs later that night.

She is sports bras and wife-beater tank tops. Even if she later dressed it up with a button down shirt or blouse, it always ended with that. I only saw her wear a dress twice in our whole relationship.

She is ice blue eyes. Always getting asked if she’s wearing contacts. She was always amused by that. The eyes were the color that could see deep into your soul and past the masks. The kind that haunt dreams even years after.

She is the taste of Skyy vodka and Smirnoff ice coolers. The cool burn creeping down my throat all the way to my stomach. The sour taste of green apple- the first alcohol I tried with her in Kentucky. The bitter taste of it coming back up the next day. To this day I avoid the green apple flavors.

She is the smell of asiago bagels and soft cream cheese. The smell of forgiveness when her 3rd shift ran over. The rustle of the brown bag from Panera. The covert way we carefully ate them in bed, even living all alone.

She is the hiss of the word “Mine”. Uttered way too often and most often accompanied by a sharp squeeze or nibble.

She is binge watching “Gargoyles” while scarfing bad junk food. The teasing about Fox being so much like me. The way she automatically got me another diet coke when in the kitchen for herself.

She is talking until the small hours of the morning (or afternoon, if she’d just gotten off work). Sleep is for the lonely and we never seem to run out of topics.

---

She is the wistful desire for deep intimacy beyond sex. I know better than to actually pursue it, but there are so many times I remember how fulfilling it was.

She is my inability to comfortably listen to Journey. I still listen anyway.

She is my hatred at seeing Daddy settle into perfect domesticity. Despite every thing he’s done, it is him that is rewarded after a lifetime of denying any want for stable romance. And here I am living in loneliness and taking the scraps I can while denying outloud a want of anything further.

She is the wet hiccups of learning to cry silently and quickly. No one else ever wanted to deal with it. I’ve always been a quick study.

She is the tension in my muscles every time I drive near anything that reminds me of Kentucky. The rolling hills. The blooming meadows. All terrain vehicles. The burning liquor. I can’t force them to loosen until I’m well past memory lane.

---

She is my utter struggle here in Chicago this weekend. I just want to cope like a normal girl. A good girl for Daddy. But the memories swirl and I can feel her breath and it isn’t entirely unpleasant. The only good part about dealing with my grandparents’ wicked dementia is they don’t ask about her. Or is that good?

While Daddy goes through his sections of their house and personal effects with the stark detachment he’s always possessed, here I am trying not to weep at every moment. At every item. In every room.
And I feel like only she would understand.

And all I can feel through the curtain of misery and DID-fog is burning hatred for myself.

It’s been almost five years now and she’s still the security blanket I automatically want to reach for.

Spiraling

The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.

-Barry H. Gillespie

I was doing well. I was. I have a house. I own it 100% outright. I’m doing this adult thing. I even traveled this year.

But life isn’t a straight path. It’s a spiral and half the time, you come right back around to where you were.

And where I am now is not good.

My life is a spiral.

Guilt was like that, I had
discovered.
Remote, until it struck. I
heard her still, the friend I’d had,
the woman I’d betrayed. When I
slept I could feel the curve of her
hip against mine.
I’d heard that
demons could attach themselves to
a person. Once this was
accomplished, it was impossible to
leave them behind or dismiss them.
At night they closed their hands
over yours with a predatory
ownership.
They whispered a single
word in your ear: Mine.

-Alice Hoffman, “The Dovekeepers”

She

She is supposed to live three states away.

She is supposed to have no friends to visit.

She is supposed to be long gone. A figment.

A long ago relic of my foggy past.

It is a lie.

It’s always a lie.

She still knows my passion for Halloween. For this charity event. She knows. She always knows where to be. How to twist the knife.

It’s been almost 4 years.

My body retches. My mind flutters. Every single fucking stride I’ve made over these past months…

Dissolves.

Breaks.

Shatters.

Those ice blue eyes see right into me. The lips curve with sadistic glee as she recognizes the switching. The shattering. The fracturing.

The chatter of friends is faint. I know, distantly, that they are trying to bring me back.

I am briefly grounded by the warmth I feel at Army and Rogers not only getting along well, but both attempting wholeheartedly to bring me back around.

She speaks about many things. Mostly mundane. It is only as I start to duck out (she notices how early I am leaving) that her mouth forms poison. It begins innocently enough.

“Are you here with Army?”

I manage an affirmative. Her eyes narrow.

“I thought you were done with that immature phase.”

I hear a whispering of what isn’t said. My stomach shrivels, my throat dries.

My cowardice is still strong with her.

I run.

Torn Canvas

Most of you are familiar with this story.  The beginning, so to speak. It is what caused the initial coping of fracturing, of splitting. It wasn’t until much later that the coping technique was used to it’s maximum…

Trigger warning (pretty obvious from the title)
__________________________________________________________________

It was always about the words. The sentences. The phrases. That charismatic speech.  The way they curled about and slithered into the deep recesses of Pen’s mind.

The saying may be that a picture is worth a thousand words; but Pen was always fascinated by a good story.

This story started out simple enough…

Once upon a time there was another child of divorce- Katherine. Another girl who struggled to form normal relationships with people. A girl who was not repulsed by the idea of Pen being more than just Pen.

Pen did momentarily hesitate due to the gender. She had never considered a relationship with another female. Not for any particular reason, it simply hadn’t occurred to her.

Katherine spun the story’s web of beauty tighter. A complicated pattern to entice and confuse.

A woman would never hurt another woman. She knows how men can be too brass, too rough. They can trigger Pen.  They only want to brand Pen.

She tells these lies, even as she hides her own branding iron behind her back.  Pen never even tries to look.

The first time is so very tentative, unsure. Pen is concerned she’s doing everything wrong. Katherine seems enthralled by the innocence. Pen doesn’t notice, too focused on trying to please.

Katherine is quick to demand more of Pen’s time. It seems so easy at first. Pen has so few friends anyway. But soon the few friends she does have are noticing. And commenting. Pen brushes them off. They just don’t understand true happiness.

It doesn’t take long for Katherine to turn rougher. Pen is startled at first, but Katherine uses those charismatic phrases to sweeten the deal. And of course, it is nothing but ecstasy for Charlotte.

The story changes quickly. Soon Pen is the caged songbird. The collared fox. She was okay with being tamed, but this seems like much more.

The marks are hard to hide. She has to purchase special makeup that is technically for concealing tattoos. Katherine says the marks are better than tattoos. The burns last for months. She says she is working on “proper branding”. Soon Pen will truly belong only to Katherine.

There is jewelry as well. Necklaces and rings so that a person they encounter out in public may be quickly made aware that Pen is not available.

The waiter grins as he hands Pen a refill on her Coke. Pen gives him a hesitant smile. It takes mere seconds before she feels the harsh pain of Katherine squeezing her hand and digging her nails into the soft flesh. She hisses a warning. Even a polite smile means fraternizing to Katherine, especially when it involves males. Pen doesn’t register the abnormality of this. She merely aligns her face to “completely disinterested” when around men. Midori helps.

Pen delves into books regarding domestic abuse and sees little correlation. And yet, she feels this sense of camaraderie with the victims that she cannot explain. It puzzles her.

The sex is so extreme now that Pen’s migraines have become frequent and debilitating  It does not occur to her that perhaps her body has realized how repulsed Katherine is by an upset stomach and has devised a way to try and snag some time to heal from the bites, burns, scratches, and welts. The doctors are at loss on how to treat the migraines, since they do not respond to standard medication. Katherine becomes frustrated that treatment is not happening easily.

It is surprising how it comes to a roaring halt. Or perhaps it is not. The relationship started out with a sweet lie.  It seems only fitting it should end with a harsh true.

Another woman? It makes no sense to Pen. Pen has thrown her whole self into their relationship. Katherine claims to have done the same. But obviously this is not true. She so easily finds another and leaves Pen a torn and incomplete canvas. Left to rot in a forgotten room.

Despite the words that started this story, it is the picture left behind that does the damage.

__________________________________________________________________

It takes years and multiple partners to relearn how relationships are supposed to work.
The most recent partner has taught the best lessons:

-Independence is allowed. And is healthy.
-It’s okay to cry or yell if something has truly upset Pen. She doesn’t have to pretend everything is fine.
-Teeth are not acceptable below the belt.  For either party.
-It’s all right to smile at another person in a friendly manner.  That actually does not equal flirting.
-Pen does not have to have sex on her period.  If fact, Pen can actually decide at any point whether she actually wishes to have sex or not.
-She can eat what she likes without judgment.
-The scars she has are part of her past, not part of her.
-Slow and soft cuddling is sometimes the best way to spend time together
–She is beautiful

Relationship Amok

I haven’t talked about my “romantic” “love” life in many posts, huh?

Notice the quotations.

That’s a slick way of me saying I have no love or romance going on really.

Mostly cause I’m a fuckup who only pursues fuckups or fucks it up with other fuckups.  Sometimes there’s a non-fuckup involved, but those rarely last.

Monkey bars, sandpit, cliff; anything more straightforward than a conversation.

Most recently, I’ve been talking about (bitching about) Army.  You regular readers are aware of what sort of person he tends to be and how I fluctuate between hopeless romantic and pure Grade A rage.  I’ve been told this is normal in a lot of relationships.

However, I’ve also been told I deserve better when he decides to crawl under a rock for three weeks and not contact or talk to me.

On the other hand, I also do similar things to a lot of friends and most family (all if I could…my mother doesn’t let me).

That cool, soft dirt under that smooth, flat rock is comfy.  It’s like home.  It doesn’t judge me on the amount of food I’ve eaten, the weight I’m at, the mood I’m in, the voices I hear, the voices I don’t, the urges I have, the pain I’m in, etc.

The rock is nice.

So who I am to judge?

Doesn’t stop me of course.

Have vagina; will judge.

Basically I was ready to toss Army to the curb because of some rude things he said to me over a month ago, followed by a long period of absolute silence.

This sounds like a book he’d write (fyi, the ACTUAL book is not about what you think it is).

But then my health went into the shitter again and guess who’s one of the first people to quickly visit me in the hospital?

Now, granted the fact that he’s a paramedic makes him frequently in hospitals in general.  But he made a special trip to the hospital I was at while NOT on shift.  I think that means a bit more.

(It means the fucker enjoys pissing nurses off and blathering medical jargon with the techs while he’s bored.)

And now he’s regularly checking in again.  And talking me down the other night when I was in a dark place.

He wants to go to the dog park this evening.  I agreed.  It isn’t a date.  No big deal.  I have no clue where we are, but I know he’s someone who makes me smile and feel good about myself.

That can’t be a bad person to spend time with, right?

Ups and Downs

Last night was a freakin’ roller coaster.

First of all, I had a lovely “Hump Day Dinner” with Texas and another girl friend of mine that I rarely get to see.  It was a lot of fun.  There was sangria and calamari; both of which I adore.

We had fun joking around and talking about nothing.

But then it went downhill…

But Texas has been acting weird.  She’s seriously contemplating breaking up with her longtime boyfriend of…4 or 5 years now I think.  I dunno.  Awhile.  Mostly due to not getting the attention she needs, but also a lot of money disagreements (basically he wants to use her money for his shit).

While having this crisis of romance, she starts making this really weird deal about how pretty I am and how all the men around us want me (…what?).  I’m not really sure how to deal with this.  Besides the fact that I have awful self-image issues and can’t even process what she’s suggesting about me; I’ve always thought Texas is a really beautiful woman.
She has this flawless skin I’ll never achieve, shapely legs, gorgeous curly dark hair, and an actual chest region.  There’s a reason she was so easily able to steal my high school boyfriend not once, but twice.

Anyway, I am completely befuddled by her behavior.  She’s always been nice to me about my looks in that “normal girl friend” way (“Oh you look great in that shirt!”) , but I’ve never experienced such dogged references to me.  It feels like she goes out of the way to point out that the waiter is flirting with me and our other friend joins in.  I’m completely wigged out at this point.  The sangria doesn’t help.

I texted Army to try and get some sort of stabilizing opinion and explain that Texas is making me a bit nervous by pointing out these things.  Apparently it comes out wrong because he lashes out at me about trying to “make him jealous” and that if he “said the same thing” to me, I’d be “furious”.  I have no idea what he’s talking about.

The words and tone sound like Katherine.

My vision starts swimming and shifting and my head is spinning and I can’t do that again.  I can’t be a possession again.  I can’t be a slave, an object, a thing.  I can’t belong to a person again.   I can’t handle over-jealously again.  I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t.

Texas notices the shift and comments.  I briefly explain, but not entirely.  She gets it a bit, but has no words.  I understand, she’s dealing with her own frustrations.  The car ride home is quiet.

I think about how he doesn’t even acknowledge me on Facebook.  I know it’s a shallow teenage thing.  I’m not asking for “in a relationship” bullshit.  I don’t much care for that.  But he mentions when he’s hanging out with friends.  Or even his roommates.  But he’s goes out of his way to never ever mention my name on there.  Even when he uploads pictures of my puppies for his friends to see.

And yet he wants to start talking jealously?

Hell no.

If he wants to be in the “deeper level” of a relationship and it means this sort of stuff, I’m out.

Out out out out out out.

I won’t do the crazy jealously game to myself again.  I won’t.  I won’t do it.

Country Feels

The change isn’t immediate after we cross the border into Kentucky.  It’s many miles before I notice how the trees brush the skyline for miles around- no tall city buildings to mar it.  There are no power lines or poles.  Katherine explains that most of that stuff is run underground so as not to intrude on the farmland.

We’re on a country road for what seems like forever.  I lose track of time and it takes me a moment to realize when she’s pulled into a long dirt driveway. 
I stare up at the large country house in front of us.  It’s surprisingly nice.  I bite back a nasty pure-Yankee comment. 

It isn’t long before we’re out back.  I start for a steep hill, intending to climb it.  Katherine lets out a low laugh behind me.  I turn.

“I thought we were going hiking?”  I ask.

“Not the Northern, city-Yank way.”  She says teasingly.  I blink as she pulls a tarp off of something the size of a huge dog.

I’ve never seen anything like it before.  It’s not quite a motorcycle, but it isn’t a car either.  It’s rough and badass looking. 

“It’s a four wheeler.”  Katherine says with pride.  I roll my eyes, misunderstanding.

“I can see it has four wheels.”

“No, that’s what it’s called.  Also known as an all-terrain-vehicle.  It’s for climbing the hills.  Faster than walking or taking a bike.  Safer too, with how steep they are.”  She dangles the keys at me before sitting on it and smoothly starting it.  It’s louder than a car, but we only have to talk slightly above normal volume.

“It doesn’t look like its intended for more than one person….” I mutter.  She trills another laugh.

“Technically it’s not.  But come on; I thought you came down here to live a little!  Stop being all safe and boring in your world of offices, desks, and four walls.  Welcome to Kentucky.  We break the rules, get dirty, and go fast.”  Her smile is contagious and I find myself stepping forward easily.

I never thought I could feel like a bird.  She drives so fast that we lift off the ground at times.  Part of me is terrified and starts to tell her to slow down.

But my eyes lift and look around the expanse of forest that sprawls in all directions.  The trees tickle the sky as the wind plays with my hair.  I don’t even regret not pulling it back. 

Katherine pauses at the top of one of the largest hills.  She turns the monster off and we both automatically adjust our breathing so it is practically silent.

There’s a valley below us, full of purple flowers.  I know I should know their name (Mom would be disappointed), but I can’t see to quite reach that mind or knowledge that was my “Yankee self”. 

I’m too busy soaking in and gulping down this new knowledge.  This beautiful experience of nature for which there are no words.  Only sensations.  Feelings.

That teasing tug on my hair the wind does.  I’ve never had anyone play with my hair and it makes me smile that the wind down in this beautiful place knows of my secret desire for it.

The slight scratches on my arms from snagging branches and thorny bushes on our ride.  It’s my fault for wearing a tank top.  Katherine smartly wore long sleeves.

I suck in a breath and it feels so cool, so clean.  Nothing like this air in the city.  I know that.  Nothing like these smells.  The forest is alive with plants, animals.  Life.

I look at Katherine and she meets my gaze.

“Let’s just come live up here.”  I say seriously.  She smiles softly, knowing that she has been perfectly successful in showing me exactly what she loves about being a country girl.

“Forever. Just us.  We won’t tell anyone.” She replies, just as serious. 

I wrap that fantasy up neatly in a box.  I know it’s a lie.  Obviously we can’t just run away and live here.

But is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.

I tuck the box carefully away in my mind.  Protected.  Safe.  The lock is complicated so that it can’t just be tossed away.

It is thrown, nicked, burned, and scratched at throughout the next couple years.  There are many things that are not remotely romantic, damaging, hurtful things that Katherine does that has insiders trying everything to get rid of that box.  They want no reminders of the good.  None.

But boxes are my specialty.

It is such a beautiful fantasy.

Such a beautiful place.

Can it really be that harmful?

Relationship Are Dumb

In light of this stupid V-day thing, I’ve been pondering relationships way too much.

I’m come to this conclusion: relationships are dumb.

I got into this whole discussion with Mama over at Mental Midwest (that was probably waaaay more drawn out that she needed to hear 😉 ) about relationships, men, and FWB.

And it’s got me thinking.

Craig is driving me nuts.

But I don’t think it’s entirely Craig’s fault (besides the creepy baby discussion).  I think I just don’t really get how to handle a relationship that demands a shit-ton of my time, attention, and possibly emotions.  I’m just not really that interested.

I thought that’s what I wanted.  I thought I wanted the deep, schmoozey, can’t-stop-thinking-about-them, meant-to-be kind of relationship. 
But I think that’s only because that’s the relationship Katherine and I had.  However, that also had aspects of abuse to it as well, so I definitely should not be holding it as some sort of standard.

I miss Army a lot.  And I’m so angry and resentful towards myself for these feelings.  I made myself examine why I got fed up with Army.  His flakiness.  Then I made myself examine whether I’m grumpier about Craig’s neediness, or Army’s flakiness.

And the results are surprising and a bit displeasing.

I’m coming to like living alone more and more.  I like being able to make spontaneous plans with friends only a day or two in advance.  I like being able to spend so much time with Zoe.  I like being able to only have to worry about my own finances.

I hate how Craig keeps pushing for me to come over to his place.  I hate how he planned this V-day thing on Friday over a week in advance.  I hate that he constantly wants to do something.  I hate that he can’t hold a conversation unless it involves computers, babies, his family, or his exes.

I miss that Army could/can always make me laugh.  He can always cheer me up.  He can always make me feel pretty. I loved that he likes the same sort of movies that I do.  I love that we like the same kind of food.  I love that we can talk about my job, his job, current events, mutual dumb shit we’ve heard and actually have a two-way conversation.

Goddammit I miss Army.

And the worse part is I know I could step right back into a “relationship” with him. 

We texted for two hours last night.  Just in a friendly sort of way.  He’s always been a good friend before the whole sex thing.  But sex did get brought up, like it does with him, and he sweetly said something about how I was the best and he missed it with me and he liked how it was always without awkwardness or extreme expectations.

I winced at hearing that because all it did was make me crave that sex again.

Ugh.

Relationships are dumb.

I think what I’m going to do is go to this thing on Friday with Craig, and if there aren’t amazing turnaround fireworks or something, I’m just going to let him down as nicely as I can (god I hate being that girl) and then re-evaluate me, myself, and I.  And my life.

And not immediately jump Army’s bones.

No.  I will wait.

Not immediately.

But perhaps…

Dammit.  I need to learn that self-control thing.

Treat sex like I do food.  Don’t want to get fat.

Patience.