Whoops

Once upon a time I sexed. *snort*

Actually, it was just a few hours ago.  I met a woman at her house.  A hard to find house nestled in the common anonymity that is suburbia.  I am glad she hosted, I wanted to meet her dogs.

The dogs were everything I hoped for.

We talked and wined, talked some more and I wondered how could I make a move if she is all the way the fuck on the other side of the couch.  Then I noticed each time she got up, bathroom, more wine, let dogs in or out, she slooooowly moved closer.  So I played the mirror game.

Eventually, within arm's reach (finally!) she lolls her head on the back of the couch and asks "So, uh...want to watch a movie?"

My brain goes "The fuckshit is that?"  I am not even coherent enough to add a What to that thought.  I shake my head no and crook my finger at her.

It worked....well goddamn.  Put that move in my back pocket.

Later is later is dental dam.  Useful little buggers when they don't try to suffocate you.  Wildly snapping hips and dental dam up your nose is definitely a great way to get your heart rate going.  My points on my fuelband didn't really reflect it though.  I should write Nike a note.  I have found a wide open issue, and they need to fix it.

I get dressed and option not to go with the bra.  It gets shoved into my purse.  Away I go to home, to shower and snuggle into bed.

Hunger hits me halfway home.  I stop at a Denny's.  I want a salad and coffee.  I have a new book of essays to indulge in so I pull that puppy out and bury my nose.  Two essays, one cup of coffee later, I realize I am not wearing a bra in public and yes, it is obvious.  Mostly because I neglected to notice that when I pulled out the book, I pulled out half the bra.  Black lace and beige hanging out next to me.

Whoops

Kudos to Me

Just finished reading Samantha Irby's Meaty. (Yes, I stopped to underline that before continuing) Monday night is weight class night.  I typically go with a friend and we go sweat and lift and swear and make faces at each other while giggling.

This Monday night, I laid on my bed and devoured Meaty. (Yep, again) I should have gone to class.  Sleep will be tough tonight and my little anxiety twitches are already increasing intensity.  Or if not go to class, clean my room.  Fold and hang the clothes from the pile in the corner of my floor.  Sweep up the cat hair and cat litter mine love to shed & spread.  Scrub up the various markers of cat bile vomit and put my shoes in the rack, but no.  I laid across my bed and delved into Irby's essays.

And I felt welcomed.  For I think Irby would understand and probably take it as the compliment I intend it to be.

I did manage to start a load of laundry after.  I need sheets, I can only stand the cat fur addition for so long before I am grossed out and contemplating sleeping sans sheets.

So tonight my accomplishments rate at laundry (1 maybe 2 loads), decent dinner (ie not fast food or frozen) and reading Meaty.

Yea,I get a pat on the back.

**UPDATE: Cat vomit cleaned along with extra special hairball splat.  Go Me!

I am tired.

I am tired of being talked to like a child and then told to relax when I ask to be treated as an adult.

I am tired of being called a bitch for daring to object to being treated as an object.  Then being derided for being too fat or too tattooed or too something.

I am tired of not being able to speak freely in a public space without fear of retribution, verbal or physical.

I am tired of my body not being my own.  Tired of laws claiming others have greater rights over my person.  Tired of hands claiming space on me.  My right to give permission, unheeded, ignored, laughed at. Then when I am abused, told it is my fault, I asked for it.  I must have wanted it.

I am tired of other people who identify as women being abused, being fetishized, being mocked, being everything on this list and more. I am really fucking tired of them being overlooked and ignored.

Mostly, I am tired of writing shit like this.  Other women have written this over and over in multiple timelines, in multiple languages and far more eloquently then I.

I am tired and I want to stop. Give up my teaspoon and go to bed.  Then I remember who I am angry at. I am angry at the person who perpetuates rape culture, privilege.  Those who fight to keep the status quo.  Those who believe women are things.  Who believe their wants override our rights.  Other women who support those above. White feminists who deny women of color their voices or steal them.  Gay people who ignore the rest of the rainbow.

So that is how I ended up a cranky bitch feminist.

Need to do something

Finals this week and I am having so much trouble caring.  Math is tomorrow and I haven't even bothered to study really. We are allowed to have 3x5 card of notes, and I just haven't.  I should, I should at least write down the formulas.  Yes, I will do that before I go to bed.

I should go to bed.  Sleep.  I've been sick.  Weak immune system.  Once upon a time, I was so healthy and then I learned what worn out meant.  These past few years have taught me the meaning of worn down.  I've leveled up.

After this weekend,  I hope I will be more refreshed.  My head is currently in the dichotomy of exhausted and restless.  I rarely make good decisions at that point.  Guess, I should be grateful my most dangerous temptation is dead.

I am not.  I miss the battle.

Update or a reminder for the future

I am still mostly numb, but time has started having meaning again.

I am still finding lots of holes in my memory from last year and parts of this year.  I have mostly caught up on birthdays.

I find myself craving a love like I had with T.  Dangerous and I feel dishonest.  I just want something to sweep me away. Basically, I want to be rescued from my own brain.  Even though I know the first hint of anything encompassing I will run and hide. It is an idle wish that annoys me on many levels.  I don't want to be that person who wishes and waits for someone to rescue them.  I don't even hold a mild hope that someone could or even would.  You only can save yourself and sometimes, even then you just gotta let shit ride and hope you come out on the other side.

I keep visualizing depression as cobwebs in my brain.  These cobwebs are not those measly bastards that can be taken down with a mop and wrist flick.  They are huge, multi-layered and sticky.  I have my mop of determination, but it keeps breaking.  Duct tape can only repair it for so long and my arms are fucking tired.

The Otherside of Love

Dear T,

Some days I hate you. When you took your life you took a year of mine.  I've missed so much and I am so lost at times.

I hate that I cannot find my emotional balance.  I learned previously to monitor my moods carefully, but now I cannot find baseline half the time.  I am constantly questioning.  Am I too sad?  Am I exaggerating?  How much of what I am feeling is grief and how much of my grief is real? My emotional paranoia is logically unfounded, but paranoia has no place for logic. I end up giving up and going with the flow.  I am relying on others to let me know if I seem out of bounds.  You know how I hate that.

I hate that your name tastes like your ash when I say it.  I avoid saying it when possible.  You are T, pretty much always T. When I do speak of you, I hate that I feel I should apologize for showing my pain.  I feel exposed and intrusive like I was asked the time of day and showed my crotch because I didn't have a watch handy.  Time does not equal vagina.

I hate the wave of irrational anger that swamps me when I smell you.  It always happens when I am not aware of you being gone.  When I am focused on a task or worse when I am dancing.  I lose all equalibrium and once the anger drains, the grief is there.  And I hate it.  I was myself for a bit.  Just me.  Not me +1.

I hate the compelling need to talk to you when I am driving.  I hate wondering if you hear me.  I hate that I cry over you the most when I am in the car where people can see me.

I hate the craving to re-read old emails and chats.  So far I have managed to get by without reading too many, but it is hard. I hate that you are on my chat list and I hate that you are still listed as a follower on this blog.  Yet, I cannot bring myself to delete you.  I hate that I feel weak because I won't do that.

Some days I hate you, but every day I miss you and I hate you for that too.

Love,

A

Written 04/27/12

It becomes a rhythm, the mantra

Dead, death, died, deceased

Then his name over and over again.

I can't decide if I am attempting to lessen the impact of the reality by constantly reintroducing the knowledge or if I am just torturing myself for no good reason.

Probably a bit of both.  At least now my nails don't cut into my palms when I begin my recital.

I will take that as a step one.

I can't even comprehend a step two.