One for Sorrow, Two for Joy

A writing endeavor exploring the patterns of relationships and tales about love, dating, and loss.

[allmymisters]

What a Payne

“Was it in New York?” “No, I think it was in the Punchline days.” “Hmm, no wait maybe it was when Sixer was signed to TKO.” “Wasn’t it that night at Accapella?”

We never really figured out how it was we met, but it didn’t matter. When you and I ran into each other upon returning back to Richmond, the familiarity of you was long gone. I honestly was trying to forget that time in my life, and I forgot you with it. It wasn’t for any other reason except memories blur when you are trying to build another life. I studied your face and the times rushed back. You were the proverbial hot mess back then, an extreme individual, the crank it to 11 type. I knew many people like this growing up so there was no shock there, but you seemed different this time. I noticed you were more handsome than I remembered, with almost superhero-like features, chiseled jaw, wide smile, as though you should don a cape and say things in an octave lower than normal. You seemed like you were what the kids say now, “adulting”. One thing is for sure, you and I were never at a loss for words when engaging in conversation.

My memory of sitting in your sun soaked kitchen while you made coffee, you were spouting off about all the repairs you were going to make to the house, still remains fresh. You had just given me a tour of your new digs detailing the choice of artwork and decor. You were proud of your purchase, but it also came with a profuse apology for not using me as your realtor to buy it. I assured you it was ok. I had mentioned how I myself was looking to buy a home in the neighborhood, and how I randomly saw your sister and uncle at the very house I wanted to buy. I was complimenting you on your dining set, so retro. I think it was an aunt or a grandmother who gifted it to you. I was there to the get the mics you had borrowed from me, like five years ago! This would not be some simple exchange and I should have known better, but then again, didn’t I? I knew what would come out of this. Epic conversations were our modus operandi.

An hour and half had passed, the copious amounts of coffee drank were accompanied only by ranting, debating, and validating our viewpoints, often controversial in nature, but most always in agreement. There it was. We’d stop one subject and begin another as though we were making moves on a chess board, each more thought provoking than the other. You were one of the very few people I never had to filter myself with, and vice versa. You were intelligent and well spoken, but what I also loved about our back-and-forths was when we had our “back in the day” gabs. We use to compare and contrast what we did back then to what others were doing now. Seems pointless as I write it, but I think it’s one of those things I have with former high school and college friends, it just felt meaningful, impactful, nostalgic. Thankfully, we were smarter than we were then, we had grown exponentially. in our words and our thoughts.

You had a lot to say and I always felt that came with passionate rhetoric. Some people saw you as a loudmouth, but I saw it as someone who wanted people to engage, not just blindly poke at a subject that was semi-thought out. I think you believed in the truth of things and weren’t afraid to point that out. You were an observer of the world and could talk about a myriad of subjects, although ours favored relationships. We loved to pick apart the ways of men and women and that day was no different. I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d see you. We texted since that visit, plans were broken, protests were rampant, we bitched — a lot, but we always stayed in touch.

When my phone rings, I tend to screen my calls. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t like disruption and I prefer the intimacy of physical one on ones (that sounds way sexier than I thought). You used to call me during the day and I’d see your name across the screen “House of Payne”. Yeah, I nickname people on my contact list. I’d always be driving and so would you, so while we’d be talking to each other, we’d also be describing things we’d see. It was never awkward on the phone, but it usually came with a call for action like a meet up or whether I was going to some show or a question about some point of interest going on in the city.

I will miss our long winded bitch sessions. I will miss your candor. I will miss the humble apologies for going overboard and the buttons pushed. I will miss the memories of our times in RVA from shows to art to hanging out in our old haunts on Grace Street, but I will also miss our exchange of our New York experiences and how that shaped our RVA returns. Our tantric conversations will live on in the cherished memories I have of you. Most of all I will remember the support and friendship we had. Yes, you will be missed, but for now I can only imagine you debating with God and the Devil, giving them new perspectives. You loved your friends, with honesty and curiosity and I think we all appreciated the spotlight you gave us. I hope the demons have finally been concussed and you are finally at peace.

[allmymisters]

For the Love of China

I just woke up. That’s a lie. I woke up around 2 hours ago. I awoke from a dream I can’t remember and a peacefully sleeping Mister who does that snoring that sounds like he’s whispering “poo”. I used to do this thing in my head, when I was about to go to sleep. It was to calm me and clear my thoughts, but I would imagine this little Iggy like character in my head, climbing through my brain to the top of the stairs. He had a little room there and he would turn on the light and there would be a very large blackboard full of doodles and writing and he would literally erase my thoughts. When he cleared the board, he would turn the light off and I would go to sleep. When I was a child, I never sucked my thumb, nor did I sleep with my parents. Across the hall I slept in my crib and then that crib turned into a bed eventually, but I was not the type of child who was uncomfortable being alone and my parents were not the kind that would coddle me. When I was a kid, I’d play with my hangnails to get to sleep. Strange I know, but I’d start at a quick pace and as I would slow the pace down to go to sleep. Some people count sheep, I played with my hangnails.

I wasn’t a nervous child. I was shy, but not nervous. Anxiety was something that occurred the night before a trip or the night before the first day of school. I never was affected by it the way my friends say they are crippled by it. Something has happened to me recently and I don’t like it, actually I hate it. The older I’ve gotten the more stressful my life has become. Job stress, money stress, relationship stress, health stress…what was invisible before has now ravaged my nervous system like a freight train. Why has this happened? What did I do that my mind and my body have decided to betray how I compute.

When you scroll down Facebook posts you’ll notice a pattern with people. It goes from “My kid said/did this” to “I have an opinion about the current state of the world” to “My (insert family member) died” to “Look how much fun I’m having on said vacation”. We know every anniversary, birthday, death, birth, new job, new partner, etc etc. Look, I’ve read and listened to a lot of psychologists and experts talk about how social media affects us and I think it affects us in different ways. For me, it’s more of a strange place where you can’t disagree with anyone or I’m reading about some pretty personal stuff for the world to see or I’m realizing how sad I am that I don’t have a cute baby to show everyone or a cute dog for that matter. As of two days ago, it was acknowledging that the two guys I dated in high school were arrested for some pretty serious sexual misconducts.

I have emotional OCD. I can’t help it and noticed my mom is the same way. We lash out in two different ways. We get angry and tell the world to fuck off and then we cry in the shower at how hurt we are. My family was always big on the “suck it up and move on” or “don’t ever let anyone see you’re weak, be smarter”. I think I’ve lived a majority of my life like this. I care way too much about things. Being a natural empath can be rewarding, but can also turn on you in a most wretched way. I fixate on things bothering me. I will go through scenarios, the why, the what, the how. I will talk to that person in my head and say exactly what I want to to them and then see them as though I have no complaints. Please don’t misunderstand, I’m bold enough, I just don’t see what it would really do but become my problem.

I’m trying not to care. I’m actually trying not to notice what’s happening to me. My body is falling apart. I thought I’d be one of those cool ladies you see memes and documentaries about. The ones that are growing old gracefully with designer bifocals and purple hair. My mind has grown and continues to do so, but my body is being an asshole. When you start to see the transition it gets scary. The grey hairs, the aches and pains, the weight gain (for some), the lethargy and most of all the crushing anxiety. I’m having serious issues with anxiety recently and the only thing that has helped are my new acupuncture appointments. But as with all things I experience, I don’t want to have to be helped or ask for it for that matter. It’s challenging, but I’ve always seen myself as someone who can handle her shit. So, I thought.

“Iggy where are you!?”

My mind races in the middle of the night. I go to bed fine, but if I awaken, it’s a nightmare. I try to get Iggy to come out and he’s there but he either erases the board and it refills instantly, or he just stands there looking at it, as though he’s stuck in some video game prompting me for his next direction.

What do I have to work on tomorrow? Can I sell this woman’s house? Am I doing the right thing with my life? Why does he have to work tomorrow? Am I going to lose my hair? I need to go to the gym. What should I get my parents for Christmas? I’m so angry about my camera! Why haven’t I heard from her, do they just not like me anymore? I want to go somewhere. I miss my dad. I hope my dad is ok. I wish my brother would come visit me. I wish I could afford to go see them, i hope those fires aren’t too close to him. Sigh. Sigh. Sigh. Ok, relax, deep breaths. Why is my heart beating like this, am I dying…fuck…fuck…am i ever going to lose this weight. I need to just go to the gym. Oh my god, stop snoring! I need new glasses, shit I need to reschedule the dentist because I don’t have money right now, how am I going to pay for the window…..

And it goes on and on and on and on. From me thinking I have cancer to wondering when the next tragedy in my life will occur to am I going to have a job tomorrow. I get it, I’m not alone, there are other people who have this stuff going on, I just don’t like it. It’s physically tearing me apart. I’m about to turn 47 and I’m wondering where my womanhood has gone because let’s face it, I’m 22 forever. It’s disorienting and for me, very frightening. I don’t want to have a heart attack in my fifties you know?

I used to love being an empath, recently I hate it. There’s an emptiness I’ve been carrying around with me and what used to be a simple brush off the shoulder and has now become some colossal underlying stress ball of unimaginable proportions. My doctors have told me that they are quite surprised I’ve gone this long without completely losing it. When I look at them with “tha fuuuck?” look, they explain going through that much trauma in one sitting can put most people over the edge, but two therapy sessions in, after a suicide, an excruciating end to my marriage, the death of one of my best friends, the news that my ex boyfriend and friend had died while at mentioned best friend’s funeral, the loss of my close knit circle and the loss of my job due to all of the above was good enough for me. I moved forward. Moved forward in a very zig zaggy, drunken fashion making no stops for breath while being accused of being unforgiving, angry and abandoned. Yep, seems about right. It’s been nine years and I’m afraid it’s finally all caught up with me, like a tsunami from hell.

“Take a Xany”

I don’t do pills. I will fight to self heal before having to take something for it. No offense to you who have found resolve in it, I’m just not that person. I just wanna feel better! I want to sleep. I wanna enjoy my morning instead of walking straight to my computer. I want to figure out a workout routine. I want to tell people no. I want to not feel like my heart is in the Kentucky Derby. I want my body to slow down. I want time to slow down. Slow the fuck DOWN! Why am I so apt to be that overachiever? I think because for so long I’ve been overlooked in my duties, and now, I’m finally getting recognition and to be honest it feels fantastic. My therapy comes from helping others, that’s my selfish reason for doing the things I do. So, how do I make it stop? I don’t have an answer. Right now, being in a dark room for one hour every week with pins sticking in me seems to be the only thing that’s been working. It’s sad that, it is the only place, I can breathe and not think of all the things, even though the cost gives me its own anxiety.

It’s not greek to me

A few hours ago I couldn’t finish writing this piece. I wanted to write something because writing is my catharsis and to be honest, I was upset. It helps me work it out in my head. Instead, I started talking about it while my man comforted me and asked what he could do. I broke down. Blubbering like a fool, telling him how disappointed I am in my life right now, how I don’t know why I can motivate others and not myself and how alone I feel a lot of the times. I just want to shut it off sometimes. My brain that is, not my system. I don’t want to be fearful because that’s not who I am, yet I feel like I’m fearful everyday with everything I do and say. When did that happen?

I just want to sleep like the dead again so I can feel alive. Remember in our 20’s? Bed at dawn, sleep til work, repeat. I want to eat a piece of chocolate without feeling like I’ll need to buy new jeans next month. I want to tell people to eat a dick every time they tell me what I should feel and what I should say. I’m not feeling very punk rock these days and that’s what it comes down to. All these feelings I have about the world, the non-reciprocated relationships I have, the allowance of urgency everyone needs from me, and the disrespect I’ve received in certain situations are an implosion waiting to happen, all because the one emotion I owned, anger, has become some sort of disease. Are we no longer allowed to express our discontent for anything except what has been deemed acceptable and determined by some invisible sensitivity police? I think not. It’s not just about being consumed by anger, it’s more about being able to express and release. You know, throw some plates against the wall and then have a martini after. Maybe I’m reading into it too much, but for me, I think it is part of the reason why I feel so handicapped recently. I wanna mad. I want it to run through my veins and shout it out! It doesn’t make me crazy. It doesn’t make me unable to cope (fuck anyone who says I can’t cope with shit) and it surely doesn’t make me non-confrontational. I don’t like this new, “Don’t let them hear you” mentality. It’s my right to embrace my humanity and that includes being angry and having my own perspective. So, I’m getting my plates ready, because I’m tired, so very, very tired, and there’s nothing Greek about that.

[allmymisters]

For the Love of Moving Forward

This is a little late, but not really. Chinese New Year celebrations just ended. While the rest of the politically correct world rants and roars about the rights and wrongs of races in America, I don’t ever get a Happy New Year come Chinese New Year because nobody sees me as Asian. This is my grandfather, Bonifacio Lee. I’m not sure of his background, but know he was indeed Chinese. It has been very difficult connecting with this part of my family tree. My family is quite keen on keeping the skeletons in closets locked up. It is the only image I have of my grandfather. The only history I know of him is that he was a Chinese professor teaching in Panama where he met my grandmother, Josefina Peñalba. The two married and proceeded to have 15 children. Yeah, I know. My dad is one of 10. Both my parents are the youngest of their siblings. The story goes like this, my grandparents went to China during the 50s and while there, the war broke out. They called all Panamanian citizens back and as my family fled, my grandfather was shot in his collarbone. They made the trip back to Panama. My mother was born shortly after. The bullet was never removed from his collarbone and it resulted in relentless pain which was relieved by the numbing effects of alcohol and eventually, ironically, a self-induced bullet. My mother tells me of stories of seeing his ghost working in the yard and how the dinner table would end up turned over as they prayed for him. I’ve always loved history and my own family has been a mystery for quite some time. I have a thing with lack of closure.

In 2003, on my birthday, 16 years ago, I had received a birthday card from one of my best friends. The card stated very promptly that our friendship was over and no details of why such an action had to be taken. Fast forward to 2017, where once again, my best friend broke up with me for reasons unknown. Both of these times created great anxiety in me due to lack of closure or conversation. The biggest non-closure of my life was getting divorced without ever speaking about it. Sure, there were specific facts that lead to such things, but I have yet to have a conversation as to why these things actually occurred. I don’t know if you know what that feels like? It gnaws at you. I don’t care why people dismiss me or not, it’s the conversation that never took place that bugs me.

So, here I am in 2019, and it’s the Year of the Earth Pig. It is the end of a cycle if you know anything about lunar calendars and its zodiac. The pig is the last to win the race, thus its position. It is slow to say the least, but also a very wealthy year is in the works. As with all new years, I write a letter to the world. It basically gives all my well wishes and happy holidays to the people in my social network, work, friends, family, etc., etc. Every year I set new goals. Some are reached by December 31st and some bleed into the next year. This past year was particularly full of ups and downs, personally and occupationally.

I had started off the year strong with real estate. I love my work. I love that I can be creative and talk to people and mostly help others. In celebration of my 45th birthday in last February, I decided to add yet another skill to my palette, Real Estate Agent. I figured if I’m going to be in this business, I’m going to be in it to win it. So now, I am doing three different jobs, freelance work, and waiting tables twice a week, and yet, I still struggle to pay bills or eat sometimes. I don’t think I’ll ever get it. I don’t think I’ll ever be that person who buys a new car or gets to find the perfect fit jeans. I honestly think my sole purpose in life is to work a myriad of different jobs and never financially succeed and becoming 45 was challenging. You women know what I speak of for sure. I’ve never felt so bad about my physicality before. I had the worse anxiety of my life this year. My first panic attack. My first missed period in a lifetime and well, it has come to my attention that, yes, yes I’ve just about completed any hopes for future humans. I don’t fit in my clothes. It hurts to wear heels. I have a hard time keeping my balance most days. It is a very debilitating experience that they don’t tell you in health class. Sorry, for the realness, but hey, I just want to give a fist up to my sisters. I however can relish in the success of getting hit on while playing Trivia Crack. There are a lot of bored husbands out there!

There is no worse thing for me than the feeling of being unsettled. I felt this past year was a bunch of rushing around and a lot of hurry up and waiting. I felt like I was being pulled, pushed, and hurried for everything while feeling quite stuck. I’m looking around the house at the unfinished hutch, the still unopened boxes, and last week’s laundry waiting to be folded. I mean, have you ever felt like you were literally unmoved? So, that’s all the bad stuff, well that and of course death which seemed unruly and unsuspected more times than I can count. I had a lot of unfinished business in 2018.

Finally, the present. Sunday, I turned 46. It was the most uneventful birthday of my life. I’m not saying that because I’m upset about it, but because it truly had no fanfare. A simple dinner at moms, a small gathering of friends, and a lot of HBD’s on my Facebook feed. It was a lowkey transition to say the least. I’ve been sick for quite a number of days which is unusual in and of itself. I keep freaking myself out with the fright of the possibility of getting pneumonia and dying. That’s my thought process these days, “Oh my god, what is that feeling, do I have cancer?” It’s all eminent. I will say, as February approached, the heavy weight I felt of the last year seem to lift. I have more direction right now and focus which I didn’t have in 2018, what was unstuck has become loosened.

So I come back to closure. Just as I’m trying to figure out the history of my genome, I’m also trying to do what the kids and that Marie Kondo are doing, tidying up. Getting rid of the weight of clutter that has commanded and influenced my physical and mental states. It has not been easy for this greeting card saving, ticket stub framing kinda gal. I’ve been holding on for dear life the life I used to live and realize I cannot do that anymore and why should I? That’s the real question. Why don’t I deserve closure?

To part with history is to part with a limb for me. Amongst the dated wine corks, cards, and matchbooks, I find that bond starting to fade. I can’t say I like it, it’s very uncomfortable, often times I find myself hyperventilating at the thought. It does make me sad to know that what once was will never be again. Living in the past is what has gotten me into the future and now the past wants to say goodbye and I’m not sure i know how to handle that. I feel like if I let go of it, it’s me giving me up. Then there’s the other side of that. Isn’t it time for me to be happy on my own? How long do I have to live with feeling guilty for my decisions? Have I not been true and honest? I feel like I have, but I feel like it’s not without judgement. I feel like I’m done waiting to be invited. I don’t need to have that validation anymore, yet it still hurts. I’ve only got so many olive branches and most of them are ill deserved. I think I’m just one of those people that needs to have that conclusion, kinda like when someone breaks up with me, I need to know why?

I never thought at 46 I would be growing a new branch, but I will say for the first time in a really long time, it feels good and right. You know when you are looking for a house and you’ve gone to a million of them, all great houses, all with things you want in them, yet there’s one in particular that when you walk in, it showers you with “YESSSSS! This is home”. You can’t explain it, but it just feels like it fits and that’s where I am today, something I want to do, just fits. I have a tendency to get stuck in a routine. I’m a fixed being. I feel most comfortable when I have this continuous realm, but I also crave change. It’s very conflicting. My days are quite quoted with work, home, family, etc, and it terrifies me, like in one of those Twilight Zone kind of ways. But, something happened in January and I’m rolling with it. Some sort of energy has come out of nowhere and gotten me off my ass mentally. Then, yesterday, as I walked into WaWa contemplating a sub and Cheetos, I saw the blinking dots of an awaited answer to ‘what’s for dinner’. As I looked up towards the back door, the face was familiar, but somehow seeing my Mister randomly catch my eye in unsuspecting manner, made me smile. It made me happy. He wasn’t walking in the front door of our home. I wasn’t meeting him at the bar. It was just this moment of “Hello, stranger.” And in that moment I remembered this is my new beginning and we both just walked in at the same time feeling the same way.

So, although my life is full of shut doors full of undisclosed information, this year I’m choosing the door in front of me and opening it up wide. Why should I wait for others to come to terms with their baggage when I can move on free of mine. Happy Year of the Pig, it’s going to be sweet and slow and an end to the 60 year cycle. I’m planning on rolling around in the mud on this one and collecting the wealth it brings.

[allmymisters]

Frenemies of the State

You and I didn’t initially start out in the same circle of friends. I was listening to NIN and Skinny Puppy and you were immersed in Jazz and Triphop with a sprinkle of Pavement and Jawbox. So our friend circle was not exactly “friendly”. You were also a little younger than me, but that became a regular demographic in my life during that time. I had all but abandoned the few high school friends I had growing up due to different interests, scene changes, and my abrupt and epic failures at attempting a college career. When you and I met, I was in transition. I was meeting a whole new generation of VCU kids who were mostly from Northern Virginia and the Virginia Beach area, younger and quite frankly mostly artistically pretentious. My mommy and daddy didn’t pay for college and surely would never pay my rent, so I was, to say the least, a black sheep amongst albino pigs. How refreshing it was to meet someone who grew up in Richmond, who went to a rival high school and who understood residing in the West End part of town.

Although you were younger, we had a few mutual friends in common and it was a nice familiarity, something I didn’t get from the others. There’s something about being in your 20s that makes you think that the bonds of friendship could never be broken because of heroic deeds like standing watch while you peed in an alley or getting in someone’s face at the bar because you were rudely pushed. At one time I had an idealistic notion that my friends were my family and everyone was a nice and good person, but in my heart, I knew this not to be a real thing. You didn’t like conflict and always saw the good in others, where I was less optimistic and had no expectations about turbulence in my life. I didn’t take shit from people. Sure I was a ball of emotion and sensitivity, but I was also extremely protective over what was my realm. I was Allison to your Andrew (Sheedy/Estevez).

The thing about Richmond is that it’s a never ending cycle of people you know. No matter where you go, if you grew up here and were involved, you’ll know someone. Someone I may not have seen for a year will show up to see a band and we will reconnect or you’ll be at a bar and Johnny who left for college is back for the holidays and the next thing you know your talking about 11th grade English class. It’s a very small and tight knit world, our RVA. As our friendship started to develop so did our combined friendbase. Alas, friends come and go.

You came home. It was my birthday 30th birthday. You were all happy to see me and I was annoyed. It wasn’t you, it was the opened card I had received in the mail that afternoon. She had timed it perfectly so that it would arrive on my birthday. A nice birthday card stating a dissolving of friendship. No reason was given, just that she no longer wanted anything to do with me. Hurt and angry, I handed you the card. Your face was red with rage.

You remember that day, don’t you? J had been friends with us for so very long. She came to all your shows. I took trips with her, we hung out constantly. I didn’t understand it, but I looked at you and said, “One bridesmaid out, seven more to go!” We laughed. You were angrier than I was that day. So much so, you began a mental shitlist. I loved that about you. You had finally started defending me and I knew I made the right choice. Apparently, when I get broken up, I get broken up with. I often wonder what I did that was so wrong. What story does everyone have in their head about what happened to you, to us, to me. It’s all a sham, marriage. People come for the party and the free drinks, while they wager in their heads how long you will last. Some genuinely think it will last forever and some damn you for taking that potential slice of pie away from them. Wife. Husband. It means nothing. It’s just another label. I realized that after the accident.. I was only seen as a possible adulterer, someone who couldn’t take care of you, someone who left you, someone who apparently a lot of people didn’t like. It had appeared that I literally put a spell on you so you would marry me and I could control you. I mean it was a long con with you, almost seven years before you proposed. Here’s a bit of advice to you readers, if for one instant you don’t think that person would choose you when they are passing out life jackets while the ship is going down, walk away, it will hurt a whole lot less.

Making friends in New York was easy and those we connected with were solid friendships. You made new friends after I left. A lot of them. It was as though you created a whole world without me after I left NY. When I sat in the waiting room meeting people for the first time and them looking me with eyes of confusion. I guess they knew something I didn’t. I did find it incredibly strange that certain individuals were bringing by people you didn’t even know. You were lying there with tubes and shit coming out of your body and it was like, “Hi, this is Steve, I brought him to meet you.” Who the fuck is Steve and why is he in my husband’s ICU room? Alas, that’s beside the point right? I was crazy of course to doubt such behaviors. Anyway…

We were the couple who brought people together. I built relationships and used ours to do so in a very social way. Whether it was a party or a dinner soiree or gathering people for a weekend trip, we made it happen. Even in New York, I did my best to bring people to our home in Ridgewood and strangely enough, those Manhattanites came. We loved our friends, they were our extended family and we didn’t hide how we felt about them. You cultivated solid relationships with your musician friends and I brought in new friends from my jobs, intermingling other friends from other lifetimes. It was always easy for me, for us. I think it enhanced our coupledom, we were stronger in the company we kept and friends were always noticing the way we looked at each other, with utter envy. I did a very dumb thing in my life and that was to be too trusting of others. I was lead to believe that these people claiming to be my friend cared about us, liked us for that matter. I was wrong. It takes one tragedy and one divorce to make them scatter like roaches with the lights turned on.

“Oh my God, I can’t imagine…how you must feel. I’m sorry to ask but what happened? I don’t know what I would do if that happened to me! Where is he now? Is she with him?”

The huge embraces I would get. People i hadn’t seen in ages hugging me and looking at me as though they were the ones who suffered through it all. Once stories are told and information is gathered, the flock flee quickly.

After two weeks in the hospital, it was clear that I needed to leave, I felt like your parents didn’t want me there anymore since the dramatic exit of your lovely red headed angel in waiting, it was time for me to get back to work. We had bills to pay and rent was due and I couldn’t lose my job now . It’s what I do. I take the mess and I gather it all and start to organize it. There was no shame in that, I wasn’t leaving you, I was just waiting for you.

Coming back to Richmond was harder. My job was weird. I handled things with an aloofness I didn’t know I had in me. Nobody really cared what was going on in my head. I would sit at my desk and stare at the screen, recounting over and over again what happened and still trying to figure out the mystery which surrounded the incident. People would come by, and I don’t think they knew what to say or how to be around me, they just looked at me with these sympathetic eyes. I would secretly go to the bathroom and cry, wipe my tears, and pretend to be busy. The other admins would ask me dumb questions about you and I gave automated responses, it was just easier. It’s hard to be sad, confused and mad all at the same time. It gave me a slight distraction though and things were changing there with new people to work with. I answered the phone one day and someone from the local paper wanted my recount of the events. (And you said nobody knew who you were. ha!) I was shocked that someone actually wanted to ask the person you were married to about us. My god, the logic of some people. It was the last time anyone referenced me as your wife.

The phone rang. My co-worker was adamantly, I’m talking like in the movies, trying to distract me from leaving my desk. After the second set of rings, I had to answer. It was HR. I knew what was coming. I could almost see the smirk on her face. She resembled the ever classic mean girl stance, like she had done the world a favor, saving her beloved workplace from the unappreciative, emotionally aloof admin. I thought working in advertising would teach me something. It did. It taught me how to become one with my phone and ignore my husband. It gave me expertise in how to fetch my boss’ coffee, her purse, and her lunch and anything else she decided to forget, I’m surprised she remembered to come to work. How anyone could be seen as a marketing genius when she can’t remember to wipe her ass is beyond me. I had to actually lead her from meeting to meeting, it was humiliating. It taught me how much condescension I could take, but if I had just worked a little harder I could step up in the world. I could have just slept with the right exec and found myself in a more suitable position. This prestigious place that so many of my Richmond friends wanted to work at, that I was fortunate to be an assistant in. The place where affairs were born on conference tables and while others sat in awe of themselves at just how darn creative they were. If you weren’t at the cool kids table, you could almost hear the whispers of unapproval as you passed them in the hallway. I often felt like I was that kid in 8th grade again, with the thick glasses and the Wrangler jeans, and my only friends there came from what I knew…soccer and computers. I recalled thinking, I wait to work there. “You can’t pass up the opportunity,” you said when I got news that I scored an interview. I mean everyone wanted to work there!

“We want you to take this time to pursue what you could be really good at. We just don’t think you are ready to come back to work. It’s good for you to take this time to be with your husband.”

I sat there and cried. When I left you, your medical bill was well into the thousands and I couldn’t even fathom how that could be a real thing. “I’ll just get put on your insurance when I come home.,” you said. Of course, you never got there. I needed this job. I think I tried to bargain with HR lady, but she looked at me with the saddest eyes and said, “Don’t worry, you’re talented, you’ll get something else.” Oh, I thought this was the place you went to if you were talented? Apparently, it’s where you go to have your soul crushed and be banished from the golden gates of coolness.

Drinking had become sport and of course after such gently put news, I did what I did, I called one of our friends which didn’t have time for me and then I went to the bar and proceeded to angrily shoot Jameson, a lot of Jameson, luckily, ha luckily, the owner of the pub asked me if I wanted to work there. From the pearly gates of advertising to the familiar cage of waitressing, but at least I could be myself and have access to the liquid novocaine that helped me forget my life. I mean, I left New York, that was the highest of all achievements, to come back here because I wanted a wrought iron fence and wrap around balcony.

When people split up, so do the friends. There are always sides. My side was always with you. No matter what was going on with us or what could have been, I always chose you. People told me I was nuts and “how big of me” to continue to visit you, I thought that was a strange response. Why would I not visit the man who was a part of my whole life for 14 years. How could I not, no matter the circumstance. Those people don’t mean much to me any longer. It’s weird deleting that history, but it truly is a test of friendship. The ones who stand by your side when shit gets real, those are the people I want to let in. The hardest part is losing you. It’s not being able to talk about my day, or how some bitch cut me off on the way home, or laughing about some funny meme I saw today. The hell of it all is not losing those friendships we had, they had no problems forgetting us, but it’s knowing I have to walk past you in the crowd. It’s coming to terms with the end of the beginning of the end.

I decided this year I would stop trying to “herd” and finally become my truest self, the one who deserves to be asked to the dance. It took everything i had on Christmas day not to text. I received three messages that day. Yours was not one of them. It will be six months since my two unanswered texts to your family. The song is soon to be over, and as a million reasons float through my head, still, I stand unchosen and unfought for. Still it is you I cheer on, it’s you I want to have a conversation with, and it’s you who still understands me better than most. Through the years I’ve been replaced, forgotten, told I was never liked when we were together, and ignored, but I also gained some really amazing people in my life. Even my mom is my friend now! So, while the whispers subsided and life has gone on, and I muse at the fake friendships and the aloof nods of recognition, just know, I stand here, still fighting for you even though the fight for me ended a long time ago.

[allmymisters]

For the Love of Notes

I know you have Science class in here and I hope it’s ok to write you, but I think you’re really cute. Mr. Carr is in a good mood today, I think he might have had a date with Mrs. Cart this weekend. Ha ha! Hope to see you in the hallway again. I also just realized we went to pre-school together and I have a picture of you. If you write me back just leave it here for me.

Bye.

I remember writing a note to Alan Cormen in 7th grade. I left the note for him in my science lab drawer because I knew he sat at the same table. He wasn’t interested. Most the boys I had crushes on back then weren’t interested. When I moved to Richmond, I had the biggest crush of my life that lasted from eight grade through high school. I also wrote him a note commenting on his beauty and skateboarding skills. That also was a failed attempt at written confessions of love.

From 8th grade until the end of high school, notes were the highlights of my day. I never knew when I was going to get one or who it would be from. My girlfriends mostly exchanged with me all day and it was easy to scribe the bubble letters of yore while in Ms. Pilkington’s English class. I would occasionally get notes from my guy friends as well, usually with Misfits, Metallica, Iron Maiden, or skateboarding graffiti adorning them. I cannot forget the actual folding of the notes, you had to do the one with the “tab” that you would pull out to open it and people actually wrote the word “PULL” on it. Sometimes they would get elaborate and show up as triangles or origami. Notes would get passed in the hallway between periods, they were in my locker when I changed books, and sometimes you’d find them mysteriously in your notebook. I remember Freshmen year, sitting in Mr. Wilt’s World Studies class and exchanging notes with Meredith Snellings consisting only of lyrics from The Smiths, and I remember the notes I’d get from my friend Sara who had beautiful penmanship and always wrote incredibly concise and intellectual letters on music or a guy or the punk rock show we went to the past weekend. It was also where you penned your scandalous gossip:

What were Lindsey and MaryBeth doing at the show?! Those girls are such harlots trying to get with the guys in our scene. Oh and did you know that Nicki Owen is pregnant! I guess she won’t be on the cheerleading squad for much longer. I saw her crying in the bathroom. See you at lunch!

Yes we used the word “harlots” because it sounded better than “slut”. We also had NOTEbooks which were passed around between a group of friends. Each period a different girl would write and then pass it on the next. The first time a boy said he loved me was on a note, claiming I was the raddest girl at school. Swoon. Then he wrote me a letter two weeks later breaking up with me and then I wrote a letter to him telling him to fuck off. Notes were such a huge part of how we communicated back then and it was exciting if you got a note handed to you. Notes were the way to confess untold secrets, to profess love, and to tell your best friend she was being an asshole at lunch trying to be too cool. You’d discuss the new CD you bought over the weekend, write poetry, or plan out secret parties. It would come on loose leaf, colored or sometimes sketch book paper, but always with doodles or lots of hearts and signed with a LYLAS (Love ya like a sis) or Later Sk8ter or a See Ya . It was special because you knew they were taking time out of their day to put pen to paper.

So now, we have email, text, and video chatting, and to be honest when email came out I treated it with as much enthusiasm as I did getting notes. In the beginning, I’d light up with joy looking at my inbox. The emails I receive currently consist of telling me what to do, what to buy, how to buy it, what bills to pay, when to go to things, where to get the best deal, and so forth. I haven’t received a proper personal email in almost…6 years. Sure, I’ve received “Likes”, Emojis, texts pages long, but none of that written communication excites me, it’s just become commonplace and sometimes the only time you receive anything worth reading is to tell you that you’re being a certain way. It’s become a place where people can abbreviate feelings and sentiments, a text can have some pretty involved meaning, but something about it lingering there and the urge to have to answer it right away takes away from the significance, to me. Not even through Facebook Messenger do I receive a lot of correspondence. It’s all very direct and with serious need. It’s the place you contact people you don’t have email addresses for. I still find it oddly strange to announce the death and births and marriages online. There’s something impersonal about it, it lacks the tangibility of the sentiments. And yes, Facebook has replaced the folded papers of youth, but what are people actually saying on your wall? “HBD”? “I saw that!” “I was at that show!” Pruned and lackluster remarks.

When I lived in New York, each restaurant I dined in had postcards. I loved that. I used to sit and eat and actually write out a postcard to people and send it on the way home. I think we all still feel something when we get home and there is a card or a letter for us in the mail. The feel of it alone to tear open an envelope handwritten and addressed to you. When I was internet dating, I made it part of my criteria for them to have to correspond with me in some pen to parchment form. Seems odd to some, but I found it entertaining, the notes I’d get or the photo of notes I’d get if they were remote. The ones who actually carried it out were the ones I gave my time to, you can only get so many horrid dick pics in a day. I’d get post it notes:

Here lies my favorite thing to eat at lunch. Doesn’t it look delicious?

Then there was an arrow drawn to the sandwich.

I’d leave notes like this on my way out of Mister’s apartment and he told me he loved waking up to them, but he would rather wake up to me instead, (insert gagging here). Sweet right?

Thank you so much for the wonderful evening. Coffee is ready and I hope to see you later.

My ex husband and I were legendary for the notes he would leave each other, especially like when he would leave early for a tour:

I’m going to miss you so much baby. Have a great day! I love you!

or when I used to come by his apartment when we were dating and he wasn’t there:

Hi! I came by to say hello and see if you wanted to get something to eat. I listened to that Miles Davis CD you leant me and it was good! I’ll be around later if you want to hang.

to after 5 years of marriage, me leaving these types of notes:

Can you please take out the fucking trash and put the dishes away!

I think the art of letter writing has gone out with the art of conversation. I’m a sentimental fool, I have letters from decades ago that I keep in a box because one day I had hoped to share it with my kids and grandkids as a kind of historical recollection of the person I was or written proof of words of love that were volleyed back and forth between misters. To me, there is still something magical about receiving a letter. It’s the same feeling you get when you open a book, you know?

I decided that this year I would get back into letter writing or at least postcard writing. I was in Stella’s for lunch the other day and they had one in the checkbook, so I wrote a note to a friend of mine in Richmond. Seems silly, but I know when he got it he was thrilled.

Hi there! I’m sitting at Stella’s and was thinking about that place we used to go to in New York when you came to visit. OMG, I miss that place. This red wine I’m drinking right now is freakin’ delicious. How are you? We haven’t seen each other in ages, we should hang sometime soon. I hope all is well and I just wanted to send a hello and how are you. Tell Jamie hello for me!

Ciao, J

Who knows, maybe it will be reciprocated and I will come home to something other than what I owe someone or 20% off at Bed, Bath & Beyond. Mr. Spectacular started collecting nice pens and inks when we stopped seeing each other, I will bet anything he’s never written one love letter with them. Sometimes it’s nice looking at the pen strokes and not having the immediate urge to reply back, but when you do, it will take time and effort. We have gone back to collecting records, making cassette tapes, and going to barber shops, so why not delve into the lost art of writing. You remember that thing you do with a pen, right? If you want to really mess with someone, write one in cursive and send it to a millenial. They will think it’s some coded instruction. But, seriously, how much would you make someone’s day by simply sending a postcard. Have fun!

[allmymisters]

For the Love of 2018 - GOOOOOAAAAALS!

I didn’t get the black stallion I was hoping for this year. I tend to have high expectations I suppose. 2018 had its splashes of cherished moments in addition to downright depressing hidden gems. The sudden losses of very dear friends for one. Those were blows I was not prepared to experience and, screw you 2018 for giving me those moments. I’m no stranger to tragedy (have you read this site?), but this year’s tragedies were a vast array of empathetic reassurances that there is no explanation for the sheer magnitude of such occurrences nor through any fault of their own. It just sucks to have to go through it and you’ll be struggling with it for the rest of your life.

I think everyone was stressed the hell out this year. Frustrated and angry, there were a lot of opinions and entertaining thoughts on where we should or should not be, as a society and as a nation. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the weight of the world as I did this year. I didn’t like people before, but 2018 proved how much my contradictory persona could take. Humanity is a raw and evil sort of thing letting way to bursts of sunlight at any given moment which results in confusion and downright rage. I was deleted, blocked, called names, and asked to duel a few times this year, all for, having a valid belief that my truth is not your truth. On the other hand I learned some people I’ve known a majority of my life have some really skewed views of what they support. Speaking of ending relationships…my friend of 15+ years decided that she could no longer remain in our relationship and instead broke up with me on the grounds of…This is unknown at this time as to why our oh so dear friendship came to an abrupt end and was not worthy of any explanation whatsoever. Marriage, babies, narcissism…you know, the silent killers of friendships. It seems pointless to say, but it did open my eyes to how I expect to be treated in life. So, first there was the lack of closure that came with my ex husband and now once again, another uncommunicated shut down. Hmmm…is it me? Did I not give enough? I give too much, more than I should in a lot of instances. People are just weird.

For the first time in a really, wait, ever, I felt like I accomplished something. This little project being one of them. Nobody cares what I write or do or say or feel. I know this. The difference is, I don’t care anymore, it is my therapy, my cathartic medium to deal with my life that will hopefully help others in a relatable and true sense. It truly is the first time I’ve consistently followed through with my own idea, not someone else’s, but mine. What made my year was receiving some very heartfelt thanks yous and that was enough for me. To make another feel better or to move someone with words, that is my art. For the first time in my life I am proud. All the work I’ve done this year, I am proud of, and worked hard for, and it felt like I had just finished a marathon. A marathon I’ve been running for 45 years. What a fulfilling thing, right?

I promise to get to the good parts soon, but not yet, I have to finish through the hard layer first before I get to the chewy center where rainbows shoot out of the asses of babes. Reaching 45 was difficult. Harder than anything I’ve ever done, and with that came a dreadful revelation. I came to terms that my physical self is no longer twe—, I mean, thirty-five. No longer do I feel I can climb fences, dance the night away or have a slap boxing match without being completely winded in ten minutes. The white hair that has accompanied my raven locks is disorienting, and the extra pounds which make me cry on most days because what women doesn’t want to look hot in her skinny jeans, but instead replaces her lacy unmentionables with…COTTON!? It has affected me profoundly. One thing they don’t tell us women getting older is how terrifying it is, physically and mentally. How we don’t feel attractive, how I cannot look anyone remotely attractive in the eye, and how the thought of donning a bathing suit would suddenly feel absolutely horrifying. They don’t tell you of the anxiety, the insomnia, and what the discovery of cellulite does to a woman or that missing a period will make you feel absolutely regretful and sad. How forgetful one becomes as she frantically tries to locate the cell phone she is currently speaking on or wishing for her tiny boobs of 34Bs again instead of this, what is this blob coming out of the side of my bra. I know, I really shouldn’t care. I have a mister who loves me as I am, but ladies as we know they can tell us we are gorgeous all day long but in the end it only matters is we feel uncomfortable, and I know, boo hoo right? Get over it and be stronger right? I will eventually, I just don’t like it.

I suffered my first panic attack and god forbid, my last. I had no idea. For all those who suffer this on a constant basis, I am so very sorry. It was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced, to be in small out of town diner, while you sit across from your loved one. A regular morning waiting for a server who doesn’t come while you are reminiscing about the spectacular night you’ve had together, and then for no reason at all, it happens. As I sat there with cold hands and irregular heart beating, body feeling disconnected, I imagined how awful it is that I, ME, was going to die in this amazingly terrible diner amongst strangers. For about 30 minutes, I concluded that it would be as easy as that and I looked at him and thought, at least I was loved and had loved again.

It’s a odd spectrum of emotions when you lie in bed at night and what used to be something so easily attainable becomes a labyrinth of questionable moments in life.

Why did I have chocolate tonight? Why did that person not text me back? Am I ever in my life going to fucking be appreciated for the work I do? Why am I so very broke and why did I just spend $14.99 on an Adobe app? Does he still find me attractive? Why didn’t I have children? Was i supposed to have children? Do people think I’m stupid? Did I go over 1200 calories today? How could there have not been one single carton of 2% milk!? Shit, I forgot to buy saline solution again! I hope my parents don’t die soon, what if I die before them…

And it goes on and on throughout the night. So yeah, lots of things occurred in 2018 I’ve never experienced before. Thanks for the new adventures! I found very little to say in 2018, not in person at least. I’ve embraced my Aquarian aloofness this year. I disconnected like I’ve never done before and found myself in very little meaningful conversations in the outside world. It baffled me really. For the first time in my life verbal exchanges were challenging. I just couldn’t connect. It was as though someone had taken my speech and turned it into a whole new non-language causing me tongue tied instances of pure lack of eloquence and articulation…embarrassing. Are you wondering about the good parts?

2018 was transitional to say the least. We got out of a very small apartment with a devil of a landlady into a very beautiful house in a new neighborhood. I really fell in love with being home. This place feels like a haven and despite still looking at unpacked boxes and unfinished furniture, it has become a place to relax and entertain at my whim. I am now the proud owner of a fire pit and a grill! Who knew such small domestic luxuries could bring about such sweet comfort! I tried to buy a house this year which didn’t pan out as I wanted it, but sometimes there’s a bigger plan. In turn, I sold my first house as a real estate agent this year which brought me a feeling of accomplishment. I can do it! Yes I can! A motto that held little weight before. Small, but an endeavor I never thought I’d ever add to my repertoire. I often wonder if I’m just real comfortable doing then jobs at once.

Karaoke. The activity that I refused to do in any public place became commonplace in 2018. Somehow singing Concrete Blonde and Leslie Gore brought a silent release for me and just the sheer gathering of friends in these instances made me genuinely joyous. The fact that people wanted to spend time with me, strange as that may be, was the one thing I felt humanly connected to. I felt strangely isolated most days. I attended a wedding, reconnected with family, and watched a lot of soccer. Simple joys. I was involved in a study about race and gender, wrote about people I admire, and received notes of praise. I read stories at night, saw tons of music, and dreamt of distant lands. I ate delicious meals, watched tons of film, and dove into photography. I wrote words. I said goodbye to the past. I made amends. I attoned and forgave. I laughed harder than ever and I cried seldomly. I felt loved. It went quickly and I suppose as we age it goes by at lightning speed. I long for the days of long summers and spontaneous trips.

What will 2019 be? I can only hope for less death, less loneliness, less heaviness. I am wondering if I too have become nothing but 1s and 0s and perfectly angled moments. Who will reach out, if anyone, to say hello that isn’t summed up in an abbreviated expression. Will the “We need to hang out” become an actual instance of beverages and exchanges of laughable tales or will it be the continuous cycle of empty efforts spread across another year. There are no resolutions for me, there is just a continuous wanting to better the briefness of existence. I want to read more books, see more music, cry at art, take better pictures, write more stories, take more trips, share more experiences, find inspiration, and motivate to healthier habits and less sour cream and onion chips at midnight. I want to shoot bows and arrows, play more pool, and swim in the ocean. I want to see my nieces and nephew, take my mom someplace new, and visit my dad. We always have such high hopes in the beginning don’t we? The ending of one cycle, packed with memories in our virtual treasure box, and the rebirth and renewal of new ones. Isn’t that the beauty of it all? What will this new skin look like? What stories will I tell next…

[allmymisters]

Nightingale Syndrome

"I don't understand how this keeps happening to me!" says my friend. This has been yet another relationship involving a woman who has broken her wing. A bird that takes and takes and never gives. A bird whose broken wings never mend. 

I have a lot of friends who have this syndrome. I had this syndrome. It is not one easily shrugged off because a lot of us are nurturing and generous people. Some of us aren't duped by puppy dog eyes or understand the game these people play sometimes. We have a deep need to fix people we fall in love with. Whether it's drug addiction or pure laziness, we think we are that person's savior. And for a minute, we are.

I was married once to someone who was an enabled creature. For years it was right there in front of my face, but I had not seen or acknowledged it, until it was too late. He wasn't a bad person, nor was he one that would take advantage because he himself did not know he was an enabled person, but point being, it was unnoticeable. That story is for another time, I want to get back to my friend.

My friend dates younger women...a lot of younger women. Nothing wrong with this. Most of these younger women are going through some sort of obstacle in their life, ie. can't keep a job, like to party too much, enjoys recreational drug use like it's their job, bad breakups with jealous boyfriends. This friend of mine is a really great guy, he's one of those guys who will literally give you the shirt off his back, buy you ten more, clean them for you and make sure you have somewhere to wear them. I've seen him get his heart broken several times by women who take advantage of his kindness and let's be honest, his monetary generosity. At one point he was involved with someone who just couldn't get their shit together, so he got her an apartment thinking it would be a haven for her. So while she was trying to "get herself together" in said apartment, she was also helping herself to her ex boyfriend and enjoying popping pills daily.

So, why continue this pattern?

Ah that is the question, isn't it? There's a few factors at play here. One, we try and fix others so they can love us better. Two, we try and patch their problems in hopes they will patch the holes in our hearts. Three, we continually want to save others because inadvertently, we are selfish. What ends up happening is we end up settling for this vicious cycle of take, take, take with very little giving because we feel we've done something good, good, good for these people.

Drug addicts are selfish people. There's not a lot you can do to fix a drug addict unless it requires you to sit at an intervention or go with them to therapy. Addicts are adept at playing on heartstrings, "I really want to get better, I just need you by my side because you are the only person who loves me...."  It also comes with periods of really great times where you think everything is hunky-dory, but it is always suffered by deeper bad times and once they tire of your bedside manner, they're gone. There are a lot of wounded animals out there, one more cunning than another. YOU AREN'T GOING TO SAVE THEM. They aren't going to praise your name when things are said and done. I think sometimes this pattern becomes prevalent with men because it gives them power. They want to do the nice and heroic thing, but truthfully, they want to feel powerful, as though that person will look up to them, red cape flowing in the wind.

The observation I made about my friend was simple. I asked him if he was afraid of commitment. He looked at me like I was crazy. I said, "Don't you think it a little strange that you only choose wounded birds?" He was still confused. I had to point out to him that I thought he chose these particular damaged women because it was his own safety net of not having to commit to a relationship. When things didn't work out, which of course they did not, it would be easy for him to walk away with no regrets. He did what he could for them, right? They were messed up, right? These women always came back into his life. Sometimes in a better state and other times not so much, but they lingered around him constantly and that's when I observed that he fed off of that. Needless to say, he thought perhaps I was wrong. Nobody likes to admit they are human. Addiction is addiction. They were feeding off of his gifts of love and he was feeding off of them for heroism. 

He's still dating younger women and he still has commitment issues, but I have noticed a change. These women aren't flailing about, looking for a temporary fix. He's developing real friendships that don't involve codependency, on either end. He'll still give you the shirt off his back, he's just being a bit more particular who's back he's giving it to.

My 2 Cents: It's easy for anyone to fall into this pattern. We have a tendency to want to help people. Be careful that it doesn't turn into a codependent relationship. Know that you are not going to save them from their demons, only they can do that for themselves and NEVER involve financial stability for them or they'll be hobbling around you constantly. Help by driving them to AA, help by attending group therapy sessions with them, help by cooking them a meal, and help by not being available to them all the time, help by encouraging confidence in them to go out and do something with their lives. Be honest with them, even if it stings a little. Also, if they are in their 30s or 40s and they need to snort Adderall so they can "focus" on their dates with you? Walk away. That wounded little bird you're hoping to mend will become the albatross around your neck. 

[allmymisters]

The Saint and The Sinner

Marriage. In these moderns times, it doesn’t seem like much. A formality of some sort or a way to stick it to the man. When you decided to propose to me, it had been six years of deep friendship, a relationship unbroken. When we met, you were 20, I was 23. You were a golden boy with a Walton-like family and I was a nice girl with a codependent tendencies and a healthy addiction to being in love. I think, you and I fell in love quite easily, but we had a few complications in that revelation. I want to proceed with this candidness with the complete and utter truth that I was incredibly in awe of you. I loved you til it hurt and it hurt a lot.

I had a reputation from the time I had my very first sexual encounter until well into my 20s. I was fully aware of the tools I was equipped with and did not hesitate to utilize them advantageously. You and I made no excuses for the intense passion we had for each other. It was just there, radiating, all the time. Maybe that was part of our attraction to one another — forbidden love. You had a girlfriend and I had just had my heart stomped on. In turn, I needed to have some man fulfill me in some way. It wasn’t healthy, I knew that and whispers around our circle always reminded me that it was looked down upon to be so easily taken with others. I was not the type of woman who would have one night stands, I was looking for THE ONE — at 23.

No matter who I got involved with, you were constantly with me, in my head and in my heart. I didn’t know why the universe decided to torture me with you, but it did and it was excruciating. A few attempts at other relationship material, turned out to be more of a “thanks for the hookup, I’ll see you next Tuesday” scenario. Yet is was I, who was the promiscuous one. I respected your relationship and our friendship was strong enough that we could hang out without damage. She was finally revealed to me at some point and I decided the best way to handle my feelings was to befriend her. I remember running up to your room one afternoon to hang out and heard the audible stirrings of two people not wanting to be disturbed. It had become real.

There were times when I would resist seeing you because it would mess me up inside. I didn’t like that feeling and then you and I resisted no more. It was as though I was that whole Pam and Jim scenario. Drunk and high and having a really fantastic night, we made a bad decision. There’s nothing worse than being a woman and waking up knowing you’ve done something wrong to someone else, but there’s nothing more humiliating than realizing that you didn’t win, that it wasn’t that sunshine of waking up to someone you’ve been in love with since the start. You were angry and upset when you woke up to find me there. “How could I have been so weak?” you said. I felt guilt and shame and that I had ruined our friendship. So, I sneaked out of the house and I cried the whole way home. I didn’t see you for a week or so. I did what I always did in those situations, I wrote a letter, apologizing.

I think we loved each other from the moment we met. I think we still love each other in some distant way that is buried deep in my heart, and lost forever. They don’t tell you what happens in a marriage. Marriages aren’t meant to be this fairytale thing, this untouchable magical love fountain. Marriage is hard. Marriage is work. Marriage is two different people coming together to be…two people coming together. See, this is where we had it right. We never believed that you had to become the other person. We were individuals who loved each other, but were unwilling to give up our identity in that union, in fact, we forbade it. I loved that about us, but it is what ultimately destroyed us too. Monogamy is man made, just as marriage is. Once you understand that, you can be comfortable with being with someone forever.

We both thought it was healthy that we found other people attractive. You were on tour constantly with many young women, but I never once thought you’d engage in anything suspicious and for all I know you didn’t. I was alone a lot, but I never wanted anyone else but you. And that’s how it was for a long time. Our emotional sides dealt with marriage very easily, it was the day to day that took its toll. The not having the dishes done when I came home from my crappy job, the never once in the years we were together did you clean a bathroom or fold clothes, and the inability to open your mail. Sure, they are little teeny stupid things, but they wore on me. Then came the late nights after your drum lessons, while I had dinner ready hours before. So I compensated and worked on my self-made webzine, I went to art shows, burlesque, theater, dance performances, I engulfed myself with these things to maintain my identity within our marriage. We balanced it all by spending the time we needed together, but for me the responsibility that began to shape while we were married and my expectations for a husband outweighed our blissful union and that is what began the fissure.

I hung out with men all the time. In fact I preferred it adamantly. I wanted men cutting my hair, serving my drinks, and engaging me in conversation. That does not mean I wanted to fuck other men. I’ve always had a “man” mind. This statement today would get me in a lot of deep shit. It is simply put that I found camaraderie and common interests with mostly men. I however, am a woman. A woman who enjoyed having intellectual conversation with attractive men who I secretly knew wanted to fuck me. When you were gone, it was nice being admired and appreciated for who I was, not for who I was married to. I always respected our marriage and what I was once comfortable with before, I became more suspicious of later. It is easy to spot issues in a marriage, even if you want to ignore them. Patterns began to break and the thread that once held us together began unraveling.

It was me who started getting curious. I began to peruse Friendster and MySpace for old boyfriends. I needed validation. I needed to know that I was worth being with and that sounds really stupid to say out loud, but I felt all I did at that time was take care of you, support you, and work. It became a trait in you I found unattractive, but what I became was worse.

to be continued…

[allmymisters]

Very proud of our partnership with @richmondkickers this season. Huge thank you to @santiluma for all his hard work! #rvastrong #richmondkickers #vasenbrewing #ladyjrva #rvacraftbeer #rvafooty #rvasoccer (at Väsen Brewing Company) https://www.instagram.com/p/BpRzIiZHpRq/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1n7p8z218usm4

[allmymisters]

How 'bout Them Mets?

You wouldn’t think taking my car to get inspected would be something I look forward to, but I enjoy it. For about 20-30 minutes I take a nostalgic whiff of oil and gas. It reminds me of my youth watching my dad fix the car or helping my uncle by handing him tools. There’s something about a garage that is like gathering in a kitchen or a barbershop, it’s a conversation hub.

As I pulled my car into the garage at Scott’s Auto, I see my mechanic talking to an older gentleman. It’s 8am, Louis hasn’t even gotten the first smudge of oil on his shirt and I’m praying there’s nothing wrong with my car and it passes inspection because my strategic maneuvers for avoiding cops has been challenging lately. As he works on it, I decide to mention how dangerously people are driving these days and both agreed accordingly, which lead to a discussion about how people are no longer considerate. Louis told me it would be a minute and John, the older gentleman, suggested there was a stool I could go sit and wait on so I wouldn’t have to stand and I obliged him. I sat there awkwardly for about five minutes when Louis came over and told me I had a headlight out. “Dammit, never fails!” I get up from my stool and walk over to John. “It’s always something, huh?” he sympathizes. “Yup, always,” I replied.

I looked over at the riding lawn mower and mentioned how I’ve had to cut my grass so much that I needed one of those because I have a sizeable backyard now. John, engaged. We began talking about the weather and within a fifteen minute window he proceeded to tell me he sold and repaired lawn equipment and machinery including appliances. We shifted to my neighborhood and how much I loved it and he mentioned his friend who lived up the street from me. I discovered that John was a retired fireman and that he left because he was dragged by a firetruck injuring his leg. “I almost died, but the good lord saved me. I knew it was time to retire.” “And here you stand!” I celebrated. He didn’t hesitate to ask me what I do for a living and we talked about Richmond neighborhoods and growing up here and there. We talked about community and gentrified neighborhoods. We talked about food and my nationality. We talked about New York and where my mother lived. I got and gave a substantial amount of information in such a short period of time and it was…fulfilling.

As Louis put the 10/19 sticker on my windshield, I felt good. I woke up tired and hurried to get my car there, but for thirty minutes or so I got to talk to these men over coffee and the smell of garage. I asked Louis about his son and he looked surprise that I remembered. With all the crap I read daily on my social media feeds and consistent non-connection I feel in work and personal relationships, it was refreshing to “shoot the shit” with these two men. It was more than likely the highlight of my day. I sometimes wonder why people are so reluctant to talk to one another. My friends always give me a hard time because I will talk to anyone because I like to hear stories. They complain because don’t want to be hassled or they don’t have the time for conversation and I thought about youth again. How we would call each other up on the phone and talk for hours or how my parents would have “company” over and play cards while catching up on their lives. My phone rings now and I hit ignore, but I find myself uncomfortable when there’s no conversation in a crowded room. Last night as I sat at the bar sipping my wine I observed the bright white lights of phones lit up as one person read the news, one his text messages, the other a game. I was talking to the staff, fluffy stuff, but talking to them nonetheless and it reciprocated. It is excruciatingly annoying when I ask someone a question and get a one word answer. It also makes me think they don’t want to be bothered.

I guess all I’m saying is, we should engage a little more. When was the last time you spoke to a stranger besides asking your server for something? When was the last time you sat at a table without a phone? Why have we decided to stop talking to each other? I’ve decided to give myself a little assignment. I want to see how many conversations, real conversations I can have in a week and how many are started with me and what the subject matter will be and where will they take place. Feel free to participate. #talktoeachother

[allmymisters]

#meneither

I began a relationship with someone that didn’t turn out the way it should have. I didn’t write this story to be another #metoo statistic. I’m quite aware of the dangers that women have faced in their lives. Not all women, but a lot of women. My experience and how I handled it was due to a backdrop I don’t wish to exploit. I do however, want for people to understand that things are circumstantial. Everyone has their own experiences and history and mine is my own.

I don’t like being told how to feel or why I do the things I do. I am who I am. All the things I’ve experienced in my life have made me who I’ve become today. I was dealing with a lot when I was growing up and the way I handled things was not necessarily passive, but also not necessarily strong. Mr. Scarcore was my experience and one I never saw myself ever being in.

I have a strong belief that men and women are different. We were built that way. I don’t want to be a man. I like it when guys treat me to dinner or open the door for me. I never feared what men could do, I always knew they could do it. I had men in my life that were good people, who took care of me, who protected me and who fought for me and I’ve had women in my life treat me like I was scum of the earth, who called me names, who wanted to fight me, and who betrayed me easily. I’ve had men say inappropriate things to me and I’ve put them in their place. I’ve woken up in a drunken stir to find my boyfriend pulling my underwear down. I’ve been privy to uncles molesting nieces, a step-father’s private peep show from a secret kitchen hole to a showering step-daughter, mothers having sex with sons’ skating buddies, and boyfriends stalking girls at work. People in general are disgusting. I don’t have a lot of faith in humanity and I’m not one of those people who have to voice every single incident I encounter.

For me, I stayed in an abusive relationship because I had a psychological need to be filled. Nobody can tell me what that experience was like except for me. I think with everything going on in current times, and I commend those who want to come forward and tell their story, but what really just confuses me is that this is not a new issue. This issue has been since the beginning of time. You cannot expect a man to not want to touch you if your boobs are in his face. We are at the very core animals, intelligent ones, but animals nonetheless. Do some of you plan on reworking the entire gender assignment?

I’m conflicted in a lot of ways on this issue because I believe these things are situational. I’m with you ladies, I get the whole movement, but I question some of these accusations. Do I think Aziz Ansari deserved what he got. Do I think my safety is more important than finding a new job. Do I think there’s a political agenda being forced down all of our throats. Do I think the media is the devil. Do I think there’s propaganda being shown on both sides through social media. Do I think the whole “non-verbal” cues is sufficient communication for what one may or may not want. Do I think i would ever be “forced” to watch anyone masterbate (mabye if there was a gun to my head). Should I tell you guys about the time I let my boss come to my house so I could have sex with him. I know women who think it’s ok to post sexually suggestive photos of their bodies and expect to be treated with respect and I know guys who have sent dick pics to their potential girlfriends to show them how much they want them. Do I think the way we view sex and relationships has evolved throughout the years, absofuckinglutely. The point being, do you really care what I think or do you care more about what you have to say?

Blurred lines are not to be ignored and telling people how to think and feel is not helping. I’m all about the good fight, but I also do it in my own way. My job is to share my experiences with my audience and if it helps someone overcome their trials then I’ve done a good job. It took me a long time to deal with what happened to me in that particular relationship. I had become quite co-dependent after that (ask boyfriends 1994-1996). I get triggered by certain tones and actions with men (this whole choking thing you all love so much, WTF). I was in a loving relationship that turned into an abusive one and partially with the help of the people I loved and trusted, men and women. It’s not an easy thing to overcome especially when you blame yourself for enduring it all. I’m not a hashtag. I’m not a victim. I’m not a generalization for my sex. Just because I’m not standing with a crowd of women wearing a pink hat doesn’t mean I don’t stand for something. Just because I think there are things men do really well and there are others women exceed at, does not make me a non-feminist. And just because I was taught very early in life that it is better to be the femme fatale than the real life version of Barbie, doesn’t make me weaker or stronger in any way.

All you have to do as the human race is to open your ears and listen. Be willing to have a discussion and also willing to accept the fact that we aren’t going to agree on everything. I shouldn’t have to be embarrassed by going against the grain sometimes. It’s like smoking in front of a daycare to have an opinion that doesn’t match everyone else’s these days. We don’t live in Facebook, we live in the world, the one where we are the most insignificant blips of the universe. So, yes this happened to me and yes, I overcame it. In fact, I’m stronger for it. I see women, friends, who are in abusive relationships. I let them know they don’t have to stay, that they have support. I share my story with them and I always get, “But I love him so much and how can I just leave them?” and I always answer, “Yeah, but how much do you love yourself and don’t you think you’re worth more?”

Things are complicated and emotions are high. I’ve always believed in being a strong woman and I’ve admired those who do the same. The Kavanaugh’s and Trump’s of the world will always exist, it’s up to us to change the system. I stand with my fellow sisters. I empathize with those who have been violated. We can teach our sons to respect women. We can teach our daughters to love and respect themselves. We can turn off the trash and the noise that we so very much like to justify. We can stop treating each other like dicks all the time and get the fuck off our phones for a minute to actually talk to someone. We can intervene when we see something wrong. We can be compassionate and kind instead of righteous and preachy. We can reach understanding. We can go beyond what we are fed and we can use our words to express ourselves.

[allmymisters]

Mr. Scarcore

Author’s Note: Please READ THIS before this particular story.

I wasn’t innocent at 19, but I also wasn’t seasoned. I was good at playing the game and being smart. I liked baiting and then having them actually be impressed by what I had to say. My mother always taught me if you could bring a man across the room with just a look, you had power. I met him at the house where I hung out. He played music with the guy I dated there, I say date, but honestly, it lasted for about a second. Anyway, this Mister, he wasn’t anyone I was immediately attracted to. He wasn’t very tall, he didn’t dress cool, and I couldn’t read him well. We ended up talking from time to time and I noticed he had a sharpness about him, cute freckles and funny lines. He eventually asked if I wanted to hang out sometime and I said sure.

I liked him, I just didn’t know how much I liked him. We had just started to get to know each other with a few make out sessions. He had announced his band was going on a mini tour for a week and we agreed to see each other when he returned. My roommate and I were settling into our new apartment, busy with our zine, and drinking copious amounts of coffee at the Village. We also loved to sit out on the tiny balcony outside her bedroom and crank Adolescents, Descendants and Crass on the record player, basking in the sun.

Boys in bands are frankly, attractive, especially when you don’t know any better. Boys in bands you love, well, they are unattainably attractive. At that time there was one particular guy whose cardigan I wished to prance around naked in and unfortunately, Trent Reznor was unavailable. We’ll call him Case for reference. He was Cobain hot and I was not prepared to discover on a particular balcony basking day that he was my downstairs neighbor.

Hey! Hey. What are you guys doin’? Listening to records. I didn’t know you guys lived here." Yeah, we just moved in. Cool. Feel free to come up anytime.

It’s so easy to play it cool when your stomach is doing flip flops at a hundred miles an hour. “…come up sometime?” What was I thinking. Like he seriously would come up and I was in no way cool in that delivery. He apparently didn’t think he was playing it that cool either because he decided to bait me with notes under my door which were essentially delivered to my bedroom. Who needed a living room when three of you were living in a one bedroom for $350 a month. The few notes he left were cryptic but I’m a sucker for words on paper. The mixed tape I received next was the clincher and he ended up coming up, you know to discuss the tunes he chose. I liked him in all his strangeness and hotness. We hung out as people did in 1992 without cell phones. We listened to music while he and I sat on my twin bed. He had put my roommates feather boa around his neck and had on sunglasses. I was listening to him talk, but I was thinking about his lips on mine. Apparently tickle fighting is conducive to make out sessions, long make out sessions. And then he was gone. I shut the door behind him and passed out asleep smiling, but wanting more. I got more. One afternoon I ended up in his apartment and we ended up in bed. Delightful. Afternoon delightful.

I wasn’t in a committed relationship. There were no boundaries set. Mister arrived a week later and he called me to hang out. He came over and as conversation flowed, and I was happy to see him, he suggested we go to lunch. As we descended the stairs, Case walked out of his apartment.

Hey man! Oh Hey. What are you up to? Just got back from that tour and grabbing some lunch. Huh, cool, you wanna come see this new amp I got.

“Fuck.” Yep, I had no idea they knew each other. It was a blur to me, all I heard was "guitar, amp, girlfriend.” Wait, girlfriend? I wasn’t anyone’s girlfriend! I couldn’t wait to get out of there as I cooly skimmed through some zine in the corner. I said bye, but I could see the confusion in those big brown eyes. I myself was confused with the whole “my girlfriend” reference. Mister luckily had to be somewhere and lunch was cut short and we didn’t really get into the whole girlfriend label thing. I ran back to the apartment and decided to explain things downstairs. He opened the door and the look on his face was not any kind of inviting. After explaining, he basically said he couldn’t do anything like that with me again, that it was obvious his friend had feelings for me and if he had known he would have never engaged in such activities. There you have it, decision made and humiliation followed. I kept my mouth shut and began a very committed relationship with Mister.

After living in my first apartment for a year, my roommates decided that we needed a bigger place. We weren’t hanging out as much and our boyfriends were pretty consuming. We found another place on the same row and it didn’t take long for it to become a haven for a variety of passersby, some whom, I didn’t want in my face while I was brushing my teeth some mornings. I dealt with it by spending many a night with Mister and his roommates. I also decided that I would be going back to school in the Fall to pursue my fashion career. I felt stable. A boyfriend. A job. An apartment. It all felt like the right time to go back to school since all the people I was meeting were either at VCU or still in high school. Straight edge kids hanging out at band houses was pretty commonplace back then.

It started unexpectedly. A year of our relationship had passed. There was meeting of the parents, exchanges of “I love you”, and this very meat and rice gal converting to vegetarianism to comply with his veganism. My roommate had come to visit me at his apartment. It was the only place she knew I’d be since I hated ours. I was just waiting for the ‘moving into together’ conversation with Mister. I remember she had called her boyfriend and you know when your friend or boyfriend says something you’re embarrassed by and you try and cover it up with the whole ‘Oh, they didn’t mean that..’ spiel? “Fuck that whore!” I don’t know how one covers that exclamation up. I genuinely don’t care what people think, but I do care what my friends think and he was a good friend. I also have never been associated with such verbiage in my life and so it was a little shocking to my ears. When I asked her about what he meant by that, she confronted me.

Did you fuck Case? Yeah, a while ago. Holy shit, why didn’t you tell me? Well, because it happened and then due to circumstances it was done. It was before any of this happened. It was in the beginning not during! Shit, man dudes are dicks, don’t worry about it.

So, I didn’t. And as all things Richmond, it didn’t take long for it to reach him. I was confronted with pierced lips and balled fists. I told him we hadn’t even started dating then and that it was way at the beginning. We talked about it and I was afraid he would break up with me because of it, but then everything seemed ok. There was definitely a change in how people were interacting with me when I went to shows. I’d get mean looks or jokes about me sleeping with entire households or bands. While that was happening, there they were on stage, each weekend, each song with another lecture pontificating about the wrongness of eating meat, believing in the bible, hurting women or tainting your body with alcohol or drugs. Bands who had some positive messages and others with long rants over short songs. There was always a hint of hypocrisy in it, even though I understood the power of having a platform like that. I was however, not some dumb kid blindly following people with a microphone. It all started to get kind of preachy to me.

Promiscuous, a fancy word for slut. Case had told my roommate, “She’s a nice girl, but a bit promiscuous.” For someone who lost their virginity 3 years prior to that statement, I was abhorred by the accusation. In my mind, I didn’t do anything wrong and I felt as though my reputation was being tarnished in some way.

Did you like it when he fucked you? What? I said, did you like it when he fucked you? What are you talking about? When you fucked him, did you say the things you say to me, what did he do to you? No, and that was a long time ago. I thought you were ok with this? It wasn’t like we were in a relationship at the time. I went on tour and you decided to fuck him while I was gone. How many other dudes have you fucked while I was away. What’s it like to be such a whore?

I was horrified. We had just had sex and he had pressed himself up tight against me with his arm over my chest and whispered these things in my ear. He’s not going to talk to me like that! He asked me where I was going, as though he was asking me not to forget to pick up smokes on the way back. “I’m sorry, did I upset you, I don’t know why I said that, Come back to bed, I didn’t mean it.” It was as though for a brief moment I was in bed with the Joker. I was very angry and told him I had some things to take care of and that I’d see him later. It was bizarre behavior, especially in such an intimate setting.

It started slowly. First were the words, then came the fights and then he would psychologically and mentally abuse me. It would make me so angry that I would retreat to my apartment where he would eventually follow, apologize, and bring me back to his place. Each passing week was held in suspense. Each argument followed with a sincere apology and ‘never again’ follow up. I had assumed too much. When you are codependent, it’s very difficult to not want to please someone, you want to avoid conflict so the constant is still present. There were times I just grew numb to the situation. Things would be said passive aggressively and I would ignore them because the next day, we would have a really wonderful time together.

The things that would happen next would send me to a place of fear, anger, and self-loathing. I don’t care what other people do in their sexual lives. That’s not for me to judge or condone. I will say, I personally do not feel comfortable dating someone who is also having sex with someone else. That is just not for me. So when he started taunting me with his newfound bi-sexuality, I began to reach my limit. Our friend from the band house would come over, who was bi and straight edge. They started a zine together and were meeting regularly during the week to discuss content. He would close the door to the bedroom and then the two of them would walk out, hours later, one smiling and the other zipping his pants and smirking at me. Both of them teasing me to tears. I would confront him and he would say I was crazy, that I was overreacting. I would get the same reaction when an unfamiliar girl would be seen leaving the apartment. He was constantly fucking with me after finding out about Case. A snide remark here, a push there and then a sudden admittance that he was sexually abused by his babysitter. He said he would get counseling at school and I believed him. He was taking frequent trips to see his parents in NOVA and I encouraged him, since I thought it helped calm him down. I wanted to believe this was some sort of phase, that he had to work some shit out because, Ladies, how many times have we convinced ourselves we can fix them? The fighting became more frequent and his roommates did not slack in making me feel like I was causing a tumultuous household by making sarcastic remarks of overstayed welcomes. The remedy — work more, go to class, get a new apartment with newfound friends, and clean his place while I was there to show my contributions to his roommates since I couldn’t actually live there.

The holidays were rolling around and his parents would come down for a visit before and all was merry, merry. It seemed strange to me that these guys who were outspoken atheists celebrated such holidays. I was ready for the new year and felt our relationship had gotten slightly better in some ways, but I still didn’t feel right.

Christmas day had come around and as we cuddled and snuggled in bed after being intimate, he said, very sweetly, “So, I fucked Janice during Thanksgiving.” I pushed him away immediately. Janice was an activist and scenester from the DC area who held nothing back in her flirtations with him and conveniently started making frequent visits to Richmond. They had met briefly during a benefit house show. She was no very attractive, overweight, and a bit obnoxious. “What did you just say?” I said, as I pushed away from him. He grabbed my arm and twisted it, bringing me back down to the mattress. “Where are you going?” I told him to stop that he was hurting me and with pierced lips, he whispered, “Now we’re even.” Almost two years later and he was still harboring feelings of discontent over my encounter with Case. How could this still be a thing.

I had had enough. I wanted to leave. I wanted to crawl out my skin, but I didn’t want to anger him further. I knew what happened when I angered him. The last time it happened he chased me into the bedroom where his head fit perfect in between the doorway as I slammed it, knocking him unconscious. Who was I anymore, I didn’t know, but had grown comfortable in my role. This wasn’t a relationship I could just walk out of, I would have to maneuver my way out of it. The thing about an abusive relationship is the understanding of power and in this one, we both had it. I just didn’t know how to utilize it without being completely and proverbially stoned by the crowd.

I began to think I was the one who was wrong. The people I trusted began to treat me as though I had done something wrong and that it was me who instigated the arguments. I just began to believe that this was all punishment for the things I had done and because I could defend myself physically I justified it. What I wasn’t defending myself against was the mental torture. I wasn’t a weak person by nature, but I did have a complicated background that allowed it all to be accepted. I knew I had to do something, but felt helpless and turned against. So, I stayed because I believed that if I had said anything or tried to leave, he would do real harm to me.

For the next few months, I would be pushed, verbally belittled, and shunned. He would make me sit outside while sick in winter to eat my soup because it wasn’t Vegan. He would squeeze me face and tell me to not think of leaving him. He would push my face down in a pillow. He would taunt me with other women and men. He was just cruel. I loathed him. The sight of him pissed me off and the empty preachings of his onstage persona disgusted me — hypocritical and righteous. I began to plot my escape.

The only way I could get out of this was to communicate with someone he knew. I decided to write a letter to one of his roommates/bandmates/best friends. One who knew him better than I did. Every line was a recount and an admission that I was in trouble. I hid it in a journal to wait for the right time to give it to him. I picked up shifts wherever I could so I would avoid him and became distant in my affections. Studying was the only thing that would allow me to be somewhere else. He never liked not knowing where I was or who I was with.

It was the week of midterms and I was also working in the evenings at a local theater. When I arrived home one late night, tired and nervous about my exam the next day, I opened the bedroom door to find him on the floor. On the floor amidst my journals, opened and exposed in all their confessional glory, and the letter, opened, revealing all I had planned. Years of personal truths, all there for him to see. I was deflated in complete horror. He looked up at me, fire in his eyes, and said, “Welcome home.” 

You think he’s going to see this? You think he is going to believe you? You think anyone is going to believe this about me? I can’t believe you think I do these things to you!

He tore the letter up in front of me and I began to cry and to yell loudly, telling him what a violation he had committed and that he needed to leave. He refused and kept apologizing. So here’s the thing, I never ever thought I couldn’t defend myself. Sure, I was fearful, not ever being incapable of giving him as much as he gave me. His usual threats became empty to me, just another blah blah session of how he commanded me. If he pushed me, I pushed him back. If he grabbed me, I’d pull away. So, I eventually gave in and told him I needed to sleep because my exam was the next morning. My roommate met me in the adjoining bathroom and told me she would call the cops, but I said, “No, he’s just upset and I just want to go to bed and deal with this after my exam.” To be honest, I was completely dead inside. I felt hopeless and deserving in some way.

I slowly entered the room, hoping he had fallen asleep, and laid down on my bed with him beside me. He began stroking my hair and telling me how much he loved me. Just like a switch, I had gotten Jeckyll again. I felt my insides turning in disgust, the mere sound of his voice causing me repulsion. “Please, I need to sleep, can we just go to bed and forget this?” He kept nudging closer and closer to me and began the ritual strokings and grinding of a desperate school boy. “Seriously, I just want to sleep,” I pleaded. “You can sleep after. I love you.” he confirmed. I didn’t fight. He climbed on top of me and I laid there, dead to the world as he thrusted inside me over and over again, telling me how much he loved me. Tears streamed down my face and I looked away disgusted by the sight of him. Each “I hate you” pounding inside my head with each thrust he gave me. Then it was over. I turned over, not wanting to look at him. He turned me back to him.

I don’t understand what is wrong with you! Do you not love me anymore? Are you not attracted to me anymore? Why are you crying?! I said I was sorry! Please!

I felt the anger all inside me, it swirled hotly and heavily. I looked at him and spat in his face, as he had done to me once, and then came my rage.

I hate you. I want you to leave, now! I’ve been working all day, I have a midterm and I come home to you reading my journals and going through my personal things and treating me like shit. I also did NOT want to have sex just now as I said I was tired! I don’t want to be with you anymore and I want you to leave now!”

And then it happened. I saw it in his eyes. I felt the blow above my brow. “Oh my God, what have I done,” he cried out immediately. Standing there in his boxers, trembling with tears streaming down his face, “What’s wrong with me!!?” As I stood there in shock and pain, he put his clothes on and ran out the front door. My roommate immediately entered the room and said she was calling the police. “No, it’s over,” I said blankly, while staring at the wall. I just wanted it to be over.

My classmate arrived that morning to find me looking through the cracked door. I had told her I was really sick and couldn’t come to midterms, to please inform our professor. She knew something was wrong and she refused to leave. When I opened the door slowly, she knew something horrific had happened. She saw my face was red and swollen. She told me to pack a bag and that she would be back after the exam. I escaped for a week to her apartment to stay with her and her roommates. She kept me safe until I felt it was ok to go home. He didn’t know where I was or how to contact me. My roommate said he had been skulking around the apartment, but I didn’t care.

I arrived home and it felt strange. I completely severed all ties with all things — the scene, school, some friends. I sat in my bedroom to begin a new journal. I had my window opened, as it was a nice day out and I liked the breeze coming in and it smelled like Spring coming.

Please talk to me.

I heard the plea outside my window. I looked down to see him with eyes that told me he was so very sorry for all that he had done and begged to talk to me. I told him I was done, that he was a really messed up person and that I didn’t want to see him. He shuffled his way out the alley with head down and I breathed in and exhaled in relief. I was also sad. Sad to lose someone I loved and wanted him to be better. Sad that I allowed those things to happen to me. He had to figure out how to fix him and I didn’t hesitate to just move on. It didn’t take long for certain people to tell me the word on the street was that I left him because I fucked someone else. Yes, it was I who cheated on him and since he had the love of the crowd, it was me who be damned. I dealt with that by starting a new life. It is the way I have always dealt with the horrors of my experiences. I analyze them, I learn from it, and I very calmly go on my way.

A good while later, I received a phone call from his former bandmate and friend who I had written the intercepted letter to. He very carefully and awkwardly asked me if anything had ever happened between me and my ex. I confirmed and asked why. “Because he’s been charged with assault,” he replied. It was Janice who was pressing charges. They apparently had been seeing each other and maybe living together. He threw her up against a wall. I couldn’t help, but think how lucky that was all she got…or was it? Cruel thought perhaps, but I considered her part of his game when we were together. She made no mistakes that she wanted him, but she didn’t deserve his wrath either.

I learned a lot of things in that experience. There are times when I’ve been with a man who feels the need to make me feel dumb or I felt the need to please constantly to make up for any imperfections. I dealt with it and I moved on and I don’t hesitate to mention to people that I was in an abusive relationship for practically 2 years of my life. It is a part of my history and he was one of my Misters, I loved him and he broke me down. I have friends from that time who are still friends with him, knowing what he did to me. I have friends who completely banished him from their lives. I had male friends who defended me diligently and threatened to do physical harm to him. I also had girlfriends who called me a “cheating cunt” while others embraced me and protected me. The reactions were across the board, from anger to sadness to plain ignorance. There were people during that time who were aware of his actions, but they never said anything. They played along because who needs complications in their life. I’ve forgiven those friends who betrayed me at that time and to be honest, I don’t reflect upon it much, if at all. I will not, however forget what he did to me and how he made me feel, but he is a reminder that no man will ever control my life or harm me that way again. I do believe that people change. I also believe that someone can become a better person and feel remorse. Maybe he has in his life. Maybe he acknowledge his sickness and mended it. Perhaps. Do I care? Not really. The truth is the scar remains, but in the end my core has healed.

[allmymisters]

Testing 1...2... https://www.instagram.com/p/BnzOSHbHQdF/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=n6kib0kf4hp2

[allmymisters]

Footy in the morning, footy in the evening, footy all damn day! #liverpoolfc #richmondkickers #epllover #ynwa #goreds #rvalove https://www.instagram.com/p/Bnvy9WJnLaw/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=2rqr8l6kmg85

[allmymisters]

Missed Beats

I was foreign to jazz when I met you, it was only used as a tool to portray coolness at parties. If you had it on vinyl, extra points. It was the millennial equivalent to sneaking Johnny Cash onto the playlist. I didn't know dick about jazz, nor was I really concerned about the amount of pretentiousness I could display. I looked at music the way I listened to art, if it made my ears happy I didn't care. When I met you, I was going through a musical transformation. I had a pretty mixed bag of tunes on my playlist, but I kept mainly to the basics and, as all things men, I wasn't unpredictable with the migration to new musical genres, the latest was the immersion of techno and it's quick omittance after a breakup which would bring me back to---goth, punk, industrial, you know the usual suspects.

When I met you, you had just gotten back from Berklee School of Music in Boston. Apparently the winter there was too much for you and I think you had a healthy fear of the Music Theory class. Much to my newfound happiness, you would be pursuing those endeavors at Virginia Commonwealth University. I honestly had no idea anyone could major in jazz percussion. All I kept imagining was you in a penguin suit at the back of the orchestra banging that really big bass drum --- how silly you looked in that image, but like most things of that time, I was a young adult trying to find her way through ramen, a breakup, and who my BFF was that week. 

I had listened to music my whole life. My parents were avid fans, and weekend mornings were filled with the crackle and pop of Motown, the Blues, Zydeco, Latin music, and power ballads...yes, my dad, loves the power ballad, nicely juxtaposed between Glen Campbell and Scott Walker and my mother had a massive crush on Neil Diamond and could sing ABBA's "Fernando" til her voice gave out. The point is, I was no stranger to music, but it was rather routed in my blood from early on.

When I was in third grade I was given the xylophone, made of steel pipes because our school couldn't afford a real one. In 4th grade, I migrated to this little organ my parents got for playing Christmas songs around the house. In 5th grade, I surrendered to peer pressure and joined marching band. We all had to pick which instruments we wanted to play. I did not hesitate in my want to play the drums. I loved the drums. "You can't choose the drums. You're too small for the drums," I was told. My music teacher did not think I was apt enough to carry a snare drum and march at the same time, even though I could place First doing a gymnastics bar routine at the Junior Olympics. "Flute?" He responded with, "No, you don't have the lips for flute and there are a ton of flute players already, how about trombone." I stared off into space on that one. Trombone? How is a girl to look remotely cute carrying a trombone?? It wasn't until I got to the cliche clarinet that the excuses stopped. 

So, you wanted to play drums huh? Yeah, I mean who doesn't want to learn drums? Well, I know a good drum teacher if you are ever looking to learn.

And that's where it all began with you and I. Between paradiddles and double flams, I fell in love with you and in love with jazz. You taught me so much about the construction of music. I have never listened to it the same again. We would listen to Miles or Coltrane in your room and talk about different movements in a composition. It fascinated me, as it was "math" I could understand. It wasn't just because I was crushing on you hard, but it deeply changed my listening capabilities. You were a great teacher and it was difficult to have to stop learning. I had discovered that all these "flirtings" I was experiencing were imaginary, for you, I discovered had a very real girlfriend. It was too intimate and romantic for me to be listening to jazz with you and having you teach me proper stick holding technique. I adapted quickly and decided to have a friend who loved music as much as I did and would soon become a fan of your playing instead.

I've always gravitated towards men in bands. It wasn't something I seeked out, but rather a product of my environment. In high school it was skaters and in college it was musicians. Right after we met, I had one break my heart. It was fortunate that his band dissolved shortly after. It made things easier going to their shows because I loved that band. It has been rare, if even at all, that I've dated a band member whose group I didn't like. Ultimately and honestly, I tend to choose music over men. Robert Smith won a place in my heart long before I started dating, and would always be there with every breakup.

During the early 1990s, as emo started taking over the aggressive hardcore scene here, I was getting introduced to some new sounds and your band was no exception. I have to say it was a bit more civilized than the environment I was coming from --- less wifebeaters, more cardigans. I also retreated from said "scene" due to some unfortunate circumstances and it left a very bad taste in my mouth. Let's just say, boys will be boys and I didn't believe in the cause anymore.

I started going to post-punk shows during this time with reunited friends while attending Goth dance night at the local spot. You would casually tell me when you were playing, and I casually made my presence known. You guys were good. You guys were tall. I didn't have to get punched in the stomach listening to you, so that was nice. So there you were, a jazz percussionist in a post-punk band. I asked you about it, what it was that you were aiming to do, and you plainly said, "Play drums." You aspired to be Elvin Jones, but you would have to settle for Matt Chamberlain if you wanted to see any real success. It wouldn't be until a year later that I would learn just how dedicated to your craft you were, but I was your biggest cheerleader from the beginning. I enjoyed watching you play and picking out certain mannerisms that had become quite common in your playing. You were infamous for sticking out your tongue! 

You showed me a whole different side of you one night in Bogart's backroom. I got to really see your talent as you sat in with a jazz quartet. You could really play. I was proud of you in ways I'd never been proud of a friend before and although I enjoyed your rock shows, the jazz ones were the ones that got me. A year would have to pass before you and I made any kind of music together and within that, we we found our rhythm.

Emo. The first time I ever heard this term for music was in 1991. The first "emo" band I was witness to were a quartet from New Jersey called Policy of 3. Emotional punk rock. Meh, it had some build to it and instead of barking there was wailing, but I did love it! What music that was deemed "emo" after 1995 was, in my opinion, not emo. Semantics I suppose, but you and I grew up with skateboarding, punk rock and good hip hop, we didn't give the glammed up kiddies any street credit for these things. I think you and I were also entering an age where we were being exposed to new bands constantly. Richmond had become a haven for bands, touring and residing.

You started playing and touring with some notable bands during this time. I never thought that it was serious business. I just thought, all of you guys, in your Vans and corduroys, were having a good time. I know, I was having a good time. I loved going to shows at that time and I love going to see you play. I was always up front, rockin' out and of course always with the perfect outfit. If Gwen Stefani did anything for us girls at the time was allowed us to don chokers, baggy cargos and show off our midriffs or was it us who did that for her? 

That year you and I remained close. You kept teaching me, playing for me, exposing me to develop my relationship with music. It was a hard fight not to fall for you. You were smart and I felt more comfortable with you than I did with anyone else. You had become beyond a boyfriend. You had become my friend who I adored and wanted good things for. That was the most resistance I ever allowed myself in my life. I am always the person who visualizes success in her endeavors and I tend to make them happen, but with you, there was something in the way and I respected that. 

You entered my bedroom in a huff. My heart literally fluttered at the site of you. Tall, hovering over me. I hugged you and welcomed you home from your cross country trip with your boys. You had sent a postcard or two and inside me, I knew you cared. You handed me a tape.

Listen to this. I made it and put some new music on there for you.  Wow, thanks! I gotta go, but hey, have you ever been to New York? What? Um, no, why? We are touring there in a couple of weeks, you guys should come with us.

Before I could answer, the tape was in my hand and you were gone with nothing more than a "Later". How mysterious, and I was kinda upset that you left so quickly. I immediately and religiously listened to that cassette. My roommate came home and I tackled her with the request we go on this mini-tour. She agreed, as she was gaga over the guitar player. I felt like this was one of those moments like in Some Kind of Wonderful, where Keith (Eric Stoltz) is chasing after Watts (Mary Stuart Masterson) because he's realized that he's in love with his best friend, but instead of John Hughes I got Aaron Spelling. New York is another story for another time. 

I would soon see you share the stage with Jimmy Eat World, No Knife, Fugazi, Piebald, and other notables of the time. You continued to open up my world musically and I continued to pine wishingly, but as the universe weaves it's plan, we would have to wait for our song to be written. I never missed your band play and it is you who gave me the spectator sport of watching drummers play. I don't listen to jazz anymore, but I still hear you on your practice pad --- Left-Right-Left-Left Right-Left-Right-Right...and the beat goes on.

[allmymisters]

Mr. Scandanovio

Sometimes when you go through some heavy shit, you just decide to go a little crazy. I had put all the things I had wanted to do in my life and stuffed it in a tiny, little teeny box and when I was going through my divorce, decided to open it a little...Ok, I opened it all the way and it was a concentrate of volatile indulgence that I released into the world. The weird thing is, it's all this wonder amidst all this pain you're trying to mask and hold inside. For so long, I always did the right thing. I was an obvious mix of Carrie and Charlotte. Two very different views inside a very emotionally etched person. I was never the "one night stand", the "love 'em and leave 'em" or the "why date one, when you can date them all" type of girl. I was very aware about my connections with men. I always have been, it's part of being a serial monogamous. I don't multitask men very well and prefer to be a hopeless romantic...then there was the box.

My best friend and I were going through heavy divorces together. What more could a woman wish for, two women who could rally and support and listen to all those tears with each other, at a bar, with lots of vodka. She was trying this whole "internet dating" thing when it was all the rage. "You've got to try it, you'll meet someone new," she encouraged. "I dunno, I prefer a more organic method, I don't like having to seek it out," I protested. In my mind, I was thinking, "Why the fuck would I do that? I've been doing it on my own since 1987, I don't need to meet some creepy dude on the internet." What I needed was a vacation, to refresh and renew myself and get over all this sadness.

I packed a bag. I rented a Kia Soul. I got in the car with my favorite playlists and I drove to North Myrtle Beach. I needed the ocean for tranquility and peace and my mom had rented this condo for a week. I got the first half to myself. A lot happens when you are alone and going through some shit. I thought if I did it at the beach, I wouldn't have the squeaky wheels churning away in a dark room with nowhere to go except the bottom of a whisky glass. You see, because of my current state of affairs at the time, I had to move in with my mother. Nobody wants to do that. Don't even pretend like it's because she makes really great cookies and tucks you in at night. We are talking about transition and tragedy all in one cereal bowl. I needed this trip!

I closed the door to the condo and picked my room out. I decided to watch some TV and then hit the hay, for tomorrow, it will be sand and sun and fun! Funny thing is, being alone at home and being alone somewhere else doesn't really change what's going on inside your head. I was obsessing pretty hard and I had reached the angry phase in my dealings. I wanted to stalk and write angry letters, but instead, it just kept swimming in my head. I decided at that point, that it was time for me to move on and that tomorrow was a new day for new things.

I don't mind being alone. I like the quiet. What I do mind is doing things alone. When I do things alone I feel as though I'm in Mr. Roger's neighborhood, a giant in a tiny world. It is very uncomfortable and doesn't feel natural to me. So, one of the things I gave myself to overcome as this new person was to do things alone. Eat. Go to the movies. Go to a show. Go to a party. All alone. I decided this was the beginning for me, going to the beach, alone. I woke up the next day, put on my red and black polka dotted bikini (divorce does wonders for your physique), grabbed two tall boy Modelos and my current reading material and headed to the ocean. It was fantastic! I listened to some tunes, read some smart stuff, and took the obligatory "my marriage is over" pity sexy bikini shot (don't act like you don't know about this). My day was good. I felt good.

I got back to the condo and decided to have a few more beers and catch up with some friends via the internets. I think around 8pm or so I was a little tipsy. I looked at the Google Search bar with the cursor blinking in exclamation at me. I began to type: "Ok Cupid", what the fuck am I doing. NOPE. Not happening. I shut my computer. I walked in the kitchen to get another beer. I ate something. I watched a little TV. I walked about in the bedroom. I opened the computer. "Fuck iiiit". Ok, Cupid, what you got for me.

What it had was a bunch of dudes in front of cars, bad tattoos, terrible profiles littered with misspellings, dudes who were DTF (what does that mean?), guys who loved their dogs more than women, tons of bathroom selfies, guys in photos with their exes and lest we not forget that being a romantic male somehow means you are really into some barfalicious poetry. No. No. No way. Fuck this...Wait. Just hold on a minute. What? I can search another country? Yes, why am I wasting my time with American men when I can imagine the sultry linguistics of a foreigner? Besides, I just want to talk with guys, I don't want to actually meet them at this point. Pick a country any country. I began "winking" at Ireland (duh), Scotland, Germany, Spain, England...it was as though I was starting my own football club.

Sweden. I knew nothing about Scandinavia except they produced amazing music, were optically challenged, meatballs and Swedish Chef. He sat in a cafe wearing a white button down and staring off to the side with a small smile. It was the eyes for me and if a guy looks like he's been somewhere, there's interest in his story. I felt this guy had some narrative. He seemed like someone who had an old soul. He also responded well. It started with hello and then three hours later we touched on all vital subjects: Music (God, please don't like The Dead), Tell me a Little About Yourself (God, please don't be a racist), and Movies (God, please don't let him think the Miami Vice remake was amazing). During this chat session, I was conversing with several other countries, you would have thought I was really campaigning for world peace. I was tipsy and it was distracting. What they don't tell you about these sites is how to maneuver through the trash, I had to figure that out on my own in a few days time what to watch out for. I never got one dick pic, but I feel as though I kept running into the panhandler on the side of the road. You know the one, "My wife is really sick and I need to get her to the hospital in Jersey, can you help a brother out." It started to cycle into the same stories. I learned to stay away from the military guys and those claiming to be widows. I soon developed a method of tactics when trying to select who I wanted to engage. Just a little side note here, when I get interesting stimulus, I tend to become addicted to it, I don't like boredom. Once I joined a site, I joined them all and so began my internet dating journey.

Mr. Scandanovio and I emailed, instant messaged, and eventually graduated to Skype. There's something really interesting about communication when it comes to writing someone. You pay attention to vocabulary, to the times of day they write, and to how they respond to questions. He and I had fantastic conversation. He was a techie who was also a photographer and that was a ding ding for me, you know, that he had a job. We talked about art, music, film, books, family, Sweden, the US, etc etc. All the things you are curious about in a penpal, because that's what he was at this point, a foreign person who was unreachable and incredibly attractive that I couldn't fall on my face in front of. I felt like I could be more honest with things because it's not like we're going to date. One of our daily regiments was to give each other photo assignments:

What are you eating for lunch?

Where's your favorite spot to hide out?

What's your kitchen look like?

Where do you go to find peace?

Do you own a suit?

Every day, I'd give him 3-5 things maybe. It was fun. It was a way to look into his world and I would reciprocate mine. In a matter of weeks I felt a flutter every time I'd hear my computer ring. My mom was concerned I was spending so much time at home and asked what was going on and if I was ok and I laughed and said, "I'm fine mom, I just met a guy." She was curious why he had not come to "call on me" and I told her about the whole dating online endeavor. I showed her some photos and she was wowed. It was fun and a nice bonding moment that my mom was encouraging me to move on after all that happened. She came in my room one night to see that we had both fallen asleep while talking on Skype. I was connected. It was weird, but great --- what now?

"I have to meet you," he said. I laughed and said, "Well, if you wanna meet me, you'll have to make a trip." The next day he called to tell me he booked a five day to trip to Richmond, VA. I was floored and terrified. Absolutely terrified. I admired his spontaneity. His ability to just up and come. It was a month and some weeks before he would arrive and the time leading up to that was fearful anticipation. I mean this guy is either batshit crazy or he'll be the 2nd love of my life. I knew what he looked like. I knew what he sounded like. I knew everything from his favorite color to his hiding places, but he was still a stranger. 

"I hope he doesn't come over here and kill us," said my mom at dinner one night. I replied with, "Mom, do you actually think some dude from Sweden is going to fly almost 9 hours to kill two insignificant people?" That would be some dedication to your crime I'd say. She asked where he was staying and I said a hotel near us, in which her Catholic Latina came out instructing me "No man is going to be sleeping in your bed while you are here!"

I drove slowly up to the Arrivals terminal. "What if he doesn't look like his photos? What if he's an asshole? What if he doesn't like the way I look? Am I going to stay with him?" A million thoughts rushing through my head as I search for a stranger from a strange land. There he stood, casually by his luggage, still handsome (whew). I got out of the car to greet him and I gave him some awkward hug of sorts and showed him to the car. Welcome to America, buddy. I was super nervous and I tried to be relaxed with my conversation, but I could tell it was the same on his part as well. In the next five days we would see if this guy was worth taking the screen away for.

By day 3, my mom invited him to stay at the house. She really liked him, Catholic guilt out the window. I liked him too. I showed him my world, but I also kept him to myself. I wasn't ready for the world to see that I had moved on. He met a few friends, but in outside circles. I took that time to get to know him in a physical sense. Not a sexual sense. Don't get me wrong, this man was quite desirable and it was tempting, but we both wanted to really see what was there. We kissed in Hollywood Cemetery and it was awkward, I was awkward. There was a lot of staring at my shoes and I had become incredibly shy in front of this man from the land of the midnight sun. I felt exposed and although the kiss was nicely delivered, something was off. After five days of hanging out, he flew back to land of meatballs and fantastic design and I had ladies night revealing the mysterious stranger. Within 3 days he was talking about when we could see each other again.

I teased and said, "Oh, I can just jump on a plane right now and be over in time for breakfast!" He got very serious at this point and said, "Pick a date". I was a little in shock and explained that I was in between jobs, that taking a trip is not in my budget at this time. "Pick a date." I didn't want to be at home for the holidays. It depressed me to think about and I felt like I needed a change. With that, four weeks of my life were planned and I would be headed to Sweden in December. What fantasy was I living in?!

I had never been over the ocean before. I was extremely excited, but also apprehensive. I had never done this before and to trust someone for 4 weeks I barely knew was a little crazy. I'm not going to bore you with all the details of my Scandinavian adventure. I thought this was going to be some romantic whirlwind of passion and travel, you know the one those women in their 40's write books about? Here's the thing about being sad and lonely, you look for any glimmer of love. You look for it because you miss it, the way it felt, the familiar warmth of arms surrounding you. All you want is that emptiness to be filled.

He was sweet and accommodating. He had no clue. None. Not an inkling of how to "be" with me. We began my tour of Stockholm with a Gus Van Sant photo exhibit in the newly opened Fotografiska. I figured for someone who did photography he would have many things to discuss afterwards. This was my first red flag. Not only did he not have anything to discuss, but I noticed I got a little offensive that he couldn't offer me a conversation. It set the tone for the rest of my trip. He didn't know much about his city or the art or the music scene. I thought it was very strange that here was this guy who grew up in this city and he had nothing to say about it. I did sense he was nervous and I was as well, but here I was far from home willing to give this guy a shot to woo the hell out of me.

Once again, if I don't have stimulus, I will seek it out. We did some fun things together, but I spent a lot of my days going out to the city center and exploring. When it came to really being one on one with him, there was no chemistry. The connection I found there was in an unexpected place...his family, which he didn't seem to have a very tight connection with. He was embarrassed that his mother and step father lived in a prestigious neighborhood and I had to reassure him, this meant nothing to me.  I met one set the day before Christmas and the other the day of. His mother was incredibly delightful and his step father had me at, "Do you drink whiskey?" I met his entire family and celebrated in traditional fare the holiday season. His fathered lived in another town, beautiful country, and beautiful home. Both his father and step-mother were psychologists. I was charmed by all of them and they made me feel so at home. He and I however, did not mix well. When you spend countless hours with someone in a very tiny apartment, you would expect some sort of interaction. He sighed. A lot. A whole lot. Conversation was bleak and I wondered why he never visited his step-sister who lived two blocks away. He literally, had NEVER been to her home until I suggested we get together. I felt the cling. You know the one, where you feel a little claustrophobic with someone who isn't giving off the energy you need?  I was thankful when he would leave for work in the mornings so I could walk in the city and the lack of sun was getting to me. 

I decided to change up my environment so, I ended up going to Barcelona for a week. What was I doing in Sweden this whole time!? Barcelona became the love of my life. It embraced me with warmth and joy and beautiful things to see. I loved every moment of it, every cafe sitting, all the street art, the architecture, the food, and more importantly, the warmth. She filled some of that emptiness I was feeling and as New York had done for me in recent years, she cradled me and assured me, I was stronger than I gave myself credit for.

I spent my last days in Sweden and then headed for New York for another week's adventure. Mr. Scandanovio and I decided it was not meant to be, I decided it was not meant to be. He felt he wasn't at his best and I was unwilling to take a second chance. I kept in touch with him for a little while and then he started seeing an American girl in Ireland who now lives in Sweden. I think he may have had better luck with her. I find it amusing that she boasts bangs and is also a writer, perhaps she was a better version of me. I felt as though I broke his heart, but I really wasn't ready for a relationship. I come across those icy blue eyes in my feed sometimes and I look back on my trip fondly. It was the trip that gave me back my independence and sparked a real love. A love for travel, exploring new things, and most of all gave me the confidence that I can take risks and be ok. Sweden made me realize I was not 100% and I needed time to heal. 

HIs mom and step-father show me photos of their holidays and send me nice notes all the time. I've maintained communication with his step sisters and couldn't have been more grateful for their hospitality. They were the warmest part of my trip and although things didn't work out with Mr. Scandanovio, Sweden and I will always have an affair to remember.

[allmymisters]

It's a Matter of (Ty)me.

Photos taken from Facebook. I didn't have any of us together, we were too involved in talking and having a laugh about things.

I'm no stranger to tragedy. Anyone who knows me, knows what I've been through. You were there in a time when I was healing and you were a big band-aid in my life. The universe often connects me with those people I'm suppose to know, to learn from, to be inspired by, to admire and you just happened to be handed to me. It was one evening in 2011 at Havana 59, we stood in a circle of familiars, you and I only strangers to each other. It was a matter of time that we discovered that you were the one who filmed the benefit concert for my then husband. When I told you, I had not seen such video, you guaranteed you'd have it to me that week. You made me laugh a lot that night and you made a memorable impression. I thought it was strange that we never met, but isn't that how it goes, you meet people at different arcs of the circle. You gave me the video the next week as promised and that was the beginning of our story.

You know when you are shopping for your next car and all of sudden it is the only car you keep seeing on the road? That was you after that initial meeting. We kept running into each other. You frequented the pub more than before and we'd see each other at various events. We exchanged a lot of time and conversation back then and maybe a date or three. I remember sitting on the stool and you just looked over at me and said, "I like you." Just absolutely free and simple. You had this ability to compliment me in such a way, a very honest, but charming kind of way. You saw shadow where I saw shade. I liked the way you looked at things and I was excited by our intellectual exchanges on film, travel, music and general observances. You said things like I thought them. I liked how dry you were in your delivery, but it was always followed by a smile, said oh so sincerely. You and I, although we disagreed on some things, never broke friendship and you introduced me to people who have become a regular part of my social circle..

"I like the way you smoke. It's very French," you shouted to me randomly one evening across the bar. I had never been complimented on my smoking style, but it is something I've always paid attention to with other people. You were always good like that. You had this, spontaneity about you that was accompanied by this "what do I have to lose" look. There was a confidence about it that was attractive and fun.

You were this comfortable person in my life. One I felt very confident in releasing secrets to, while you snickered and added your own. I could call you and I knew you'd pick up. You helped me with rides, with lost jobs, and with potential suitors (best wing man ever) and with the eventual breakups (always their fault). You spoke of your family often and with fondness and was interested in mine. I always had a blast sitting around with you and Ryan, just shooting the shit. I remember meeting your father at Union Market one afternoon and it made me smile to know he was as sweet a man as you were. I know it was very hard for you to lose him. You were this kind bear in a forest of, then, mediocre friendships. 

I pride myself on being intuitive. I'm usually right to a fault. I tend to sum up people pretty quickly and I can be quite vocal about it. You were better at it. You had the ability to see texture to my surface. There were three women who I encountered during our friendship and although I had some colorful things to say about them, you just straight up told me I was wrong and then proceeded to point out these interesting traits about them. Those three women have become my friends over the years and as it turns out, smarty pants, you were right! How could I be so wrong!? That was you though, you had perception and you had vision. We spent hours talking about work and creative projects. We wanted to work with each other on so many things and we talked about it endlessly, but isn't that the thing about time?

I was not prepared for this. When you look at all those words scrolling down the screen, it's hard to decipher what is real and what has been designed for our vulnerable minds. Kitties, doggies, babies, beaches...death. Death. It comes so abruptly sometimes. You blink and then you realize that all you have is an image. A photograph of history, moments, events, words. And then you hate yourself for not calling more, for not texting a date for a hang, for not...knowing. 

As I write this, I'm still in shock. You would think that this was a common occurrence in our graduated years. The initial aloofness of yet another acquaintance "celebrated" in Facebook scripture. You were not that my friend. You were special and so much more. You were always saying I was cooler than you, but the truth is you were cool effortlessly. I would see you sometimes with worn face, tired eyes, and a relentless schedule, but you always showed up for me. You worked hard and were dedicated to what you did.  I've had such a hard time putting this story together because memorializing you, now, is just weirdly incorrect. It's like it doesn't fit here. There are no words to convey my emotional state here. I'm just so sad I will never get another hug from you, another conversation, another compliment, more tyme. 

As Sarah and I sat chatting, I felt like you were right there in the room listening to us, smiling. I could almost hear you say, "I like the two of you like this." Panning the room, getting the shot, us in and out of sorrowful moments, the way we had positioned ourselves on the couch, like girls who were having a sleepover confiding in each other, heads leaned on the cushions, listening intently. You love it. I know you do, especially because you were right about her.

You can stop smirking now. 

I will miss you so very much, Ty. The world will miss you so much. I'm so very, very sad. I really can't even fathom not seeing you again and it breaks my heart. I just keep staring at our last text. We never did meet up and I too, thought of you often. I'll always have the Roosevelt, the pub, our movie nights, Cards Against Humanity, and those old photos with those long locks. I'm even thinking about having a soda today or a gin and tonic and you know I am not a fan of those. I will miss the beautiful, kind, sincere, talented person you were. You will forever be in my heart and adored always. May you have peace where you are, may your memory shine in others, may your work be praised, and may your smile be etched in the hearts of all who knew you. You were by far one of my favorite people.

My love and light go out to Ryan and Sarah and both families. To lose someone so suddenly is a shock no one should have to experience. Alas, we do not know when these things will happen or why. They just do. Another arc in the circle. Harshly. Aggressively. Untimely. We find strength in knowing that they will not be forgotten, that time will become our comfort, and that the support of others will allow us to heal. May you all find the time to be with each other and cherish those moments, if you truly care about those in your life who mean something, take a moment and give them a call, send them a text, meet up for a coffee or a drink, don't abbreviate their existence, they deserve full sentences. You may not have next month, week, or tomorrow for that matter. We say these things all the time about getting together and always in these times, but when you think about losing people or family who matter to you, isn't it worth an hour after work, a babysitter, a 20 minute drive. Friendship is not for the lazy, it is for the living. Rest in peace, Ty.