[ellezeu-blog]

Phase.

Apparently there is a lesbian phase, but I rather it own a different name. Why not call it lesbian tendencies? This 'phase' I know all too well. Fortunately for me, I happened to befriend girls imminent on their peak of curiosity. 

I met Lauren through my high school friend, Jessica. The three of us would meet to watch Project Runway. Lauren & Jessica were fashion majors. I didn't like the show, but my immediate attraction to Lauren made me like it. This petite Latina made a point to sit next to me each week. As the season's end drew near, we exchanged phone numbers. 

She transferred to a university in a town three hours east. We kept in touch and I managed to visit her a couple of times. The last time I visited we went to a billiards bar with a guy interested in Lauren. She had mixed feelings about him. Whatever the case, I showed up to drink. I ran low on cash but I managed to maintain a successful buzz throughout the night. Lauren's potential love interest kindly drove us back to her apartment. I sat awkwardly in the backseat of his two-door coupe while they gave their goodnight kiss. As Lauren opened the door, I couldn't resist by saying "At least I get to share a bed with her tonight." Alcohol gave me the liquid courage to make such snarky remarks. 

I set myself up for failure a lot. Especially in these situations. Perhaps that snarky comment hit a switch in Lauren's head. I will never know. I do know that night after stumbling into the apartment and getting into bed Lauren explored her lesbian tendencies. She turned to me and proceeded to make out with me. Of course I didn't stop her, at least not immediately. 

Eventually we stopped and had a nice little discussion about what had just happened. I let her do most of the talking. She mentioned this was bound to happen between us. In hindsight, I wish I had more guts to ask what exactly she meant. 

In the morning I walked her to campus. As I left to return home, I texted her and apologized for making her feel uncomfortable. She accepted and stated she never wanted it to happen again. 

This incident, one of many, helped me understand that homo-hood isn't for everyone. But you can't knock it 'til you try it. 

[ellezeu-blog]

(730).

A quick tribute to me. Today I walk past my second year of sobriety. I learned a lot this past year. I learned a lot of the 'don't do's'. 

I allowed for all the good things in my life to take over. In the past year I proposed to my girlfriend, we purchased a house, and I rebuilt all the relationships with my family. It took time, but I finally realized I would not have been able to achieve all of these things had it not been for Alcoholics Anonymous. 

A couple of weeks ago I jumped back in the middle of AA. I decided to restart my 90 meetings in 90 days. I reached out to other strong women in my new home group and I keep in touch with my sponsor regularly.

This new year of sobriety will look different than the last as the year following will look different than this year. I hope I continue to grow and not drink in between. I love my sober life and everything it has given me. 

[ellezeu-blog]

Intention.

Labels are intrusive and unnecessary. Since when did our internal make-up earn the space in our headlines. Sorry mother, I never intended to arise as Gabrielle the Mexican-American, Lesbian, Alcoholic who found recovery. I must admit, I do not regret a single moment in my quest on the purpose of my life. These labels do not define me, they empower me.

I found I felt most comfortable as a drunk lesbian. Which explains my swift progression into alcoholism. I never intended to achieve the alcoholic status, but I wanted so badly to embrace my homo-hood. Only one other obstacle blocked my path to homo-hood, straight girls. So-called straight girls taught me two things: one, the fluidity of sexuality and two, the reason the multitude of the anti-gay population perceives lesbianism as a ‘phase’. The following statement goes out to so-called straight girls that will make-out with any girl if they feel intoxicated enough. Stop ruining it for us, the actual lesbians.

Once I came out to my mother and the rest of my immediate family I no longer felt the need to drink. I had stepped out of that claustrophobic closet I hid in for far too long. One small problem. I couldn’t stop drinking on my own. I allowed for alcohol to gain control over my mind & body. After months of attempting to quit, I gave up. I reached out for help and with the aid of a 12-step recovery program I am embracing my homo-hood sober.

[ellezeu-blog]

Sour.

My parents took us to church every Sunday, until they separated, and my mom left the church. My father continued to dress us up and put barrettes in our hair every Sunday. Each Sunday I would pretend to over sleep or I would wait until the very last second to get dressed in hopes that my dad would say forget it, you can stay home.

Growing up in a church put a sour taste in my mouth toward religion. I didn’t go to Sunday school. I sat with my dad and sister in the balcony. I used my dad’s suit coat as a blanket and his leg as a pillow. Sometimes, I would wander the church during sermons. Other times I would ask the nursery ladies if I could help watch the youngsters, yet I was only one or two years older. I thought the people seated in the pews were frauds. I never felt a part of the congregation.

I eventually told my dad I didn’t want to go to church anymore so we all stopped. This upset my mother. She then took it upon herself to tell us about God. At fifteen I told her to stop shoving God down my throat. As a child people would ask if I believed in God. It was such a loaded question for me. I always said yes but with great lack in confidence. I believed in God because people told me to believe in God, but why? Who was God? And why did God have to be a He? 

[ellezeu-blog]

Volcano.

I learned early that life isn’t fair. My parents separated in my first year of school. Having two single parents caused them to focus more on their jobs than their children. They only did what they had to. We spent most of our time with my Uncle who I admired deeply. I lost him at the age of twelve. Throughout my early years I remember anger filled my body as blood filled my veins. It became a part of me.

In the same year I lost my Uncle, I found alcohol. The liquid, not easy to find, yet easy enough to acquire, changed me. I grew happier as I felt the warmth slide down my throat. I constantly thought of the next drink. When it would happen, how I would feel. Each time it produced the same effect, cheerfulness. It provided the encouragement and confidence to walk through life.

As time progressed, so did my alcohol intake. Post high school I used alcohol as a daily crutch. At the age of nineteen I found myself in a relationship with an older guy. He came from a family of daily drinkers, making alcohol readily available for my consumption. Something in the middle of the relationship sparked a bad vibe. For a short yet notable period each drinking occasion caused my anger to erupt from a place I spent years drowning out. These volcanic explosions of anger caused worry among my friends. Each spree would end dangerously, but eventually the anger subsided. Alcohol finally reverted to provide me the comfort and ease it did in the beginning as it slid down my throat. 

[ellezeu-blog]

Happiness.

Happiness found me at the ripe age of twenty-two and it did not come in the form of a person, of money, or material possessions.

I walked into the double doors of the Covenant Chapel Presbyterian Church, as I did every other Thursday at 5:30 pm. It had become a part of my routine. I followed the coffee pot sign and walked into the room filled with comfy sofas. I chose my seat, in the back. The leader started promptly at 5:30 with his usual jargon that used up the first ten minutes of every meeting. The topic of this particular meeting was a selected reading from our Big Book. Ironically on page 69 the Big Book talks about sex, “we all have sex problems.”

My connection to the statement related to the struggle I faced with my sexuality. In that meeting I more or less came out to a group of strangers. However, they weren’t strangers at all. I had been attending that meeting for months and I knew most of their faces and a few names. I shared my story and wiped my eyes with the sleeve of my jacket. Despite the tears, happiness struck me from within at that moment.

The weight lifted after my verbal acceptance of the person I am gave me a sense of liberation. After the meeting I was bombarded with supportive hugs and optimism to move forward as my new found person. 

[ellezeu-blog]

Cold.

I received a text that awoke me at 4:15 am reading I don’t see any lights on, are you up? I sprung to my feet yelling at my girlfriend that it was time to go. Luckily we had packed our bags the night before. I grabbed our luggage, which consisted of two backpacks and a sling back, then headed out the door. My sister’s boyfriend opened his trunk door. I threw in our two backpacks and he laughed, is that all? I explained that lesbians pack very lightly. Plus, we were only traveling for a three-day weekend.

We were off to Portland, Oregon in the dead of winter. We booked our flight months in advance and chose February for the cheap prices. A couple friends waiting for our arrival in Portland informed us that Portland is usually rainy and mild weathered. We were definitely excited to escape the sub-zero temperatures and snow-covered grounds of Kansas City.

Our first stop in Portland was Voodoo Donuts where the magic is in the hole. Walking into a donut shop with head-banger music blaring and the menu board displaying the donut names “dirty bastard” or “cock and balls” was not what I had expected. Our next stop, Powell’s, a bookstore you could explore for days. And we did. During our walk to Powell’s it began snowing. Unhappy to see the white powder fall from the sky, Portlanders were frantic and the city began shutting down. Which basically sums up our trip. The snow continued for the remainder of our trip. Open businesses were few and we spent most of our time wandering the rows of books at Powell’s. I plan on returning to Portland when there isn't the slightest possibility of snow in the forecast. 

[ellezeu-blog]

Approval.

I invited my mother to lunch at Tom Fooleries on the Plaza. We walked down the steps into the revolving door and waited to be seated as the sign says. Mid-afternoon could easily have been mistaken for midnight by the darkness of the restaurant. TVs blaring with sport commentators in the background.

My heart pounding outside my chest, I was about to reveal the biggest secret I had been trying to hide for the past decade. My family must enjoy personal discussions in public places. My divorced parents once took me to Wendy’s for lunch only to ask me to choose a parent. For I had moved households every time the living got tough with one or the other. This time, I was the one in search of approval.

I admitted to my mother my possible attraction toward women. Then I understood the reason we always chose public places. In hopes that publicity would soften the blow or to prevent tears. Which never worked because there we were, crying, as the waiter walked up and asked if we were ready to order.

My mother finally mustered up the courage to react to my announcement. “Just because you’re attracted to women doesn’t make you a . . . ” and she fell silent. I filled in the blank. We thought the same on some level. If we never said the word it would not come true. However, I tried that for a decade and the feelings never escaped me.

My high and hopeful expectations of this discussion spun me into my ending bout of alcoholism. Drinking excessively to remove the hurt I felt in disappointing my mother, and to chase the happiness I wanted. After months of drunken mistakes I hit bottom. My awareness led me into recovery where I grew to love the person I am. 

[ellezeu-blog]

Fresh.

Growing up in the shoes of a different person has been a difficult walk. Following the path set out by my parents resulted in an excellent high school career and an associate’s degree from a community college. I am grateful for where I am today with the push from my parents to strive for a life better than their experiences.

However, my first breath of fresh air came from a two-week road trip to California. Prior to leaving, I quit community college. I was going to visit a friend, but had every intention of staying in San Diego indefinitely. I only had one thousand dollars in my pocket. Turns out California IS as expensive as everyone says.

During those two weeks as a nineteen year old, I made my own decisions. I mostly drank a lot and confirmed the lyrics of 2pac: “California knows how to  party”.

Despite the intoxication I was able to learn a lot about myself in those short weeks. It was hard to come home but I had a found a piece of myself that gave me the smallest burst of confidence to return. That breath of fresh air at nineteen was exactly what I needed to get back to reality in KC.

I continued and finished community college upon my return. I then transferred to a four-year university where I failed to attain my bachelor’s degree with only two small semesters ahead of me. Clearly I needed a second breath of fresh air.

[ellezeu-blog]

Shoes.

Liquid courage provided me the boost of confidence needed to walk through this unfamiliar way of life. My mind twisted by the labels, stereotypes, and preconceived notions of my newfound person led me into foreign places with strange feelings. Too uncomfortable to fully embrace it yet too revealed to remain hidden. My niche was found in the midst of Westport; A progressive, hipster-esque, gay-friendly, stretch of bars and restaurants within Kansas City.

She approached me one night and without hesitation I asked for her number. That number came in handy when there was nowhere else for me to sleep or shower. This apartment became a form of shelter for me during a time I did not possess a car. Her habits came to the surface and none of them were positive. Then again, who was I to judge? She was awake for days at a time because meth was her crutch. An old man named Ted paid her rent asking for companionship in return. Her apartment was open to visitors of all types, at all hours. I no longer felt safe. I finally felt as though there is worse out there and I wanted no part of it. One night bar hopping in Westport together, I decided to ditch her.

A pair of Palladium canvas boots with shredded laces and holes near the toes walked me through my bottom and into my first year of recovery. In a much healthier way I have learned to acknowledge and accept my feelings for women, a very specific gold-star woman.

[ellezeu-blog]

Home.

The four of us sat at the dinner table enjoying a box of Little Caesar’s Hot-N-Ready pizza. The discussion between my parents escalated rather quickly and family pizza night turned into a red sauce warzone. My parents shouting across the table as tears rolled down my face. My mom ended the discussion by slamming her slice of pizza down on her plate and disappearing into their bedroom. The aftermath of the pizza slamming was an explosion of red sauce. I watched my dad wipe his face with a napkin and then followed my sister to the door of my parent’s bedroom. My sister slowly opened the door. Our mother was lying face down on the bed crying into her hands.

Apartment hunting with my mother and sister soon thereafter did not give me the slightest indication that my parents were about to divorce. Nor did the fact that my mother was solely looking at one-bedroom apartments. My sister and I were both ecstatic about looking for a new place to live. Perhaps our parents were just downsizing. We discussed the sleeping arrangements. We knew our parents would share the bedroom. My sister and I agreed to alternate sleeping on the couch and the floor in the living room. 

Our parents sat us down on our brown corduroy couch. They shared the same downcast expressions. My mother announced to us that they, our parents, were separating providing little explanation. My father had no dialogue and I immediately burst into tears. I was six-years-old.

[ellezeu-blog]

One Word.

The idea of this blog came from a couple places. My fiancé and one of her good friends came up with a similar idea related to music. They are both music fiends and enjoy making playlists for one another. They came up with the idea of basing their playlists from one word that they choose. Their playlists consist of ten songs that show their interpretation of the selected word. 

I have always wanted to be a writer. I will have periods of time where all I do is write. I write a lot about my past and not all of my writings are seen by others. I am really interested in writing my own book. Therefore, I purchase books that explain writing a memoir or personal essays. I am currently reading, Naked, Drunk, and Writing. Within the first few pages the author explains a similar situation among her and friend that my fiancé and her friend do with music. Except this author and her friend exchange 500-word writings on a single word and their interpretation of the selected word. Once exchanged they would highlight certain phrases, paragraphs, words that they found brilliant. 

I believe this is a great way for me to find my style of writing and get critiqued by all types of people. Am I hoping one day that the right person reads or finds this blog? Of course! 

My fiancé asked if she could give me my first word. I agreed.

So, here we go!