Dating Fate

You are a tease.

You tempt me with possibilities I can't ignore. My desire for change is so great, how could I not trust you blindly? It's always worked, and yet, this time I am less than calm about the outcome. What I might have seen as your hand pointing the way might just as easily be my own hand grasping at air. 

Fate or mistake. They even rhyme. How poetic.

So many choices in my life, all made with the belief that what will be will be. "If it's meant to be it will be" "That's just the way it is" "Trust your instincts" "Everything happens for a reason."

What if the reason this time is to point out how I cover what could be a mistake with a layer of fate?  Fate cake. Could be perfect chocolaty goodness or christmas fruit cake. Could be urinal cake. Can you really have your cake and eat it too? Eating crow. Crow cake. My mind refuses to be quiet and keeps filling the unknowing with crumbs to follow. Did I get here on my own? Can I follow the crumbs and find my way back? Straight as the crow flies. Piece of cake. 

This turn in my life's path is not just mine. I seem to be taking so much of my world along with me. Friends wonder if I'll ever come back. My children wonder if I'm on this path to leave them behind. 

So many questions to answer.  

But really - I have no answers. I just decided.  

I went on a date with you and got fate raped.

Or maybe I wanted it. 

We're going steady, you and I.

You know what's going to happen.

I don't. 

Welcome home

You, like me, are always thinking.

It's as if the wheels in your brain are always turning, thoughts churning. Calm is just the time when you can keep one thought in focus instead of juggling them all. It's not an easy thing to do when you are like us. Almost anything can bump our thoughts from one track to another and another.

To focus, we use tricks we developed early in our lives. I used to trace the pattern in fabrics with my finger, letting my mind follow the path as if I was a part of the threads. From there I learned to draw and would let the lines carry me from thought to thought. Following a path of movement worked too - walking, biking, swimming, climbing - anything that could channel the chaos. Becoming a graphic artist allowed me to make use of the multiple thoughts to solve complex design problems. I can see many options at once and evaluate them. Honestly, I can't help but do that.

There is a dark side too - where the thoughts begin to crash into each other - the pros and cons - and it becomes a web of sticky "what if's." Thrashing only binds me tighter into negative thinking and it is only by being calm and quieting the thoughts can I slip free.

I still sketch to relieve my stress, and one of the things built into my living space are drawers of pens, pencils, pads as well as plans for what I would do to this or that space. Though those sketches, I was able to see the patterns of how to create calm in my home that I could then use to bring calm into my mind.

I took a front yard full of weeds and put a courtyard in it's place. Trees I'd not really noticed before took center stage and I could imagine years into the future how the plants I would plant would grow and bloom. I put a fountain in the middle picked for it's sound as my son and I walked through the statuary lot in the rain - eyes closed - each taking turns leading the other. The height of each wall was planned for optimum privacy but low enough in the front to be welcoming. Gates from salvage completed the look and made the space seem as if it had always been there. And it had... in my mind.

Skylights brought light into the darkest of rooms - as well as fresh breezes and sounds of birds.

More fountains channeled sound into every part of my yard and home. More fountains brought more birds. Then chimes - tuned to work in harmony play their sweet notes as the breeze moves through the graceful oaks. A hot tub, in the garden, in a yard completely enclosed by beautiful redwood fencing encourages me just be calm and warm and watch the trees, birds and listen to water, breeze, chimes.

I made my entire home into a collection of calming spaces. I can go to any part of my home, inside or out to help focus my thoughts and allow me to get "unstuck" from negative thinking - a place of infinite calm and opportunities for singular focus.

My path is leading me East where I will take what I learned here and transform another house, into a calming home.

This home is waiting patiently for you to find it.
It was created for you. You'll recognize that the moment you walk through the gate and hear the trickling of the fountain. Close your eyes, take a deep breath.

Welcome home.

Agent of God

God, you said, brought us together.

But I remember differently. You encouraged me to meet you by implying a deal I could not pass up. I trusted you and flew 2400 miles to see a home that I was already in love with. And you knew that and you threw God in the mix to help seal the deal. Perhaps it was God who jumped in and upped the price you implied I could INCREASE my offer by $125K? No, I'm pretty sure that was you.

God, it seems brought you and the seller of the home together too. You both had brushes with cancer - his wife - your son. Your son recovered. His wife died. So much info to tell someone just there to look at a home. You made sure the seller heard how God brought you and I together too. Was it really ok to have me meet him? Was it really ok to insist you represent us both? God must have been talking to you because all I could hear was my loss = your gain. You even told me how you would spend your commission once I bought the home. With tears, you said, "I'll take my husband and son to visit my adopted daughter in Peru." You really took that sponsor a child thing seriously, huh? My son turned to you and said, "the tears are a nice touch."

You sang "my God is an awesome God" while we road across the lake in the seller's boat. This just after to offered to get him a scotch to drink and to sit on his lap. Once back at the house, you grabbed my hand, and my son's (openly agnostic) and the seller's and made us all pray with you. You thanked God and it was just after that you let me know that the seller would never accept the amount you'd first suggested and that I needed to offer $125K more. Once I made it clear that was not going to happen, you broke out your cigarettes and began to smoke in the car. Your car, your rules, but first thing that morning you'd asked us if it bothered us if you smoked. We said yes, it would bother us.

My son asked you a question about smoking and cancer, "How can you smoke when you almost lost a son to cancer? Don't you know the chances of you getting cancer from smoking is high?" Ok, he is full of advice and went on and on about the percentages and age related facts. Annoying, but he was correct.

Do you recall what you said next? Oh, I'm sure God heard you as well as we did. You said to my 18 year old son, "Well, you are gay. You are going to fuck a guy and die of aids."

Leaping

Without a second thought I am changing everything with a leap of faith.

My CA home is up for sale, must run off soon before the open house. I found the home of my dreams in Ohio just minutes from both my family and my husband's. We will be moving our lives, business, dogs, cats and toys over 2400 miles away to a new timezone and climate.

I am so excited.

There is nothing like being in free fall, not knowing where or when you'll land, but trusting.

No place like home

I would sit cross legged on the floor transfixed by the small TV as Dorothy clicked her ruby slippers together and repeated the magic words "There's no place like home."

In a heartbeat she was returned to her family's farmhouse in Kansas where it appeared that all she had experienced was just a dream. "You were there, and you and you!" Each would laugh and stroke her head or shoulder, she'd been through a whirlwind and returned to her life forever changed.

No place like home.

I grew up in a small town the the middle of Kansas. I believed if I wished hard enough I would be picked up and taken to the magical world I must really be from. Kansas could not possibly be my home. Yes, I lived there with my parents and my sister and my dog Prissy. Yes, I had grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends, but where was my destiny? I could sing like Dorothy and knew every song by heart. I could walk a block to the cornfields that surrounded our little town and when the tornados threatened, I dreamed of running out to be lifted up into the world of my dreams. Somewhere over the rainbow - where dreams come true.

I would climb trees and play structures and roofs to be as close as I could to the blue Kansas sky. I would lay in the cool grass and read the signs in the ever changing clouds. And I grew up.

We moved to Colorado where in some places the mountain tops seemed like stairs to Oz. I imagined if I just climbed high enough - through the clouds - the magic would explode around me. But we lived where it was flat. And when I finally got a trip in a friend's father's plane - I saw that the clouds above are only air.

I left home at 18 to go to college, came back briefly to get married, then off again and into my own life. It seemed to me that maybe it was the leaving home that would bring my Oz to me. But no. My life just changed and grew to fit me like a glove. And when I finally arrived in California, if felt a bit like Oz. San Francisco glittered like the Emerald City and there were wizards behind every innovation. It was so easy to believe I had found my place.

I built my business and my life there - I married, divorced - married again, divorced again and finally settled in with an unlikely partner. A boy - just 19 to my 41 living his life in his mother's basement in Ohio. Like the scarecrow, he danced into my life to point the way to happiness. Like the Lion, he helped me find the courage to walk a different path. Like the tin man, I was the oil can that freed him to walk the path with me. Together we found we shared a heart and a dream  - to make our home together.

We've lived in our Oz for 14 years. It's been a rocky road because a dream is not enougth. As one child flew on, and then the other - homesickness  slipped over us like sleeping poppies. The dream of snow falling outside out bedroom window made us to realize there is nothing behind the curtain.

Hand and hand we are clicking our heals now.

And you'll be there. And you. And you. And all of you.

Anonymous

Words can say a lot about a person.  

you have been leaving coments on my msn page stay of it i dont no how you got into my site and i no i didnt add you so i.ll be reporting you to the computer company aswell as the intenational police for fraud.this is not a joke so dont fcken treat it like it is!

You are right. It is not funny. 

You are afraid. You are hurting.

If I had left comments for you, they would have been positive.

If I had left comments for you, they would not have been anonymous.

When you're smiling

My mother thought I should be just like you.

Or rather, she pointed out that my popularity "problem" could be easily remedied by putting a smile on my face. Debbie, you are so pretty when you smile! While I had my dark teenage moments, you seemed to be eternally upbeat. The only difference between you and her is that she smiles all the time! 

I did look up to you. You were a Senior when I was a Sophomore. You were active in my youth group at church. You were head cheerleader, home coming queen. You were pretty.  You got A's and where ever you were, there was always a crowd around you. I have a yearbook full of smiling  photos of you. You seemed to have it all. I understood why my mother wanted me to be like you. You were the daughter parents could put on a pedestal. The good girl with a great attitude and a solid future.

Our mothers were friends. When you invited me to come along with you to a bonfire, I knew my mother had asked your mother to ask you to ask me. Take Debbie. If only she can see more of how you make friends she can learn how to make friends too.

I was 15. I was nervous. I knew it was a set up but I really did want to see how the popular kids had fun. The entire football team would be there. I was terrified.  I would say or do something stupid. I was ugly and a smile was not going to change that. You were perfect. 

The bonfire illuminated the dirt and brush and at it's edges kids mingled in small groups drinking beer. At school I was ignored, so when you left me on my own it was expected. Watching you drink beer and make out with guys was not. Drinking beer in my mind was BREAKING THE LAW. Kissing someone who was not your boyfriend was nasty. You smiled and laughed. When it came time to take me home, you put me in the back seat with Mr. Football star.  It was classic - end of the party, end of the beer, even Debbie looks pretty good now. You were making out in the front seat while the most popular guy in school slipped his arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss. Popular or not. Handsome of not. It felt nasty. I felt nasty. All I wanted was to be taken home.

I'm sure my rebuff of him was the talk of the school. Who does she think she is?

I never looked at you the same way after that. Your smile hid more than it showed. My mother continued to encourage me to smile more and to ask you to go out again. Debbie, I'm sure she would love to take you along to more outings if you'd just ask her. Right. High School is easy like that.

It was years later that I found out you'd gone mad.

You stayed in our little town. One day you put you drew the curtains and refused to let your children leave your darkened home.  God had told you that the devil was in electricity. 

One day you just stopped smiling. 

The Rocket Tree

Your house smelled funny.

I always thought it was because of the smell that we were supposed to play outside. Looking back, it was more likely we were told to play outside for the same reason we were told to play QUIETLY. Your mother and grandmother were always slumped in their chairs, smoking, dozing, drinking. They were quiet. Unless we annoyed them, then they were anything but quiet.

I took you as my best friend when I moved to Great Bend. I always sought out nearest misfit - safety in numbers. We both liked to climb trees and play jacks and pretend the tree outside your house was a rocket ship that could take us anywhere. We knew it was a boy's game because girls didn't become astronauts. They could become fashion models/airline stewardesses as long as they were tall, shapely, with great bone structure. We both knew we would never be the kind of girl that would grow up beautiful. We were both taunted and teased. Me for my outbursts, you for your lack of a father or siblings - both for our homemade clothes. We never expected to be pretty here on earth, but in space we would be exotic and idolized.

When we were allowed inside your home, it was to play with your dolls. Old dolls. Your mother's dolls. Your grandmother's dolls. Musty smelling dolls in torn clothing. All your toys in your room were second hand. Other people's left overs. I got new toys at least two times a year. And I had an allowance that I saved up to buy more. That's where we got the jacks. I'd bought them so we could both play with them on the patch of concrete just past the kitchen screen door. Your mom would hover in the shadows of her kitchen. Her dark cotton house dresses made her head and arms seem to float. Sometimes she'd put down her drink and bring us watered down lemonade and stale cookies. The screen would open just wide enough for the glasses or the plate to be set on the step, then it would bang back shut and she would resume her place in the room with her mother.

You were not allowed to leave your yard. 

You were not allowed to walk to the park, or the store.

You were told it was dangerous.

You were told it was your own good.

I bought over a doll my grandmother had brought me. The curly haired doll was 4 feet tall and supposedly looked a bit like me. I brought her twin doll that had been given to my sister.  I hated those dolls. I had specifically asked NOT to be given any more dolls. You lived on the busiest street in town and it seems to me to be the perfect place for a yard sale. I set up a box - put out the dolls and pitched the option of buying them to passing cars. Soon a woman stopped and bought them both and I was left with $10 in my pocket. Your mother was angry at me. I had brought strangers onto her property. What I'd done was disrespectful to my grandmother. I was a bad girl. I was not to come back.

I lived in Great Bend for 2 more years after that. 

I passed your house every time I walked to school, every time I walked to church, every time I walked to the store. And every time I hoped to see you playing in our tree but I never saw you outside again. There were rumors you'd fallen from the tree and broken your arm. There were rumors about your mother and your grandmother and what they must have done to drive your father away.  So many rumors, but no you. 

We came back for a visit a few months after we moved to Lamar. I was in the classroom I would have been in if we'd stayed and I got to make a costume for Halloween. I was a robot space man. All I needed was a box and some dryer vents. The latest rumor around the school was that your mother was dead. She had walked outside of town and hung herself from a tree.  The kids said she probably killed herself because you drove her crazy.  Easy for them to imagine, you were nowhere.

Your house was dark and the space around the house seemed grey and empty. It was as if the house had taken the order to be QUIET to heart and it was quietly falling apart. I stood under our rocket tree and wondered why your mother did not hang herself here? Why walk far far away to a grove of trees you might never be found in? 

Maybe she realized you'd never had a family, a childhood, a chance to make mistakes and learn from them. Maybe she realized what finding your mom dead hanging from your play tree would not do. Or maybe - there was no realization. Your mother hated her life and wanted to die. She died. She was as thoughtless to you in that act has she'd been all your life.

My fantasy is that when you heard your mother was dead, you ignored the screams of your grandmother and went outside. You would climb the rocket tree and close your eyes and imagine a fantasy world were you were precious, exotic, loved. And the magic of make believe would make it so and you would vanish from the tree and find yourself in a tree in a parallel world. 

Your mother would have set out icy sweet lemonade and warm cookies.

And when you jumped from the tree to meet her, she would reach out to hug you and pull you into your home. A yellow glow would seem to surround  everything, and your home would smell like heaven.

Leatherette

The sofa I found for us was leatherette.

I had a budget of one thousand dollars to furnish an entire apartment, a seemly huge amount of money until I priced out the items we'd need. A table and four chairs because I planned on entertaining new friends we would certainly be meeting in our new city. A guest bed for family who I hoped would fly to visit and be impressed by our new home. A chest of drawers or two, bedside tables, lamps, coffee table, end table, book shelves, a fake bentwood cane rocker and the leatherette sofa I pretended was real leather.

I sacrificed a wood table and chairs in favor of a metal/formica topped octagon so I could get that sofa. The guest bed ended up being just the hollywood frame that came with the cheap mattress so I could get that sofa. That sofa was the symbol of my adulthood. No one in my family had ever owned a modern style sofa and no one I'd ever known had one that was leather - or at least could pass for leather. This was my prize purchase and that sofa followed me from apartment to apartment, from city to city, from relationship to relationship, till at last - it became the parting gift in yet another break up.

When I bought it, I had dreams of us laying in each other's arms while we watched TV together.  I imagined that's what couples did once the relationship settled into it's day to day rhythm. You never held me. Until the move it was what I accepted as normal. I had never seen my parents sitting and hugging. My vision came from movies and TV where couples madly in love would be drawn by the force of their need for each other to spend not just their nights entwined, but daytime too. An oversize, overstuffed  chair would be an invitation for the man to pull his woman into his lap where they would nuzzle and kiss. She would feel adored, safe, partnered with her soulmate. A sofa, a buttery leather-like six feet of cushion  plus padded arm rests would be like a magic carpet. In a heartbeat they could be laying heart to heart as rain beat against the wood decking outside. A constant in a changing world. Alone together. A couple.

Our old sofa had been handed down in your family for so many years the cushions had lost their fluff. The fabric on the arms and edges of the seats were rough from all manner of spills. It smelled. You would not consider turning it down when it was offered. It was free. When we were dating we'd had sex on that couch, but when it became ours, I don't recall us even sitting on it together. When we left it behind, I felt all our issues would be left behind too. A new city, a new life, a new chance for the magic that I believed had brought us together to take hold. In our new city, in our new apartment we would finally become the romantic couple I'd imagined.

The minute the leatherette sofa was brought up the stairs and into our apartment, you claimed it for yourself, much like your father had claimed his recliner. You saw it as your throne from which you would rule your family (me) much like your father had ruled his. 

I have two strong memories of you and the leatherette sofa, and both happened on the same rainy day. You were laying alone on the sofa watching TV while I worked at my little art desk tucked under the stairs. You told me to get up and make you a sandwich. I was busy. My art project was due the next day. You demanded I get up and make you a sandwich. There had been nights when I watched TV from the floor when you would suddenly throw things at me. At those times I had said something that made you mad, but that day I'd been working quietly. I suggested you get yourself a sandwich. I'd just returned from the grocery - there was fresh bread and peanut butter. 

I remember how fast you moved from the leatherette sofa to my side. Your displeasure was heavy and threatening. I flinched but kept working on my project. You moved to the tiny kitchen and slammed drawers open and closed. It was my fault, you said, I'd hidden the peanut butter and the bread, how were you to know where they were? 

I remember smiling and laughing a bit at that. The kitchen was so tiny we could not be in it at the same time. There was one cupboard that held the food. I always put the peanut butter and bread in the same place. Open one door and there they were at the front. They could not have been easier to find.

I remember how fast you moved from the kitchen drawer that held our knives to my side. The knife glittered a bit in the florescent light. There seemed to be no light in your eyes, "I SAID make me a sandwich." And I did. I was crying as I did. I knew in that moment we were never going change. You were never going to change. You took your sandwich to the leatherette sofa and chewed with your eyes glued to the TV. You took no notice of me standing, drained and sobbing. The knife was on the counter. As I sobbed I dreamed of using it on my wrists. I dreamed of pouring out the pain I felt by draining it from my body. Then you would see. Then you would realize how much I needed to be held, to feel safe, to be be partnered, to be adored. Your face would soften and I would not believe how fast you would move from the sofa to my side to hold me up as I slumped to the floor, dying. Tears would well up in your eyes and I would feel your tears fall on my face as you looked deep into my eyes as you told me you were so sorry. 

Like a sleepwalker I shuffled from the kitchen across the cheap brown shag carpet. I had managed to slow my tears to a series of rough gasps.  I stood over you, within reach, waiting for you to turn your empty face to me, waiting for your cold blue eyes to meet mine. 

And when at last you acknowledged me, I begged to be held.

IP

Yes, I've read your blogs.

I'll bet you track your visitors, so for the record, that's my address. Yeah, I've been away a long time and I should stay away, but now and then I hear the sirens and can't help but rubberneck. Go on, look back, I can wait. I'm not going anywhere.

I know, I am not your target audience, so who is?

Let's see, your blog is about you, but aren't they all about ourselves, really? And you post photos and art about you, and you include your image in almost everything you create. The word "narcissist" comes to mind. So either your target audience is YOU or people who can't get enough of you.

In simple terms: if someone HAS had enough of you - then that person is no longer in your audience - targeted or otherwise.

Non Guest

My nightmares changed about a year ago. I am no longer chased by unseen demons. I am now dreaming I am losing my mind.

The dreams start off as an adventure. I travel to one city or another. I have an agenda and people I plan on seeing. I marvel at the busy streets, the colorful shops, the people. I'm there to have fun and to live life to the fullest but I can't remember how I got there. Sometimes I'm in a shop getting my hair cut or buying a cold drink when it hits me - I don't really know where I am. I pull out my phone, but I can't remember how to use it. Everything seems incomprehensibly difficult. I need help but can't figure out how to ask for it, and when I do, I am so confused that it is impossible for anyone to help me.

I've dreamed of being in New York before. Last night I found myself at your house. No, you don't live in New York, but in the dream you did and you are not a performer, but last night you were. I realized I was outside your home to see you. I followed your wife on the subway to your performance - she got out and walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I followed, my footing hindered by the ice skates I found myself wearing. There was no ice.

I seemed to know everyone you were performing with and was allowed back stage. I was there because I thought I had a walk on part, but I'd imagined it. The dream turned on me at that point - I knew I had made a critical mental error. You were kind and sweet, everyone was except for your wife who could not stop glaring at me. We'd had a past you and I. To my rattled brain, it was as if we were still friends. Why was I there?

There was an elaborate after party - I skated from group to group, chatting and so happy just to be apart of it. I was caught up the moment, uncaring what might happen next. Until it happened.

I was back at your house, uninvited. I'd let myself in and placed my bags on the guest bed to try and sort out where I was and how to get home. Your home was not a safe haven, it was the only haven my mind could find. Nothing was making sense to me. I had a memory of needing to call my sister to come and get me, but I could not work my phone. I wanted to call my husband and have him calm me down, but numbers were making no sense. I felt tied to a train track with the train coming.

You and your wife were not home yet. The realization that you would be walking into your perfect home to find me there was terrifying. I had to work this out. I turned out my pockets and my bag looking for clues. If I could figure out what to do, I could leave before she found me here.

My bag was filled with receipts and notes and 2 phones, one mine. I found no id but there was a credit card. There were bits of kitchen items as if as I was leaving I tossed them in just in case - a sponge, a vase, a bowl. I found no coat, no proper clothing, I was dressed for a party, not for traveling and at some point I'd lost my boots. As I poured out the contents they became impossible to manage. I could not decide what was important and what was not. I'd been hauling all this with me unable to part with anything in case it meant something. But I was rational enough to know when you and your wife walked in the house, I would have to explain myself and beg for help.

You walked in with your husband - a look of shock on your face.I was standing at the guest room door. I was not your guest. At first you screamed at me to get out of your house which I was unable to do. I was caught in a loop of confusion. I offered to get on a subway and just ride until I figured out what to do. It was pathetic. I was pathetic. I was terrified.

The subway entrances snaked off in all directions. I needed to get to the airport, but which one? I needed to book a flight home, but where was that? How was I going to be able to fly without an ID? Maybe I did have one, just lost in the rest of the jumble of my bags.

I was trying to buy tickets when you showed up with your son. Maybe you'd taken pity on me, or maybe you just wanted to make sure I was going. You swiped my card at the machine, you tucked it into the right pocket of a blue jacket lent me, you had me lighten my load of all the things I need not need. You offered to send your son with me to make sure I got to the airport. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I no longer remembered I'd even had a friendship with your husband. In my mind - all I wanted was to have my husband come and take me home.

Request answered: My husband was there beside me. Guiding me through the confusing crowd. His voice reassuring and gentle until he lost his grip on me and I was lost again.

I found myself back at your house. I was confused and frightened and knew something was very wrong with my thought process. There was something I needed to do. In the dream I spent hours as the uncomfortable non-guest with you alternating between being kind, and screaming at me for things unresolved in the past. Time could not move fast enough. You served breakfast to your neighbors. There was no setting at the table for me. I needed to tell you I was sorry for all the pain you felt in the past that I'd had anything to do with. I was sorry for all the pain you felt in seeing me appear in your life now. I was sorry for putting you through all of it.

I was sorry, I was so sorry.

I woke up in my bed snuggled up to my husband, but the dream has rattled me to my core.

I really am sorry.

Head on

It was in art class that you told me you'd broken into the student council closet that held all the candy machine supplies. You pushed a candy bar at me with a sneer. I don't believe we'd ever even shared two words before that. I was a freak then, I know that, and you wanted to see how the freak would respond.

I was not popular in High School. I was reasonably attractive. I was good at almost everything, and especially good at art, but what made me a freak was that I could not lie. That paired with a hyper sensibility to rules meant if you broke a rule in front of me, I would report you. I cared more about how adults saw me than how other kids saw me. It made me feel empowered. It also made me a victim.

I had been one of the kids that got the school to agree to the candy machine. The proceeds were going to fund dances and the like. My point was that these would benefit all of us.

You were one of a gang of "bad boys" who split their time between auto shop, cruising, and harassing other kids in the halls. There was no question, you were dangerous. Your friends were dangerous. There had been rumors of weapons at school and beatings after school. If you weren't the gang's leader you were certainly at the top of the pack. No one stood up to you.

I stared at the candy then calmly suggested you should put it back - all of it. I told you if you put it back, I would pretend you never told me. I also told you if you did not put it back, I would report you.

You laughed at me. I reported you.

Retribution came first with threats from your gang. I was cornered in a hall and weapons were flashed at me. They were clear, I would pay for turning you in. Something stopped me from reporting that. Perhaps fear. Perhaps curiosity. It was not long before I found my beloved VW bug destroyed in the school parking lot. Tires flattened. Paint scraped and dented from the knives and the brass knuckles I'd seen.

I should have been scared, but instead I saw it as an act of cowardice. They had attacked my car, not me. My car could not fight back. My car could be repaired and I refused to be bullied. I marched back in and reported the damage and the prior threats.

I was marked. From then on every time someone truant was found out, every infraction of the rules - anything at all - it was assumed I told. Nothing I could say or do could change those opinions. I did not know anything outside my own little world, but it did not matter. I was a snitch.

My sister dated within your gang. She wore the leather jacket and played the bad girl to my goody two shoes. I'd cried wolf so many times, our parents ignored my pleas for them to stop her.

When I heard you were in the car that crashed head on into a tree at 50mph - I cried. The boy who'd put the jacket on my sister was in that car too as was another of those who'd threatened me. I was away at college by then. You and your friends were drinking and cruising that night. Everyone in the car died. For the rest of us, life went on.

That day in art class, I was willing to lie for you.
I was not afraid of you.
I was afraid for you, and the path I saw you on.

You died within walking distance of the cemetery you were buried in.

Crossing the hatch line

My sister and I used to insist there was a line down the center of the backseat of our parent's car. There was my side. There was her side. We called it "hatching" the car. It allowed us to disagree without either of us being wrong. As long as she stayed on her side of the "hatch" I was cool with whatever. But crossing the "hatch line" meant full on battle.

I admit, there were times I let my shoulder slip just past the imaginary line, hoping she would blow up and get yelled at. I am certain she did the same. We both craved being able to be the smug one. It never lasted. We simply could not allow the other to get away with hatch violations because it was never really about the line.

Our parents wanted us to get along. We were sisters. We should have been nicer to each other. We should have shared. We fought our battle over butt space, but we the real conflict was over emotional territory. We were both certain the other was loved more, and fighting over that could not be mentioned. To be honest meant losing the illusion of control.

I would set her up, then rat her out. She would slap her own face then claim I hit her. We would say anything to make ourselves look good or the other look bad. I was older, thus expected to know better. I was older, thus assumed to be the one who started it. She was younger, so her emotional response, tears, were ok. I was told to stop crying because it was believed I was crying on purpose. Which of course caused me to believe she was crying on purpose and thus being falsely accused of something I was certain she was doing. Being falsely accused made me furious. Being furious led me to set her up again.

Of course this is me looking back. I had no idea at the time why I felt as I did, or why I did what I did. I was doing what I felt I needed to to hold my emotional place in our family. The lying, the manipulation - they never worked. I've learned through my life that honesty makes me happy. I also learned that nothing hurts me more than being accused of manipulation. I don't lie. I cry because I am sad. I say what I say because it's how I feel. I have no hidden agendas. They make no sense to me.

Ah History. You've become my little sister haven't you? Slapping your face and showing others the mark left. You've drawn a hatch line between us. And just like my sister and I, it's not about butt space.

I could fill this story with my feelings, but only one matters.
I don't trust you.

Clues

I found myself taking a virtual walk down the streets of Ellinwood, Kansas. Google street view put me in front of my childhood home and then let me walk all around it. I walked to my elementary school. I walked past friend's houses and fields of corn. I walked to the library and downtown. I walked to the swimming pool where I almost drowned and around the park and the bleachers.

I moved my walk to Great Bend, Kansas were I found my other childhood home, grandmother's home and Uncle's - all on the same street just houses part. I walked through the park where the pedophile lifted me up to reach the high bar. I ran to the home my grandmother used to live in - the home I lived in when I was just a baby.

I found my other grandmother's home and the ditch near by that gave me shivers.

It was odd. And it left me wanting more.

Lier

You lived in the apartment behind my Portland flat.

You worked at the grocery across the street. You invited me to come and listen to Fleetwood Mac's new album. You took my hand and led me into your dark apartment. You were a gentle young man,18, shy,and polite. I been raped a few months before and I was afraid. You smiled and convinced me all you wanted was to be my friend. I believed you. I was alone and facing cancer and I needed a friend.

I drove myself to the hospital for the surgery. I was only 20. I arrived with my suitcase and a photo of my boyfriend Doug and myself which I put beside the bed. I told the nurses about Doug and that he was in California. A priest came to talk to be before the surgery. I'm certain he meant to set my mind at ease, but instead he left me feeling like I would die that day. I went under ready to pass.

I woke up back in my hospital room. There was movement all around me and hands exploring my body - adjusting my clothing and in my drugged state - I assumed it was the nurses. My vision cleared and you were in my room. You were removing my hospital gown. The nurses had let you into my room because you told them you were my boyfriend. I tried to call out for help, but I'd just had surgery to remove a lymph node in my neck. I was bandaged and in pain. You kept saying you were there to take care of me. I fought you and the noise brought the nurses and you ran.

I should have had them call the police. I should have sued them for letting you into my room. I should have trusted my own mind that you had really been there, but I was 20 and nothing seemed real then.

The lymph node was sent to the lab but determined not to be cancerous. It was strange though, as it was grey and crumbled once removed. Atrophied. My tonsils had done the same thing. I was not dying. But I was in pain, both from the surgery and the intense back pain from the anesthetic. I did not know then I had defect in my spine.

I was trapped in my flat. Flat on my back, in intense pain and taking so many drugs I was in and out of consciousness. I had no one to come and take care of me. A part of me wished I had died rather than be in so much pain and alone.

I woke up with you in my bed. You had broken into my flat. I was groggy and limp and you repeated what you'd said in my hospital room, you were there to take care of me.

You lied.

The dark place . my first abuse

I remember my first nightmare.

I was not yet two years old and I was being chased round and round a palm tree by a tiger. I had a tiny bow and arrow. I'm certain this came to my mind that night because of the radio story Little Black Sambo, the story of young Indian boy who meets up with a tiger and turns him into butter. In my nightmare, I was the one being turned to butter.

I had nightmares almost every night from then on. I remember most of them. The main reoccurring theme was being chased - and the primal fear of being caught and held against my will. To this day, I cannot stand to be held while someone whispers in my ear. The feel of the warm breath, the hissing of the words without the ability to break free is terrifying.

As I grew older, my nightmares turned to sleepwalking. In my teens I would wake up in the kitchen or the living room. I had sprinted out of my room to escape something in a dream. My sister would talk in her dreams. Scream. She would scream my name.

Time took me further from my night fears until the birth of my daughter. Then the dreams shifted to being unable to protect her. And then, they came true. But my dark place is not the same as her's. Mine lives somewhere back in my past where I was the child needing protection - where I was the one held and forced and then running...

I remember almost all my nightmares. So why can't I remember you?

My daughter's therapists noted my uncanny ability to relate to what happened to her. They worked with me for years to accept what happened to her and myself, both in the now and in the past. I was told not to pursue regression therapy. It seems the mind blocks things it can't handle. I've waited 20 years for the memories to come, but there is only the dark place. No glimmer of light, or flash of content. Nothing but my suspicions.

What did you do to me? When was it? Where was it? Was it just you or did things repeat themselves? Was it what you did that lead me to be so vulnerable to others? Was there something familiar that drew me to the men who raped me? Each pretended they were with me out of caring. I yearned to be comforted, to be held. I felt responsible for the things that happened to me. I led men on, or so I would be told again and again. I was told I invited the attention. Why would I do that? Why would I set myself up to be manipulated, trapped, sexually exploited?

My suspicions point to you.

When you die, I hope a memory strikes a match in the dark place where I have hidden you. Dead, you won't be here to trick me into keeping our secret. I will tell the world and you will forever be what I say you are. Or you can tell me yourself, if you feel remorse. And you do feel remorse and fear I'll remember - it's how I know who you are without remembering. It's in all the things you haven't done.

One day I will remember.

Tethered

If there is something I can do to help you, I do. I don't add up what that means to me. I don't figure my cut or how much I stand to loose . I believe, instead, that by helping you I'm helping myself. Good given = good received.

I imagine us on a raft, floating along together, each of us assisting the other. Happy and content in the knowledge that we are there to support each other. If something is better for you than for me - yours! If something is better for me than for you - mine! And all the rest we share.

But you aren't sharing. You fight to keep control of everything. By holding on so tightly, you are losing much more than you are keeping. Opportunities you can't imagine are moving past you as if you are a rock in river.

I imagine a time when you realize there is more in front of you than what you think you see. I imagine your respect - for me - for others. I imagine you giving without thinking of it as loss. I imagine not needing to untie the knot.

But I know I can't stay tethered to you as you are now.

Inner child

I remember you as childless, filled to the brim with yourself. Singular, no matter who was in your life, frozen in the you I knew then. Time stopped.

I found your son online when I was looking for you.

He is the lifetime that's past since I knew you. He has your eyes and your energy. I looked through the clues he chooses to share with the world and I could see a person filled to the brim with himself. Your child no longer a child. Childless. Singular. Moving at light speed. Inner child brought into reality, raised and nurtured, then released to fly or fall.

You are again childless, as am I. Our inner children now young adults living their own lives much as we lived ours. And each of us filled to the brim with all the time that's passed and all the people we've met along the way.

You lived through it

It made you who you are today.

You've shared bits of it as you've gone along. Kindred souls took in your words and understood it from their own perspectives, but only you know what you lived through.

Tears well up from that dark place where you locked up your memories. You talk to yourself. Pain revealed, love remembered, shared with personal ghosts you move a step further into your future.

Your life - a series of events that made you who you were, who you are, who you will be. And somewhere, our lives crossed. Good or bad we shared a bit of it together and it made me who I am today.

Thank you.

The present of the past

You've grown up. You're older. I'm older. And yet, I can still see you, inside. Something wonderful is happening. The world is getting smaller. I've missed you.
::::hugs::::

Just the way you are

I know you love me. You tell over and over, "I love you!" Abundant and plentiful as tap water, "I love you's" flow from your mouth. I don't know why you need to say it as often as you do. But you do. That's just the way you are.

I know you love your friends. You spend hour after hour, day after day online - connected through games and team speak. Their voices echoing yours as laughter spills from the office. I don't know why you choose online over the real world as often as you do. But you do. That's just the way you are.

Once upon a time, I was not sure "I love you" was enough.I found my heart pulled by another who also said "I love you" but who did not live online with his friends. I know it hurt you. I will never stop feeling bad for hurting you. I know you don't want to remember that time. But you do. That's just the way you are.

When I was "not sure" I found myself thin and fit. I had lost weight. I almost lost us. You said "choose me." And I did. And then I gained and gained. And in the past 10 years when I've tried to lose what I gained, you'd say say "I love you just the way you are." You say "You aren't supposed to be thin." You say "Eat, eat. You can't lose weight. You've always been big." That's just the way you are.

I felt so guilty over hurting you that I padded my body to keep anyone but you from finding me attractive. I think you are afraid if I lose weight, you'll lose me.

Damned

I damned myself to hell for you.

I admitted my sins against you and the catholic church so you could get your annulment. Never mind we'd been divorced for years and I'd remarried. Never mind I'm not catholic. Never mind you weren't either. That call to tell me you'd come across the continent to peer in my apartment window, that was the last time we talked. Was it stalking or were you just needing to be sure you sent the document to the right Deborah?

This is the place where I talk about how when we broke up you moved as far away as you possibly could and still be in the same country. You found a girl who was my age, who looked like me, another Deborah. Literally, Deborah, with the same last name I had when I was married to you. Typically I move from that to how I agreed to damn myself to hell, and then back to the stalking. The story peters out that that point with hints of my trying to find out about your life through family and in the last few years, through internet. The story used to end there with me saying, I really don't know anything about his life now.

When I began blogging, I had a blog stalker. The person's screen name was name of our first cat. The person was only commenting on my blogs and was not posting. The tone of the comments from him and the questions he asked about my father - they pointed to a person who knew me and all the places I'd lived.

It was about that same time I wrote a post about us and I included your photo. And your name. And within a day I had an email from you. It was a request to take down the post. I did. And there lies the mystery. Was it really you who wrote me from the generic gmail address or was it my blog stalker?

Where you pretending to be someone else to peer in my windows again, or was someone peering in my windows pretending to be you?

Damned if I know.

Do you know what this means?

I came into the house, my right middle finger pointed skyward, face lined in anger as I screamed to my mother "do you know what this means?"

My memory says she answered "it means hi" - probably with a tight little smile.

It was summer, I was 11, we'd just moved and I had no friends. I was curious what the boys were doing in the park across the street from my house. When I walked up I was stopped by their hand signal, and the dirt clods they followed it up with. And my mother told me, "they were waving at you!"

I was sure it was NOT a friendly sign, holding up that lone finger, but I really had no clue. I spent a year not knowing and yet pretending I did. When I was sent the signal, I returned it. Seemed logical. I added a smile for good measure.

I was the focus of quite a bit of negative attention. A month after we moved in someone covered the sidewalk and driveway with dirty, mean words. I knew the words, but not the meaning. I met you when I walked next door to ask if anyone at your house had seen anything. You became my first friend in Lamar.

I was instantly in awe of you. It was summer and you had managed to save your Halloween candy in a shoe box under your bed. You allowed yourself a piece a day so it would last all year. Unimaginable.

We played basketball on your driveway. We swam on the swim team. We rode bikes. We talked and talked and it was you that taught me what my parents had not.

I was holding up both hands, middle fingers raised screaming at my my mother "it means FUCK! it means FUCK!" Course I'd just learned a lot more than the word, I'd learned what the word stood for, which was the real reason I was angry. It seems that FUCK is what happens when a man puts his thing into a woman's thing.... blah blah blah... what a HORRID thought! I could not IMAGINE this happening to me. It made the women have a baby. And you said, "women like it!" You got the info from your sister who was in High School, so it must be true.

The next step for you was a boyfriend. He was on the swim team too. There were 3 girls and 3 boys in our age group on the team. I got stuck with the lesser of the three, and well, he did too. You were into making out, I was into wishing I was you.

At our 20 year high school reunion I found myself talking with you and I was in awe of you all over again. You lived in Las Vegas. You and I had both been married at 19 and divorced soon after. You were beautiful and stylish and soft spoken and real. I remember the way the gold lamé gown hung on your frame. You seemed so thin, too thin. We spent the time in Lamar laughing and promising to keep in touch. Then we didn't.

I recently found your first boyfriend online. He became a banker who rides motorcycles. He married his high school sweetheart and they are now grandparents together. He remembers you fondly as his first crush. He remembers you.

I wrote him of your passing, not that I know much.
Drugs, illness, or eating disorder could be the cause - or just the underlying sadness I read in your eyes at that reunion. It was profoundly sad that I could not get anyone to tell me what really happened to you to cause your death.

When I see you again, fill me in ok?
And wear the gold lamé dress.

I felt beautiful in that dress.

Busted

In Lamar, the adults would put on dances to give the teens something to do. I was 12 when they had a summer dance in the empty swimming pool. I was not old enough to attend, so I hung outside the chain link and grooved along with the music and dreamed of MY turn to go to a dance.

School dances were a let down. Girls on one side, boys on the other - only kids "dating" were dancing. I found myself willing a boy across the room to ask me to dance. I would focus ALL my mental powers on him and if he did not ask me, I would go into a depression for days,

But the summer dances - oh my - anything could happen there. No theme. No decorations. No status. Just a crummy band in a dark hall with any kids from the area that were old enough to attend.

I must have been 15 or 16 when I found myself dancing with you. I had always thought you were cute, but because I had a thing for picking one guy at a time to work my "will" on, you'd never been one I'd sent imaginary mental signals too. I remember the cowboy boots you had on. I wondered if it was difficult to dance in them. Cowboy boots meant you lived on a farm, and I was a city girl. (in a town of what, 3000?) And asking me to dance with you was all it took. I was ready for whatever. You asked if I wanted to go "out for a drive" and I knew exactly what I thought you meant. We were going to make out. I was ready to try that out. Now I'd had a boyfriend and I'd made out, but never with someone I just met up with that night. It was daring. It was naughty. It was exciting.

Your car was something old, low, dark and unreliable. I was not sure where to put my hands or my face and even less sure if we were on the same page of what we were doing. Perhaps I was a bit confused, but I seem to remember it being fun in a "we should not be doing this" way.

It was late, and I was going to be in trouble for not coming home at a decent time. And there was NO WAY I was supposed to leave the dance with anyone. And I had left with someone I barely knew. And I had begun to worry that my leaving with you the way I did would mean I was "easy." You pulled your car around and somehow it ended up off the road and stuck.

That's when things get fuzzy as most painful childhood memories do.

We must have walked to find a farm with a phone.
My father must have come to pick me up.
I know we never went out again.
I don't remember you and I even talking after that.

Did you date my sister?

5, 6, 7, 8

I was uncomfortable being alone with you.
You were a cheerleader. You were popular. I was neither.

When you asked to talk with me, alone, I was certain it had to be a trick. I waited for the bucket of blood to drop on my head. I waited for the set up of "this boy really likes you...." I ran my hand underneath to check for gum before I sat. I was so uncool it was epic. Your click needed only to whisper my name in each other's ears and the laughter would spread throughout the lunch room. None of you ever TALKED to me.

Until that afternoon you and I shared a name, but little else.

It was about a boy. You had a crush on a boy and you desperately needed someone to talk too. It seems this boy was the captain of the football team (classic) and gorgeous and the boyfriend of your best friend, also a cheerleader. You had my attention at "I need to talk about Shawn." In our small high school everyone knew everyone else and those with gossip held court. And yet, somehow you knew I would not do that. Somehow you knew that I would actually listen.

I'm sure I must have told you to tell him how you felt.
I'm sure I must have told you to be honest with your friend that you liked her boyfriend.
I'm sure I must have told you that if something is meant to be, it will be.

You married Shawn.
Your daughter became a cheerleader at the same High School.
You have grandchildren with Shawn.
You still live there, I think, and you are still friends with the girl who was dating him.
Shawn went bald.
I'd bet you are still blonde.

Thank you for talking to me that day, Deb.

The way it wasn't

You loved him for who you thought he was.
You planned your wedding, named your children.

You photographed yourself as if you were looking into your future as his one and only, as if wanting it more than anything could make it real. You wished as if God was only granting one wish to one girl and that girl had to be you because you above all other girls deserved it. You deserved him. You were meant to be with him. Him. Him. Him.

If he was the person you thought he was, wouldn't he be with you now?
Wouldn't he be holding you at night and saying a million I love yous?

If he was the person you thought he was, wouldn't he have been with you then? Wouldn't he have met you in person, even once?

Maybe he really was that person.
Just not yours.

Starving

You are not starving for food.

Your hunger is for release from anxiety and depression. You feel if you eat everything you want you can fill that deep empty place inside then you can be satisfied long enough to forget your shortcomings. Pot and alcohol may relax your mind, but not your need to feed. What starts as a break from reality ends in you raiding the cupboards for anything there is a lot of. That's because you also have a fear of being without.

The larger you become the more the hunger grows. Another log on the anxiety fire. You workout and eat right during the day, but darkness outside and inside loosens your grip each night.

You need to find the strength to put out the fire or it will consume you - leaving you nothing but dust.