Regrets

I am no expert. No really, I'm not. However, if you had ever had an actual conversation with me, you have probably experienced my unsolicited expertise in whatever topic we are discussing.  Likely it had little impact.  I know a little about a lot of things and a lot about very few.  I have tons of unusual life experiences to draw from, but in  no way does that make me an expert.  That being said, I have been thinking a lot about regrets and how to avoid as many as possible.  So I am offering, once again, my expert advice.

I have regrets.  I am sure most of us do. Typically, or for me anyway, they seem to come from situations that ultimately make us feel guilt or remorse. The tequila night that went bad, the time you made your grandmother cry, or when you left your baby at day care by accident. It happens.  When someone asks you "Do you have any regrets", one of those types of scenarios may come up. (And no, those are not my real life examples. Except for maybe the tequila one.)

We also have the "I didn't ever......." regrets.  I should have dated that 18 year old that said they liked cougars, I should have saved more money so my cats don't eat better than I do in retirement, and the ever popular, I should have traveled the world. These aren't really regrets, these or dreams or desires you held yourself back from. (Again, not mine. I have yet to be called a cougar.....dammit.)

So making my grandma cry, denying the 18 year old lover , and never leaving the country aren't regrettable? Well yes, we can regret the behavior, or lack there of. But the feelings that come from that regret are the shame, embarrassment, guilt etc.  Regret isn't a feeling. A feeling comes as a result of regretting something. And emotions are the reason we avoid doing things that we later end up regretting.

The vicious regret cycle.

Today I was thinking of so many things I want to do. Both bucket lists; the reality bucket and the fantasy bucket.  While my fantasy bucket overflows, I am truly not interested in pursuing most of its contents.  I have made the decision that not feelings, but potential bad consequences, land things in the fantasy bucket. I have way too many things to lose and little to gain by picking out of that hat.  The reality bucket list grows as I grow, not in age, but in self. And yet, I find myself visiting that bucket just as infrequently. For that I have regret, or most assuredly will someday.

I think I will head regret off at the pass, or meet it before it finds emotion.

I will stop thinking about what happens after I choose to fulfill a want or need and just fulfill it.

Sacrifice

It has been almost a year since I posted a blog.  In this blog's beginning, I was full of zest and zeal. I wrote daily. At some point it changed to weekly. Then monthly.  The sporadically.  Eventually something caused me to hit a brick wall and fall flat on my writer's ass.  Recently I realized, it was writing that caused me to stop writing.

When I began this blog, I threw my heart and soul to the wind and my readers. In return I found personal freedom, compassion, friends and connections.  I felt that my words made a difference to me and those that read them.  I opened the passion door and found amazing things behind it.  I loved the feelings so much that I reached out to more people and places to lay my words.  Apparently I reached too far.

Somewhere between then and now, writing became work.  I was so happy to contribute to all of the online papers and magazines. I was happily blogging my personal experiences and writing for myself and those that needed to relate. I took on project after project wanting to sink my teeth into everything.  And then, one day, I realized I was working.  No longer had my writing become a release.  I was losing the passion and drive.  I had to think about what I would write instead of hurrying to get to my computer and let out the words that were overflowing in my head. I had stretched my limits. I had sacrificed myself.

Sacrificing yourself.

I have spent a considerable amount of time thinking about that lately. So much time in fact, that it has gotten my writing juices flowing and encouraged me back to this blog.

In life, we are taught, learn, or decide that we must make sacrifices for the greater good, be it relationships, those less fortunate etc.  However somewhere I think many of us lose sight of what it means to sacrifice.  For me, sacrificing means giving up something or compromising to make whatever work. Certainly it should never be a negative thing, but rather something you WANT to do. It should be a conscious decision done in the best interest of whatever your particular interest is.  Sacrificing should be about giving OF yourself, not giving UP yourself.

Many times, for me anyway, the two get confused.  In the past I have found myself agreeing to be less than who I am to pacify a situation.  I have given up parts of me that, frankly, I liked. In an effort to keep moving forward, I didn't realize I lost some important things that didn't deserve to be left behind.

So today, on my first day back here, I will leave you all with the same thought I have been pondering lately:

Sacrifice for compromise should never mean losing yourself for change.

Be True to Yourself

As you may or may not know, I am working on a new project.  After my epiphany (I have way too many, way too often), I realized what I wanted to do more than anything was to be a story teller. A teller of human interst stories.  I love to read about people, to learn about them, to figure out what makes them tick.  Had I been a better student and could actually have afforded school, I would have been an amazing phych something (insert some initials after my name here).

Everything about us is because of something else.  We simply would not exist if we haven't had experienced. Everyone comes from somewhere.  Sometimes its a great place, sometimes its horrific.  Be we all come from somewhere. All those somewheres create who we are right now. Even what you did mundanley ten mimnutes ago shaped who you are right now.  Every breath, everything we eat or drink, each time we use any of our senses. 

Most of our daily movements go unnoticed.  Its only those that create memory that have power, both good and bad, over us.  If we fail to remember, we fail to be effected.  Or so our brain would like to fool us into thinking. We have an uncanny ability to forget things. Especially when they are painful.  And those painful things we cannot forget, we tend to blame for hanging around making us miserable. 

All of these things we experience, whether we remeber them or not, create our story.

Since beginning this project, I have had the honor of reading and writing some very powerful stories.  It was a leap of faith for people to share such intimate details with someone they dont even know.  With nothing other than a promise to tell their story and a hope that it lifts some emotional burden, my mailbox filled with a chance for the opportunity. It was quite humbling.

One parrticular person that found their way to my mailbox was someone I knew over 25 years ago.  We were not friends, but we shared the same small high school.  The last time I saw her was probably 1986, so this is how I pictured her in my head.  And as I read her words I saw that young girl. I could so easily place her in the story.  I felt bad. Bad for what she was going through, but worse because I was going through so much then too.  I felt bad that we didnt know each other.  That we werent able to share with our peers.  That we probably would have been friends if only we had been honest with ourselves.  We shared some very similar experiences that shaped who we have become.  And yet not once would I have ever thought that she was feeling what I was feeling.

I suppose my point of this ramble is that we need to teach people that you can find friends and support in the most unlikely of places.  That we really have no idea what is happening inside someone else and they have no idea what's going on inside you.  It's not the clothes or the circle you associate with that makes you who you are. It is OK to step outside that box and open yourself up. You just need to be true to who you are and tell your story.

I am a storyteller

I had an epiphany in the shower today.  So much happens mentally in the shower.  In ten minute windows, I slowly change my life, one reflection at a time.

This morning I was feeling guilty. Guilty of not writing. Guilty of not producing the volume of articles I would like to.  Guilty of holding people up that relied on me for their web content. Guilty for thinking I was not being passionate about things I know I am passionate about.

As I washed my  hair I thought about my declining health, how it is effecting me mentally and thought perhaps I was just too tired right now to care so much.  However I know better.  No matter what the world throws at me, if I am on a mission, I will give 110% always. And I am still on a mission. The mission to write. 

I am a writer. But of what?  What do I write? Why do I write? These were the questions to myself.  I write articles. I write reviews. I write opinions. I blog. I write song lyrics, poetry and love letters.  Pretty much in that order now a days.  And that, my friends, is why I am in a rut.  I have put the very things I am most passionate about,  the topics, the subjects and the feelings, at the end of my writing priority list.  Somehow I have allowed what was once a passion in itself, writing, to become a job. One I do not get paid for.

When I began blogging and opening up my world to others, I was passionate about my feelings. I reached out and was met with open arms from many communities.  I took solace in them, and they in my words.  I was fueled by the stories, the feelings, and the injustices. I found common ground with people for the first time ever.  I learned so much, and shared even more.  I connected.  I found a place for my story and listened to theirs.  And then it hit me.

I am not a writer.  I am a storyteller.  I want to tell my story. I want to tell yours.  I want my story to effect you and yours to effect me.  I am passionately interested in sharing what brings us together and what keeps us apart.  My opinion matters and so does yours.  This is why I write. 

I am interested  in the news and what is happening in our communities.  I am thrilled to see sucessful LGBT artists portrayed in a positive lilght.  I am excited at the advances in legislation, albeit slow.  I am sickened by the injustices and the phsyical attacks on our communities.  I am just not a writer of it.

I am the writer that takes those physcial and mental scars created by the news events and shares it.  I am the writer that talks about the feelings you get when seeing couples marry after being together decades. I am the writer that opens the door to my story and encourgaes you to open yours. 

I do not feel guilty for stepping back from that which stopped feeling passionate. I am not just a writer. I am a storyteller. I have a renewed passion, a new mission and a new goal. 

Hey Kid - A letter to myself

A friend posted a short, yet brilliant, note to her child self today that made me think.  We all could benefit from writing to our young selves.

It seems the things that bother me most now, or have since childhood, might not have had as much power over me if I just had a chance to tell myself then what I know now. Obviously I got the wrong messages from those in my life.  What if I had received the right ones? Would I be at all different today? 

I think back to the young child being verbally and emotionally assaulted at the hands of her own mother.  During those years her mother's words were all she ever heard. I would have liked to say, "Hey kid.  Someday you will have your own children. Your kids will be awesome.  Everything she says to you today will make you a strong and determined mom.  You will know better than most, just how painful words and actions can be. And you will try your hardest to make sure no one ever makes your children feel like you do right now.  Her words are empty.  Your heart will be full. "

I think back to the kid that never quite fit in.  That was everyone's sidekick and no one's hero.  I would like to tell that kid "Hey kid.  You are not less than them.  When you are wishing you were someone else, someone was wishing they were you.  Believe it when people say they like you. Trust me, waiting until you are in your 40's to like yourself has severe disadvantages."

I think back to the kid that only wanted to love someone, even if everyone thought it was the wrong someone.  I would like to tell her "Hey kid.  Love who your heart tells you to. It doesn't matter what they look like, what their gender is, who they are related to, or where they come from.  Missing opportunities to love and feel good out of fear is just letting them win. "

I think back to the girl that was sure she was both a boy and a girl at the same time.  I would say to her "Hey kid.  You are whatever you feel in your heart you are.  And it doesn't matter if you stand or sit to pee. Most people will not understand you, but the important ones will. Don't ever be something you are not for them. "

And I think of the kid that sat planning her suicide, because no one took the time to tell her these things.  "Hey kid.  I love you. You might not know that for a long, long time.  So I am telling you now.  If you leave here, you will change the world forever.  There will people that never got the chance to feel the love they would have shared with you.  There will be incredible children that never got the opportunity to be here.  And most importantly, you will miss an awesome journey that ultimately takes you to a place where you finally "get" yourself.  And even though you think now, and will many times later in life, that no one would notice if you were gone.  They will. I need you to stay. "

I will never know how different life would have been if only I could have had this time with myself then.  I am not so sure I want to know.  What I do know is that it is never too late to help your young self heal.

Freeing Myself

Did you ever have one of those days when you think, I just want to be free to do what I want, when I want and how I want?  I am not talking about staying in bed late, taking the day off of work or jumping out of an  airplane.  I am talking about allowing yourself the freedom to do what comes naturally, or wants to come naturally.

We have become a society of constant editing.  Every move we make is based on someone else's potential reaction. 

I commute to work. Many times while driving I will shut the radio off and ask myself, "what do you want to do at this very moment?"  Not something on my bucket list, but honestly what I want to do at that very moment. The answers vary; scream, cry, make stupid faces, pick my nose etc. I am not really looking to answer my question, I am looking to allow myself that freedom when there is no reason to edit myself.

It's not as easy as you think.

Yesterday I looked a little deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable doing what feels like it should be natural.  Why I am afraid to sing at the top of my lungs, cry buckets of tears, or dance, even when alone.  The fear of criticism waiting in the wings is powerful.  The reality of it may have been over 30 years ago, but the wounds must still be fresh.  It sucks.

If I could do what I wanted, reacted how I wished I could, allowed myself to the freedom just to be, life would completely different for me.  My self editing has molded me into someone that now I am realizing is very different than who I should have been. 

I am making progress in my attempt to free myself, not from the holds of the past but from who I have allowed myself to be because of it. 

I am so much more. 

The Zen Den

I was watching a film short on Oprah's new network the other day. A group of people erected (I will refrain from giggling as my prepubescent behavior dictates) what was essentially a room made from PVC and white sheets on the sidewalk of a bust city street.  Inside the "Zen Den" were a variety of items at different times during the day ranging from bubbles to an exercise bike to a drum set.  The film simply showed people entering the white sheeted confines and ultimately how they chose to spend their time in there with the props provided.  My first reaction was the only people they could entice into the den were the free spirited who typically have a way about them enabling moments of free expression anyway.  My prediction proved correct for the first handful of people that entered.  However, my thought process shifted direction when I saw the business suit enter.

After a few minutes I had seen a plethora of people doing what instinctively came to them when presented with the props and a certain level of anonymity.  The raw energy these people emitted could be felt on the screen. I witnessed the release the banging of drums allowed and the return of memories, most likely good and bad, the act of blowing bubbles created. An elderly lady entered and simply laid down for a nap.

For a while I was envious of them all. Each person that stepped out of their comfort zone by entering the unknown was able to find a place where all inhibitions could be let go of and raw reaction was appropriate.  It reminded me of just how much we hold each other back. Of how guarded we keep ourselves in hopes of self preservation.  We have learned that freedom of expression is many times met with judgement and that judgment many times feels bad.  By limiting our expression we lessen the blow.  Or do we?

I started wishing that every street corner had a zen den.  That my job had one, as well as my home.  I thought about how much more peaceful the world would be if we had an nonjudgmental outlet for what we were feeling in the moment.  How having no stimuli but your own self and what you are doing would allow honesty within your own soul for a few moments.  How we wouldn't do what we assumed those watching want us to.  How cause and effect would never be negative.

I am not sure what I would do in the zen den. But I would love the opportunity to let my feelings and my energy show me.

One Man's Trash

Last weekend we finished the demolition of the old, and raising of the new, shed.  I opted to spare the new shed some of the old shed's contents and made several trips to the curb with handfuls of who knows what.

On one of my last trips I saw a woman walking up the alley.  She looked weathered and I suppose natural, for a lack of better words.  Her skin had seen a lot of sun, her shoulder length hair had no meaning other than to exist and do what hair does, and her clothes were dumpster at best.  She reminded me of what I would assume someone who has committed themselves to studying wildlife in Africa might be like.  Although disheveled and messy, she seemed clean enough to be healthy and exuded an air of calm and peace.

As she passed the enormous amount of bundled old shed wood and rubbish, she quietly said, "
Oh, old racquetball rackets. Mind if I take a look?".  I found it incredibly odd how she managed to see the very tip of the handles poking out of one garbage can and was able to recognize that not only were they old, they were racquetball rackets.

"Help yourself" I said a little bewildered.

In that moment I ran a gazillion thoughts through my head. She pulled the rackets out of the can, looked them over with what appeared to be the knowledge of a professional antique racquetball racket appraiser and said "I will take this one if you don't mind. You know, one man's trash is another man's treasure".

I happily obliged her request and nodded at her commonplace words of wisdom.  As I was turning around to head back through my gate into the backyard she stopped me and said "and I don't mean just garbage".

I turned and studied her face for further clues. "That applies to all things in life, including people. Remember that." Again I nodded and spun to go back into the yard.  "Nice art work" was the next thing she said. She was looking at the tattoos on my arm.

There isn't a day that goes by that I don't have to have a tattoo related conversation with someone.  I prepared myself for my standard answers.  When asked I explained that I did them myself she said "are you an artist"? To which I emphatically said "no", with a chuckle just to seal the deal.  She looked at me quizzically and said "you know, it is never too late to be what you should have been".

With that she walked away up the alley.  I watched her wondering who she was, why I had never seen her before, what she was doing behind my house and most of all how she knew those little bits of racket handle belonged to a vintage racquetball racket. 

I am not an artist.  I do not desire to be an artist.  However her words resonated with me so much over the past week that I had to write them down. "One man's trash is another man's treasure" and "It is never too late to be what you should have been". 

I couldn't agree more.

High School

The last of my children started high school this year.  Thinking of high school always makes me cringe.  While some of the best moments of my life happened during those years, some of the worst did as well.  The best live as fond memories that I recall every now and then.  The worst I live with every single day, even 25 years later.
I think back to the bullying; the chants, the spray painted driveway, the eggs on my car.  All things that seemed to just go with the territory of being openly homosexual in the 1980s.  Time has moved us forward, unfortuanetly I cant seem to grasp that, at least not the feeling of it.
Until the other day when I listened first hand to some incredible high school kids talking on the subject of gender and sexuality, I had no idea that being gay no long carried the stigma it used to.  Even as much as I write and speak to people about LGBT issues, I never realized how accepted kids truly are of their peers.  And while we have a long way to go and a lot of bullies to put out of commission, I am seeing that we are winning the fight.
In a conversation with a coworker about this I actually got choked up as I tried to explain what life was like for me; family that disowned me and friends that took my membership card away.  I tried to say, "Do you have any idea how that feels? How it feels to be unworthy in so many people's eyes?". But I could not get it out, doing so would have made me cry.  I pride myself on fighting emotion and never allowing my past to creep up and make me feel weak, but it got the better of me.
When she told me a friend of her sons parents told the friend that he better not (insert any 'act gay' behavior here) in high school or the kids will beat him up, she said she was stunned, as was her son.  "They would never do that just because someone was gay" was their thought process.  And while I know that is not the truth I was amazed that the thought that someone would not get abused for their sexual orientation came before the thought that surely they would.  It's progress. Progress I wish I had experienced then.  I wish I could feel it now.
The emotions that surfaced that day were not sparked by self pity, but rather envy. Envy mixed with relief.  Relief for the kids that will be able to experience high school as a person instead of a label. I wonder how different my bullies from that day would feel if their own children were enduring the people they used to be.

I used to be a gentleman

We all change over the course of our lives. Situations, relationships and environment shift who we are.  There are times when you wake up and wonder, where the heck "you" went. And times when you thank the powers that be for getting you to the other side.  Either way, change is inevitable and certainly shaped by situation and maturity. I don't like change. It upsets my OCD.  However I love personal growth.  I have grown more in the past couple of years than I think I have my entire life combined. And while I love getting to know myself honestly, I am having difficulties looking back on the changes that have taken place previously that I am not so happy about.

Once upon a time I truly cherished and loved my women. I was a gentleman in everything I did. I gave 110% to whoever I was with, oftentimes obsessively so.  I expected nothing in return other than for them to acknowledge the fact that they knew they were treated well. Their happiness was my happiness. Somewhere that stopped working for me.  Someone found a way to take everything I was and everything I offered and make a mockery of it.  That someone, who I care nothing about today, managed to effect who I am and how I continue to live my life. Sadly every relationship since has suffered.  I doubt those I was with felt short changed because that is the only way they knew me. However I know the potential I had as a partner, and the amount of "me" they never got.

The change I experienced and have carried with me was because of my environment, not because I wanted to change.  Now that I am "finding myself", I think I need to be open to the idea of reversing negative change and allowing my personal growth to include the pieces of me taken at someone else's hands.

Freeing Myself

Its been a little over a year since I began this blog and ultimately a journey like none other. To most my ride has gone undetected. The effects of writing what I typically only allow to swirl in my head has been enlightening, sometimes frightening, but mostly freeing. I wish I had known that 30, 20, even 10 years ago I could have felt this way, had I just opened the door.

This blog has opened the door to an involvement in the LGBT community that I had honestly never even considered. I had no intentions of using these pages to solicit writing opportunities. However, when the opportunities found me I wondered why I hadn't considered how fulling supporting the community through writing could be.

My ultimate goal is to finish my memoir. The thought excites and scares the hell out of me. Someone said recently "....yet you seem so normal", when I was speaking of some experiences I have had. I wonder what she would have said if I had shared anything from my book. Normal? No. Not in the dictionary sense of the word. But to me? Yes. I am normal for what I am supposed to be. I am simply a product of my environment and my experiences, as we all are.

Blogging, writing for LGBT publications, and working on my book this past year has allowed me to learn who I am. It has given me the strength to allow others to learn me too. I have felt decades of emotions wash through me in a small amount of time. It has been an overwhelming, stressful, exhausting experience. Yet it has been one of the most healing things I have ever done.

I will finish my book. I will hopefully send it out to the world. I will share my story for what it is worth. I will not fear the reaction as somehow I know we all can relate. Perhaps not to the tragedies, but to the feelings.

In one year I have managed to undo decades of damage. Thank you for allowing me to do so.

I have you all to thank

"I love the you no one gets to see but me." A line from a movie the other night that my wife repeated to me several times that evening as well as emailing it to me the next morning. Each time she said it I answered in my head or aloud "that's about 90% of me." I have never been someone else to most people, I just have never allowed most people to know who I am completely, or at all. Most of my life has been spent staying in the role that people can relate to easiest and without much question. The most controversial thing I am to most is a lesbian. Some days that is hard enough for the majority to handle.

Since I began this blog less than a year ago, I have allowed you all to travel my journey of self discovery and acceptance of who I am along with me. I have gone back and reread some of my entries realizing I am still finding things in those words about myself that surprise me. Sometimes it feels like I am reading a stranger's writing. I find myself captivated by the words and feeling a bit uneasy that I displayed them for the world to see. I get to know me each time I write and again when I read it. Its a never ending process that I would typically never allow people to join me in.

Since I use anonymity in my blog and my columns, I suppose I get a false sense of security. Somehow I assumed a fictitious name would keep people from knowing me. Until now I didn't realize the name had little to do with it. I am still putting myself out there. I am still taking this very real journey. I am still discovering who I am, all names aside. And I am still allowing anyone interested to take the ride with me. For the first time in my life I feel free of a lot of things. Free of a lot of anger, resentment, self loathing and misunderstanding. I feel free of shame and the need to hide. I am finally free of the pounding desire to share who I am with people and not just little tiny pieces to fit into most social circles appropriately.

My wife will always be the only one that knows me, the complete me. Her repeated statement "I love the you no one gets to see but me" holds steadfast. However I am finding there are so many people that do relate, that do see me for most of who I am and haven't run screaming from the complexities. I am no longer 90% inside myself. And I have you all to thank.

Gut Instincts

Yesterday my life may have ultimately been saved by my gut. Long story short, I allowed an eighteen wheeler to move in front of me rather than make him wait until I passed him. As soon as I did, I felt completely panicked and knew I 'had' to change lanes. I was so panic stricken that I actually cut another car off in order to get out from behind the truck. The very second I crossed into the new lane, the truck's tire and part of his wheel flew off and was sent flying 70 miles an hour directly behind him where I had been just one second before. I cannot explain how I knew to leave that lane at that moment, but this was not an isolated incident.

I have been 'feeling' things before they happen all of my life. Sometimes it comes to me in words, sometimes in pictures and sometimes in emotion. So far I have been unable to tap into the gift of my sixth sense and use it as I want to, but I get a chuckle every time it happens. Yesterday I was very thankful for it. This morning I started to think about the things our gut tells us and how true it is that you should trust what it says. I trusted my gut yesterday because the panic felt raw and I acted on instinct. That was a good move. However, I have had many situations where my gut told me to do something and I took too long to listen.

We all have our doubts in certain situations. Sometimes our own insecurities lead us to question the actions of others. Many times when our gut speaks to us, we question its validity, especially when it presents a potential uncomfortable outcome. And just as many times we allow our fears to manifest as gut feelings and believe them. As humans we are programmed to take the path of least resistance. Our gut instinct has not followed the same evolutionary path. Our gut instinct is still very much that, instinct. I do not believe it is influenced by our conscious wants and needs. However I think our wants and needs influence how we perceive that moment of instinct and how we allow it to effect us.

Trust your gut. But only in that instant. Insecurities are not instinct.

Pride Stickers

While commuting this morning, I noticed the car in front of me sporting a rainbow colored peace sign. My first instinct when I see a pride sticker on a person's car is to peer through the window and make my assessment on who in the car is gay, who might or might not be their partner and wonder if the kids in the back were conceived through IVF or are just visiting relatives. My gaydar kicks on and I make sure to stay within a certain distance until I am sure I have sized up the situation and pacified my curiosity.

Passing judgment because I can relate is still passing judgment. I had no idea what the orientations of the occupants of the car were, I assumed. I assumed because they advertised a reason for me to assume. I was guilty of seeing something that registered as homosexual and ran with it, guilty of what I so strongly oppose in others. I told myself I just wanted to feel the connection. Belonging to a small community, it makes sense to try to recognize those similar to you. That's where it should have ended; happy to see an openly gay person driving to work like I was. Instead I tried to sort out their personal life, something that is none of my business; something that I cannot accurately do without personally knowing these people.

The rest of my commute was spent in thought. Advertising who we are enables the world to see just how infiltrated we are with everyone else. However, it also opens the door for judging and hate to find an easier target. Some days I feel I should be loud and proud, other days I have the attitude that if I want to be treated like the rest of society I need to just act like the rest of society; that drawing attention to my differences keeps me at arms length. I suppose there are arguments for both thought processes.

I don't have a sticker on my car. I did once, but my daughter asked me to take it off. I drove her to school each morning. She had no fear of being picked on for having two moms, she just didn't understand why I had to advertise. I recall her saying "Mom, you don't see straight stickers on people's cars, you are no different." She was more concerned that the sticker would give people a reason to judge me without knowing me.

Smart kid.

Bucket List

A while back a friend was talking about her bucket list. During that time I wasn't feeling particularly well and couldn't put much thought other than feeling well into what my bucket list would consist of. Today I saw the mention of a bucket list in someone's post and it reminded me I wanted to revisit the idea of creating my own.

I was quite surprised at how difficult it seemed to make this list. I started wondering if I had become so dull that coming up with the thought of experiencing something new and exciting was too far of a reach. I wondered if I was subconsciously keeping myself from wanting more than I deserved. I told myself that a bucket list was supposed to be selfish, and that it was OK to desire things, especially those you have sacrificed for a greater good like marriage and family. I reminded myself that selfish doesn't always mean self centered. That selfish also pertains to the feel good we experience when doing something good for someone else.

Taking all that into consideration here is the far from complete list.

Publish my book
Get a breast reduction
Travel out of the country
Get married, for real
Buy someone a car
Learn French
Have a session with Ellen Fisher Turk
Go ballroom dancing
Learn how to play the guitar and piano
Save someone from themselves
Feel comfortable in public with my spouse
Visit Victoria Falls
Have someone famous record my song lyrics
Own a dungeon
Spend a weekend completely alone in the middle of no where
See the Northern Lights
Throw a huge party
Walk at least one of my children down the aisle
Have a closet just for boots
Feel well for one entire day

To be continued......

My Hiatus

Although I have attempted to take a mental hiatus from my blog and writing in general, the need to write has been too overwhelming to stay away. My decisions to retreat are the same ones that have brought me back, overwhelming emotions.

It was difficult at best to drum up two articles and send them off to the editors today, even though I was very passionate about my topics. Something is boiling deep inside, something I am not quite sure of its identity. My emotional roller coaster of late has had me reflecting all over the place. I am finding myself experiencing the most extreme of emotions. And while some are terribly sad in nature, I am truly enjoying the levels in which I am able to feel right now. For me negative feelings aren't always just negative. They evoke passion in me, and passion is what fuels me.

So in my uncontrollable emotional state, I have taken many recent journeys down memory lane. I do this often. Not to remember better times, or those I lost, but to see where I have grown from the experience. It may seem a tad masochistic to relive painful memories, but for me the sadness enables me to appreciate all that is good in my life. And for as many things as I can still find wounds, I can find what's healing them.

The holidays are especially difficult for me. They bring back many haunting memories. But I allow them in. I allow myself to feel them and to realize that I can feel them from a much safer place now. And I am grateful. This time of year is supposed to be about giving and loving and appreciating what you have. It may have taken the majority of my life to finally get to a place where I am grateful for more things than I am burdened. But I am there.

Thanks to all that have supported, encouraged or loved me through my writing endeavors and personal growth this year. May your holidays find you safe and nurtured in the best possible ways.

~EB

Looking Back

This weekend I wrote another chapter for my book. I started questioning how far into my life I am going to take this. Typically a memoir spans a certain time period or focuses on a series of events. It should essentially have a story to it, a purpose, an explanation if you will for who you are and why. I am finding if difficult to place more importance on one part of my life over another. My childhood and my adolescence, the two areas I am covering, are so drastically different but blend together to create who I am now. Each has a significant impact and each equally noteworthy. Until I wrote these pages, I had no idea the impact these times in my life had on me. When asked, I would have said my younger years had little mark on the person I am today. But in actuality, it has everything to do with it.

Many people blame their past negative experiences for their self destructive patterns and behaviors. Professional victims I call them. I have always been so determined to overcome my past that I essentially went completely opposite with my thinking. I have never blamed my disturbed mother, the pedophiles in my life, bad parenting or cruel friends for anything I did or thought as an adult. I made a vow to myself to be a rock, to never give in to my sadness or fears. And while I never played the victim, how I handled it very well may have been worse.

Looking back on my life I can see where the need to stand strong overshadowed allowing myself to feel. In an attempt to feel no pain or anger, I essentially felt nothing. Keeping secrets and shame to myself kept me from my freedom to love properly. I walked with my head held high, untouchable by those that could hurt me. However I was untouchable by those that could love me too.

In reading my old journals and reflecting on my past there is a lot I had forgotten. Selective memory has always served me well, or so I thought. In having to relive these moments lost in time, I feel empty for the opportunities missed. As an adult I can see where sharing, being honest, and allowing myself the vulnerabilities all this time very well could have changed who I ultimately ended up being.

Don't get me wrong, I am in a good place now. However I probably could have gotten here a whole lot sooner if I would have allowed myself to feel.

I notice

You bring me coffee in bed each morning......even if I am awake first

You send me an Email before you do anything else......even when I forget to open it before I do anything else

I find my clothes washed and folded on the bed.....and sometimes sigh when I have to put them away

When I cook dinner, the dishwasher is clean and empty.....as it is every evening

You bought me warm snuggly pajamas.......just because I didn't feel well

Each day I receive a text at noon......even when you think you are the last person I want to hear from at that moment

Sometimes I think I am the one that isn't appreciated......

Dreams

I don't normally try to analyze my dreams. Between the medications I take, stress, and being all over the board in personality and thoughts, I usually assume they are pretty much an extension of my normal chaos.

Lately my dreams have been odd, even for me. I know emotionally I am a bit of a mess right now, and perhaps it is playing out in my sleep. That being said, I am finding it strangely peculiar the vulnerable positions I am allowing myself to find in my latest dreams. If you ask most people they will tell you I am loud, brassy, confident and a bit obnoxious. They will say I am witty, quick to the punch and an open book. They may say I am a little too bold, bossy and sometimes someone to be afraid of. Seldom do they say I am timid, small, quiet, and shy. Never will you hear them say I cant hold my own, that I will back out of a confrontation or admit defeat. You will never hear those words. Unless its from someone who knows me.

I am truly all of those things, the big and the small. However I am most comfortable when showing my peacock feathers. Its safer. I spend the majority of my time in this role with most people. It enables me to keep distance. It keeps vulnerability out of the equation.

The last few days I have felt emotionally defeated. I have been unable to stand up to myself. So I suppose its no wonder that my dreams are taking me to places unfamiliar and what should seem uncomfortable. While the situations in my dream are not typical, the feelings are. They are honest. Certainly more honest than I give away when I am awake. I woke up this morning after an interesting dream and found myself feeling very vulnerable and needy. It's a place I have truly only allowed myself to feel a couple of times honestly. I was surprised by the dynamics but quite comfortable with them.

I know my dreams are not my reality. I know they are not a prediction of the future or even a memory of the past. I know they are simply my thoughts and feelings grouped together into a vivid creation. But they are true. And honest. And sometimes I like how they feel. And maybe I need to take a lesson from them and allow myself to feel and be what dynamics dictate and not what I try to.

The Mustang

As I was looking at the demographics of this blog, who visits and what they read, I found it funny that the most widely read post was "Strap on, Strap off". I would assume most people that saw "strap on" took it for what it was. Does that mean we are a community of perverts? I hope so.

I vacationed in Hawaii this past summer. Naturally I packed the essentials everyone would need, clothes, toiletries, bathing suits and yes, my detachable appendage. When I buy things, I don't buy cheap. I am a perfectionist by nature and my cock was no different. It truly is an extension of me in that moment, so glass, steel, purple or polka dot isn't going to work. I want it to look right and feel right for my partner, and it needs to be a representation of what I feel and who I am inside. I don't use one to become a man, but I do use one to do what seems to come naturally to me. I am an insatiable female with the drive and talents of a teen aged boy in the height of puberty.

Unpacking when I got home from a fabulous seven days, I realized something was left behind. I would think most people in that position would start adding up the dollars lost. In that first few seconds I, however, felt like I lost my best friend. I suddenly felt incomplete. In an instant my mind ran through a slide show of pictures, memories lost, new ones unable to be made, the housekeepers touching it! I was truly depressed.

I could rationalize that it's just a "thing"; a tangible, replaceable item. It didn't feel that way. I don't bring it to bed with me every time I have an intimate moment, but the thought of being intimate without the possibility of having it if I needed it was devastating to me. "Its a rubber cock for Christ's sake". I tried to convince myself. I spent the next several days with my eyes searching the internet for a suitable replacement. Unfortunately they don't make the exact one anymore, nor do they make the harness I could never part with, despite its rusting snaps from the million washings.

With a lot of research, a heavy sigh, and a wife aiming to please, I chose a new "set". It arrived a few days later in the mail. Being the person I am, I immediately found things to dislike about it. I compare everything now to what was good in my life then, a terrible personality trait, I know. The harness seemed cheap, the cock small. Prepared to be disappointed I brought it to bed for the first time. I felt performance pressure for the first time in a long time. I felt self conscious. I was worried I wouldn't 'feel it' or that my wife wouldn't enjoy it. But I learned something that day. I realized that comfortable isnt always the best thing. That sometimes stepping outside of the comfort zone yeilds great results. After that night I no longer missed Magnum as I had loving dubbed it. I began a new relationship with Mustang,a much better representaion of who I am.

Now if I could just get the images of the housekeepers fucking each other out of my head.