I haven’t written in 72 days.

That’s 10 weeks and two days or two-and-a-half-months.  That’s nearly as long as the last blogging break I took way back when before I birthed A Dissolute Life Means… when I was between blogs.

Honestly, Boobday was dragging on me.  Memes are fun and all and then suddenly they’re not.  I’m not the orderly sort, though I am highly organized; I tend to do things in bursts and clusters, not on a schedule.  Meme-ing, therefore, is a mild form of torture for me and since I couldn’t figure out how to manage it I just stopped completely and abruptly.  I need to think about it some more, but I think I’m going to move it to once a month.  I’ll work out the details later and keep y’all posted.

And while I haven’t been writing here I’ve still been around.  I occasionally pop back on to IG and write painful things to go along with my sexy ass – as I tend to do – and I’m still on Twitter tweeting my little tweets here and there.  I even recorded a podcast with Molly – which was an absolute highlight of September – and have made it to the final round in the Smut Marathon!  What???

I’ve also been continuing with my therapy and my gentle exploration of myself – if “gentle” is a cold-gloved cavity search.  It’s been so hard this year.  I’ve been cracked wide open to all the trauma I’ve suffered, the sexual assaults, the abandonment, the lifelong pursuit for a real father’s love and affection.  I’m exhausted.

Almost two weeks ago Ann St. Vincent came to visit and it was wonderful.  She was as sweet and supportive and open and inquisitive as ever and my friends from another city drove in to see me and meet her and we all spent a decadent day together getting meat sweats and napping and eating pasta under an warm fall night sky.

And when everyone left the next day – after an afternoon of cheering on Pey doing all the athletic things – I fell to pieces, kicked off by Netflix’s Unbelievable.  For the third time in my life, I cut myself.  I sobbed and wept and tore at the tender skin beneath my breasts wailing for the girl who could never find safety, though she tried so hard.  The people she turned to again and again failing her in every way.

I’m talking about me, not the protagonist.

I didn’t know it was going to happen like that – I watch SVU all the time and various other heinous crimes-against-women type shows – but this one was different.  This one was so fucking real to me.  There she sat, this little thing in a stark room with two white men in power.  Their privilege and antipathy literally oozing off of them and she was there to do the right thing and share her pain and trauma and instead of opening their arms to her to soothe her and right the wrongs they shut her down.  They denied her.  They denied her existence.  They denied her visibility.

It knocked the breath from me as it thundered through me that that was me, I was her.  I was that girl looking for safety from my father, my boyfriend, men who were otherwise supposed to be safe.

I should be able to stand on a subway platform and trust that no one will hurdle me onto the tracks, but that is not how life is for me – for women.  I cannot stand too close lest someone shove me right off.  The tears were for this desperate realization that I want so badly to stand on the edge with no fear, but the reality is that I cannot and for all the times I’d been pushed.  A yin and yang of sorrow.

I woke up on Monday with an emotional hangover the size of the Empire State Building and lost all desire to drink.  All of it.  The ragged marks beneath my breasts meant I couldn’t wear a bra and the occasional sting I felt reminded me of the pain I had been denying I carried.  I was finally confronted with the truth of things: I hurt.

And I felt awake for the first time in years.  The kind of awake that makes you see each little brush stroke of fur on a cat’s nose like a masterpiece painting.  I could not unsee this part of me.

This might not be a surprise to some of you more critical readers – this entire blog is a diary of my flight from my pain and trauma via finding that one safe man – nor is it a surprise to me.  I know what I’ve been doing and why, I just never really understood the depths of what it was I was running from.  How dark and oozing it was, how cloying.  Now, I do.

I’m kinda sorta finding my footing.  I’m grateful for this mid-life awakening.

And then, this weekend was the last in my little apartment with my little offspring.  We watched movies, I hosted a kid sleepover, ran around, saw a movie, watched another sporting event from the bleachers.  I did very little in the way of packing, but I did a lot in the way of packing up emotionally.

I cried thinking this was my last Sunday on my tiny sunny balcony, the last Sunday sunrise with a kitty in the window.  The last Sunday my baby and I would fight over the bathroom sink.  It’s time to move on from my little haven and move us closer to my ex’s house and into the right school district, same bus, a bike ride apart from mom and dad’s.

I also cried thinking how alone I am in all of this.  Packing an entire house and moving all by myself while keeping it together for a watchful child.  It’s a lot.  I have to find ladders to reach all the high spots because I literally have no one who can help me.  I asked The Vet, but he has to work.  Peter says he’ll come and help, but he’s all wrapped up with his new girlfriend, so we’ll see if that actually comes to fruition.  (Yes, Peter and I are talking again.)

So, yeah.  I’ve been busy, just not writing.  Growing.  I’ve been growing.  I also had a week of really fun sex with a beautiful young man 18 years my junior.  Built like a little rugby player replete with a gorgeously furry chest and perfectly curved cock. We spent 3 nights together with one of them being a full 24 hours of fucking, smoking cigarettes, drinking, watching movies, eating, and fucking all over again.  Of course he then drew distant and announced he’s moving away for work.  Such is life.

This felt good, though, this writing thing.  Maybe I’ll do it some more.

 

[Ed. Note: I wrote this on my balcony on Sunday, but couldn’t get back to it until Monday am.  It feels good to hit “publish” again.]