Wednesday, November 23, 2011


The sweet words he has for you used to flow for me...but they are drying up, a trickle where the torrent once was. I am trying to tell myself that he loves me still, trying to hold onto the belief that I am home...but the thought keeps drifting through my hind-mind that people usually can't wait to get away from home.

I don't feel loved...and now I feel guilt along with this not-loved because he says he has been trying to show me and I'm not seeing, not hearing. He's right - I have looked and looked, and all I see is how much he is pouring into you.

My hurt is not worth bothering with...just an annoyance, something to be hurried up and dealt with so he can get to what he really wants. I see it on his face when I am honest with him, hear it in his voice when he responds, feel it in the anger that only I am special enough to experience.

I have given up with believing that I will ever be so special to anyone that they might, if only for a moment, put my needs first...or that anyone will ever take care of me. Much as I yearn for comfort, to feel valued, protected, and nurtured, I know better than to think anyone can give that to me.

The Hell is, I love him, and I don't mind that he loves other women...I mind that when things don't go the way he wants them to, I am the one who suffers. I mind that I feel like an imposition, that I can't even ask for a little time for US without anyone else factoring into it. I mind seeing how much he wants THEM and wondering if I'm going to get a little of that care, too, or if I'm just on a back burner, old reliable, wanted only when no one else is available. I mind feeling like I'm not worth the time or effort any more, that I don't get to have the sweet words, the gentle touch, without it being resented or some kind of effort.

I don't doubt he loves me...but I can't help feeling sometimes that he resents it, resents me, and would rather be free.

He used to rush to read my words...used to write back. He told me my words won him. Now, though...he walks away from me when I speak, ignores my writing, ignores my words. The thing that supposedly won his heart...he doesn't care about. How is that supposed to make me feel?

I have this outpouring of myself that I must now dam up, because no one wants to swim in a polluted river, and my silence will go as unnoticed as my writing now does.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

Not That Complicated

The rules are simple:

Don't lie to me.

Don't break your word to me.

Don't steal from me.

Sunday, September 11, 2011


This is just a brain dump, in no particular order and of no particular importance - a bunch of junk and gunk stuck in the cracks and creases that I need to offload so I can accumulate more. You know how it is...
I have an STD, likely given to me by my ex-husband when we first met. I say likely because the doctor can't pinpoint when I got it; he can only tell me that it usually takes about a decade to show up, and since I've only had one partner at the likely time is likely my ex. This particular STD can cause cancer, and it seems like I'm one of the ones in whom it is more possible, since it has already cause abnormal cells on my cervix. I've had two procedures to test/remove the cells and am now waiting to find out if they are just weird or if they are cancerous. Joy.

Meanwhile, because of the nature of the second procedure, I can't have sex for two weeks. Double joy.

Because I can't have sex, my sweetie is feeling the absence, and isn't happy about it. Yes, there are things besides traditional sex, and yes, I'm game, but it's not so easy when I'm wiped the fuck out at the end of the day because I've been caring for two kids, four cats, and the little housework I can manage. I fall asleep fast and hard while he's still up and at 'em. Sucks.

I can't help but feel as though the next time the doctor tells me he wants to do a test or a procedure down there, I am going to tell him "No." It isn't worth it. I don't need the bleeding, the worry, or the strain at home (complete with snide comments and porn-a-plenty on the computer). I'd rather risk cancer. Yes, I am serious.

I haven't told my ex, yet - I'm waiting for the test results. If he still reads this blog, I guess he knows, now. Cheers.
Some words keep rolling through my poor, tired brain, of late:


I am tired of the constant barrage of messages from the media telling me how lucky/unlucky people are in these difficult financial times. Luck doesn't enter into it. I am where I am because I made poor choices, not because I was unlucky. People who accrue wealth don't do so out of luck. People who hang onto wealth they've inherited may have been born with good fortune, but they don't hang onto that money because of luck - act stupid with wealth and it will find someone else to hang out with. Quit trying to make it all even by taking it away from the "lucky" and giving it to the "unlucky".
In the immortal words of John Galt: "Get the hell out of my way".
I am tired of liars, manipulators, and thieves.
I am tired of feeling like I don't matter in my own life. I am tired of feeling like my pain, my sorrow, my depression, my needs, my wants, come in last to everyone else's. I am tired of feeling as if I am doing something wrong on the rare occasions I try to do something for if I have no right to try an be, if not happy, at least content.
I'm tired of feeling as if I cannot do right. Make a salad, don't make a salad - if I make it, then I'm nurturing when it isn't wanted, creating feelings of guilt, and causing anger and resentment. If I don't make it, then I don't care and am just being lazy and manipulating, rewarding or punishing, with food. Can't win.
I'm tired.
There...that oughta do it for a minute.

Sunday, July 24, 2011

I Don't Have Answers

There are so many things I don't understand. So many things I do not know. So many things I cannot do...and in trying, I can but fail.

The Angel is a person of words. She speaks, in earnest, and that is all she has. All I have.

Words won...what? What can words win when there is no faith in them, when they mean nothing, less than nothing, are tossed around like so much chaff to be swept away and forgotten?

Why should I bother speaking, when it has no meaning? I cannot fathom how the two things...words won...they're just meaningless the two things are supposed to coexist. Ether they are, or they are not, real. I have no in between.

What more must I do, what more must I give or give over, before there is faith, trust? Does anyone believe in me? Have they ever? Or has it all been words, words, words, empty, useless, stupid, manipulative, worthless words?

I'm tired of words. I'm tired of wondering what things mean when they clearly don't mean what they're supposed to. I do not have a dictionary, a lexicon, that gives me insight into the warping and twisting that others so clearly comprehend. I speak several languages, but apparently not the right ones because I feel, more and more, that I am lost among strangers who have no care for my confusion, only for their own needs which I can clearly not meet because I do not understand them.

I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering where the barbs are hidden. I'm tired of hearing sweet words and wondering when the hard words will follow.

I would like to believe, again, in the one thing that gave me a sense of power, of strength, of ability, of pride...the one thing that I now find failing me completely.

I would like to be done with words, since they're so useless...but as useless as my words are, as useless as I am...they're all I have.

As I cannot be done with them, I suppose I will have to learn how to empty them of meaning, to speak or write empty things and keep myself to myself...excepting here and one other not entirely silent or devoid of content, but only where I live and with people who are more real to me that you few who linger here in the shadows with me, as ephemeral as my own self is to you. You shadows will have the truth of me, then, and the people who should know, well...they won't see and won't miss what they clearly never had or wanted in the first place, if I am to believe their words more than they believe mine.

Do not ever tell me that my words have meaning to you. I cannot afford to believe, to hope, that there's truth somewhere in the lie, not again, not any more, not when I will be constantly waiting to hear that they're worthless, after all.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

A Bit of Wist

Sometimes I feel terribly lonely.

Sometimes I feel as though I do not matter.

Sometimes I feel as though my words are unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome.

Sometimes I wonder how long I'm supposed to keep reaching, when what Iam reaching for pulls away.

Sometimes I wonder if I am only here to do the work so that someone else can have the love.

Sometimes I wonder if I will ever feel as though I count for anything.

Sometimes I wish I, too, had another lover, someone to talk to, someone who didn't make me feel unseen, unheard, unheeded, unwanted, unwelcome, someone who would help drive away this hurt, lonely feeling that weighs me down, wears me out.

Thursday, February 17, 2011


A friend sent me this.
There was once a boy with a fierce anger. He lost his temper often, screaming, throwing things, saying hard words.

One day, his father took him out to the back yard. There, where nothing had been before, was a long board fence. Beside the fence was a box of nails. The father handed the boy a hammer.

"Son, whenever you get angry, you come out here and hammer nails into these boards."

The boy did as his father told him - every time he felt himself losing his temper, he went out into the yard and hammered nails into the boards, working his way down the fence.

When he reached the end, his father said "Now, son, when you are angry, pull the nails out."

The boy did.

One day, he pulled the last nail out...and he found that he no longer needed to hammer nails. He no longer lost his temper.

His father pointed at the fence. "You see that, son? All those holes? Thoes are your angry words - every time you spoke or acted in anger, you made a hole in someone's heart. You can say you're sorry, but the holes will always be there. Remeber this, and think about what you say and do."

The boy learned.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Scorched Earth

I reached for you last night, and you pulled away.

I reached again, and you flinched from under my hand.

I reached a third time, and you pulled away once more.

Then you leaned into me, and I though you wanted me...until you shrugged off my hand and instead leaned down to my belly. It wasn't me you wanted, but the baby.

A final time I tried, and was rebuffed.

So I moved over as far as I could to give you room, to keep from intruding upon you, so that I wouldn't accidentally brush against you with my obviously unwelcome touch. All night, I hoped you'd reach for me...with a brush of your fingers tell me it was OK, that I could move back into the circle of your arms, that I could have your warmth again. And all night, nothing.

This morning, I hoped again...perhaps he'll touch me now...


I could have made the effort. I always have in the past. But I thought, no, he doesn't want me right now. When he does, he'll touch, or speak, or show some sign, and until then I won't pester.

So I went downstairs to be out of the way. I felt as though simply being in the room was an intrusion. I didn't bother with breakfast or the computer, just took myself out of the way. Twice, when you came downstairs, I said "Good morning" and twice was met with silence.

When I finally came back upstairs, I looked your way, but you didn't turn from the screen, didn't want to see me there. So I went and folded laundry and kept company with my lonely thoughts.

I wondered...if I stopped writing, would anyone notice? If I stopped singing, would anyone hear the silence? If I stopped going out into the world, would anyone miss me? If I stopped reaching, making the effort, would anyone care?

I have my answer. No.

I wonder - should I have reached one more time? Should I have risked being shunned in the hopes that this time I'd be welcomed?

I feel stupid for hoping that some day, maybe, someone will reach for me, for a change. Why would they? No one ever one ever will...and I'm tired of being burned and blackened and left behind, wasted, worthless, and worn.

If I'm not heard when I speak, what difference will my silence make? If I'm not read when I write, what difference does my stillness make? If I'm not noticed when I'm there in the room, what difference will my absence make? If I'm not felt or wanted when I seek to touch, what difference does my withdrawal make?

None at all.

Because you can't miss nothing, now can you?