Chapter 4 - Omitting Your Mistakes
How many mistakes have I made this past year and half? It's hard to tell. If you ask a certain other blogger, he'll tell you them all, play by play. If you read my blog and his (and you probably found my blog through him), he probably already has.
I live my life by omitting my mistakes to myself. I let myself make them, and I basque in them, and I loathe them. Every move I've made is a mistake. Now, I'm holding on when I should pull away, and everyone knows it's a mistake, but I'm terrified.
My whole life is dissolving around me, and I'm just helping it along. Letting go of the love that I fought to get away from but fought for me and then let me fall seemed like the right thing to do. Everyone who knows me supports me leaving him, which makes me wonder why no one said anything before.
I'm pulling away from the life that I've lived and loathed to fall into another life that I'm afraid I will live and loathe even more. Before, I wasn't afraid, but now the time is coming closer for me to make that next step, dive in, let myself go...
It's time for me to pull away...
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 3
Chapter III - An Ambiance of Technology
In the midst of the great sadness I felt at the realization that the love I thought had existed was no longer to be, I cried. I cried as I drove the kids to school. I cried on my way to work. I cried when I wrote poems. I cried and cried and cried.
And then a new friendship arose from the wonders of technology. I'm not sure if it was the ambiance created by the late night hours of the phone calls, or if it was just that I needed a new friend. The first time we spoke on the phone, it was for eleven hours. I didn't sleep at all that night, and I was a zombie - a very happy zombie - the next day.
We'd been writing emails to each other - he from a land far away, and me from my lonely home - for a few weeks. I'd been overtly vague in mine, and he'd prodded for more, but the comfort level wasn't there. I wasn't even aware of how much I looked forward to his emails until there wasn't one for a few days. He'd gone on a mission, and I was actually worried. The relief felt from that next email was wonderful. I offered my phone number, never thinking he'd call.
But he did.
In the midst of the great sadness I felt at the realization that the love I thought had existed was no longer to be, I cried. I cried as I drove the kids to school. I cried on my way to work. I cried when I wrote poems. I cried and cried and cried.
And then a new friendship arose from the wonders of technology. I'm not sure if it was the ambiance created by the late night hours of the phone calls, or if it was just that I needed a new friend. The first time we spoke on the phone, it was for eleven hours. I didn't sleep at all that night, and I was a zombie - a very happy zombie - the next day.
We'd been writing emails to each other - he from a land far away, and me from my lonely home - for a few weeks. I'd been overtly vague in mine, and he'd prodded for more, but the comfort level wasn't there. I wasn't even aware of how much I looked forward to his emails until there wasn't one for a few days. He'd gone on a mission, and I was actually worried. The relief felt from that next email was wonderful. I offered my phone number, never thinking he'd call.
But he did.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Pull Away II - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 2
Chapter II - Fear of Writing
I had been a writer before but only when I was sad. It was my only true outlet. My letters and poems flowed from my mind faster than I could even think of writing them down, and I always wrote them, never typed them. Even when he shattered my heart for the first time, into a million little pieces, I couldn't write about him. He was my numbness, my lack of feeling, my writer's block in flesh form. And I believed this was love, for I could only write when I was sad, and I couldn't write about him, so I must not be sad. This must be true love, forever love. The kind from which you don't pull away.
In the years between the first knowledge that I was in love and the horror of the realization that the love had been murdered, I never wrote about him. There was a fear there that could not be contained, a fear that if I wrote the about the sadness and the truth of the sadness, that it would be real, and I would have to open my eyes to a bigger, scarier world, a world where he and I were no longer one.
And the truth is that despite my realization that the love was gone, it took writing about something I thought completely unrelated that brought to surface the truth of my life, our life together. It was but a farce. I had loved him unconditionally, but he would always be number two, and that is the truth of the sadness.
I had been a writer before but only when I was sad. It was my only true outlet. My letters and poems flowed from my mind faster than I could even think of writing them down, and I always wrote them, never typed them. Even when he shattered my heart for the first time, into a million little pieces, I couldn't write about him. He was my numbness, my lack of feeling, my writer's block in flesh form. And I believed this was love, for I could only write when I was sad, and I couldn't write about him, so I must not be sad. This must be true love, forever love. The kind from which you don't pull away.
In the years between the first knowledge that I was in love and the horror of the realization that the love had been murdered, I never wrote about him. There was a fear there that could not be contained, a fear that if I wrote the about the sadness and the truth of the sadness, that it would be real, and I would have to open my eyes to a bigger, scarier world, a world where he and I were no longer one.
And the truth is that despite my realization that the love was gone, it took writing about something I thought completely unrelated that brought to surface the truth of my life, our life together. It was but a farce. I had loved him unconditionally, but he would always be number two, and that is the truth of the sadness.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Pull Away - 10thDoM RoM Challenge MUSE 1
It wasn't love at first sight. Or second or third for that matter. It was a love that was cultivated despite my resistance and reservations without hesitation or reservation from him. He was persistent, and before I knew what had happened, I was in love. Completely and utterly in love. I was ready, at the ripe age of 15, to leave my little hometown and follow him anywhere, if he'd only have me. It was the first time that he told me he loved me - over the phone with a quick disconnect afterward so I couldn't even respond - that I knew he was the man I was supposed to marry. In that one moment of teenage clarity, I fell so deeply in love that I couldn't imagine my life going on without him.
Despite the brevity of the actual time we'd spent together - just less than 2 months really - it felt like we'd been together for years. Every day, when he'd come pick me up in his little old beat up blue truck, I was giddy as I watched him drive up, shirtless, park the old beater, and put his shirt on as he walked up to the front porch. I relished that moment, waited for that moment, loved that moment every day. And every night, when he'd get ready to leave in that same old blue beater truck, he'd embrace me on the dirty front porch under the dim porch light for just a little longer than I embraced him. I was always the first to pull away.
I remember that summer, the part before he left, as the best of my life. It had it's ups and downs for sure, but mostly there were ups. Mostly, I felt safe. Mostly, I felt that this man would hold me up when I couldn't hold myself, lift me up when I was down, protect me from the things he thought me too delicate to experience. He worked hard at pulling down the 15 years of emotional walls I'd put up. I was still always the first to pull away.
And then he left. We knew it was coming, and it was hard. I can't even describe the emptiness I felt without him there. I wrote him every single day just to make sure that when mail call came, his name would always be called. When he was done with the first part of his training, I stayed home every Sunday just hoping he'd get to call. When the first cold letter came, I ignored the sentiment. And when the next letter came telling me to forget the previous one, I was all too happy to do just that.
When the phone call came, I wasn't at all prepared. I was devastated beyond comprehension. When I finally crawled myself out of my own hole of despair, I made a promise. If he would ever have me back, I would drop everything and everyone and do anything, go anywhere, be anyone for him.
The day finally came, five years later, that I got to make good on my promise. I became his. And I was happy with nothing more than being his. I wanted nothing more than to be his. I loved no one like I loved him, and I never ever will again. He owns my heart just like he always has. My heart that has never beat like it should, never sounded like it should, never worked like it should. My imperfect heart will always be his even if I'm still the first to pull away.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Liar
All the good is gone now, all the wonder too. You lied yourself away, brick by burning brick. I always think there's hope, even when hope is insecure. The switchblades you hide in there are tearing up and stripping gears. Theory defines the best parts of you, reality is fully let down. Were you ever a man, or at least a boy with integrity? You are cold and callous, a liar at best, and at your worst, you love. I called you a coward once and I've believe it ever since; nothing you've done has proven me wrong, but I still hold the space for hope. You'd give up the trust, the love, the caring, and the real for a moment of false enjoyment. What kind of respect does that deserve? Not mine, not yours, not any. The traps you've created, you've created alone. You've got the keys to your cage, but you're too lazy to use them because it's easier just to blame me. I told you you'd break my heart once, and you said you'd not do it on purpose. The truth about that is simple: you lied.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Morning Muffins - 10thDoM Clarity Through a Cinnamon Mist
The children watched the muffins rise through the grease stained window of the stove. It was exciting for them to start their day with such a treat. Fighting for space in front of the tiny window, their voices carried throughout the house, and she wondered if it would wake him. She hoped so. She imagined him walking up behind her and planting little good morning kisses on her neck.
As usual, she had to wake him, and he feigned complaint, burying himself beneath the layers of bedding. When he finally gave in and let her pull the covers off him, he let her stare at him for a moment because he knew how she enjoyed his body. She wished he'd look at her the same way. She closed her eyes and envisioned his eyes enjoying her body as he traced his fingers along her silhouette.
Their fingers intertwined as they walked down the hallway together, dropping only when they came in sight of the children. The smell of cinnamon muffins drifted lightly through the kitchen. As she began getting plates and cups and utensils, she glimpsed at him gazing aimlessly into air, and wished he'd have presence of mind to ask if she needed any help. He didn't. He never did. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled a deep sigh, planted a smile across her face, and dutifully brought the plates of muffins to the table.
As they ate, she eyed him wistfully, the children bantered back and forth for his attention, and he seemed at once oblivious and captivated by the moment. He made faces to make her giggle, he played along well with the children, and every once in a while, he'd look at her in a way that made her melt every time. She reveled in these moments. She couldn't imagine them lasting a lifetime, but she could be happy for a few more months of these moments strung together.
Slowly she chewed her last bite of muffin, savoring the cinnamon flavor. The smell of the cinnamon was wonderful, she thought, and pondered on when the house would lose the warm mist of scent. She looked across the table at him and wondered when she would lose him. He always seemed to have one foot out the door. This wasn't a forever relationship, she knew, this was a relationship with an expiration date. She smiled sweetly across the table at him and waited patiently for their bitter demise.
As usual, she had to wake him, and he feigned complaint, burying himself beneath the layers of bedding. When he finally gave in and let her pull the covers off him, he let her stare at him for a moment because he knew how she enjoyed his body. She wished he'd look at her the same way. She closed her eyes and envisioned his eyes enjoying her body as he traced his fingers along her silhouette.
Their fingers intertwined as they walked down the hallway together, dropping only when they came in sight of the children. The smell of cinnamon muffins drifted lightly through the kitchen. As she began getting plates and cups and utensils, she glimpsed at him gazing aimlessly into air, and wished he'd have presence of mind to ask if she needed any help. He didn't. He never did. She closed her eyes for a moment, exhaled a deep sigh, planted a smile across her face, and dutifully brought the plates of muffins to the table.
As they ate, she eyed him wistfully, the children bantered back and forth for his attention, and he seemed at once oblivious and captivated by the moment. He made faces to make her giggle, he played along well with the children, and every once in a while, he'd look at her in a way that made her melt every time. She reveled in these moments. She couldn't imagine them lasting a lifetime, but she could be happy for a few more months of these moments strung together.
Slowly she chewed her last bite of muffin, savoring the cinnamon flavor. The smell of the cinnamon was wonderful, she thought, and pondered on when the house would lose the warm mist of scent. She looked across the table at him and wondered when she would lose him. He always seemed to have one foot out the door. This wasn't a forever relationship, she knew, this was a relationship with an expiration date. She smiled sweetly across the table at him and waited patiently for their bitter demise.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
How to Make a Bed - 10th DoM Dirty
She ripped the cum-stained sheets off the bed for the second night in a row. She hated doing laundry, but she hated the way the sticky stuff would dry and harden, and she hated the smell. With a heavy sigh, thinking of the task that lay ahead, she stared at the naked bed.
She'd thought ahead and bought a new mattress pad because she was pretty sure that the drips and trails of strawberry flavored lube and his and hers never matching cum stains must certainly have soaked through the sheets. As she had stripped the sheets from the bed, she threw a crooked smile across her face, at once remembering how the stains had gotten there in the first place and giving herself mental kudos for thinking ahead.
After unpacking the new mattress pad, taking a deep inhale of her new piece of bedding, she began to spread, smooth, and tuck around all the corners. This was her favorite part of bed making for many reasons: 1. She loved new bedding pieces, no matter how mundane, more than just about any other new thing she could buy. 2. She knew "he" liked her bed more than his own in large part because of this comfort piece. 3. She was excited about making a fresh bed because she knew "he" would be back.
With the mattress pad perfectly in place, and with a slowness usually reserved for snails and tortoises, she began to spread her Martha-Stewart-folded fitted sheet across the bed, tugging and pulling at the corners to get the top of the bed as smooth as possible. Each layer of her bedding took more than a few minutes to perfectly place, tuck, and fold. And as she stared at the smoothed out sheet, she felt a tiny tinge of frustration that she might be doing this again all too soon, but that would be a happy thing too. If she weren't just so anal about the perfection of her bed, this wouldn't even have crossed her mind.
Next, the top sheet would be sight measured, though she'd thought more than once about finding a tape measure just to see how well her eyes envisioned symmetry, and placed right side down so as to sleep between the "right" sides of the sheets, and so the pretty trim would fold perfectly back for show. The warming blanket, only there in case she had to sleep alone, was next and always the most difficult, what with maneuvering the wires so that they'd be unnoticeable and so as not to disturb the other layers.
After careful work with the wires and top sheet, the next layer, a winter weight down comforter, was ready to be placed atop the other four layers. She liked the winter weight blanket best because the summer weight one always hung down too low, and she had to tuck the edges into the sideboards of the 250 year old bed. And then, she'd ever-so-obsessively fold the top edge of the 600-thread-count top sheet over the edges of the warming blanket and comforter. Here, without fail, the tugging and smoothing seemed to go on forever.
For the final layer, a seasonal quilt, deep chocolate brown for winter, would be placed lovingly atop the rest of the layers, attempting to smother the white down comforter down and not look quite so fluffy. Two firm pillows, two medium pillows, two shams, and two decorative pillows later, the bed was made, ready for her lover to make dirty again.
She'd thought ahead and bought a new mattress pad because she was pretty sure that the drips and trails of strawberry flavored lube and his and hers never matching cum stains must certainly have soaked through the sheets. As she had stripped the sheets from the bed, she threw a crooked smile across her face, at once remembering how the stains had gotten there in the first place and giving herself mental kudos for thinking ahead.
After unpacking the new mattress pad, taking a deep inhale of her new piece of bedding, she began to spread, smooth, and tuck around all the corners. This was her favorite part of bed making for many reasons: 1. She loved new bedding pieces, no matter how mundane, more than just about any other new thing she could buy. 2. She knew "he" liked her bed more than his own in large part because of this comfort piece. 3. She was excited about making a fresh bed because she knew "he" would be back.
With the mattress pad perfectly in place, and with a slowness usually reserved for snails and tortoises, she began to spread her Martha-Stewart-folded fitted sheet across the bed, tugging and pulling at the corners to get the top of the bed as smooth as possible. Each layer of her bedding took more than a few minutes to perfectly place, tuck, and fold. And as she stared at the smoothed out sheet, she felt a tiny tinge of frustration that she might be doing this again all too soon, but that would be a happy thing too. If she weren't just so anal about the perfection of her bed, this wouldn't even have crossed her mind.
Next, the top sheet would be sight measured, though she'd thought more than once about finding a tape measure just to see how well her eyes envisioned symmetry, and placed right side down so as to sleep between the "right" sides of the sheets, and so the pretty trim would fold perfectly back for show. The warming blanket, only there in case she had to sleep alone, was next and always the most difficult, what with maneuvering the wires so that they'd be unnoticeable and so as not to disturb the other layers.
After careful work with the wires and top sheet, the next layer, a winter weight down comforter, was ready to be placed atop the other four layers. She liked the winter weight blanket best because the summer weight one always hung down too low, and she had to tuck the edges into the sideboards of the 250 year old bed. And then, she'd ever-so-obsessively fold the top edge of the 600-thread-count top sheet over the edges of the warming blanket and comforter. Here, without fail, the tugging and smoothing seemed to go on forever.
For the final layer, a seasonal quilt, deep chocolate brown for winter, would be placed lovingly atop the rest of the layers, attempting to smother the white down comforter down and not look quite so fluffy. Two firm pillows, two medium pillows, two shams, and two decorative pillows later, the bed was made, ready for her lover to make dirty again.
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