5 years later and your dick is still small

I am officially gay.

My threshold for withstanding male douchery has been maxed out this year and now I have no desire for another dick.

Literally.

And literally. 

He's married. 

MA-REE-DUH.

And it's not like I haven't been the other woman before. 

I have been several times. 

Lots of times. 

Way too god damn many times why are men who aren't available always wanting to see me naked?

But when he found me on Facebook I was more curious because we'd dated briefly one summer years back and he'd kinda been an ass then. 

And now he was messaging me about how I was looking just as bombshell as the moment he saw me at Nordstrom. 

Geez, Asshole, I fucking forgot you even ran into me at Nordstrom. 

It's nice to know you're still in someone's spank bank, isn't it?

What a fucking romantic.

But like any idiot girl curious by the attention I allowed it. 

I didn't flirt back but I did respond, which I guess makes me an asshole by proxy.

It is great to hear your voice! Thru messages I can hear it almost...It might be dangerous to actually hear your voice.

So I wrote back, Don't worry, I started smoking last year and now I sound like an old man.

Flirting skills on point. 

This is why I get all the men with girlfriends and wives. 

That and my boobs.

I think men assume women with large breasts are whores.

Because really, what else are those for if not, THEIR enjoyment?

But I didn't really take him seriously except that I did notice his behavior started to have the familiarity of 5 years ago. 

He was the type of guy to send you a good morning text every day. 

Which drives me fucking bananas. 

Good morning!

Whaa--yeah, it's morning, fine what do you want?

The only person whose allowed to text me all day is Amelie and that's because we're soul mates. 

I don't know why I was even texting him back except it was so fucking entertaining and it was nice to be amused by something instead of feeling sad all the time.

He has kids, by the bye. 

Did I mention he has kids?

All of his Instagram is photos of his OSU clad family. 

I fucking hate the color orange. 

Oh and hey buddy?

The Beavers fucking suck. 

GO DUCKS!

But you know, it's cool, he just wanted to flirt, and it must be hard having a picture perfect family, he must get real bored. 

There's a post a few months ago where he captioned a photo of him and his wife, As we embark on our evening journey (BARF) I can't help but think of all the ways you've changed my life. You've shown me what family means...

HUOHOP.

I have to stop there because I can feel the actual bile rising in my throat.

Because then, oh look, what happens next?

What's that he just sent, Reese?

It's a photo of his cock. 

Big deal. So original, right?

Oh but wait.

It's a photo of his cock IN BETWEEN HIS WIFES BREASTS AS SHES LICKING IT.

I'd say sucking him off but he's not actually long enough to make it to her mouth so the poor girl is working real hard while he takes a fucking photo to SEND TO OTHER WOMEN.

Now, don't get me wrong. 

If they were swingers or had an open marriage?

Fine. Whatever. 

Non monogamous poly sexy fun times to be had by all.

But they're not. 

He actually wanted to text because the wifey sometimes checks Facebook.

Dear Lord.

And she has no idea. 

She has two kids with this man she probably thinks is this wonderful husband and he has probably been cheating on her this whole time. 

If I recall, that's why his first wife left him. 

Because he'd cheated. 

I don't know why he suddenly reached out.

He'd written It was hard for me to not reach out once I stalked through your Instagram...

Fucking flatterer.

And me, the Diva who eats that shit up.

Ugh. Gross.

And then we suddenly escalate from do you wanna grab lunch sometime and catch up to here's my wife's tits and my in-case-you-forgot-how-average-I-was cock.

I'm home sick in bed so I took a nap then woke up to a penis.

Typical day.

I responded the only way I could. 

I deleted his texts. 

Blocked his number. 

Blocked him on Facebook. 

Blocked him on Instagram.

That's one good thing about living in the digital age. 

It is actually simple to erase someone from your life. 

And curiouser, he'd asked me where I worked and I never told him. 

Something inside me didn't want him knowing where to find me. 

Guess my Douchebag senses went off. 

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

I'm also never letting a guy photograph his dick in my mouth.

Be in the moment, you epic asshole.

Fucking hell.

Popcorn for Three

Whenever Amelie and I want to cheer up we go to The Box Social.

It was the first place we met up at last year when we reconnected.

And because of that, it became our place.

It was each of our favorite spot before we met there. 

Which was just another reason why we were soul mates. 

You wanna get a drink at box social? She asked me last night. 

And of course my answer was and always is, Yes.

We walked in and David, as he always does, says, Good evening, Teresa and asks if we're having our usual and we smile and nod and snuggle up on the same side of the booth and look out at the people and the painted walls and the bottles that line the shelves. 

A girl sat down beside us and ordered a drink.

She was dolled up and adorable and seemed content with the sole company of her cell phone. 

Minutes passed and I wondered if she was meeting somebody.

Maybe she's just having a drink with herself, the way I always used to do, I thought. That would be rad. 

She ordered popcorn and Amelie thought that sounded good so she ordered some too.

You can have some of mine, the girl offered, I'm not gonna eat it all.

And with that, we all began talking.

Hours passed and Amelie and I both loved her, thinking it was magical happenstance to stumble upon a kindred spirit who loved this bar as much as we did. 

We talked of love and sex and the critical need we each had for a therapist. 

She was strong and guarded, which I admired, and our night felt like the kind of first date you always hope Tinder might bring. 

But this was just a conversation that had turned into a connection. 

And it was lovely. 

And so simple. 

And such a needed reminder that not everything is painful and chaotic and uncertain. 

Sometimes people simply delight in you. 

And are so grateful you exist, that this moment between you exists, and no one else, because nothing more is needed, but this. 

All this.

"You're miraculous. Because you live."--Our new friend

move along

I forget how much I love your direct ways.

When I read his text it suddenly made me think of Batman. 

Most of the men in my world tend to be overwhelmed by my inability to hold back what I'm actually thinking. 

But there are a select few who get off on it.

And it has been a long time since I talked to one of those guys.

I really liked it. 

I hate it when people aren't honest with me. 

I pissed you off, I hurt your feelings, you wish I would have come to your concert that you didn't communicate was such a big fucking deal?

Then use your words and say so.

I'm not a mind reader. 

And I'm also so unabashedly candid I forget the rest of the world isn't. 

So hearing from this kid I hadn't talked to in five years that was, frankly, kind of a dick the last time I heard from him, was so fucking random I couldn't help asking him straight up, what's the deal?

You just bored and need some attention or are you looking to fuck?

His response?

I forget how much I love your direct ways.

Fuck.

Thank you.

Thank you for not making me feel like there's something wrong with me for saying what anyone would be thinking but who rarely ever actually communicate anything honest. 

I'm losing respect for people who lie. 

Even silence feels like a lie. 

I haven't heard from my mother for a week because she said something hurtful and I called her out on it and her response was to not respond. 

My own mother. 

It's not just the guys on Tinder who ghost you or your best friend of 15 years who dumps you.

Everyone hates being called on their shit.

Except for a very select few. 

I remember a couple months ago Amelie upsetting me. 

And I told her. 

Because I don't lie to the people I love.

And even though it was kind of hard, for both of us, she said she wanted me to always be honest with her, even if sometimes it was hard to hear. 

And I need people who accept that part of me in my life. 

Sometimes I feel hurt and depressed and scared or really fucking mad. 

And I don't lie and say I'm fine, because society wants me to be a dulcet little lady.

I am not going to lie to avoid conflict and keep the pain that's suffocating me inside. 

I'm going to express it, write it, get it the fuck out, so it exists.

It's acknowledged. 

And then I can release it and move on to feeling balanced again. 

And the few who get me will always understand that.

Understand what a vital act it is for me to let my darkness out.

It's okay

Don't be mad...

But I may have chucked a full glass of water in someone's face tonight.

I'd been in a depressed haze all week and I remember laying in Amelie's bed when I got the text.

Oh my god, I said aloud, which was basically the equivalent of me embodying the open mouthed stunned emoji.

I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Mostly because of all my friends she was the most angry about what happened. 

And she also was the only one who traveled two weeks with me and saw how changed I was.

Sleepless nights.

Crying outbursts.

Anxiety. Paranoia. Confusion.

I remember feeling very loved that she felt the need to stand up for me like that.

Especially because I can't be angry right now.

It felt kind of nice having someone be angry for me. 

All I seemed to feel was depressed.

I felt like I was vicariously living through her. 

Even though I felt none of what she was feeling. 

I gotta be honest, I couldn't walk by and do nothing. Nobody hurts my friends. I am your warrior and will protect you until I cannot stand.

I don't know why I date men. 

The women in my life are the loves of my life.

I don't think I've ever known a man whose loved me as much as they do.

Which is probably why a few weeks ago I opened up my Tinder to women as well.

I seem to have better relationships with them, so who the fuck knows.

It did bother me that he thought I sent her to do that, though.

I know I have a lot of flaws but I don't lie or misrepresent myself.

I'm honest to the point of absurdity. 

So now to have this person I both love and fear thinking I set this whole thing up was unsettling.

But I realized there wasn't anything I could really do. 

Because people will believe what they want even after they've heard the truth.

And I knew in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter. 

Because if we were ever going to talk again that wouldn't change because of a little water. 

And if we were never going to talk then nothing I did or did not participate in would change that.

I know I'm still depressed but it's calmer now.

I guess that's my anxiety depleting?

I don't know, I don't understand any of what's going on. 

But it's strange. 

It's strange to process something that involves another person without having them as part of the process.

I don't get to have a conversation or look into their eyes or cry in the same room together or understand each other's pain. 

I'm alone.

I have my support, my friends are why I'm alive.

But no one. 

No one but him and I understand what exists between him and I. 

And I don't think either one of us even fully understands. 

Which means no one does. 

And what I do think I understand, in any one particular moment of understanding, is never the same. 

Sometimes I think I have a glimmer of what might actually be real.

But most of the time I'm uncertain.

And I guess that's okay. 

That's all I have now. 

Being okay.

Okay with uncertainty. 

Okay with processing alone.

Okay with no one understanding what all this is.

Including me. 

all you need is one great bag

Last week was really rough.

I'm not even sure why. 

It just was.

And then on Sunday as I kept trying hour to hour to distract myself, I went to goodwill.

And it's so ridiculous but it made me really happy.

I can't remember the last year I went into one. 

But being there it suddenly reminded me of what it was to be 20 again. 

Back when I shopped there because it was cool to wear old clothes I got for $6.99.

Back when I was such a naive, hopeless romantic.

Back when I still had faith in love. 

It was like some sort of time machine, rifling through those dirty hangers and ridiculous types of clothes. 

I found a beyond silly Christmas vest for $3.99.

I bought it. 

I'm going to win tacky Christmas sweater day at my work again this year. 

And I bought a wig that's long auburn colored hair so when I want to feel like that red headed girl I used to be I can feel that too. 

The other thing I remembered about who I was when I was 20 was that I loved fashion. 

Dressing was such an intrinsic part of my self expression, it was constantly changing, vibrant colors, experimenting, layering.

It was such a part of who I was. 

And lately I've been living in the same 5 euro pair of leggings I got in Ireland and it's been boring as fuck.

So every day this week. 

Every day. 

I've worn something expressive. 

The white dress with blue flowers, and blue stockings and my blue sweater and the tan belt that matches my tan bag I got in Galway.

And then I wore the red 60s dress that makes me look like Joan Holloway and little black heels. 

I can't remember the last time I wore heels. 

And today I woke up and I was tired. 

Really tired. 

I can't wear a dress and stockings today, I thought. I just can't. 

So I decided it was okay to wear my leggings.

But then I remembered the striped boat neck sweater I have and put on the wedges that were the only pair of shoes Kai ever liked (god, he was opinionated) and I'd turned my lazy legging outfit into a 50s Rizzo inspired look and I smiled at my reflection. 

I know I'm never going to be the same girl I was when I was 20. 

And I know I'm not the same woman who once had long red hair. 

But it's comforting to see I'm still the creative, expressive woman I once loved to be. 

Some things are worth not giving up on. 

Acclimatized

I told my therapist I've been having trouble writing. 

And she said when I accepted everything I was feeling the writing would come. 

Normally when I sit down to write it's to express an emotion. 

'An' being the key. 

Not 27 different emotions, especially ones that all contradict and confuse each other. 

And I don't understand what I'm feeling. 

I don't even believe all I am feeling. 

You know I've had three sessions with her and I still haven't mentioned anything about my best friend of 15 years ending our friendship. 

I feel like that means something. 

I'm incredibly sensitive right now. 

Fragile.  

She said I was strong, that it was strong for me to be there and I laughed. 

I didn't mean to be rude I just don't feel strong at all. 

She described in detail, to help me understand what I'm going through, what trauma is.

I was uncomfortable just hearing the description.

She said she saw me shaking as she was talking. 

I can't even fucking hear a technical definition without nearly squirming out of my own skin. 

But it's ok, she keeps telling me. 

It's ok to be feeling what I'm feeling, it's natural, even. 

Natural. 

My flip flop back and forth up and down wildly inconsistent state of mind and emotional life is natural. 

And I feel like I'm in the room in Wonderland where I'm walking upside down on the ceiling. 

Seems almost comical. 

To be told my chaos is natural.

He called. 

33 days and then he called. 

I thought it was what I wanted. 

Another voicemail. 

Intense emotions. 

But I didn't want to talk anymore. 

Not after I heard what he had to say. 

As I just assume that we don't really speak to each other again, so-

It was like he called just to say the one thing he knows my heart never wants to be true.

Clever, really. 

I brushed it off at first that he was just drunk and feeling sorry for himself. 

And he's certainly bid me adieu, as though it were til the end of time, multiple times.

But it's rather funny, isn't it. 

I thought his silence was more hurtful but hearing his voice say we'll never talk again was actually worse.

We don't really know how awful something can be until we hear the disdain in their voice. 

My task is to be okay with not being okay.

Which I'm not. 

I hate it.  

I hate how out of control I'm feeling. 

How fucking needy and sensitive and confused. 

I feel like a small child who needs to be told which way to walk. 

You know when kids start to wander off and their parent calls, No, Reese, this way, come on, with the same affectionate command they'd use with their pet dog, so they don't get lost.

But no one is here to call my name and tell me which way we're walking. 

So I kind of slowly wander around, trying to give the impression that I meant to walk into this building or talk with these people or eat certain foods. 

When what I really want is someone to just tell me.

Guide me. 

Point me in a direction and gently push. 

My body isn't broken but I wish someone would help hold up my body like I was in physical therapy 24 hours a day. 

When she talked to me about healing trauma she used the word acclimated. 

That I would learn to acclimate to what happened.

And I thought about how my friend said humans are like cockroaches. 

Because they are the only organism that can survive in any climate. 

They can live for 6 days without their head. 

So that's what I am to become now. 

I won't forget what happened. 

I will never be without it, that night forever will exist in the recesses of my brain. 

But eventually, slowly, I will have learned to cope.

I'll learn to live with my head cut off. 

Or rather my heart. 

Cut out. 

don't tell

Writing is one of my greatest loves but right now it feels dangerous. 

I've been feeling better this past week. 

Stronger. 

Less afraid. 

But last night I wrote about what happened and the terror came. 

I was paranoid walking from my car to my apartment. 

I nearly ran. 

Like the bushes are going to turn into a man with a gun and I won't be able to get out. 

It took me awhile to calm down and then I realized I haven't felt that scared since being home. 

But I haven't been thinking about that night either. 

When I started writing I thought, this is good. 

It's good to get it out.

Writing helps me process more than anything. 

And I haven't been doing much writing the past month. 

And I hate it. 

But I write what I know. 

I write what I'm feeling and what's happening, what's now, and what's now has been, in large part, this night. 

But writing about it is doing something different to me. 

Instead of feeling better I feel worse. 

Instead of a cathartic release I am suffocated. 

I don't understand because I love to write. 

But I can't seem to write about this without completely fucking up my mind. 

So I guess I can't, I guess right now I shouldn't write about what happened. 

But that feels like a lie. 

Because it's what's in my heart and I always write my heart. 

But for now I suppose I need to write what I wish was there, what I hope remains.

Because I got out and it's over. 

It's never over, because it's a part of who I am now. 

But that moment is over. 

And I guess I need to find something new to write about. 

Because I can't go back there, I can't survive my mind being in that room. 

One night was too much.