Floating Through Space

Thoughts…broadened.

An Open Letter on Behalf of Myself

I was not created to listen to your problems.  I am not meant to take on your burdens.  I am not your assistant, nor am I your therapist.  I am not your cook, your spouse, your best friend.  I am not some “thing” to throw your shit on.  I am not your mother.  I am not your maid.  I am not your caretaker.

Your opinions of me are empty, because you do not know me.  You don’t know what I think.  You don’t know what I like and dislike, and even if you did know those things, you don’t care enough to really understand.  I do not want your unsolicited advice.  I do not care how you feel in terms of me.  I do not give one fuck if my being the way that I am offends you in any way.  I am not here for you.  I do not belong to you.  I am not a possession.  I am not your mirror.

I have spent most of my days, sadly, berating myself because of you all.  I have learned how to hurt myself with skill.  I can call myself names a million times harsher than anything you can imagine.

I am a wordsmith.

I can hate myself more than you could possibly hate me if you were given centuries.

Really.

I wake up most days dreading the thought of having to eat anything.  Every aspect of food is horror to me.  I have been trained to believe that my body is worthless and disgusting.  I have been trained to believe that I am not worthy of love because of it.  So I bend over backwards to make your lives easier.  I do a shitload of unnecessary things–things you are more than capable of doing–just so I can find some value in your eyes.  I listen to you ramble on and on about your problems–in many cases, problems that directly affect me–and I’m there for you.  I hate that.  Fuck you.

I am never going to have Zoe Saldana’s body.  I will never naturally be three inches taller.  I will never ever be 115 pounds.  I will never have a dancer’s body.  I am short.  I am round.  And why does that make me unworthy?  Why does that make me ugly and unlovable?  Why does that say I am useless, a plaything, a nothing?  Does it mean that the words I write have no value?  Does it mean that the tears I cry are nothing?  Does it mean that all of my dreams are stupid and never going to happen–because I’m short and round?

And maybe, in some way, that is why I lavish my love on short round girls, with paunchy bellies, stretch-marked skin.  With soft chins and dimpled skin.  Short too, enough for me to kiss without using my toes.  Short and round rocks my world.  And I see so much value in them…so much love.  Oh, how they deserve to be loved!  How their bodies deserve to be caressed!  But I don’t see that in me.  I see darkness and horror.  I see “potential,” hoping against all hope that one day, I will be thin so that I will be worthy–so that I will be worthy enough to finally be human.

I see now why people jump off of bridges.  Why not just throw yourself into the sea if you have no value?  Why not just eliminate the problem?  For me, all of my life, I have believed my body, my home in this world, to be a problem.  The problem worth eliminating by any means necessary.  Do you know how hard it is to be a walking talking problem?  To have your “problem” out there for the world to see?  To always be given suggestions to eliminate your “problem”…to eliminate you.  To be berated for you…to be hated for you…to be ashamed of you.

I realize that I have not been kind to myself by being overly kind to all of you.  Like I said in the beginning of this letter, I am not here for you.  I am not less worthy than you are.  You do not matter more than me because you have a smaller body.  I do not “owe” you anything because of who I am.  I don’t need to pay penance to you!  I don’t need to beg you for life.  I don’t need to grasp to your ankles, screaming for mercy–the mercy to be human and to be loved.  Fuck all of you.  Fuck you all.

I imagine myself alone and at peace.  Away from you bloodsucking, self-centered leeches who demand that I be at your beck and call.  I am not for you!

So now, I am going on a walk with myself to figure out why I have been unkind to me by being kind to all of you.  I think I’ll have a wonderful conversation for once.

Fuck you all,

Rheeb.

Gnaw

I actually feel sick to my stomach and my upper back is tensed.  I’ve had a headache for about a week.  I feel so deplorably sad and angry, like I’m in a hole alone with no light.  No hope.

Ever since Cod kicked Nark out of the house, there has been a eerie feeling hanging in the air.  That feeling for me is a flashback to when, at four, she decided to remarry him.  From what I remember of my early childhood, my mother was a normal, well-adjusted woman.  But when she remarried him, she became a shell that completely ignored me.  My fear is that she will eventually let him move back into the house.  Thing is, he’s been calling her everyday–telling her little fucking stories about the happenings in his life.  And the thing that bothers me is that she fucking answers the phone.  Why?  Why entertain him?

It’s like there’s no air in this room.

I just feel so unloved in all of this.  Neither of them care one fuck about how they’ve affected me in my life.  I am so angry at her, because she still talks to my abuser.  She still loves my abuser.  She still entertains my abuser.  How little can you possibly care about me?  And then it hit me the other day.  Like, honestly, growing up, I was around Nark constantly after he raped her.  She didn’t think that he’d do something to me?  She allowed me to be around a fucking rapist for several years while she neglected me.  What does that mean?  To me, it means, “Rheeb, I don’t care about you or your well-being.”  After Nark and I had that fight when I was sixteen, she sent ME to a therapist!  It was like she was defending her 56 year old asshole of a husband.  And now that she’s kicked him out, every memory is to be absolved?  Fucking bullshit.  I have been so tense that it’s insane.  I almost feel the way I did right before I was fired from PFCM.  Thing is, I wouldn’t be surprised if she let him move back in.  She kicks him out.  I no longer speak with him (didn’t even send him a FD card, praise Jesus).  If she allows him to move back in, what does that mean for me and Sucka?  It means that we will be living in hell.  It means that I will officially no longer have any semblance of a family.  I don’t trust her.  She has the poorest judgment that I have ever encountered, and I wouldn’t put it past her.

She is an accomplice to his abuse.

I don’t even know what to say to her now.  I mean that, literally.  I have nothing to say to her actually.  Words are gone–vanished in this insanity.

I don’t know if I should just pack my shit and drive away.  I don’t know where to go.  I have no family anywhere else.  I have limited funds.  What do I do?  Seriously, I would appreciate some advice as to what my next move should be.

I can’t keep feeling this ill.  I mean, seriously, I have lived in the bathroom for the past two days.  Something has got to give.

I Miss You

It was a Monday.

You stood, wearing a white blouse and blue pants that hugged your hips.

You looked lovely.

I was dying inside, desperately wanting you.

And a flood of grief burst within me, knowing that it would never happen.

***

You didn’t know I felt like this.

***

You came near me to change the A/C.

You slowly lifted your leg onto the desk chair to reach the controls.

And I, losing any semblance of sanity, reached to grab your ass.

But something stopped me.

So, I left the room and cried like a baby in the abandoned showers.

***

Oh, how I wanted to be with you.

I wanted to marry you.

And have a little girl.

Her name would be Autumn.

You would have carried her.

My egg.

While I worked to take care of you.

***

But today, I look back on that dream and inject adult sanity into it.

If we would have married, we would’ve been divorced within the year.

You’d have custody of our nine year old.

I’d probably be on drugs—living in the woods somewhere.

But in a sober moment, I’d head to the library and write about how I wish I would’ve never met you.

How I wish I wouldn’t have grabbed your ass

And had a baby with you.

I’d write about how I am a horrible mother—never seeing my beautiful daughter.

I’d write of how my life was ruined.

How one move can change the course of everything.

***

I loved you.

I still do.

I dream, at times, of meeting you at Denny’s.

We chat while you eat breakfast. 

And then I pay for you.

***

I want to talk to you about the things going on in my life.

About how I’m moving to California.

How I’m finally writing.

I still want to make out with you.

And flirt with you.

Like we used to do.

It was so fucking awesome with you.

So yes, I’ll say it again.

I love you.

And probably always will.

But most importantly…

I miss you terribly.

I miss your smell.

Your warm skin.

I miss your soul, opening for me, like virgin thighs.

I miss you.

Selah

I’ve finally decided to take the time to write this post.  Why the introduction?  Well, so much has changed in the past twelve days that I could write a book.

On May 31st, “Tea,” SuckaMC’s best friend, moved out of our house.  He’d been living here for about six months, because his anti-gay mother threw him out.  But that’s another story.  Then, of course, on June 1st, I turned 27.  But THEN, June 2nd….

Let me start a new paragraph.

My mother, “Cod,” had been going nuts lately.  I mean, full blown depression.  She’d come home and go straight to bed.  She was touchy.  It was getting to the point where something had to happen, and by something, “Nark” had to go.  Earlier in the week, he accused her of cheating on him, telling her that he hopes that her new boyfriend will be wonderful for her (just in a more assholey kinda way).  The false accusation was wearing on her.  Sucka and I discussed this matter and realized that he, by his accusation, was calling her a slut and a whore.  His own wife.  And for no good reason.  Sucka mentioned that “slut/whore” phrase to Cod when she got home, and it gave her the juice she needed to actually, finally, make a move.  So, she went to their room, packed all of his shit, and waited for him to come home.  My heart was racing.  A few hours later, he walked in.  Cod was upstairs.  Sucka and I said “hi” to him and carried on with what we were doing–nevermind that my asshole was clinching by the second from sheer fear.  Nark went upstairs, and all I heard was Cod screaming, “You’re a monster!  Get out of my house!”

I was playing Mario Kart.

Nark came storming down the stairs.  As I stared at the TV, he said, “She told me to leave.”  I said nothing–just looked at him.  He said, “Why are you looking at me like that?!”  I said, “I’m not looking at you like anything.”  Ugh…  Anyways, so, I don’t know how, because, again, I was immersed (or trying my damnedest to be immersed) in Mario Kart, but Nark went back upstairs.  They screamed at each other again.  Then, I heard him kick his bags down the steps, literally, each heavy bag falling loudly on each wooden step.  What an ass.  Then he sat down in the room with me.  That, for me, is a oh hello no moment, because, as has always occurred in my life, if he and Cod have any semblance of a dispute, he makes certain to bring me into it.  Thankfully, Sucka came back into the room right when he did, so I turned off the system and went upstairs.

I had to pee, so I went into their room (the other bathroom is being renovated).  As I was about to leave, Cod asked me to stay and sit with her.  As I did, I heard Sucka and Nark talking very low.  I got up and went to the bedroom door to listen further, and Sucka was saying, “You are a bad father and a bad husband…”  Cod said, “Rheeb, go down there and get her, please.”  So, with that intention, I went back downstairs to retrieve her.  But then, I found myself sitting on the couch and getting into the conversation–or rather, hijacking it.  I allowed Nark to say all the usual bullshit that he says, but then I told him everything…and by everything, I mean EVERY THING that I have never ever said to that horrible evil piece of flesh.  While I don’t remember every detail, the main point I said was, “I am so afraid of you.”  And it is true.  I have been terrified of him since I was about seven years old (reasons of which you can read thoroughly here).  And I told him that.  It was crazy because I had no intention of yelling (or talking), but then I found myself screaming beyond my control.  It was insane.  So, about ten minutes in, Cod comes downstairs and says, “This needs to stop” to all of us.  Prior to her arrival, I’d already declared that I wouldn’t entertain the conversation longer than an additional five minutes (because the last time Nark and I “had a conversation” it went on for hours and hours.  He loves circular talk, like any true narcissist).  So, I finished what I had to say, and I left.  Nark declared that he wasn’t leaving the house.

This whole situation had me torn to shreds.  I don’t do well in heightened atmospheres, although I’ve been in them for the majority of my life.  But you know, I’m an adult, and I own a car, so I decided to leave the fucking house.  I went to my room, got dressed, and headed downstairs.  By this point, Nark was in their bedroom.  Sucka was still downstairs.  I went to Sucka and told her that I was leaving.  She broke down in tears saying, “I just don’t want him to kill himself because of something I said!”  UGH!  Can you believe she was even thinking that way?  It was so sad.  Fucking narcissists!  I comforted her for a bit, and then I left.  Tears streamed down my face as I drove up the highway.  My life, I thought, was insane.  I made it to the next town when I got a phone call from Sucka.  She said, “He’s gone.”  I said, “Gone, gone?”  She said, “Yeah.”  I said, “Gone, gone, like, all his stuff is gone, gone?”  And she said, “Yes, that gone.”  So, I sat in the Food Lion parking lot, cried a bit more, and headed back home.  God, how I wished Butch Pam still worked there!  On my way back, the oddest thing happened.  I felt so guilty about being honest with him.  I just felt like the worst daughter in the world.  The guilt was about to consume me.  When I got back to town, I was at the light and thought, “Fuck, I could just go through this light and end up on the interstate.”  And I really thought about it in that moment.  Regardless if he was still there or not, I didn’t want to deal with any of it.  But instead, I made the turn, crying all the way home.

Cod and Sucka were sitting together in the family room.  Nark was really gone.  Sucka, then revealed the extreme guilt that she felt–same as mine.   And that is when the paradigm shift commenced.

The next day, the remodel crew came and demolished what was left of the hallway bathroom.  A day or two later, Nark called Cod to ask her how he could send me the money for my health insurance.  I was so upset about that, because, he, as a narcissist, was only using that as a way to get back into our lives.  So, Sucka, against anyone’s knowledge, called his phone.  She left a message telling him to leave us alone–that we don’t want his manipulative money.  I felt so guilty when I heard the message (she recorded it and played it back for me), but then I thought, Fuck, he can’t be upset about that.  The horrible things he’s said to us?  

Let’s fast forward to Sunday, June 8th.  I was talking a walk around the neighborhood when Cod drove up, coming home from church.  She said, “Rheeb, Nark called and told me that he will be picking up his Mustang today.”  Panic swept through me.  Oh Lord, I thought, I’ll have to see him.  I was so anxious that I started running to get the adrenalin out of my system.  I began praying, too, so that I wouldn’t fear seeing him.  So, I took a few more laps around the block and then, across the street from our house, I saw a cat.  Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this on the blog, but I LOVE CATS.  Love them.  I mean, loooove them.  I saw this cat, and I yelled across to Cod, who was pulling weeds, “Cod, do you see the cat?!”  She said, “Yes.”  So, I slowly approached it, and it was the fucking sweetest baby ever.  She was purring at me, rubbing on my leg, and allowing me to pet her.  I mean, we were having a full on love affair.  She even laid down on the pavement so I could continue to pet her.  It was pure heaven.  So then, my neighbor (whom I have never spoken with in my life–and we’ve been neighbors for about fifteen years) comes out of his house and starts calling for the cat.  I said, “Is this your cat?”  He said, “Yes, we have two.  The other one is in the house.”  He kept calling for the cat, but she kept staying close to me, until, suddenly, she ran off.  I told him how cute she was and then turned around to go home.  Upon turning, I saw the Mustang being backed out of the driveway.  My fucking life, he was there!  Thing is, I completely missed him.  Like totally.  And we live on a small street, so it was amazing that I missed him!  A miracle, really.  Really!  I was stunned for several reasons.  First, according to Cod, Nark walked to the house.  Mind you, I was walking in the direction that he was coming, and I completely missed him.  Two, they had a conversation–again, that I missed.  And three, the big one.  I just finished writing my screenplay (which, as an aside, I entered into the Big Break Contest and the Austin Film Festival Contest).  Anyways, in the script, my main character, keeps seeing this cat after she has been in a horrible situation.  The cat distracts her and then runs off.  And THAT is exactly what happened to me!  My life!  I mean, crazy stuff.  CRAZY stuff!

Later that afternoon, Cod and I were having a conversation about everything.  I don’t know how we got on it, but she said something to the effect of not having sex for the last fifteen years (hold on while I fucking gag).  And then she said, “Rheeb, I have been raped three times in my life.  Twice in college and once by Nark.”  Fuck?  Excuse me?  Uhm, the fuck infinity?  She continued, saying that back in 1995, while they were away, he’d raped her.  Now, I remember the time she was talking about.  My aunt had come up to be with Sucka and I.  Sucka was two.  I was seven.  Cod was going on a business trip to St. Louis.  This was during the same week of the Oklahoma City Bombing, because I remember watching the breaking news with my aunt as it happened.  Anyways, Nark wouldn’t let Cod go on the trip by herself, so he went, and, according to her, he was being a mean asshole the entire time.  Then, one night, when she got back to the room after working that day, he raped her.  Then, the next day, when she confronted him, he denied it, telling her that she was crazy.  I know this is true for many reasons.  One, on the 2nd, while I was yelling, he said that he never hit me in my life other than once (please see here).  In addition, travelling with him is hell on earth.  He gets abnormally angry and mean, like back in 2000 when we took a trip up to Manhattan for Christmas.  He was so mean to Cod on the drive that Cod and I had to switch seats in New Jersey so that he would stop abusing her.

So she said that he raped her, and then, that abnormal guilt that I’d been feeling vanished in one fell swoop.  FUCK THAT DUDE, YO.  FUCK HIM.  My life, everything, ever, suddenly made so much sense: her abandonment of me at seven, my excessive weight gain at eight, and why she never protected us from him.  Thing is, subconsciously, I think I knew.

I had so many questions for her–the main one being how she could stay with him for twenty years.  But then I decided not to ask.  How do you add logic to a woman who was traumatized and abused?  What do I even say from here?  Words fucking fail me, you know?  I always knew that there was something creepy about him–I mean, I could feel him leering at me.  Sucka and I have had several disgusting and uncomfortable conversations about how he’d look at me.  He’d hug me from behind.  When I’d dress up, he’d always comment on my legs.  I fucking HATE that dude.

Oh yes, and this is the final piece that I need to say regarding him.  A few weeks ago, Sucka said that she was searching the house for candy (which Nark always has), and she stumbled upon a fresh box of condoms in his drawer.  Remember, Cod said they hadn’t done anything in fifteen years.  In addition, a few months ago, he asked me to clean his car after he came back from a trip to Georgia.  When cleaning it out, there was a map of Texas in the passenger seat.  I know he has someone.  People who accuse others of cheating are cheaters.  That’s just the bottom line.  The hatred I have for him couldn’t possibly grow any larger.  Like, the world…the Universe cannot contain it.  At this point, the hatred I have for him has reached its limit, and I sit in silence, doing nothing.  There is no action that can be taken to remedy it all, so I sit in silence.  That is it.

So here I am, ten days later, and I haven’t said a word to him.  I don’t know where the fuck he is, and to be honest, I don’t give a shit.  I’m certain, too, that we will not talk again for many years–if we ever talk again.  This doesn’t bother me.   When I wrote this, I imagined that my joy would be instant.  Instead, the recovery from a lifetime of fear, anxiety, and torment is in it’s beginning stages.

Selah.

 

27

I turned 27 today.  Ahh…and unlike almost every other birthday that I have had since 14, I have really enjoyed this one without any semblance of grief or fear.  I made a gluten-free Triple Lemon Cake yesterday (and after this post, I will go grab another slice).  I have been playing Mario Kart 8, which is an amazing game.  Talked to Chocolate Baby for a while, and then took a long ass nap.  My period is on, so there is no better gift.

So yeah, 27.  Happy Birthday to me!  I see great, unimaginable things on the horizon.

 

The Liebster Award

I got nominated for a Liebster Award from A Lesbian Speaks!  She has a lovely blog, filled with of positivity, lesbianism, and poetry (and who doesn’t love that?!).    Check her out, everyone!

wpid-liebster2

Here are the rules:

1. Thank the person who nominated you, and post a link to their blog on your blog.

2. Display the award on your blog — by including it in your post and/or displaying it using a “widget” or a “gadget”. (Note that the best way to do this is to save the image to your own computer and then upload it to your blog post.)

3. Answer 11 questions about yourself, which will be provided to you by the person who nominated you.

Here are the questions I’m supposed to answer:

What do you enjoy most about blogging? To me, it’s like therapy.  It’s hard for me to really know what I’m feeling until I write it down, and blogging provides that space for me.
Which do you prefer: coffee or tea? I don’t drink either, but I would say tea.
Do you prefer to write with noise around you or in silence? Absolute silence (unless I’m playing music)
What song, in your opinion, describes your blog? Floating Through Space by Lonnie Liston Smith
What three things do you think about a lot? Being successful, finding a life partner, and losing weight
What’s your favourite piece of technology, excluding your phone? My Google Nexus 7 tablet 
What is your favourite time of the day and why? 6:30pm-9:30pm.  This is when my head is at it’s clearest and also when I write things.
What colour do you think describes you best and why? Red, because I feel  feminine and masculine at the same time.
What is your favourite piece of clothing? my black shorts
What skill would you most like to possess? being able to write song lyrics.  I can’t seem to get that together.
What would you choose to have as your last meal? OMG, like, everything on the fucking planet.  Deep dish pizza, macaroni and cheese, maple bacon, cheesecake, authentic Mexican burritos, fried chicken, glazed donuts, and chocolate cake (pahahaha, OMG, wow).

4. Provide 11 random facts about yourself.

– I love 80’s R&B.
– I am a huge Nintendo fan.
– I’m 5’3
– I’ve been blogging for over ten years.
– I love older women.
– My favorite movies are: The Bridges of Madison County, Dumb and Dumber (it’s hilarious), The Princess Bride, The Game, and The Truman Show
– My favorite singers are Teena Marie; Patti Labelle, and Shania Twain
– I adore Zoe Saldana.
– I’m allergic to metal.
– I’m an HSP (highly sensitive person)
– It has taken me almost a half an hour to compile this list (the insanity)

5. Nominate 5 – 11 blogs that you feel deserve the award, who have a less than 1000 followers. (Note that you can always ask the blog owner this since not all blogs display a widget that lets the readers know this information!)

pinkandfreetobeme

ButchOnTap

The Flannel Files

Femme Unplugged

6. Create a new list of questions for the blogger to answer.

Questions for you to answer:

– What’s your favorite memory?
– Do you have any pets?  If so, what kinds?
– What’s your favorite song?
– If you could eat dinner with any famous person, living or dead, who would it be?
– Seaside or Countryside?
– If you could be anyone else for an entire day, who would you be and why?
– What is/are your favorite movie(s)?
– Winter or summer?
– What’s your favorite hobby?
– Why did you start blogging?
– What is your passion in life?

7. List these rules in your post (You can copy and paste from here.) Once you have written and published it, you then have to:

8. Inform the people/blogs that you nominated that they have been nominated for the Liebster award and provide a link for them to your post so that they can learn about it.

Light, Deep Breaths

I have this deep longing.  Let me explain.  (I feel kinda sick).

I am about to turn 27.  It seems like, every year around my birthday, I go through some deep, sickening depression that just…

I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished anything worthwhile.  And not many things are worthwhile to me.  Actually, let me make a list of the things I would consider worthwhile:

  1. Getting to meet Zoe Saldana (and becoming great friends…and having her star in one of my movies)
  2. Going to California
  3. Being with someone special

So there it is–being with someone special–that has me in this place of deep longing almost bordering on physical pain.

I have never been with anyone in my entire life.  I mean, I haven’t even been kissed.  This isn’t to say that I haven’t had the opportunity, but it is to say that I have never experienced being with anyone.  I can attribute a lot of that to being in the closet for so long (until 24) and also to being in a religious, anti-gay environment for so long (up to 25).  Each and every day, I hope.  I hope to meet my soul mate.  And I may sound naive to you guys, because I know that so many people don’t believe in soul mates, but I do.  But as each day goes by, I have yet to meet her.  I have yet to be held…to be known by another person.  It hurts so bad.  And it’s hard to explain…and of course, difficult to explain, because it’s so odd for someone my age to be in this position.

I don’t know what to do.  I yearn to be with another–to be held–to hold–to touch–to kiss.  Just imagine what it’s like to have never kissed anyone.  It’s insane.  I have practiced on my hand for fifteen years, but I have never done it.  It’s really hard–seriously hard–not to be ashamed or insecure about this.  It’s hard not to think that there’s something wrong with me (especially mentally).  I know that I don’t want to be with just anyone.  It’s like not eating for twenty years and then suddenly choosing to devour a Pop Tart.  I don’t want any Pop Tarts, you know?

My heart just…aches.  It’s that time, you know, where I need to be with someone.  It’s a need now.  I am an adult.  I have needs.  Thing is, it’s like, how do I not wonder if something’s wrong with me?  How do I keep hope alive, holding onto the belief that I can meet someone amazing?  I hope God hears and answers my prayers.  I have tried to be a good person.  I’m honest, smart, funny, and caring.  I am debt free and have dreams that I am trying to fulfill.  I would never intentionally hurt anyone or anything.  I have a lot to offer to someone, but it’s just…hard to keep hope alive.

Yesterday, I laid in bed crying, and I said to myself, “I think…I want to commit suicide.”  And I asked myself a bunch of questions, trying to figure out my reasoning, and I deduced that, no, I don’t hate myself.  It’s just that, I don’t see a reason to keep going.  Then, of course, I thought of my stories and my characters and how if I were to die, so would they.  But on a personal level, there is nothing here.  Even now as I type this, I just want to walk down a dark street, aimlessly, and find myself walking right into the sea.  Gone.

I don’t like this time of year too much.  I guess I need to change my outlook, because I always feel like I am more of a loser than I was the previous year.  Not being loved is hard.  Not being able to love is also hard.  Twenty-seven.  Wow.  I know I just typed it out, but to me, all I read is pain.  I feel like I’m physically holding my breath.  Like…I’m gasping for air–for life–for something.  Just something.  And if it’s not meant to be, I’d hope God would be compassionate and empathetic enough to take the desire away from me.  Why be tortured for a lifetime, if what I long for will never happen?  I hope it does, though.  I really do.

Song of the Day: All I Want for Christmas Is You by Mariah Carey (this song brings me to tears every time I hear it.)

I Am

I gotta say, I really, seriously, seriously, SERIOUSLY, actually, really think I’ve found it.

After so many years of just…shooting in the dark, I really believe that I know what I want to do, and I fucking love it.  I love to write.  There is nothing in this world I’d rather do in terms of a career.   And the thing is, I knew I loved this since I was a child, but I never let myself attend to it.  And it’s so fucking funny, because I would always write little scenes out in my notebooks and school books growing up.  And I felt, in my soul, that I would use them later.  What the hell, you know?  Why wasn’t I true to myself?  Why did it take so long?

Over the past five years, I have tried to become a librarian, a teacher, a government employee, an editor, an LGBT lobbyist, a clerk, an administrative assistant, a health care analyst, a Best Buy employee, a Blockbuster employee, a computer scientist, a chef, a mechanic, an electrician, a locksmith, a hotel janitor, a janitor for a Christian cleaning service (yes, they exist), and then, of course, a registrar at an anti-gay, unaccredited Bible college.  About four years ago, I emailed Sherry Suib Cohen after reading Paula Deen’s book to tell her how much I loved it.  I also mentioned that I always wanted to be a writer.  She told me to follow my dreams and to make the choice between being a writer or an editor.  Truth be told, I only said the editor thing because I was afraid of my own writing.  I almost felt like I wouldn’t have anything to say–that I would have to depend on other people’s words to have a steady income.

I look back at my life, and all I see is fear.  One time at the end of a Sunday church service, I remember crying out to God and telling Him that how much I’d love to write lesbian stories.  I finished that pleading with, “But I want to please you.  I want to give my gift to you.”  And here I am, probably about five years later, writing the most delicious lesbian-centered stories.  My life.  And I love it.  I really, seriously, genuinely love what I’m doing.  I can’t see me doing anything else because I love this so much.  I mean, honestly, it’s this or nothing.  Or nothing.  Even if I never make alot of money from doing this, I’d still love doing it.  No one can discourage me from continuing.  I don’t give two shits about anyone’s opinion.  I know I’m a great writer.  I would like to learn more techniques for screenwriting, but it doesn’t negate the fact that I am truly confident–not arrogantly like I’m the best in the world and have nothing to learn–not at all.  I know I have a lot to learn, but still, even in that, I am so ready to learn it.  I am so ready to keep writing.  I am so ready to put all those characters I’ve had in my head out into the world.  I want to be unique.  I want to be raceless, ageless, genderless and orientationless.  I want to write what I care about, and I’m doing it.  I’m fucking doing it, and I love it so much.

For the past few nights, I’ve had dreams about doing scripts.  Last night, I dreamed that I was at a theater in Australia (it was a film school theater with a movie playing), and then later, I ended up in Oprah’s office as she was telling me about a specific script she was selling for $379 dollars!

This is me.  Oh, thank God so much for just…guiding me along the way–through so many tears and hardships.  I am here.

Song of the Day – Saturday in the Park – Chicago

Thought of the Future: So this is what I see for the future.  I am married to a wonderful, caring, kind, and understanding woman.  We live in San Diego.  We also have a house in Virginia (I don’t know where that came from).  She is a truly talented artist (and I love that).  We are the same age.  And she accepts that I live in both worlds–this current one, and the spiritual one–the one where my characters talk to me.  Thinking back over this–she probably accepts me because she lives in two places as well.)

Clearing Smoke

I have to admit.  I’m kind of an asshole.

Why do I say this?  Well, about four days ago, I called Smoke.  Why did I call her?  I’m writing a new script that is loosely based on our relationship (which I detailed here), and I wanted to call her to see how I felt towards her now.  Sick, I know.  So, I called her.  She didn’t answer, and I made sure not to leave a message.  But about ten to fifteen minutes later, the house phone rang, and there was a giddy Smoke on the other end saying, “Hello!”  My life.  I told her to hold on for a moment, because I had Chocolate Baby on the other line.  I clicked back over, and we began talking.  It was, I’m sure, the most awkward conversation I have ever had with her.  Wait, no, I’m sure that’s not possible.  I will say that it was, by far, the most awful conversation I’ve had in the past year.  Everything was extremely formal.  I mean, extremely formal.  She gave me very basic information–her son had another baby.  Her other son is getting married.  She’s still at Fundie Academy and still attends services at PFCM.  I told her that I was starting my own company.  I failed to mention that it is a production company, but even still, I didn’t want to volunteer much, because I can’t seem to get past the intense anger I have toward her.  Why am I angry?  Let me begin a new paragraph…

loved her.  And I can’t write that with any more clarity than I did.  I loved her.  And you know, even though it’s almost been ten years, I still can’t shake the belief that, somehow, someway, we would have been together had it not been for fundamentalist, legalistic religion.  I know that I was seventeen, but there is no denying the connection that we had.  No denying whatsoever.  I have learned in the past few months that intuition is probably the most important thing to following your path, and for me, both now and then, I am certain (CERTAIN!) that Smoke and I had a connection that surpassed age, time, space and any other factor that could be named.  About a year before we began our…whatever we had…I wrote her a letter, that, in pure Rheeb fashion, did not get sent.  In that letter, I spelled out how I felt such an intense connection with her…that I knew her.  Now, I have a firm belief in reincarnation, and I do believe that you can have universal connections with people that stem from a timeless place.  In addition to that, a year before we began our…uhm…whatever we had…Smoke and I were very close.  It was weird and wonderful and exhausting and exciting.

Anyways, back to why I’m angry with her…  Thing is, this connection, to me, is undeniable, yet, as years have pased, she has denied it–not explicitly–just spiritually.  And I’m certain that this is because she is the most religious woman I have ever known.  She is also the most fearful.  About six weeks after 12th grade began, we had a very deep conversation during her free period in her classroom…alone…where she said she was worried about whether or not she could trust me…how she felt that our relationship was “too good to be true,” how I was the only one she talked to.  And then, let’s fast forward to April of 2014, and we have the most generic conversation ever known to man.  It was almost like we were at a business meeting.  I mean, the fucking conversation ended with her saying, “Thank you.  Goodbye.”  The fuck?  Like, did I miss something?  In addition, my anger comes from the fact that when I came out to her, she said nothing.  Yeah, let me begin a new paragraph.

So during the 2012 presidential election (which, thinking back over it, was a huge turning point in my life since I broke up with Winny at that time and also began my disdain for Smoke at that time), Smoke and I were in my office talking.  My state was one of the four that had same-sex marriage on the ballot, so at that time, with the risk of being fired around me constantly, I would talk to anyone about voting yes for the bill.  So, there Smoke sat as I brought up if she was going to vote yes.  She said, “No, I won’t be.”  I said, “Why not?”  She said, “Because I don’t want them getting married here.”  I said, “So…you don’t want me to get married here?”  She said nothing and looked down.  She then began talking about something else, and I said, “You didn’t even hear what I said,” and she said, “I heard you.”  That was it.  No talking about what happened between us.  No reminiscing about the day she told me I looked “fine.”  No recollections of how, while standing alone in the “Test Track” line at Disney, she told me that I remind her of her estranged husband.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Zero.  Zip.  And there I sat, days later, reading the signatures of those who signed a petition to get the already passed marriage bill moved to the ballot.  There was her name and address as plain as day, attempting, among thousands, to control my life–to make sure that, in my home state, I would be treated like a second class citizen.  But that’s not all, folks…

I am also angry at her because, after knowing her since I was ten years old–after years and years of intimate conversation, when I got fired from PFCM Bible College, I heard nothing from her.  And I made sure to get Chocolate Baby to tell her I was fired five minutes after it happened.  She knew.  She fucking knew, and I heard nothing from her for over a year–until four days ago when my bitter ass decided to call her the day before her birthday to get information for my script–to get into the head of one of my characters.  So I said on the call, “Yeah, because y’all wanted to abandon me after I was fired.”  And she, I’d imagine, just like she did when I came out, looked down, and said nothing.  FUCK YOU, SMOKE.  FUCK YOU SO MUCH.  I loved you.  I loved you more than I’d ever loved anyone.

You know what, readers?  I was convinced that we were soul mates.  I was convinced that we were gonna get married.  I mean, for YEARS after I’d graduated.  I’d imagine having kids with her.  A daughter.  I imagined living in a condo together.  I imagined my life with her.

Or, fuck, maybe I’m just a silly girl with mystical dreams that were never going to be fulfilled?  Maybe I was just a silly girl who made it all up in my mind?

But still, I guess I shouldn’t call people I hate just to see if I can study them for my own uses.

But what the hell else could I do?

I’m a fucking writer.

Song of the Day: Definition of Down by Teena Marie

Only Me–Always

I thought I’d take a moment to make a decree.

I am a writer.  I have known this since I was a little girl.  I am a writer.  I know this.  And this is an art form to me.  It transports me to a new realm that has more oxygen than reality.  And I welcome this experience.

Sometimes, I feel empty.

I have a deep yearning to tell stories and make people think…and laugh.

I have these two characters that have been living in my head for years.  I love them.

I’m working on two things currently–a TV Comedy and a drama movie.  I’m doing both through my company Illuminated Puzzle Productions.  I’ve already finished the pilot of the comedy.  The drama is about a young girl who runs away from her life.  I will, down the line, do a third script–or maybe even a mini-series as I sit here thinking about this–about my loved characters.  They’re a butch-femme couple.

I forget who I am so much of the time because of fear and anxiety.  I am still me, every second of the day, and no other person on this planet can make me less of me at any given moment than I will always be.

I am me–always.

Always.

And for me, that is the most precious gift and journey–finding out who I am in this time…in this space.  And being free in that.  My life has been like a collection of puzzle pieces.  Sometimes, pieces fit together and illuminate.  This is always freeing.

I feel tears locked up behind my cheeks.  Is that normal?

So yeah, that is what I am doing now–writing scripts.  I’m amazed that it’s taken me so long.  I guess I had to shed some insanity to begin.  Thing is, I absolutely love it.  I love the process.  I love seeing what happens.  It leaves me awestruck.

And I can’t compare myself to anyone else–no matter what.  I am only me.

Only me.

Always.

Song of the Day: Remy Shand – Son of Night