New Year's Eve, 2017-2018

            It is amazing how much can change in the span of a year, or even six months. This time last year, I thought the house I was in would be the house in which I would stay for at least two years, if not longer. By the time my birthday came around, I knew that would not be the case and I was not happy about it, but I remained hopeful and optimistic that everything would work out with the family I thought I was creating.    

            Now, 2018 looms on the morrow’s horizon and everything is different. Everything has changed.

            I entered 2017 as optimistically as I have entered the past few years—with hopes, telling myself that this would be my year. Nothing would stop me, nothing would come in my way, this would be my year to get my shit together, figure out my life, and move the fuck forward with real goals and real progress.

            When I made that resolution, I had no idea what it would take for it to come true. When they say, “Be careful what you wish for or you just might get it,” they are not kidding. I have come to the idea that when someone makes a wish—an earnest, true wish—it is released to the Universe and the Universe will grant that wish. The catch is that the wish will never be granted the way you imagine it to be. Never.

            As it turned out, 2017 was difficult, but ultimately I have met much of what I wanted to do. My blog has not remained as active as I had set out to make it, but given my limited audience, I’m not really hurt about that. I know that as I take my time getting all of my ducks in a row, blogging will fall into the pattern of routine. I have been journaling again, nearly every night, before bed. I write down my innermost thoughts and feelings, those intrusive things that come unbidden to my mind and would linger, festering, if not for the release of ink into paper.

            The year draws to a close and as the end, and a new beginning, draw nearer, I find myself reflecting on my own thoughts yet again. I did not imagine I would be in another apartment, nor did I think I would still be renting. I never dreamed that I would be alone with my beautiful daughter. I know a handful of people who have managed to purchase homes, moving forward with life in that typical way that our society deems normal and acceptable. People with whom I went to high school are getting married, having babies, and purchasing houses as if we still lived in the Golden Age of American Financing (also known as the years during which income taxes on the highest income bracket were over 90%). When I compare myself to them, I think I am somehow coming up short on my potential, that somehow I am not living in the timeline I was meant to and instead I am in many ways retarded—lacking in some crucial fashion that others are not.

“People with whom I went to high school are getting married, having babies, and purchasing houses as if we still lived in the Golden Age of American Financing.”

            As 2017 ends and 2018 begins, I find the futility in making such comparisons. It does not do to compare myself to my peers in this way, for my journey in life has been nothing like theirs. These people lived in nuclear households, having both parents and full siblings with whom they lived stable lives and learned how they belong in this world.

            While my peers had stability, love, support, and the sense of belonging no matter what, I had other issues to face. My parents were never together; they were never married and they never lived under the same roof. My mother had four children, each with a different father, and my own dad fathered his second child when I was 20 years old. My family is wrought with mental illnesses, including depression, anxiety, and dementia (in old age). Those who were my peers and suffered similarly became people I called friends, but even then, I felt as though I didn’t belong.

            Ultimately, realizing the differences between myself and my peers in terms of what has led each of us to this point in our lives helps me to realize that I cannot compare myself to them, nor can they do so to me. I have a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment at a lower monthly rental rate than any other apartment complex or house within 100 miles. I am located conveniently close to my school (I can ride my bicycle to class), with my daughter’s new preschool within walking distance of our new home. The mall is within walking distance of our new home, and my best friend lives a mere 5-minute drive away.

            So, I am in an apartment. I have less square footage to maintain than my peers with full-size houses of their own. I do not need to worry about paying for my own garbage disposal, water usage, or sewage service. I have no HOA fees to pay, nor property taxes. I may be a single mother now, but I have friends who come to see me and I have friends who invite me out to do things. My daughter is developing much better than she was, six months ago. Her speech has vastly improved, and it has become clearer even in the mere month during which we’ve lived in our new place.

Happy New Year!

A Friend Without Weed...

It is a new year and it has had an interesting start. One of the housemates I’d recently taken in is no longer with us, while the other remains. Here’s the story…

            My Halloween party was a raging success, in my opinion. An old friend with whom I’d scarcely even conversed in our six years of friendship, Pat, showed up to the party and brought two friends, AJ and Curt. Pat and AJ were staying with Curt; Curt was the driver. I had other guests, as well: My best friend Jessica, recently separated from the Air Force; my friend Joanne from high school, recently out of the Army, with her husband and son; my friend Rose, with her daughter and sister; my mom, brother, nephew, and two little boys my mom occasionally cares for… Overall, I definitely had a full and happy house for the party and I feel good for throwing it.

            When Thanksgiving rolled around, I received a message from Pat indicating that he wanted to talk about something. He insinuated that it was important but that he didn’t want to stress me out, so I wasn’t obligated to respond immediately. Immediately curious, though, of course, I had to ask what was up, and so Pat told me that he and AJ were being kicked out of Curt’s place by Black Friday when they’d thought they’d have longer to find a new place to go. He wanted to know if he and AJ could stay with Randy, Persephone, and me. Remembering their demeanour during my party and taking Pat’s word for AJ’s character, I acquiesced easily. I enjoy having people in my home, helping them move forward and get back on their feet. This looked like my next opportunity to do so.

            So, on Black Friday, Curt drove AJ and Pat to my house with the vast majority of their belongings, and they essentially moved into my upstairs art room. It started out great. AJ and Pat were both really cool, really chill guys. We would smoke throughout the day and retain the buzz we’d get and it would be wonderful. Then, Randy started helping AJ out quite a bit, because AJ was more eager to accept the help offered than Pat. Pat would rather work for himself to get what he needs. Already, I saw this difference in character and knew that it could cause problems if AJ, who I knew had been addicted to methamphetamines, were to act like the typical tweaker.

            Well, much to my chagrin, and the chagrin of Pat as well as Randy, AJ did act like the typical tweaker. He started out grateful—ever so grateful, graciously thanking us for everything, from the meals we’d feed him to washing his laundry to taking him somewhere to get something he needed. He was thanking us left and right. Then, he started thanking us less, substituting “Thank you,” for, “I really appreciate everything you’re doing for me. I’m just so not used to it…” I wanted to ignore his behaviour and write it off as holiday blues or a seasonal issue. I spoke with him frequently, took him away from Pat with increasing frequency because he showed so much envy toward his friend. I gave him advice and gave him activities to do to keep himself in a positive mood, as well as what to do if he couldn’t get his mood to lighten.

            Christmas started to roll around. On the 23^rd, Pat invited his friend Mr Hat to hang out and Mr Hat paid for us to go to laser tag. After the first game, AJ acted like a little bitch and stormed away, saying he wasn’t going to play anymore because he wasn’t having any fun because he didn’t score as many points as he wanted to. Mr Hat had already paid for AJ to play 3 games and there was no one in the place other than those currently working there who could have taken his place on our team for the games AJ said he didn’t want to play. As it turned out, Mr Hat was okay with cutting his losses on the money spent on AJ’s ungrateful ass; we played one more game with him and he only joined us because we went against a team of equal numbers as ours. He still didn’t have any fun and thus didn’t join us for the third game, which advantageously put us with even numbers and we split into veterans against civilians and had a blast. Later that night, I broke out some magic mushrooms I’d bought from a friend. I thought AJ may have managed to get into a more positive head space since the laser tag, and if not, perhaps the mushrooms would help. I was mistaken.

            At first, as the mushrooms kicked in, AJ got into a really great mood. He let off great vibes that were really positive and I had hope. Then, suddenly, after we’d moved upstairs and were kind of waiting for the shrooms to really take effect, AJ suddenly got up and left the room in a huff, as if he were angry. He entered not long afterwards and filled the room with the vilest, most violent, most vitriolic vibes one could imagine coming from a person. It was horrendous. It made my heart sick. It made me want him out of my home because I didn’t want that kind of energy permeating the environment in which I am raising my child. He left the room shortly and I felt relief, which I expressed to Pat, who asserted that he felt the same way. It was a long night, during which Pat and I essentially took turns babysitting AJ during his tumultuous trip. It was not nearly as pleasant as it could have been—my own high was absolutely magnificent; Pat’s high was great as well; only AJ had the problems, but his problems extended onto Pat and me. I wish I could have just sat back and enjoyed my trip like the stereotypical hippie I represent when I eat shrooms.

Randy and I took Persephone to my grandparents’ house in Roy for Christmas Dinner on Christmas Eve; she opened all her presents from my dad’s side of the family. We went home that night. AJ had recently received a great many presents from his grandparents, who were quite nice people and got on with me rather well. He had a large bag full of nice socks, a new pair of shoes, and a nice button-down shirt, as well as a new pair of jeans. He acted as grateful as could be when he opened the gifts, but soon it was as though he’d never received them and had absolutely nothing.

Pat and I couldn’t smoke with AJ without feeling him harsh the vibe. Even when AJ thought he was chill, he was far from it. His chill factor didn’t exist. It had, at first, existed, but it had evaporated like water under the springtime sun the longer he stayed with us. I took Pat’s sister, Nick, with me to Walmart so I could spend the $50 gift card my mother got me for Christmas. I got a handful of colouring books, gel pens, colour markers, and a 100-pack of Crayola coloured pencils (they turned out to be a rip-off; nearly half the colours have twins, so there aren’t even 100 different colours). AJ wanted to use the gel pens, which I was generously allowing Nick to use with me while we coloured. I declined him permission to use anything other than my old coloured pencils that reside within old pencil boxes that are in immaculate shape, as are the pencils themselves. He wasn’t happy with that. He was ungrateful to use only the pencils; he wanted full access like Nick had, even though, as Gizmo himself pointed out, I wouldn’t even have let my best friend use the pencils I’d offered AJ until I’d bought those new colours.

I pondered for a while. Finally, before Nick and Mr Hat went home after the new year weekend, I approached AJ in the living room, which had been designated his space since no one was using it and he needed to be by himself for a while because no one wanted to be around him. I sat down and talked to him and let him know that he needed to get his attitude and behaviour straightened out that day, or he would be put out. If he could get his attitude and behaviour under control, then I would give him until the first of February to find a job and have a start date, to have everything lined up for school including having applied for and been accepted and thus have a starting class date, or both. He wanted to know why I was giving him a push but not Pat. I told him that Pat was proving that he was doing what he wanted to do to make money, and Pat was grateful for everything, while AJ really needed to get something going for himself as soon as possible or else I didn’t think his behaviour would get better. I forgot to mention it at the time, but I also wanted to tell him that I would no longer be supplying him any weed, due to what my dad told me about it not helping him get over his addiction or his addict mind-set.

After Nick and Mr Hat had gone home, I took Pat into my study to smoke a bowl because I didn’t want AJ walking in on us while we smoked and I knew he would if we were to do it upstairs. I wanted to have a peaceful smoke session without the guy there to harsh it. Randy came in while we were smoking and said that AJ had asked if we were smoking because he felt left out and alienated. I told Randy I’d talk to AJ later that night or the next day, but that I’d forgotten to mention that I wouldn’t be smoking with him anymore when I’d spoken to him in the living room. Randy left the study and, unbeknownst to Pat or I, told AJ that Pat and I had something to tell him later that night or the next day. AJ proceeded to come to the study, tell us Randy had sent him to us with words of how Pat and I had something to talk to him about. So, I had him sit down, thinking that Randy had sent him and that I was getting pushed into something at the wrong time and knowing that it would blow up badly—all the while, hoping it wouldn’t…

I didn’t even finish my first sentence when AJ tried to cut me off. Pat wouldn’t let him. AJ stormed out of the room. It went a little like this:

I began along the lines of, “So, I talked to my dad, and he said that for you to be doing any mind-altering substances, it isn’t good for your recovery as an addict and I feel like I’m not helping you by supplying you with weed—”

AJ interjected: “So, I’m going to stop you right there,” and Pat stopped him with, “No, you’re not. She wasn’t even halfway through her sentence and you cut her off.”

I sat quietly. The interaction between AJ and Pat was brief.

AJ: “If I can’t smoke here, I won’t stay.”

Pat: “That’s on you. Seriously, dude, this was my last ditch effort to help you. I’m done!”

AJ: “Good. I’m done, too!”

With that, both of them left my study. I followed because I heard the sounds of AJ throwing his belongings around the room upstairs as well as throwing them down the stairs as he prepared to leave. I let it happen. Where he ended up from here was his responsibility, not mine. I had done everything in my power to help him and he hadn’t actually taken any of my advice. He hadn’t listened to me at all. Pat and I came back to my study to finish smoking the bowl we’d started in my Rasta-coloured elephant pipe. Then, I heard AJ’s voice directed at Randy and I knew that Persephone was on Randy’s lap. AJ did not sound calm or collected; he did not sound in any way the way that one should sound when speaking to another. I certainly didn’t want my daughter near it, so I mentioned to Pat what was going on and we agreed to kill the elephant upstairs. I took Persephone with me when I went and closed the door to get her away from the negativity. I knew it wouldn’t last, but the conversation between Randy and AJ did.

Soon after I’d taken Persephone upstairs, I heard AJ blatantly mocking me to Randy, disrespecting me to his face, and I went downstairs to confront him, ready with the words on my lips to tell him that he had exactly two minutes to get the fuck out of my house with all his shit or I’d call the police. Randy stopped me, cut me off, and sent me back upstairs so he could try and play nice with AJ, although at that point I was 1000% done with the guy and I wanted him out of my house as soon as possible.

He stayed that night, went out the next day and caught the bus to wherever and bought a gram of weed. He brought the weed home and said it was an olive branch, a peace offering. He had made no apologies to me. He had made no amends. I wanted nothing to do with the plant he’d brought back, as though he hadn’t heard me at all when I’d said I wouldn’t smoke with him anymore. He stayed that night, too, but he was gone the next morning. Tuesday, January 3^rd, I was rid of AJ and it was as though a rainbow shone on my house the day he left. It was glorious.

I’m glad Pat stayed around. I’m happy to help him and he’s happy to have help. He is grateful for all that he has and all that he is given and it is extremely refreshing.

Finding the Ground

Roots. They grip the ground. They keep plants in one place and provide nutrients and everything needed for the plant. In order to have roots, you have to have ground, and moving seriously uproots me, sends me into the air. I feel like I’m tumbling through the air, trying to land and figure things out again. We moved into our house at the end of August, this year. It took me until yesterday, December 16^th, to unpack my box of trophies and trinkets that have always resided in my bedroom. Now they reside in my study. It’s awesome. I have my bowling trophies on the windowsill, I have the engraved plate my mom bought for me on the shelf above my monitor, right next to my awesome, new jester frog. My study is fucking awesome, now, and it took me until now, halfway through December to Christmas. It feels like I’m settling down as I put more boxes in the attic and find homes within my house for more of my belongings.

            Plenty has happened in the months since I last wrote. I realize now that I need to forgive myself for not writing more often. Forgive myself for taking so long to unpack and get everything set up. Frankly, though, I didn’t want to write blog posts from the living room, anymore. I don’t like moving the furniture on the carpet because the carpet is really thick and even the chairs, as light as they are, don’t move very easily if I try sliding them. The apartment floor was much better for it. I’m so glad to have my study set up so I can blog not only with a monitor and a computer chair where I can see everything on my screen clearly, but also so that I have a secluded space in the house that is my own, where I can get away from everyone or select my company. There is only one chair, and it is mine. No one else sits in it. I plan to make my altar next to the window in this room. This is my space. The only things in here that aren’t mine are two of Randy’s books on Tao, because this is basically the book place of the house and they look good on my shelf.

            My trash container is a party cup. Literally a black Solo cup that sits on my desk and holds a few small things and is nice and discreet. I don’t have to change trash bags or cart things in and out of the room. I can take the cup out, toss it, and grab a new cup to bring in for trash. It’s wonderful. I bought new speakers, a new monitor, a new tablet—everything is fucking great. I can’t wait to actually start using the tablet, but I’ve been really absorbed in the Sims 4, lately.

            Two friends are staying in my art room until they get on their feet and can get their own place(s). I have yet to hang my dragon posters because I want to swap the locations of the hutch and what Randy thinks is a carrion cabinet. If it is a carrion cabinet, it’s very simple and has a large opening and single shelf in the large area for maybe a TV and cable box, I would imagine. Either way, I want to switch the walls on which these pieces of furniture currently sit, and put Persephone’s TV in the “carrion cabinet” and the hutch against the wall next to the front door. My battle dragon can hang over the hutch and the cliff dragon can hang over where Persephone should put her riding cars away, next to the fireplace. I plan to hang my other purchased paintings along the walls in the stairwell to the art room.

            Today, I read some articles. One was about the effects of alcohol on babies while breastfeeding. The other was about Mick Jagger having a new baby at the age of 74, with a woman by the age of 30. The breastfeeding and drinking article started out by saying that imbibing in a few drinks during the holidays will not necessarily result in anything negative with the nursing baby. It then went on to say that mothers should be conscious and aware of how much they are drinking, however, as getting drunk while breastfeeding is generally frowned upon for many reasons that have nothing to do with how much alcohol gets into the breast milk. As far as Mick Jagger having another baby… Well, that’s for another blog post, but my point here is that I’ve managed to pull away from the Sims long enough to get my brain working and creating ideas based on my experiences as they relate to what I’m reading. It is also immensely helpful to have the two friends I have staying with me. They provide socialization and while I have gone through more marijuana over the past month than I have in practically the past two years, it has been a pleasure to have them because I have started to find myself again. One friend, I’ve known for the past six years, since the end of high school but prior to the start of the military, pays attention to things far more than I’m used to people paying attention, particularly about personality traits and the like. He has helped me recognize, again, who I am. Who I have been. He’s helped me put some of the pieces together.

New Friends

My life has been marked by few friendships and many acquaintances, not all of them pleasant. Living with my mother for two years as a kid had a significant impact on my social life as I grew up and even as an adult. As an adult, I find that friends are harder to find only because I am not placed in a room with a group of people on a daily basis, as is the case as a child going through school. This will change soon enough as I go back on campus at Evergreen, but until then, every new friend I make is significant. I’ve made one, recently, and I have a new acquaintance who may well become a friend.

            I met Kita through my friend Kat and initially only found myself at Kita’s house when it had to do with Kat in one way or another. At last, though, I added Kita to Facebook and we started to hang out without Kat around. I even brought Persephone over to hang out with the kids, especially since there’s a little playground right in front of Kita’s back patio. The playground is great and I really enjoy taking Persephone over to play and hang out; it’s time that she can climb and have fun as well as socialize with some other children who are her age, older, and younger.

            Persephone’s new friends include 3-year-old Nessa, 6-year-old Aliy, and nearly-1-year-old Atalia. That doesn’t include the other children who go through the house; 6-year-old (I think) Caitlyn, a baby boy, and 2-year-old Mazaeah. It’s nice to get out sometimes and take her over to hang out, rather than keeping her in our apartment by herself and having her play with her toys forever.

            The first time I took Persephone to Kita’s house turned into an adventure. Kat was with us and I was uncomfortable letting Persephone outside to play with the other girls without supervision, so I went outside with her so she could play on the playground under my watch. Naturally, while I was out there, she thought it would be a good idea to take off around the side of the building, and I caught her and brought her back to the playground with ease. A little later, I thought Nessa, who speaks in clear, full sentences, could keep an eye on her and alert me if something happened. I was right in my thoughts, but I could not predict what would happen.

            “Her gone,” Nessa said in her sweet little voice. My immediate reaction was a less-than-graceful, “What?!” I had been sitting in the living room with my friends and Nessa stood in the doorway and repeated, “Her gone.”

            I ran back to the bedroom, threw my shoes on, and ran outside, immediately yelling for Persephone the moment I hit open air. Freaking out, I took off in the direction Percy had gone when she’d tried doing her own thing while I’d been watching; then I noticed that my friends were heading the other way around the building, under the direction of Nessa, who was quite the good little watcher and knew which way Persephone had gone. It was a good thing, too, because when I followed the herd and passed it, going around the building, I found Persephone trying to play with a boy who looked older than her, but was still a child. It was a relief to know that she hadn’t gone far; still, I immediately called for her with urgency and she came at last.

            We left shortly after that incident, but I didn’t think of it as an experience that should keep Persephone away; instead, I figured I would have to ensure she was monitored when necessary. With Persephone’s next visit, I asked Aliy and Caitlyn to watch her and it worked quite well. Our last visit saw all the children indoors the whole time, as it had been raining, and that worked well for me because I didn’t need to monitor Persephone’s actions while indoors. She really is a good child and she generally stuck around the other kids until it started to get late.

            I enjoy spending time with Kita because she’s nice, I like smoking with her, and her home is the kind of child-friendly that allows me to bring my own kid and let her play with the others in the house. We’re all moving in August and I’m moving pretty far away, but it’s nice to have someone to spend time with until the time comes to pack and move. I also think we’ll still spend time together even after we move.

Loneliness

All I want is a community. I don’t know why it’s so much to ask, but it seems that it’s actually asking for the whole world just to wish that I had a community of friends around me.

            Don’t get me wrong, I have friends. They’re just not nearby. They’re anywhere from a three-minute drive to a day’s plane ride, away. They’re introverts. They’re busy. They don’t have time to make for me in the way that I can make time for them. Things always come up…until they want a favor.

            There is a lot I would do for any one of my friends if they needed my help. I’m always there for my friends and I feel like they know it, but they don’t extend the same back towards me. At least, not the ones who are close enough to actually see me in person and spend time if they ever had it.

            If you need a ride to the airport, I’m there. If you need ginger ale to settle your stomach because you’re too sick to get it yourself, I’m there. If you need a ride to work, I’m there. If I can be there, I am, and I don’t ask for anything in return but the same courtesies in friendship.

            So, why is it so hard to find people who share my values?

            I want to build a community of houses—decently sized houses with yards, maybe some land—where I can live with those friends who do actively make time for me. If I could, I would move next to me all my friends who actually take the time to send me a message asking how my day went; I’d move in those friends who reply to me when I send a message and actually take the effort to keep a conversation going for any length of time; I’d move in those friends who do for me as I do for them and those who invite me out when something comes up, or come out with me when I invite them and they’re available.

            No, I don’t believe that friendship requires constant contact. But that doesn’t mean I want my friends to burrow into their introverted holes and never come out to play. My schedule is changing but I’m requesting friends to come out on a weekend night, which is typically when everyone has time off anyway.

            It doesn’t help that I have a child. The moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew I was going to lose at least a couple of friends. I get it. They’re child-free. They don’t like spawn and it’s nothing personal against me, it’s against all parents and their offspring. Knowing doesn’t change my feelings.

            Knowing that the child-free people avoid me based on principle and not on my own actions doesn’t prevent me from feeling shunned—maybe even more shunned than I’ve felt my entire life, and I’ve literally always felt shunned.

            Knowing that there are people I call friends who avoid me because of my child makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong in becoming a mother. It makes me feel like children are terrible and my child is the fucking devil just because she exists; because she’s the reason people don’t want to see me.

            How am I supposed to find joy in my child when she is the cause of so much misery in my life? I can’t take my daughter to karaoke. I can’t watch anime with my daughter, or hold philosophical conversations with her, or share a joint with her. These are all things that can happen when she’s older, but she’s a toddler. I need other toddlers for her to spend time with and I need other mothers to be my friend and take time for me the way I take time for my friends.

            Sure, I can take my child swimming. I can take her to the zoo, or the wildlife reserve, or the children’s museum, or the park. Those are all wonderful daytime activities, but now I’m going to be working nights.

            It seems my new shift will make me lonelier than ever unless my nights off correspond with my friend who also works nights. Let’s hope I get lucky again the way I got lucky to work so close to home. Otherwise, I’ll live a very lonely life.

Happy News

My mother gained custody of me when I was 7 years old, going on 8. I spent two years with her and moved back in with my grandparents; this is no secret. I lived with my grandparents from 4^th grade all the way through high school graduation, until I left for the military. I even lived with them again after separating from the Air Force and while my little family was homeless after our first apartment as civilians.

            Living with my mother was difficult for many reasons, but one of the biggest reasons was my lack of friends. At any given time, I had one good friend, maybe a second not-so-good friend. This carried over to 4^th grade, after I’d moved back in with my grandparents; I had two friends at Roy Elementary and one of them was a bitch. Their names were Rose and Kaydee, in order of importance.

            Rose was a phenomenal friend; I loved everything about her. She was kind, thoughtful, and friendly; we played with our Barbies together and talked about school and our bullies and crushes. My memory isn’t the best for specifics, but it’s as they say: People will forget what you said to them, but will never forget how you made them feel. Rose made me feel included. I will never in all my life forget that.

            After 6^th grade, Rose moved to Illinois. For a while, we wrote each other, back and forth. Then, one day, my letter came back with a “Return to Sender” stamp on it. I tried again and again, each time in vain, to get the letter to the address I had for her. Every time, it came back, until I finally gave up and assumed defeat. That is, until I made a Facebook account.

            It occurred to me that social media could be used to find Rose. I remembered that she’d liked being on the computer as much as I’d liked it, when we were kids. Neither of us were able to spend as much time as we wanted to on our respective household computers. I thought, If I have a Facebook account, maybe Rose does, too! And so, I searched for her.

            Nothing came up. I searched again. Still nothing.

            Over the years, I searched for her less often, but none of my search results resembled the friend I’d had.

            Until today.

            Today, I typed her full name into the search bar during my lunch break. I was on my phone and I don’t know why, but I suddenly figured, “I’m gonna look for Rose, again. See what happens.” And there she was! The first result in my search was her!

            It has been a long time since I’ve felt such elation. Immediately, I sent her a friend request and a message—a rather enthusiastic message—and told two of my friends what had just happened, since I was in conversation with them at the time. I sent another message shortly thereafter, upon realizing that perhaps the first one might have come across a little creepily.

            At this time, I await a response. I don’t know if or when she will get back to me, but at least now I know I can hope. Now I know that my friend is out there, still in Illinois, possibly working in a library, and I have done my part in finding her. My hopes are that we can reconnect; she was my best friend and we’d both agreed that our only other friend, whom we shared, wasn’t much of a friend at all.

            Now I can rest more easily and perhaps with a smile in my heart, knowing that she grew up and is still out there. If we reconnect and our friendship is still strong, I sincerely hope to visit her, perhaps in June when we go to Indiana.

            For this reason, as well as the fact that I received my paycheck and learned that I will be posted as close to home as is possible within my client’s properties, today was green! I haven’t had such a green day in so long, I’d forgotten what it was like to feel so good. First, I found Rose. Then, I learned that I’ll be posted close to home. Then, I received my paycheck. Then, I received a Labyrinth T-shirt and Horcrux socks from Loot Crate!

            I live in Federal Way, Washington. Nearby cities include Kent and Auburn, both of which have stations attached to the client to which I’m assigned through my employer. The area is called “King,” while the area the rest of my class is going to is called “Paul” and includes Seattle and some areas nearby. The fact that I was assigned to the King section is not only extremely lucky for me, it’s extremely rare!

            This information came from the man who first interviewed me for the company for which I now work. He entered the classroom, spoke with the instructor for a while, and then pulled me into an office to ask me about the breathing difficulty I’d had, the other day. I told him that I don’t think it will be a problem, that I think I’ll be able to wear the ballistics vest for 12 hours without incident and I don’t know why I’d been short of breath. He then told me, first, that he almost never assigns people to the King area; he then informed me that he’d placed me there! Happy news! I grinned from ear to ear, to be repeated upon my arrival home…

            Overall, today was the greenest day I’ve had in a long time. Finding my old friend, learning my posts-to-be, the arrival of my paycheck, the Loot Crate merchandise… I can sleep well tonight, I think, and it’s the weekend! I don’t even have to get up as early as usual!

A Bit of Rambling

Today marked the start of my second week of training. Those of us on the Sound Transit account received our batons and went through training for how to use them properly; those of us on the King County Metro account went to another room and sat through training from a book. I understand KCM’s day was much more boring than mine, as a Sound Transit security officer.

            I look forward to the completion of my training and the start of my day-to-day (or, perhaps, night-to-night) work routine. I look forward to becoming stable and secure in my position and moving my family forward in purchasing a second vehicle for myself, a new couch (sectional!), and, hopefully by August, a home. It’s a lot to look forward to in the four short months before our lease ends; not every goal may be attainable by that time, but I’ll find out as I go.

            My second official paycheck should appear in my checking account on Thursday, this week, assuming the company has my direct deposit information all squared away. If I don’t see my available balance increase, I’ll know to ask some questions, at least. I look forward to using that paycheck to re-enroll Persephone into KinderCare, if nothing else. The size of the check will be a good marker for what I can look forward to in the future, as my pay will increase from the training amount of $13.00/hour to the transit security officer pay of $15.95/hour. Some of you might think that’s quite a bit—and it’s certainly nothing to sniff at—but consider…

            I live in Washington State and the cost of living is pretty high, especially to the west of the mountains and the closer to Seattle/further north you look for housing. Houses in Thurston County are less expensive than King County but sometimes more expensive than houses in Pierce County, but the overall cost of living is relatively high compared to a state like Kentucky or Indiana. In fact, the low cost of living in other states is what has me considering moving us to another state when our lease ends, but we’ve moved so much over the past year and a half that I really just want to find a place and settle down. I also don’t want to transfer elsewhere within my company—since it is all over the USA—and have my pay cut, even if the cost of living is much lower.

            Randy had the brilliant idea to take us to Dairy Queen for dinner and then to the swimming pool! I was happy as could be to hear that he wanted us to go swimming; I’m a total wannabe fish and I love being in the water, although I don’t go to the pool nearly as often as I’d really like to, because I hate—and I mean, I hate—doing anything alone. That means that no matter how much I like to do something—i.e. swimming—I will avoid doing it if there’s no one to join me in my endeavor. Since our gym is typically empty and devoid of all souls, I tend to avoid going, not because I want an audience, but because I want company. Much as I may identify with introverts, I am an extrovert at heart; as I grow older, I realize that the introverted side of me exists solely because there was such a long period of time in my childhood when I had little to no friends.

            It’s my desire for companionship that has me determined to get back into martial arts classes. The problem is, the more I think about it, the less I think it’ll be feasible; I think my work schedule will not allow me to join a regular dojo and go the two or three times a week that are offered for my skill level and because of this, I wonder what I might do to get back into shape. I ask myself, Would it be enough for me to do my workouts alone and blog about them?

            The answer to that question is not a simple one. I require companionship and support, although I tend to be shy when I’m actually placed in a group. For example, I’ve managed to make a couple of acquaintances in my training class, but I’m not sure I’d call anyone my friend; I tend to avoid approaching people of my own volition out of fear of rejection, but the couple of times I have approached individuals in my class have turned out quite well. So, would it be enough for my fragile ego to blog about my exercise routine? Perhaps.

            After all, I did manage to get out and work out by myself when I was in Germany. The only reason I had to work out was to improve my PT score, but it was enough to get me out of my dorm room and to the gym—so what’s stopping me from putting on my running shoes and blogging about what I do for a workout each day? After all, I had no one cheering me on from the sidelines when I found my motivation in the Air Force, while I now know that at least one friend would openly support me should I make a point of publicizing my progress at this time.

            I’ve questioned myself as to why I’ve been unable to keep myself motivated since separating from the Air Force. I think the answer lies in the problem: My depression and, as my doctor believes is the case, my bipolar disorder—but mostly, my depression. My diagnosis came after my separation and shortly after I gave birth to Persephone, but the weight of the diagnosis didn’t sink in until more recently.

            People underestimate mental illness. They tell us to get over it. They tell us that it’s all in our heads. They tell us to get over it. They tell us to stop feeling sorry for ourselves. They don’t realize how debilitating the illness truly can be—and neither did I, at first. Before pushing my daughter into this world from my body, I hadn’t the slightest idea that depression could keep me sitting in a chair for days on end, accomplishing nothing. It never occurred to me that the very idea of motivation would be pushed away by the monster holding me down, the name of which had been dubbed “depression”. Now I know better. Now I can do better—but it’s hard.

            My new job makes it easier. My new medication will help. But the biggest trick in the book is to take life in chunks—one day at a time, one week at a time, and so on.

Some Thoughts Regarding Religion and Spirituality

Do this. Don’t do that. Feel this way about these issues, but feel that way about those issues. Contradictions. Paradoxes. Confusion.

            This is religion.

            I’ve done my research. I know, in this year’s political race, Hillary Clinton had the audacity to tell Bernie followers to “do their own research,” as if we haven’t already done our Google searches and unearthed her inconsistency and even flat-out lies. Thanks, Hillary, we did what you said and we still don’t like you, you vote-pandering bag of bones. I digress. In this case, I have done my research on religion.

            I don’t care if you’re Jewish, Catholic, Muslim, or part of one of the countless denominations of Christianity. Of these, all are the same at a fundamental level and none seem to recognize it of the others. All have a certain level of respectability and I believe it is that level of respectability that made each one as alluring as the next, throughout history.

            Judaism is the parent language. From it, Catholicism broke out and took over much of Europe, if not the whole. Islam was born from Judaism and came to being with the prophet Muhammad. From Catholicism came the Protestants, later to be known as Christians, and from Christianity came Evangelists, Latter-Day Saints, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Baptists, Southern Baptists, Jesus freaks, and more. Islam has the Qur’an; Mormons have the Book of Mormon.

The rest, as far as my still-limited knowledge goes, have the Holy Bible. The be-all and end-all of books; the most popular book in the world. The greatest work of historical fiction ever to hit the presses and people follow it like their lives depend on it because they believe they do.

I don’t care if your god exists. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t, but my argument here is not about the existence of some invisible deity in space. My argument is against the brainwashing, the indoctrination of children, the hypocritical self-deceit, and the very idea of sin. You can’t take a breath without sinning, according to the Bible.

Religion is different for many people. Perhaps it is true that the majority of Christians are loving people who would rather not shove their precious books down the throats of their atheist neighbors. Perhaps you follow your religion in such a way that you simply believe God exists to help you be happy and be your guide, but if that’s the case, why are you where you are now?

Maybe my friend would tell me that she’s in her place because she turned away from God and that has caused parts of her life to unravel and lead to her current situation. My thoughts run a different course.

Perhaps God gives her light in her life, but I don’t see it. I see an insecure woman who needs to feel validated for her feelings and that’s okay because it seems her family didn’t make her feel important enough as a child. I see someone who sees the good in her pastor and the good in the people at her church and thus infers goodness to the religion because she believes that God Himself is good.

Religion is not good. Religion divides. Religion has been a divisive tool used for conquest since the dawn of time, it seems. How can your religion bring you light and love if you truly follow the book that has been written and rewritten countless times with countless translations and two to four different versions?

My friends, if you believe that your religion gives you light and love, then I have news for you in the form of an opinion: You are, in fact, a spiritual being. We are all spiritual beings, but some embrace it better than others, while still others know of their spirituality in a way that keeps them from so much as naming a religion. The “majority” of people with religion who are instead loving and accepting are seen as people who “truly follow God.” I disagree.

Perhaps it is true that following God includes only love and acceptance and tolerance. If so, I believe God is misrepresented and thus misunderstood. However, it is the spirituality of people that I mean to discuss. You who follow God in the name of love, light, acceptance, and prosperity are spiritual, not religious. You name a religion and say that you follow it but it is a lie. You follow your heart and your soul and that makes you spiritual, not religious.

            Disagree all you like. That’s the beauty of opinions, my friends.

A Letter to A New Friend

I care about you deeply. You are important to me because you are a good person, underneath it all. Underneath the needless apologies and automatic defenses; behind the walls you’ve erected to protect yourself from the people around you, you have a heart of gold and all you really want to do is help people. I resonate with that.

            All I’ve ever wanted to do—short of being an artist—is help people. Part of the reason for me to get a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology is because I want to help people; what better degree to pursue for such an endeavor? Naturally, I want to help you. The thing is, I’m not even sure you realize you’re damaged; or, perhaps you do, but you don’t know how to accept constructive criticism from another person because all you’ve experienced have been negative people who have nothing nice to say.

            You’re not trying to be mean. I can accept that and appreciate it. What I think you don’t realize is how you sound to those around you even when you think you’re being “just fine”. Your voice is so sharp—as sharp as the nose on your face, as sharp as your very chin, so is your voice—and when something comes unbidden from your mouth in an environment you don’t prefer while you’re surrounded by generally undesirable people, your voice is sharp.

            Tone of voice means a lot in communication, my dear friend. The very sound of your voice when you say something—your inflections, as in, the way your voice rises and falls during speech—including the speed with which you talk and the words that come out of your mouth are all parts of the communication process. I don’t think very many people think of communication as a process; I think people think it consists only of what is said, rather than how.

            It is clear to me that you pay attention to what you say, friend. Many people do, when communicating. What I’m not sure you know is the meaning of your words. I’m not sure you know the true message you send with your body language, the words you actually say, and the tone of your voice.

            It’s different with me. When you’re with me, your tone is softer. But even when you’re with me, you’re so defensive of yourself, like you think your defenses must be up at all times and like you believe that the best defense is a good offense. God forbid you should ever offend anyone, though, so you preface many of the things you say—things that are hardly ever offensive by any nature—with “No offense.” None offense is taken and I feel like there is a larger underlying issue with you that perhaps you don’t recognize, where you feel the need to disclaim yourself before saying anything.

            Anything I say is met with, “No, I know, but—” something. Do you realize that you always say “No,” first? The first word out of your mouth when we are speaking is “No,” when I have something to say that isn’t a general nod, “mm-hmm,” or silence in listening. I might tell you that, while I understand your point of view, I think differently about the situation. The first word out of your mouth is, “No,” but I don’t think you even hear yourself say it. You hear yourself say the following “I know,” before you continue with your point and your endeavor to make me understand what you’re saying—which I do, dear friend. I do.

            I want to help you, friend. I want to help all of my friends, but I think the struggle for you is internal. Perhaps it is something only you can work on yourself and I am so glad that your goal for the year—if not beyond—is to help yourself. My hope for you, dear friend, is that you are also sincerely interested in personal growth. Perhaps there is something subconsciously that makes you speak the way you do or even act a certain way.

            I want you to remember that I love you. No matter how hard it gets for you, my love for you as a friend remains. Remember, too, that when everything is a joke, nothing is, and there is always truth in jest. I recognize your jokes as a method by which you wish to be understood and communicate your true thoughts to the outside world, but you’re so afraid of ridicule or backlash that it cannot be said in sincerity. Or, so you think.

            Where is your fear founded? What kind of terrible past have you endured to make you feel so insecure? Secure people speak sincerely and unapologetically, my friend, and you do not fit the bill except when you’re with me. Perhaps it is my sincerity that helps you to relax every so often and if that is the case, I want to move with it. I want to spend more time with you to help you feel sincerity and know it for yourself. I want to wrap you in security and make you realize that it’s okay to have your thoughts, your feelings, your opinions, and it’s okay to share them, but there is a time and a place for everything and there is always a good way to communicate a thought, even if there is no good way it can be received. Fear not, my friend, for I feel that most of what you could say would be received without judgment.

            I fear that your religion gets in the way. Perhaps it is what keeps you going and helps you see the light in life. Who am I to judge your feelings? Better that you tell them to me, in due time, as you will. Just remember, my friend: I love you.

An Unpolished Account from Kirkland to Hoquiam

In my life, I have decided to make a point of not talking badly about people behind their backs. It was driven home yesterday that not everyone shares such a desire to avoid gossip and bullshit. I learned yesterday that someone who used to be a “friend” is jealous of me and likes to talk shit about everyone around her.

            The conversation started innocently enough. Randy, my friend Kelly, her dog, my dog, Persephone, and I all met with another friend of mine in Kirkland, a place I’d never visited before. I was pleasantly impressed by what I saw of Kirkland, little as it was, and my friend, Kara, and I were sitting on the grass, she with her son and I with my dog, as Randy chased Persephone around the grass. I’m not sure why or how the conversation ended up on a Facebook group we’re in, but Kara mentioned the group, which I’ll call the Lounge, and asked me a question having to do with some other group members.

            “Some of the other ladies left the group,” she said. I hadn’t known anything about it, so I hmm’d and ha’d and nodded my head, furrowing my brow and mentioning my ignorance of the other, now former, group members’ activities. At the mention of other members of the group, though, I thought of someone who had been a mutual friend to Kara and me who goes by Nessa. Opportunity bloomed before my eyes for me to tell someone about how Nessa had suddenly, unexpectedly, and without a word to me, deleted me from her Facebook friends’ list. I didn’t feel that it was a great loss—Nessa had blatantly avoided my Halloween party last year, only to have the gall to invite me to her house when I’d expressed that no one was showing up to my party—but I hadn’t had anyone to tell about her having deleted me until just now, because I didn’t have anyone nearby who would have cared to hear about it in any capacity.

            “Nessa deleted me from Facebook,” I said, adding something before the sentence to segue into the topic. The reaction from Kara wasn’t quite what I’d expected, as she said: “She’s jealous of you.” Did I say that wasn’t quite what I’d expected? Let me correct that: It came as a complete surprise. My eyes widened and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

            Well, it was then that I learned that Nessa had been talking badly about me to Kara, who did nothing to add to it and simply tried to diffuse the situation when it came up (after all, she and I are friends and I’ve done nothing to incur either woman’s wrath), but of course I was filled with a burning curiosity to know what was said about me, behind my back, without my knowledge. Happily for me, Kara was happy enough to oblige and humor my curiosity.

            What I learned wasn’t necessarily very specific, but it was quite revealing. Before delving into the things Nessa had said about me—which were quite unimportant but satisfied my curiosity nonetheless—Kara mentioned that Nessa had betrayed her, and not slightly.

            The story is not mine to tell, but suffice to say that what Nessa did was a complete betrayal of trust with Kara and, as far as I’m concerned, was unforgivable. Kara is a more forgiving woman than I, however, and she did forgive Nessa for it—though she admitted to me that she shouldn’t have, based on the caliber of person Nessa has proven to be. Long story short, the betrayal had to do with an actual legal case that was going on and Nessa gave out information that she had specifically been forewarned not to give out. Her excuse when she apologized profusely was as follows: “I didn’t mean to.”

            She didn’t mean to? I don’t think so. Let’s spell out a scenario of similarity in order to shed some light onto my incredulity. Let’s say that Susie is my partner’s ex and she’s trying to keep half of my partner’s belongings because they used to be together, but my partner wants his belongings back, so he’s fighting for them using the legal system. I don’t want Susie to know anything about me because it could somehow jeopardize my partner getting his things back, so I tell my friend, who has become friends with Susie, that I don’t want Susie to know about me. I specifically tell my friend, Nessa (let’s at least keep that part consistent), “Please don’t tell Susie anything about me. I don’t want her to know my name, where I live, what I do for a living, or anything. Nothing. Please.” Nessa agrees, but the next thing I know, Nessa has told Susie every last thing she knows about me!

            I would never have forgiven Nessa.

            Hearing Kara’s story was infuriating. I was filled with a kind of righteous rage, that which drives me to exact vengeance on those who have wronged me or those close to me. I put it aside, however, as it’s not my battle and my friend had already forgiven her for the betrayal, whether it deserved forgiving or not. So, rather than getting into a rage and ranting about the injustice of it all, I mentioned my Halloween party—which led to my learning that Kara had planned to attend, with Nessa! Another surprise!

            This was when I learned that Nessa enjoys making plans with Kara and being the person who coordinates it all, with or without Kara’s knowledge but often with her involvement, only to then decide to cancel and leave the cancelling up to Kara, who beforehand hadn’t even known she’d be involved. It’s a shitty thing to do. Imagine if you and I were friends and I made plans that involved you, but didn’t tell you about them. You get a call from the person with whom I’ve made the plans: “Hey, are you still coming to my picnic?” You’re surprised: “What picnic? Was I going to something? What’s this about?” Suddenly, you become aware that I’ve signed you up for an event without your consent or knowledge. Then, on the day of the event, I say, “You know, I just want to stay home. Can you cancel? Also, can you find a bus back to your house since you don’t have a car and I don’t feel like driving even though I don’t have an issue with gas money because you’d help me with it if I would just give you a ride?” Essentially, that is what Nessa does to Kara.

            When Kara said she’d planned on coming to my party with Nessa, I was angry with the latter woman all over again. How dare she ignore my party completely, make plans with someone to actually attend, then cancel and follow up with the gall to invite me to her disgustingly filthy household to do what I could only assume would amount to sitting outside and smoking weed, because the interior of the house is revolting and also a health hazard…which brings me to my next point.

            Nessa was offended when I looked out for the health and well-being of a child at her home.

            Nessa is not a mother. She cannot understand motherly instinct and she clearly doesn’t respect one mother’s concern over another mother’s child. Nessa had requested help in cleaning her disgustingly filthy home, and I had volunteered because it had been my idea that she should conduct a cleaning party and get as much support as she could, so as to get it done and maybe make it fun. Another friend of mine helped, admittedly more than I did, but on the first day, I was there. So was another woman Nessa had invited.

            The other woman had a small child, perhaps 4 or 5 years old, if memory serves. The house was full of fumes from unchanged kitty litter and stagnant chicken shit in the floors. Unhealthy, respiratory-problem-causing fumes. So, looking out for the child, I suggested keeping her outside so as to prevent her getting sick. Kara told me that her son gets sick every time she takes him with her to visit Nessa’s home. Yet, Nessa took great offense to my concern, choosing to take it as some kind of slight against her. Ridiculous.

            It turns out, from the enlightenment I received from Kara, that Nessa seemed to decide she no longer liked me after I suggested keeping the child outside for health and safety reasons. I had no idea. Nessa never said how she felt while I was at her home, cleaning without safety equipment, nor did she send me a message over Facebook or a text message via phone to express her feelings over the matter. She did, however, feel comfortable with venting all about it to Kara, which turned out well for me because I get a much better idea of her character in addition to getting closure over the issue.

            I will have it known that I did not consider the loss of Nessa’s Facebook friendship to be a big loss. I looked at the “add friend” button on Nessa’s page and thought, “Well, that was unexpected.” That was about the end of it for me, until my good friend, Kara, enlightened me further.

            If anything, my conversation with Kara about Nessa made me feel better about myself and gave me closure to an issue that had vaguely confused me. Someone is jealous of me. What an ego boost! The only other person who has admitted to being jealous of me has done so to my face and it was my older brother, who has proven himself to be a real nigga capable of real talk, whereas this bitch can’t even tell me to my face how she feels. My older brother thinks I’m better than him—it’s not true, but it’s what he told me he thinks, to my face, because he has balls—while this bitch complains about me behind my back and talks about how “negative” I am when I post a meme.

            I compare Nessa to my older brother only because they’re both jealous of me. That is the only connection and the only reason I think about it is because, for the longest time, I thought my brother was a bitch-ass nigga. Ebonics may not be my first language, but I’ve become familiar with it and it is the most appropriate way to describe some things. This is one of those things. Hearing about Nessa made me realize that my brother isn’t nearly as lame as I thought he was and he does, in fact, have the intestinal fortitude to be a good man. I have so much more respect for him now than I did before the revelations of Kara.

            So, for my brother, Cristopher: If you’re reading this, I love you and you are important to me. I want to help you in any way I can to make your dreams come true.

A Letter to An Old Friend

Let me start with your husband. The man is a piece of white trash. I see the photos you post of him. I see him on his ass, his fat gut protruding from his unattractive body, his unattractive face stuck in some perpetual expression of apathetic lethargy. Sometimes, he contorts his hand for the camera; he’s showing off what I can only assume is some kind of gang sign. This, coming from a fat white guy, reminds me solely of my older brother, who once ran with a gang and continues to occasionally speak like he’s still part of that lifestyle. Not that I actually think he ever was. I’ve always thought he was all talk and no walk. But that’s another story.

            I loved you. I love you, still, in my memories. Do I love you now? I’m not sure anymore, if I’m completely honest, but honey, you will always have a special place in my heart and I will continue to look on your status updates with a fond eye, even if what I’m seeing is visually offensive in some way (see above about hand signs). I do not love what your body looks like, now. I do not love your double chin or your sagging breasts or the gut they barely cover. I do not love your poor spelling or poor grammar, nor do I love your choices in life. By the time this letter is finished, perhaps you will have concluded that I do not love you. For all I know, while I write this, I may convince myself of the same. All that remains for me now is to write it, and see.

            I admire your fortitude. I admire your dream job and I want to help you reach your dreams, but the life you want is now the life you have and I know I will never bring you away from it, no matter how much I so desire. You wanted marriage and kids and now you have a husband and a baby. Your primary hobby is also your dream job. It looks a lot to me like your life is moving in precisely the direction you always wanted. I’m glad things are going your way, sweetheart, I really am. Yet, I feel certain sadness when I look upon it; I recognize that now as disappointment in the fact that you are not living your life to a standard I have somehow set in my own mind. That isn’t fair to you, honey, and for that, I am sorry. Perhaps there is an imaginary scenario in my mind that I have clung to for far too long; now is the time to let it go and look on your life as your own, rather than some extension of mine.

            I want to see you get healthy. I want to see you be happy—truly, toothy-grin happy. I’ve never seen you upload a photo in which your teeth show when you smile. All of your smiles are close-lipped, barred, like there’s a wall within you that prevents you from letting go and letting the world see the light I know burns within you. I think that a large part of the sadness I feel for you is sadness in the knowledge that you have never had an orgasm. While you have not lived your life in any way like I thought you might, or like I’ve imagined perhaps that you should, you have not experienced the one thing that can bring a significant measure of peace and serenity to your life. For that, I pity you. I pity you greatly, because I experience an orgasm somewhat regularly and I believe every man and woman should. I want your life to be a fairy tale and I know it never will be because your husband looks like disappointment personified and your child has the pointed chin of Rumplestiltskin or Peter Pan.

            It should not have disappointed me when you asked about the crowd we used to mutually know, before you left. I should have felt happiness at the fact that you wanted to pick up right where we left off, as if all the years between had never even happened. That’s what good friends do, isn’t it? Best friends? We’re best friends, aren’t we? Yet, I felt disappointment because so many years had passed. I wanted to see a woman who had grown and learned, maybe even been educated, but ultimately who spoke like an adult. What I felt I was met with was a bloated teenager and that’s not fair to you because you are so much more than that. Maybe that’s the kind of thinking that leads to disappointment. So be it. So be it that I believe you are a woman who could do so much more than that to which you limit yourself.

            May you see this, my love, and know it is for you and you alone. May you know that I still love you, the way you were and even the way you are now. You are a woman who has achieved her dreams and continues to pursue them because some are still out there, waiting to be taken by the horns and forced into your repertoire of success, while I am a woman bereft of dreams because one of my greatest fears was realized instead of a greater desire and I suffer greatly from a depression that keeps me thinking, believing, even, that my dreams will do nothing but fail. You are a woman who lives a simpler life than I do and for that, perhaps I envy you.