Tuesday, November 23, 2010


I've mentioned elsewhere in this blog that S is self employed.  She is a trigger point practitioner and has her own clinic.  I just want to write a little about what it's like to be with someone that is so intuitive with my body and my emotional state.

I can't explain it.


How's that for a blog?  Nice.

I'll try.

Often times when I am on her massage table, face down, and she is working on my neck or my shoulders I feel myself start to cry... like a small sob choke itself out.  She says the right thing.  The "right thing" is the thing that lets the rest of the tears free. 

I don't know where the tears come from.  I'm not in pain (well... not TEAR inducing pain).  I'm not feeling sad.  The source doesn't appear to be from any of the usual "tear sources" that I am used to.  Quite honestly, I am just relieved that she has never stopped and asked me, "What's wrong?"  She just keeps going like she knows exactly why I am crying, even if I don't know why I am crying.  I am given permission.

I lie there on her table, face down, naked and vulnerable, and she presses and squeezes the tears out of me.  I usually imagine a bucket on the floor beneath me catching my tears.  Not one drop of salty tear being missed.  She just keeps pressing and squeezing and smoothing her strong hands over my tight muscles until I can feel them begin to release beneath her grasp.

The tears come in streams, dripping from the tip of my nose, into the imaginary bucket.  I imagine the bucket full - and sometimes... I imagine myself picking that bucket up, and I drink from it.  I drink my own salty tears in an attempt to quench a thirst I never knew I had.  I feel the warmth of my own tears filling my belly and my soul, and I am able to calm myself.

Sometimes I sit down on the floor next to my bucket of tears, and I use a little tiny pink wash cloth to clean myself.  Only it's me as a little girl again.

I've been given permission.

Monday, November 22, 2010


The Baby turned 3 earlier this month.  I guess I should call her something else in this blog... but trust me... she really is The Baby in our family.  This weekend S was looking at a scrapbook I made when I was pregnant with her.  The final pages of the book are photos of my home birth and then the transfer to the hospital.  Also included are some of the actual items from that day. 

When she closed the book, she looked up at me with tears streaming down her face and said, "You went through so much so that I could have kids."

That was more gratitude... more recognition... in one sentence... than I had ever gotten from my husband in 12 years of marriage. 

The Baby had a viral infection on Friday that caused her to have tremendous amounts of diarrhea.  I called S on her phone when she was on her way home from the office, she brought home diapers, popsicles, vitamin water...

When The Baby needed to be held that night because she was sick and I had to finish an assignment, S put her in a Mei Tai and attempted to make tacos.

When The Baby needed to sleep with us, S made room.

When The Baby started to puke at 3 am, S got a towel.

The next morning my Karate Kid had a tournament she absolutely could not miss.  In Karate Kid's opinion she cannot miss any tournament.  S took her so I could stay home with the Lysol.

Karate Kid has been working very hard for months on her Kata, attempting to be promoted to blue belt.  I missed it!  The promotion of the year!  But S was there.  I guess my Kid told S that she felt sorry for another boy because neither of his parents ever show up, but she was really happy that S was there.  I asked S if she felt like a parent yet.

She said, "Yes.  I'm exhausted."

And that was only Saturday afternoon . . .

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

My Dirty Little Secret

I have a mental illness.  If I don't take medication, it's debilitating; however, because I take my pills, like a good girl, I get to be a part of society ... and trust me... when I am medicated you can't tell that I have a mental illness.  A mental illness that I would do almost anything  NOT TO HAVE.

  • I seem pretty put together.  I'm a fucking wreck.  The other day I couldn't be left alone because I was afraid of what I wanted to do to myself.  I took S into the bathroom and I told her, "I can't be around people right now, but I don't want to be left alone."  We had two hours left with the kids and she knew just what to do.

  • I appear self confident.  I think others are talking about me sometimes... when clearly, they aren't.  I'm paranoid.  It's part of it.  I apologize too much.  Sometimes this means I don't talk at parties or social events, even if I *am* properly taking my little pills... and sometimes this means that others can perceive me as snobbish or rude or bitchy.  I am just not so self confident.

  • I starve myself so that I cannot feel anything.  Somehow I forget to eat.  Somehow I know I'm supposed to eat, like, "Hey Elle do you want to have breakfast now?" I say, "Sure..." then I get going in a million other directions at the same time.  I starve myself because I don't think I deserve to eat.  

  • And let's talk about deserving... I don't deserve my pills, so I don't buy them.  Which is why I'm in the spot I'm in right now.  Nearly immobilized with panic, on the crash pad couch, tears streaming down my face... waiting for S to return so I can feel safe again.  I feel so fucking stupid.  I know better.  I fucking KNOW better.

  • I worry about when S will realize that I am not good enough for her.  Good enough.  Good enough.  Good enough.   I have a good enough syndrome.  And it's getting fucking old.  I'm sick of it.  What if S gets sick of it?  What if she can't handle me?  What if she can't handle this shit?  It's not easy having a girlfriend wife who cannot even drive herself to the goddamn shrink's office.  It's not easy loving someone who crumbles to tears because she cannot figure out the new prescription benefits on the new insurance plan.

  • I have cut myself to make myself feel something.  I have a hard time seeing that in writing.  But there it is.  I write it because I know some woman might be reading this, and she may cut herself too, in order to "feel"... and well... I don't want her to feel alone.  I think it's the same reason why sometimes I HAVE to HAVE "fuckmetakemeharderlikethatfuckmelikeyoumeanit" sex.  Because I need to feel.  I need to feel human.  I need to feel inside my body.  When I have sex like that, though, I can feel another person close to me... at least...

To my friends who are reading this... if I have friends who are reading this... I am safe tonight.  S knows how I'm feeling.  We are communicating, always, openly, lovingly, and honestly.

I just need people to know.  I have a Dirty Little Secret.  Mental illness should not be a dirty secret.  I take medication.  When I don't, I get sick.  I'm sick.  Right now, I feel pretty sick actually.  I am embarrassed that S is seeing me this "sick."

We got married again tonight.  We "marry" each other every time we have a talk about our love, our plans for the future, and our promises for commitment.  Tonight, I reminded her that we are both in this for the long haul.  Not just for the happy, feel good times.  But for the "in sickness" times too.  All I really ask of her... all I really want... is to be able to count on her.  I want to be safe.

Friday, November 12, 2010

I Survived. But When Will it be Over?

My sister reads this blog and I am going to warn her that she may just want to skip this one.  Please.

If my mother reads my blog, I do not know about it.  I'm not sure if she wants to read this one either.

I can't let that stop me.  I have to write this as if no one were reading...

I remember the day that my Elementary School Principal came to the classroom door and then my teacher told me to come to her desk.  My parents were in the office.  Both of them.  I remember the long walk down the short hallway to his office.
Why is dad not at work?  I'm gonna get in trouble.

I remember not wanting to remember their faces.

I remember how the smell of the cement plant filled up the Principal's office.  My dad hadn't changed his clothes from work.  

I'm gonna get in trouble.

I remember not looking at their faces.

I don't remember words spoken.  I remember going to to the girl's bathroom and getting sick ... vomiting ... and I remember a teacher finding me and asking if I was okay.  I remember wondering why mother didn't look for me.  

Was I in trouble?

They took me home.

I had just "accused" my step-brother of molesting me.  Incest.

When I got home I went to my room and at some point *his* mother came over with *his* sister.  They sat at my kitchen table, where I ate my family dinners, where I did my homework, where I played board games... and asked me why would I lie about such accusations.  My parents sat with them and said nothing.  They sat at my kitchen table and even called me names.  I was called a slut in front of my parents, in my kitchen, by my abuser's mother and sister.

I just stood there and took it.  Because that is what I knew how to do.  

"Didn't you say no?"  When did that mean I said yes?  I'm sorry... I didn't know I needed to consent to sex at age 9.

"You always were looking for attention." Oh... so by that logic it only makes sense that I did deserve what I got.  I did ask for it.  I asked for it and trust me... I learned how to take it and not complain so that I wouldn't bother anyone.

There were two of them, my step-brothers, and they took turns. I can't and I won't go into specific details... but after that day in the office... after that day at my kitchen table.... things changed.  It was the birth of some thing very ugly and ... well... I'd like to say the death of something very much uglier, but... it wasn't.

Let me explain.

So after the "accusations" were made and the reports were filed there was a bit of time when the "boys" were not allowed back into my home.  But I never really felt like I wasn't being violated, because even though I wasn't being touched... or watched... or... **sigh** I was literally being FORCED to talk about it with either the authorities, my parents, or a counselor.  This was supposed to be good for me.

Then, back at the kitchen table... remember the sacred place where I was called those nice things and just took it?  Well... I was told to set the table one Sunday afternoon, and I was told the "boys" would be there too.  I was told that I needed to get over it.  I was told that we needed to start acting like a family again. 

(Or something like that.  I'm sure my mother or sister both have their own memories, respectfully... these are mine.)

Again.  The kitchen table.

And so it was born.

I have thought really long and hard about this fucking eating disorder I struggle with ... and everything I have inside of me... every cell and every fiber I have.... well... it all shoves me back to the fifth grade and that goddamn kitchen table.

I would have done anything to never have to go back to the table ever again.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Holy Grail of Homophobes

My ex husband would rather have one of the Other Mothers that lives down the street from him (who runs a home daycare business) have our daughter 3 times a week rather than "let" me have her.  This particular Other Mother is like the holy grail of homophobes (yes we have some history).

I'm having a super night.  Rad.  Awesome.

On an upper note... I'm still maintaining a few pretty good friendship with some of the Other Mothers and while I am starting to admit to myself that I have trust issues... it does feel good to know that I do still have friends.

I decided to write the daycare lady (the aforementioned homophobe) a letter after I learned that she was "judging" me for not having my youngest daughter during the weekdays while her older siblings are all in school.

November 10, 2010

Dear Mrs. "Smith",

I am writing you because I know you are pouring her juice.  I know you are putting her on the potty.  I know you are sitting with her at lunch time and listening to her adorable little jabber.  I am writing you because I know you are the one reading to her until her eyelids get too heavy for her to hold open any longer.

It is you and not me that gets to spend the weekdays with her.

At the end of the week, her father writes you a check.  Even though I have asked, I have offered, and I have even begged him to “let” me have my own daughter on the days he has to work.  He still wants to pay you to do what a mother does, quite naturally, for free.

I am writing you so that you know, so that you are CLEAR about this, Mrs. "Smith".  I do not want her in your care.  He does.  I want to have her.



Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Playing House (a femme's view on a butch's cock)

She said to me, "I can't wait for my business to get going so you don't have to worry about working anymore..."

(...or something like that.)

But I like working.  

"Just while you are in school... you know full time... so you can focus on your school."

(It was along those lines.)

But I like working.

I like meeting new people who are becoming new parents.  I like talking with women who have never had a nurse explain to them the why or the how of what is happening to their bodies in labor... and delivery.  I like looking at a scared father, mother, grandmother, partner, girlfriend, boyfriend, daughter, sister, friend in the face and saying, "Do you have any questions... at all...?"  I like seeing their eyes scan the room, and look back at me almost in disbelief that I am asking them if they have any questions.  I like waiting... for as long as it takes... for them to reply.  

She said to me, "I want to be able to take care of you... and the kids."

(She's the perfect butch to my femme...)

But I like working.

It doesn't even feel like work some days.  The nights when I am so busy I don't have time to pee... but I make time to swallow lukewarm coffee by the pints... those are the nights it feels even less like work.  Because I know I am busy helping them, the women.  I like showing her husband or mother or sister or partner or whoeverthefuck is supporting her... how to help her, so that they can become a part of this process and not "just" an observer.  I like the thrill and delight that I see on her partner's face when he or she sees that new life slip out, finally free from confinement... then the look on her partner's face when he or she realizes just exactly how amazingly strong this woman, this MOTHER, really is.

She said to me, "That is... if you want me to take care of you... because I know you don't need me to."

(She knows.)

We take care of each other in too many ways for me to list here.  But lately... I've been very interested in our "playing house."  I've been studying S and wanting to find ways to put into words what it is about her that makes her butch.  At first glance, I think it might appear that it's simply so because she is with me, who is so clearly femme.  But... that is not accurate at all, she is not just butch against my femme...

In our playing house I often think about the traditional heterosexual roles in marriage and how I am often viewed as playing the part of the "good wife."  Cleaning, making lunch, and always making sure I have a compliment for my husband.  It makes me giggle.  I was really a shitty wife when I was married to a real life husband, but now I feel like June Cleaver at times.  Yes!  June Cleaver with an immaculate kitchen and a mouth watering roast in the oven.

And S, is my Ward Cleaver.... wanting to take care of hir lady.

But unlike the Cleavers, we do not sleep in separate twin beds.  And unlike June Cleaver, sometimes I wear  the dick.

And bingo!  There it is.  Sometimes I wear the dick.  Sometimes this femme straps on a dildo and fucks her butch.  How very peculiar.  And finally we are not playing house anymore.  Finally we are not merely pretending to be heterosexuals.  Finally we are free to be.

That's the thing... that's what make me her femme... I have to put my dick on.  S doesn't.  She has a cock that is more real that that dildo we "play with" on occasion.  It gets big and hard everytime we fuck.  Some may think or even say that this cock is all in our heads, but it's not, it's very very real and not just in S's head but actually between her thighs and sometimes, if I am lucky she even puts it between mine.

But that's another blog... for another time... perhaps...

Monday, November 1, 2010

Let Me Spread These Wings...

and learn to fly...

It's coming upon a year.  It was last October when I told my (then) husband that I wanted a divorce.  It was heartbreaking for both of us.  Even though in the past year so much had been done (and provoked)... I thought the conversation would occur much easier.  But, it wasn't easy.  We had built a life together.  And however dysfunctional that life had been for the most part, it was still the only life I had known.

The only life our children had known.

I married him only a few months after my 18th birthday and our baby girl was barely 8 months old.  We had a traditional Catholic wedding ceremony.  It was what he wanted.  It was how he was raised.  I remember not wanting to make a big "fuss" out of things.  It was NOT a huge wedding and I think the entire thing cost less than $5,000.  I think the bar tab at the reception was the most pricey part of our budget. 

We did not have a honeymoon.

He fell asleep before I was finished undressing and brushing my teeth.

After twelve years, five kids, a dozen affairs (some his-some mine), and a year in therapy I finally was able to say "this just isn't healthy for anyone."

For months after our divorce he would go through periods of extreme hostility towards me... then... swing almost without warning to this other person who would profess his undying love for me.  His mother died.  We cried together.  Then he started to pull away.  I felt it.  I felt a distance start to grow between us.  The 2 hour long texting sessions stopped.  He stopped asking if I wanted to stay for dinner when I picked up the kidlets.  He stopped bringing me "extra" of whatever he had.

And I let him.  I let him find his wings.  I heard he was dating.  I was too.

When I first met Ky, or rather... saw her - he never really introduced me to her - I texted him and told him congratulations, and that I was happy for him.  Because... I was.  Happy for him. 

Learning to fly.

Without me.

It's been a year now... and I can watch King of Queens without crying.  Even though at times he was an emotionally abusive mind-fuck... I couldn't watch "our show" for a year.  But, Kevin James is not dead to me.  He lives on.

This past weekend was rough.  My first Halloween as their single mom and S as their pseudo-I-hope-to-be-step-mom.  Last year, he took them trick or treating while I stayed home.  We were not yet officially divorced, and I had not yet moved out.  This weekend has been so hard for me.  Maybe for them too.  Maybe for him.

But we're flying... and with that scariness is also excitement. 

I've never felt like this.  I've never known I had these wings...