My Favorite Tree

Oh God you guys.  I’ve got it bad.  I mean, baaaaaaadddddd, for this man.  This sexy, funny, sweet, thoughtful, brilliant man.  I’m old enough to know that no one is perfect.  But, Lord, he’s pretty damn close.

We had the best first date ever.  He picked me up at my house.  I hadn’t been picked up at my house for a date since I was 19.  We went to the movies and when I tried to pay my own way, he just looked at me like I was crazy.  He put his arm around me in the theater and let me rest my head on his chest.  When I needed to sit up for a minute, he put his hand on me knee.  And he didn’t pull any of that inching it up higher on my thigh crap, either, even though I was wearing a dress.  Just a perfect gentleman.

We went out to eat after the movie.  I’d actually known this guy for quite a while, but really didn’t expect to be so comfortable talking to him.  We laughed so much.  When the check came, I offered to pay, and he looked at me like I was nuts again.  But he said he’d play me for it, and proceeded to beat me at paper, rock, scissors and buy my dinner, too.

We decided to go back to my house and hang out.  I put Pandora on the TV and we sat snuggled up on the couch, listening to 90s music, talking and laughing.  As the evening began to wear on, we’d lapse into silence.  He laid the recliner back, and I snuggled up to him, his arm around me, my head on his chest, and played with his beard.  My mind, which is usually running a mile a minute, was at peace.  I was at peace.  I wasn’t nervous, I didn’t feel awkward, I wasn’t worrying about anything, I wasn’t overthinking.  I was content living in that moment.  Eventually, he had to leave.  I walked him to the door and got the most wonderful good night kiss of my life.  I’d told him before we went out that I don’t put out on the first date.  And he was a gentleman about it.  Because I’m here to tell you, after that kiss, he could have totally had his way with me, and he knew it, too.   I remember every single perfect moment of that night.  We spent 12 hours together, from the time he picked me up until he finally left for home.  It was the best night of my life, romantically speaking.  (I mean, my daughter was born at night; nothing is going to top that night.)

That was in February.  We talked a lot after that.  He wasn’t really looking to jump anything too quickly.  I told him that that was fine, I hated dating, and he was so awesome I’d be content chilling.  I mean, I’m a serial monogamist.  I don’t do well just dating around and all this bullshit.  I like focusing on one guy.  Plus, I can only give so much time to a guy, anyways.  With Sarah being so young, I only have every other week for dates.  I’ll be damned if I’m gonna stick her with a sitter to spend time with some dude.  Perhaps if she were a teenager, it’d be a little different.  And he was also divorced with his own kids, so he understood that.  I knew our time together would be limited.  I knew it would mostly be texting and just trying to find time when we could.  And that was fine.  That was actually exactly what I wanted anyways.

He told me he’d been with some seriously crappy chicks.  His choices had been as bad as mine. He’d been hurt and cheated on and fucked with in all the worst possible ways.  I know how that goes, how hard it is to trust after that.  Not just the other person, but yourself, that you actually chose someone worthy for once.  I really thought if I showed him that I’m not crazy (well, not in a murder you in your sleep or cause a scene in public or just totally lose my shit kind of way), that he could trust me, that I was a good person, eventually he’d see it, too.  I already knew he was. 

So we texted.  A lot.  Talked on the phone some.  We only saw each other a couple more times. I tried to make plans when I could, but it never seemed to work out.  He was so busy on the weekends that he’d rarely reply to my messages.  But I never gave up on him; I thought, after all he’d been through, that’s what he needed:  to know I wasn’t going to disappear.  I’d get frustrated sometimes, say something about it to him.  We’d talk a little, and I’d end up feeling better. 

Early last week, I invited him out with me.  He never agreed to it; never said no, either.  I told him when I expected him to pick me up Saturday night.  I still smile typing that; he knows me and knows how I am.  I really thought he’d be there.  I waited 30 minutes after I asked him to be there before I left and went out on my own.  And because I make terrible life decisions when I’m sad, later that night I sent him a huge text and told him everything.  That I was crazy in love with him and that I’d tried so hard to be what I thought he needed and that it fucking killed me that he couldn’t even send a text saying, “I can’t go tonight”, and that he knew exactly how I felt even if I’d never told him before, but he’d never told me to back off or stop or anything.  He had mentioned before that he was scared of hurting me, and maybe he thought just not saying anything would save me some pain.  I don’t work that way, though.  I don’t take hints, I don’t play games, I need things said to me, plainly.  I am bluntly honest to a fucking fault and expect the same from others.   Maybe that was my first mistake.

Because here’s the thing:  I don’t even blame him.  I mean, a little.  But most of this is on me.  It’s a mistake I’ve made before.  I let my imagination run away with me.  I talked myself into believing that he felt more for me than he probably actually did.  I talked myself into believing if I just gave him time, he’d come around.  I believed that he loved me too, and was just scared of what that meant.  Even now, I don’t want anyone to think badly of him.  I’m not saying he handled the situation well, but I can own my part of it.  I’m not a bad person for this, and neither is he.  He’s still a sweetheart and he deserves happiness, same as me.

But right now, I’m sad.  And, goddamnit, I get to be.  I’ve talked to my sister and my best friend and everything they’ve told me is true and they’ve tried to help, and they have, a little.  But I get to be sad.  I want to feel this.  I want to own this pain, just like I own the strength that will eventually get me over it.  I don’t need to hear how I deserve better right now.  I know what I deserve, but I wanted him, and hearing what I deserve doesn’t stop me from feeling that.  I don’t want to hear how he fucked up, or how I fucked up, or how fucked up the whole thing has been.  I want to hurt right now.  I deserve that.  Feeling that is the only way I’ll ever get over it.  But I can’t be on Facebook.  There is such a thing as too much pain.  And every time I see his face, it kills me.  I don’t want to delete him; we’d been friends for a while, and I’m sure we always will be, in some way.  But I just can’t.  His sweet, beautiful face hurts my heart.  His funny posts make me cry.  Seeing my messages sitting on “Read” just makes me feel like a teenage girl, just waiting on the phone to ring.  After I got divorced, I never really expected to love someone so hard again.  And I certainly didn’t expect anything to hurt worse than that.  But this does.  So I’m going to take some time, boys and girls.  I don’t know how long.  Know that I love you all.  And I’ll be ok.  I’ve made it through heartbreak before, and always come out stronger.  I will this time, too.

No Boys Allowed

Great things are happening in the lives of some of the most special women I know.  Today, my daughter graduated Pre-K.  I didn’t know it was possible to be this proud of such a small lady.  And, my BFF Pamala passed her counseling certification test.  She has worked so hard for so long for this.  She is seriously one of the best people I know, and psychology and therapy are her passions. 

On top of that, I have recently become a member of a super-secret Facebook group full of supportive, intelligent, passionate, hysterical women.  I can’t tell you their names, or even the name of the group.  We’re like undercover bitch sisters.  I honestly can’t overstate how much these women have helped me in the last few weeks, given the ridiculous shit that sometimes comes about in my life. 

I’m so incredibly lucky to be surrounded by strong, smart, sassy, supportive women.  I wish I had been that fortunate in my youth.  Being a girl, growing into a woman, is so much more difficult without that kind of guidance and support.  Luckily, my baby girl has multiple women to help guide her through the process of becoming a fierce, independent, take-no-shit woman.  Which is why I’m setting up a photo shoot including all these women who have been, and hopefully will continue to be, influential in her life.  It will include, obviously she & I, but also my sister Becca, Pamala, my mother and her paternal grandmother, my sister in law, and – believe it or not – the ex-husband’s girlfriend. 

At first glance, none of us have anything in common.  Our ages range from 20-68.  Our educations include everything from high school to Master’s level.  We are single, divorced, married.  Some of us are mothers, or grandmothers, or have no children.  We have jobs, we are homemakers, we are retired.  But we are all women.  We all know, and intimately understand, the challenges, struggles, ridiculousness, and triumphs of being a woman.  And we all love Sarah.

It is incredibly important to me as a woman and mother to a girl, that I do everything possible to empower my daughter.  That includes letting her know that she is surrounded by women who love her, who will guide her, who will help her, in any way possible as she navigates her life.  A group of women, brought together by love and the bonds of sisterhood.  As lucky as Sarah is to have so many people who love her in her life, I’m even luckier:  I’m her mother. 

Baby Steps

Many moons ago, this blog started out as something totally different.  I figured I’d come here and spout out rants and tirades about the social idiocy that surrounded me.  I may still do that from time to time, if that’s what I feel needs to come out of me.  One of the reasons I write, think of myself as a writer, is because vomiting things out on paper makes it easier for me to make sense of all the stuff floating around in my brain.  Lately, that stuff isn’t always easy to get out, much less organize into something coherent.  Those of my readers who know me personally know a lot of what is going on.  I think this one is going to be even harder to write than the one I wrote in the middle of my divorce.  A lot of you may think you know who some of the players are in these stories; I’ll never confirm anything, not just because its not my place to talk shit about other people, but also because this is MINE.  This is where I write about myself, my thoughts, my feelings, all the craziness and mundanity that is going on in my life.  Problem is, other people impact all those things.  But there’s usually three sides to every story:  each person’s view, and the truth.  This is my side of some things that I’ve dealt with in the past.  This is my truth.  I can’t control how you see it or what you think about it, and I’m trying to be ok with that.

 

I was in an abusive relationship.  God, do you have any idea how hard that was to type?  I imagine some of you do.  It doesn’t matter who it was with.  To make this easier to read, we’ll call the dude Wooderson McFuckerton, or Woody for short.  Again, read into that nickname whatever you want; this isn’t about him, except for the ways he affected me.  He was abusive.  Mentally, emotionally, and in the end, physically.  Woody knew my weak spots, my vulnerable places, and he had no problem taking advantage of them.  He knew I was adopted and that there was a time when wondering if my birth parents had ever cared about me was painful; he called me a bastard.  He knew I was self-conscious about being overweight; he told me I was disgusting, that he was embarrassed to be seen in public with me, that I sounded like an elephant when I walked through the house.  He told me that my family members were terrible people and that he wanted me to stay away from them.  He told me that my BFF Pamala was a slut, and that, when I went out with her, I was probably whoring around.  He accused me of having an affair with Becca, the woman I think of as my sister.  In hindsight, he was trying to isolate me from anyone who cared about me, a typical action of an abusive partner.  When I told him the story of a time I was sexually assaulted, he denied that it had ever happened to me, to the point where I questioned my own reality.  He cheated on me, emotionally and physically, once with a girl more than 10 years younger than us.  He lied constantly, mostly about the other women.  Everything I liked was stupid, everything I wanted to do was boring, everything I did was wrong.  He yelled at me, screamed at me, called me names, punched holes in more walls and doors than I can count.  He’d tell me he was gonna kill himself as a way to manipulate and control me.  He took advantage of the love I had for him, used me as an emotional punching bag to try to make himself feel better.  And I took all of this until I became his literal punching bag.  We got into an argument one night, and he broke a chair.  As I turned to walk away from him, he hit me in the back with the chair leg.  I immediately got my shit and walked out the door.  I got somewhere safe and called the police, after a tearful phone call to my sister.  I spent the night with Pamala, then stayed with my parents.  All those people he had tried to isolate me from, who cared about me.  I had a welt and a bruise for three days; I still have the pictures on my phone and printed out for posterity.  Damning proof in the murder of the love I had for Woody.  We didn’t grow apart, we didn’t decide we wanted different things.  That love was taken out back and shot like a rabid dog.

 

 

Do you know what I hate more than all of that?  I let it happen.  Somewhere inside myself, I blame myself for tolerating that sort of treatment for so long.  I allowed him to say those things to me, to kill pieces of my heart, to make me question my memories, my reality, my sense of self-worth.  And the really fucked up thing is that I still blame myself tolerating it most of the time.  The abuse was him blaming me for how bad he felt about himself, and yet I’m still here blaming myself for never standing up to it.  Its like an Ouroboros of blame that I’ve been trying to break for a while. 

All this came to a head a few days ago at work.  I don’t really get in trouble at my job; I love what I do and I’d like to believe my co-workers love me as much as I love them.  But I’m a receptionist in a sales environment, and nothing can get a rise out of people quicker than the perception that their sales, and therefore their money, is being messed with.  So, sometimes my boys (and the one girl), can get in some pretty heated discussions.  They don’t really scream at each other, but voices get raised, and there’s some tension.  Its just something that happens on occasion, and its made me uncomfortable from the get-go.  Almost like it made me twitchy.  And I didn’t think about it until this last incident, but its gradually been making me feel worse.  Well, another little tiff occurred on Friday, and before I knew what was actually going on, I was having a full-blown panic attack.  Shaking, hyperventilating, verge of tears, all that.  I got one of my other boys to watch my desk, went outside, and lit a cigarette I didn’t smoke while I tried to calm down.  My boss came out after a few minutes with his own cigarette and immediately asked me what was wrong.  I told him that the tension and raised voices had brought on a panic attack.  While he was telling me that, if the discussion were to continue, he’d bring it outside after I went in, a lightbulb went off in my head.  I was basically re-living shit from my relationship with Woody.  Once I’d calmed down, I texted Pamala and relayed the incident to her.  She confirmed that this was an entirely normal thing for someone who had been a victim of abuse.  I’d thought of myself as such, in my head, for a while.  But having someone else say it, it sounded so foreign.  Part of me hates it.  I hate that I can rightfully be referred to as that.   But there’s this other part of me that was so glad that all the things I’d kept to myself out of embarrassment and shame had been validated by someone who cared about me, and someone who, as a therapist, has more than a little familiarity with what abuse victims go through. 

 

After more discussion with Pamala, I decided it was time to do something about this.  I feel like I’ve been making all this great progress in my life.  I’m positive, I’m in a good place, I’m dealing.  But, this isn’t something that’s going to go away; its gradually been getting worse and will continue to do so until I get some help.  I’ve been to therapists before, during various difficulties in my life.  I’ve never been embarrassed about it, and actually enjoy the experience.  I’m fucking dreading this, though.  I guess because I didn’t see it coming and because I’m going to have to talk about things I’ve been trying so hard to forget.  I know dealing with this is like having strep throat; I can’t get rid of it on my own, I need a professional.  But, fuck.  How long am I gonna have to deal with his shit?  Woody is the gift that just keeps on fucking giving.  I’m trying really hard to focus on the fact that, once I start doing this, I’ll just be getting better, which is all I really want.

So.  I’m Cecilia.  I’m the victim of an abusive relationship, and the victim of a sexual assault, and I will rise above this.  I will not allow these things to define me.  I will not only survive, but I’ll come out of this better, wiser, and stronger. 

Bars and Tattoos

This weekend was one of the best I’ve had in years.  It should be noted, though, that I’m incredibly easy to please.  It doesn’t take a lot to amuse me or make me happy.  Which is what makes it even more amazing that it took this long for me to follow my happiness.

On Saturday, I slept till noon.  That’s always a nice thing.  When I finally dragged my ass out of bed, I headed straight to the tattoo shop.  I have several that I want, but there was one in particular I’d been thinking of for a long while.  I’d worked a couple extra hours the last week, and decided to use those few extra bucks to treat myself.

 

 

Those words are lyrics from my favorite song, “A Murder of One”, by my favorite band, Counting Crows.  For me, they have a personal meaning.  I don’t want to waste my life.  I’ve wasted a lot of time. I don’t usually look at it as a waste, necessarily; I spent a lot of time and energy working on something that ultimately failed.  I learned lessons, gained some wisdom and insight, and got The Most Awesome Kid Ever out of it.  But all that time, nothing was about me.  My wants, my needs…they all got pushed aside.  And I was ignorant enough to believe that that was just what happened when a woman becomes a wife and mother.  It IS NOT.  I figured that out much too late.  But I’m making up for it now.

And I’m changing.  Growing.  When I was in high school, I had the typical teenage girl self-esteem issues.  I never thought I was pretty and hated my body.  Other than that, though, I was comfortable with everything else about me.  I loved myself, my brain, my heart, who I was as a person.  I knew what I wanted and I went after it.  I was strong for my friends, for myself.  Years later I was even told that my self-possession intimidated some people, which I found odd.  But I guess, in reality, I was odd.  It would explain why a lot of the people who signed my senior yearbook described me as “unique”.  That’s just a polite way of calling me a weirdo.

But at some point, I became this cowering, simpering, terrified-of-everything woman with absolutely zero self-confidence.  There were times I wasn’t even sure of what I was feeling and why.  If you had looked up the definition of co-dependent, my picture would have been right next to it.  But once the ex went to rehab, I started getting help for my own issues.  I started to remember who I was and what I wanted and that I was my own person.    He was in rehab for 3 months.  The kid was 1 ½, and I’d been a stay at home mom.  But for those 3 months, I made it work.  I had help, of course.  I’m incredibly blessed to have some of the best friends and family on the planet.  But I got a job, and Sarah and I got by.  I’ll never forget what I told him the first night he was home:  “I love you, and I want to work it out.  I want to be with you.  But I don’t need you anymore.”  And I didn’t.  I could live without him, and it took me having to do it to realize I could.  Of course, it was another 3 years before it ended, but still.  All those steps brought me here.

Some of this is just remembering who I was before marriage.  Another part is exploring who I want to be now.  So I try new things, talk to new people.  My BFF convinced me to go to a bar alone Saturday night.  I don’t mind doing things alone; I go to the movies by myself, take myself out to dinner, that sort of thing.  But going to a bar alone seemed a little scary.  The Bestie gave me a few tips, though, and I did it. 

I sat at the bar, ordered a drink, and listened to the band. I watched people be drunk and crazy.  I sat and drank a little, and thought.  One of The Bestie’s tips was to set a time limit.  Not to give me a curfew, but more so that I’d sit there for a while without giving up on myself and leaving.  I found myself staying past my time limit because the band was good and I was enjoying just sitting there and listening.  The Bestie had said it would be empowering.  I had my doubts while I was there; some things are just more fun with friends.  And while I don’t know that I’d necessarily do it again, it did end up being kind of empowering.  I know I can do it, if I so choose. I learned something new about myself.

I’m changing.  I’m growing.  I’m not gonna waste my life.  MY life.  And on days that I’m struggling, on days where I get a little negative, now I have a reminder. 

 

 

Freedom

Last week was rough.  Bunch of minor irritations, and one larger one.  Last week was my brother and sister-in-law’s wedding anniversary.  Unfortunately, while I love them both and am very happy for them, that day has negative connotations in my life.  That day was the beginning of the end of my marriage.  And while I’ve moved on, the memories of the things that happened between the ex and I are still pretty fresh and cause me to feel a bit of resentment that I’m still working to overcome.  There’s no need to provide details; it was bad, and that’s all anyone else needs to know.  Perhaps other couples could have moved on from the drama and revelations that day brought.  At the time, I thought we could.  I feel like I really tried to work through all the issues and heal my marriage, but I felt then, and still feel now, that he didn’t.  I’m not at all trying to degrade my ex; maybe he knew that we would never make it work, that everything that led to the explosion that day was just too much to move past.  Maybe he just didn’t give a shit.  It doesn’t really matter anymore.  Because what happened, happened, and its over.  I’m free.

Free.  It’s a wonderful feeling.  I spent damn near 20 years of my life putting someone else first.  I was doing it before I understood the implications of putting someone’s health and happiness and feelings and thoughts before yourself.  I did so much for him.  And for a while, after it was over, I didn’t know how to live, who I was, without having someone other than Sarah to take care of.  But one day it hit me:  all that attention and effort and work I put into trying to maintain my marriage and my partner, I could put that towards myself.  Getting divorced meant that, essentially, I became a part-time mother.  Sarah spends every other week with her father.  I’m glad that she has a father who wants to be that active in her life.  And I miss her terribly when I don’t have her.  But, eternal optimist that I am, I find the bright side.  I use that free time to do the things I always wanted to do but couldn’t find time for while being a wife. 

I’ve started reading again.  I’ve been writing, this blog and some poetry.  Its been ages since I’ve written poetry.  Mainly because, for me to write poetry, I have to feel.  And for years my feelings didn’t really belong to me.  My life didn’t belong to me.  I watch movies, binge watch whatever I want.  I take long baths and do girly shit.  I’ve been to Chattanooga to see my sister more in the last six months than I did in the previous six years.  I spend time with friends, I do crafts, I go on dates .  And I think.  About all kinds of things, but a lot about myself.  I can do that now.  And I’ve learned and realized so much about myself, and about what I want, should I ever find a potential partner.  And its so different from what I lived with for so long that its amazing.

I enjoy my alone time.  I need it more than I ever realized.  It allows me to recharge and refresh myself.  I don’t want or need a relationship with someone who wants to be up my ass 24/7.  I don’t require a lot of attention.  Nor do I want to give a lot of attention.  I mean, I’ll text a guy off and on all day, maybe have the occasional phone conversation, but I don’t need to see him every day.  I’ll give as much time, attention, and support as possible without interfering with my own well-being.  And I expect the same in return.  If I make time for someone, they should also make time for me.  I’m 37 years old, have a full time job and am a mother. I don’t have time to give to someone who isn’t worth it; I’ve got other things I could be doing.

I want a sense of humor, an easy-going attitude, a listener and thinker.  I want someone who respects me and understands that you get what you give.  Mostly, above all else, I want a fucking adult.  I have one child and I don’t particularly want another.  Of course that means the regular things like a job, a car, a roof.  But it also means that he knows how to take care of himself.  He makes his own doctor appointments, he buys groceries and budgets his money, he knows when he needs his own alone time, and takes it. 

 The best part of all this?  I feel fulfilled without a partner.  If I get lonely, its easy enough to find someone to pass the time with, just have fun.  But having a relationship?  I don’t need it.  So I can be picky.  And if I do find someone to be with, there’s no rush.  I don’t particularly want to get married again.  I don’t have to make grand plans for the future.   Once you’ve been through a divorce, you know things can eventually end, and there’s even a freedom in that.  I can live each day for what it is:  a chance to grow and learn and explore and love myself and those I care about.  Nothing more.  And that freedom is priceless. 

Creative Writing 101

I've always thought of myself as a writer, erroneously or not.  Even though I didn't do much writing during my marriage, I considered it a part of me like my arm or the extra lumbar vertebra in my back.  But, given the abundance of free time I have as a single woman, I've gotten back to it.  And I thought I'd share some of it.  Be gentle with me; I'm still getting back into the swing of things and talent is like a muscle.  Mine's a little weak, and I can't go back to being a heavyweight without working at it regularly. 



Fantasy
I have never been in the arms of a strong man,
But to you I would surrender and lay helpless as your arms surrounded me.
I can imagine the warmth, the heat.
I can feel it when I close my eyes, and I can picture the contrast between our flesh.
Will I ever know the feel of your body pressed against mine,
Or my lips caressing your broad shoulders?
Will I ever be showered by your long hair,
Feeling it tickle me as I breathe in your sweetness?

The answer is no.  But isn't it nice to daydream?



No More Running
Do you think you could let me love you
For a minute
Or maybe an hour or two?
I see something behind your eyes.
A pain
Or a weight
Or a suffering
Or maybe a light
That seems to augment a longing in my soul.
How long has it been since you were truly intimate with someone?
Not a lover
Or a friend
Or a soulmate.
But someone who listened without waiting to talk?
Someone who withheld all judgment,
Who offered only acceptance and honesty and vindication in return for your revelations?
Someone who made you feel like you did when you were a kid
And your bike would catch air
And your stomach would turn cold and drop
But your arms and legs would be all hot and tingly?
I can be that for you, if you'd let me.
If you even read this.
If you don't think I'm unhinged or delusional.
Maybe you can take a leap of faith, and trust a stranger,
If my words made you feel something.
Maybe I can be someone you didn't know you were missing.
If you could let me love you
For a minute or
Maybe an hour or two.


Same New Thing
If I give you my heart,
I'm giving you power over me.
Thinking about that is exciting
And terrifying.
Last time I gave my heart away,
It was returned in horrible condition.
Broken into dozens of pieces
Covered in bootprints and teethmarks,
Tattooed with insults and foul names and things I can't even repeat.
Repairing it took years.
Carefully gluing and gently scrubbing,
Reminding myself of who and what I am as I erased years of
Guilt and shame and disparagement and scorn.
So I'm scared.
Scared to give you this newly-healed thing that I worked so hard to repair.
I know you could break it.
That's an unavoidable risk.
Though, I really don't think you will.
I've studied your hands, and I think you know how to be careful with it.
And why did I spend so long healing it, if not to give it away?
But what if you don't want it,
This used and scarred thing?
I wish I had something better to offer you, but this is all I've got.
And I really want you to have it.
I'm giving it to you, free of conditions and expectations,
Because my hope outweighs my fear.

Maybe I should put a bow on it first, though.





That's all for now, my loves.  Gimme a shout, let me know what you think.  But be gentle -   I'm still getting there.

Valentine's Day: Bah Humbug

I refer to myself as a pop culture junkie.  I like art.  I like entertainment.  Not always, but most of the time, I like what I like because it strikes some deep chord inside me.  I mean, I like cheesy, silly stuff, too.  But usually, the movies or music or shows that I love, I love for a very personal reason.

I was going through this crisis of faith in high school.  I was having a hard time unifying my faith with my reality.  I'm Catholic, and my sister is a lesbian.  I was being told she was going to burn in hell.  I could not understand how that was even remotely possible if someone, including God, had met my sister.  I was reading Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, and they really helped me figure stuff out.  The stories about these creatures who feel that they are damned by being exactly the way they are was a really good allegory for homosexuals and helped me rectify my faith with what I was being told was a sin.

While I still love those novels, and read the new ones, I'm not as fanatical about them as I once was.  They served their purpose in my life.  I don't feel a strong need to re-read them every so often, as I do other stories. 

Like most girls my age, I was raised on Disney movies.  I'm not sure the movies are to blame, but for a very, very long time, I felt that I needed a man to save me.  Love, romantic love, above all things, was what I wanted.  As I got older, I didn't feel the need to be "saved" from my boring, crappy life so much as I just wanted someone to love me.  And I mean love me passionately and deeply and in spite of my flaws and imperfections.  I wanted someone who knew what I was thinking, who understood me.  That's a pretty big request, because most of the time, I don't even understand myself.  And while I had outgrown the Disney fantasy of love, I found another, better representation.

In 1994, "The Crow" was released.  I was 14.  I'd been dying to see it, based simply on the commercials, the soundtrack, and of course the tragedy of Brandon Lee's death.  I managed to see it in theatres, and some part of me was forever changed by it.  I was obsessed.  I'm still obsessed.  Most people think of that film as an action flick, and it is.  But its something more to me.  Eric Draven's fiancée, Shelly, is brutally raped and they are both murdered.  Eric comes back from the dead to avenge Shelly.  And I wanted that.

Now, am I delusional enough to believe things like that actually happen?  Not quite.  But that doesn't mean the feeling doesn't exist.  I wanted someone to love me so much, that if such a thing were possible, they'd do it for me.  I wanted someone to love me that much, as if a feeling could be quantifiable.  I wanted someone who's love for me was so strong, they would fight and rage against death just to do right by me.

I realize how ridiculous it sounds.  I do.  I have come to expect the snickers I hear when I admit this to people.  I'm sure to some people I sound like a raving lunatic.  But is it really so much to ask?  Don't most of us want to be and feel loved?  Just because I've chosen a really weird way to express it doesn't make the longing less valid.

And for a long time, I thought I had that kind of love.  Actually, I guess I did have that love for a little while.  But for whatever reason, it didn't last.  And its kind of a sad thing to find yourself looking for the same thing out of life at 37 as you were at 14.  And for a long time, it made me feel...kind of pathetic to admit to it.  Some people have these huge ambitions.  They want education or a good job or success or wealth or fame.  My biggest ambition is love.  Its to be able to give every ounce of my love to one person and have them do the same for me. 

Its Valentine's Day.  Its the first time I've been single on this day since 1999.  And honestly, I'm kind of bummed.  I wish I was getting the flowers or the chocolates or the whatever.  Not because of the things; stuff isn't super important to me.  I wish someone felt at least a little something for me, enough to express it that way.  But then I remember that its just a day.  And someone caring for you transcends what the calendar tells you that you should be doing.

So if you have someone who loves or cares for you, appreciate them today, but also appreciate them everyday.  As for myself, I think I'll go home after work and watch "The Crow".  I may not have someone who loves me like that today, but maybe someday on like, a random Thursday, I'll find myself with someone who feels for me the way I feel for them.  And until that happens, until I find someone to give all my love to, I'll drown in the other thing I have an abundance of:  Hope.