Blogging Molly

plead forgiveness

2011-10-23T16:35:00.000-05:00

I wrote to her when I was lonely and bored. It took me hours to start; I couldn’t find an appropriate opening line. Where do I start? How do you begin something that ended two years ago? Do I say beg for forgiveness, plead that “I’m sorry for deserting you”?

I told her that I missed her and that I was thinking about her and that I was sorry. I was sorry for running away and not telling her why. The mountains, I proclaimed, were too frozen, too static, too cold. I apologized for not taking her feelings into consideration. I had been selfish. At the time, I had spent every waking moment with her. I had told her everything, everything about my life and the people I loved and then, suddenly, I was gone.

I had never sufficiently said goodbye to her that spring.

I told her that I was now completely, totally, honestly, comfortably out of the closet and I had never been happier. I told her that I had moved to a big city and a new school and I made new friends. I told her that I found love and lost it. That someone had left me the same way I had left with her, with little to no explanation.

I asked her what she was up to and what her plans were after her graduation this spring. I asked if she was still taking photographs, and I admitted being inspired by her to start my own passion for photography.

‘You’ve changed my life and I never told you why’

I felt better immediately after I sent it. That’s they way it always goes.

I didn’t get a response for about two weeks. At first I thought that I had sent it to the wrong e-mail address. I had practically forgot about it until I saw her name appear in my inbox one day.

My stomach clenched and I opened it with hesitation.

She was cordial and polite and respectful. I could hear her voice the second I started reading. It’s funny how things work like that. Time doesn’t erase memory.

She told me that she had accepted my desertion that spring in Montana, but it had taken her about a year to fully recover. She said that she would spend her days and nights in Bozeman, incessantly talking to our mutual friends, trying to explain to them why I left. She confessed to looking for me on our small campus, knowing full well that I was one thousand miles away.

She said she was bitter for a long time. Was angry that I was silently vacant. Was upset that I seemed to have no remorse.She said that, before, she would have had an arsenal of dialogue in her back pocket. That she would be ready to yell at me if we ever talked again. Would have said that it was too little, too late. But she told me she could practically hear the guilt in my words, now.

She accepted my apology. She complimented my writing. She thanked me for the letter. We haven’t talked since.

i only really wanted to be wanted by you

2011-08-26T10:12:00.003-05:00

There is a nagging, lingering memory in the back of my head that I can’t shake. It stops me ice-cold in my tracks every time I recall it. The details of the affair curl out of my mouth with half-assed explanation. None of it made any sense.

(I never know where to start with these stories. I never know how far back I have to go in order to tell the whole thing. I never know what is worth telling and what is worth saving for myself. this might be too hard to read)

This time last August, I ran away. I had been restlessly pacing the floors of my childhood home all night. It’s funny how crazy I was then. I was so anxious. I couldn’t stop biting my nails. I would dully drum my knuckles against the steering wheel all day.

I wrote short sonnets of love,

I scribbled songs for the birds.

I fantasized about what the next school year had in store and the new people I would meet. My overall, mellow patience was at its breaking point. I wanted so badly to be in Minneapolis.

See, at the time, I was afraid of losing everyone. I was convinced that the people I had met during my first semester back to college would somehow disappear out of my life, or worse, that they would have forgotten about me. That the summer would have hypnotized them in a state so ecstatic and sudden that my face was now just a blur.

(To be blunt, I was a touch-and-go friend. I was really only dedicated to one person anyway.)

This was one of the main reasons why I chose the roommates I would eventually live with. I didn’t want to lose anyone. You must realize how afraid I was then. Ironically, (or maybe it was not so ironic, I can never tell if something happens because it should happen or because it was the opposite of what should happen.) my biggest fear happened anyway. I rarely speak to those people anymore.

But fuck it. Those WERE the people in my life, and they meant the world to me, even if they don’t show it appropriately, even if they were never really my friends in the first place. They were something. They were all I had. For crying out loud, they were all I had.

Unfortunately, last august didn’t have the foresight to know what the fall had coming, couldn’t comprehend that the winter would be one long season of sleep, and that the

blossoming spring would

define its namesake,

it was just a false alarm.

But back to the last august. I was texting a ‘friend’ who had just broken up with their long time girlfriend. I had met these two in the spring. I had heard some really bizarre stories about the production of their relationship but I never really could follow the gossip trail. This was before my time. Either that or I was too uninterested to care. I know that there had been infidelity and lying from the start.

And if I can say one thing about a healthy relationship it’s this: if a relationship starts in dishonesty, it will end in dishonesty.

My friend didn’t seem to be to upset about the break up. She was looking for a rebound.

So was I.

[Technically speaking, I was single. It wasn’t really an affair in light of the fucked up shit I did AFTER what happens here. This wasn’t as nearly as bad as how pathetically I tried to cover up the fact afterward that we even fucked. I was embarrassed that I had succumbed to such a cliché. I lied. My lies became my truth. (This is a different story/poem and it is too messy/raw to publish)]

It was unceremonious and incredibly un-sexy. Her five cats would watch us from the staircase as we undressed awkwardly on the futon in her then, semi-abandoned St. Paul house.

I stayed until the morning.

I came back a week later.

I had been oddly proud of the fact that I broke her single-digit fuck acquaintances. I had laughed when she said that I was the least dramatic person she’s slept with.

I reminded her that I was a number,

‘we are nothing more’

I also swore her to secrecy.

Already knowing that my validity would be tarnished if word got out that we had a short tryst. It would have added more garbage to the already-circulating shit-storm that was our ‘group of friends’. But I should have known, as well as anyone, that secrets that large rarely can be kept quiet.

And then it ended as quickly as it had started. There were no hard feelings because there were no feelings to begin with. We aren’t/weren’t really friends. We had nothing in common except that we were both gay and senseless.

Throughout the year, the people I surrounded myself started branching off. Some of them on a good accord, realizing our schedules didn’t work together, that we were too busy and too hung-over to get coffee, that we belonged to different social circles, etc.

However, some of them were ugly breaks. I made bold statements about people who wronged me. I said nasty things and I enabled destructive behavior. I lived with people I hated. I turned 21 and was inebriated as often I could be. I have made enemies.

I know I won’t make the same mistake twice. I know that I’m not going to fuck it up again. I will fight like hell to keep people that I like. I know that for sure.

So when I say I ‘ran away’ what I mean to say is that I was doing what I had to do. I was supposed to go through this experience (including the tailspin afterward) in order to be where I am now. It was part of my journey. This affair is part of my story whether I care to admit it or not. That’s life and you shouldn’t blame yourself for the things you did when you felt that way.

Midsummer night

2011-07-16T21:44:00.003-05:00

(i always intend to write an actual update but then I just want to post poetry)
(I will be doing both because I'm self-involved, obviously)
(the two pieces are not related)

I used to keep my heart
Frozen in the dark lockers of my
Battered meat locker chest

An abused organ that got used to little
A slab so bloody no one could eat it
A taste so bold no one could bruise it

I never meant to tempt you lover,
But my heart hit a new pulse,
found a new flutter
The day you entered through that bedroom door
And I swear that there is no greater gift

Then your heart being warm.
Then your chest, breathing
Being a nest
full of birds learning how to sing

But the song of our love was a short one
Sung from young swallows
Who never ate red meat

Tell me, if you could be any bird
what would you be?

If you could be the pilot
Of your feelings, know the trajectory of
how to maneuver your heart
Would you take the shortest path?

------

It’s assuring to know that change is coming. That this time in the next two to six weeks I will have a few things happening, simultaneously:

-a dear friend will be coming back into my life. Albeit a brief visit home, I will capitalize on the time I am offered in her presence. I cherish her so preciously that she is almost something of a dream, a magnificent story with a beautiful face. I am so excited to see her that my bones creak when I think of how I haven’t hugged her bones in awhile. This has been the longest period in our friendship that we have gone without seeing each other. It’s been so fucking hard. When I see her I will most certainly stare at her face; searching to see the miles she’s travelled. Following the laughing highways of her smile up to the eyes filled with stories that I am eager to hear. But I know that her experiences are also mine, her success is my success. After I came out of the closet (a sudden but obvious affair) she had said ‘I was so happy for you molly, your happiness was mine. I am just as proud of you as you are of yourself’

I fucking fell apart when she said that. Our experiences are shared. When she is in pain, I am in pain. She is apart of me that is as distinct as DNA. I am so curious to see where her life brings her that I can’t be envious. I know I am with her wherever she goes.

I have needed her level head and logical heart, taking her advice over anyone else’s. She speaks so simply, so rationally, that one is a fool to disagree with her.

-The second event will be something that now feels like an annual event. I will be packing up my belongings and moving out of my two addresses (my Rochester home, one east Minneapolis residence) to my third place of residence while being a student. It’s a pocket of an apartment located in a quiet neighborhood in uptown Minneapolis. I am looking forward to this change of locale. Getting out of the university bubble will be like a breathe of fresh air, not constantly being surrounded and hustled like you would by the people near or on campus. I will be living with my baby sister, a built-in friend and blood connection. But this finally feels like ‘mine’ and that I have control over this situation. It is what you make it. I am feeling good about this.

Also, school is coming up. I miss my role as a student, both socially and academically. Being a student has always given me a feeling of self-worth and self-purpose. I know that I am doing something with my time and energy. Motivation had never been something I took for granted. To capture that energy is rare and hard-pressed to last long.

I still feel like I’m meeting dozens of new people every semester, extending my social webs in every corner of the university. I see no reason why my relationships should not evolve and grow with time. I also cannot deny the group of radical people I have met (either through plain luck or fortunate fate) in the past six months who have opened up my new social doors. Just when I thought that there was little to offer, I am surrounded by talent and beauty.

lurking about the internet

2011-07-10T18:55:00.004-05:00

I am making this public again. I went ahead and edited some major posts for consistency reasons. I only deleted posts that were what I deemed either to be too out of character or too obnoxiously melodramatic. These were posts I wrote in fits of rage, or sadness. Words I wrote that I knew would sting.

I also deleted some really old posts from 2009 that don't sound like 'me' at all. That semester I took off was a really strange place for me that I don't like to re-visit. The mountains had rushed me back to the midwest, only to find that minnesota didn't accept me with open arms.

I wasn't in school at the time, and I was still unsure what I was going to do with my life. I didn't know if I was ever going to go back to college. I worked and made money. I smoked weed by myself, justifying my intelligence. I went to therapy and talked about memememe.

I got accepted into the University of Minnesota ten days before Christmas 2009. This blog 'begins' at just about that time.
~~~~~
Please excuse all grammar mistakes. And self-indulging thought-processes about my relationships, past and present.

Now my ashtray's overflowing and I'm still staring at a clean white page.

2011-02-25T18:50:00.009-06:00

I’m replacing words with pictures. I’m exchanging anguish for a camera. I fell in love with a lens.

In December of 2010, I wrote like mad. I had some time to think. I was getting odd flashbacks. To people and events I hadn’t thought about in just as long as I had forgotten them. And then there was the sudden urge to document it, to write all of it down before I forgot the most key details.

I had forgotten that my boyfriend in high school had applied to the same university as I had. Then I started writing, and memories stored from the compartmentalized cabinets of my mind were being re-catalogued. I remember snooping through his mail to find his acceptance letter amongst his other college acceptance letters. At the time, I stayed quiet. I liked knowing that he didn't know I knew. You know? I had patience back then. I knew he would tell me, eventually. I would hold this superiority like a badge of my anger above his head.

Then we fought about how he didn't tell me anything. About how he went behind my back and applied to MSU without consulting me. I made it about me, again.

Imagine how bizarre it would have been if we would have gone to the same college.

Part of me was writing to prove something. Wanted to prove to myself that I could write about other topics. That I could escape from my broken heart and write about when I was 18 years old and I thought I knew what a relationship was.

I wrote of my flaws, mostly because I had a lot of them. I still do. I still exhibit them from time to time. I write about the lies I told. The manipulation I so carefully planned. How I tricked people into believing me.

I wrote about my nine months in Bozeman. When I lived in the shadow of mountain. I lived in shame and my paralyzing depression made me seclude. My coming out wasn’t painless. It hurt like hell to face what I knew I was.

So I thought that it would be good to write about basically every significant relationship I had up until that point. This was my subconscious rationale.

This strategy eventually failed, however, when my bitter feelings got the best of me. My most popular and controversial post was the most brutal punch I ever packed. The wound was still fresh. I was kicking with steel boots while my enemy was already down.

And now I don’t like to write. I haven’t found a storyline to work with anymore. Not like those stories aren’t interesting or well thought-out. They’re perfectly decent stories. I'm even surprised by how well some of them have turned out.

But these plot devices are getting tired and it hasn’t really accomplished anything. I don’t know how much longer I can re-hash the same thing before someone tells me to shut the fuck up already.

Here comes my Girl. A Valentine's Day post.

2011-02-14T19:44:00.000-06:00

There are two certainties in life:

1)You are not alone

2) You are loved

-My senior religion teacher Mr. Gardner.

A good message for today. Think of the loved ones in your life and spread that love. At least as much as you can allow yourself. Even if you feel like you have none to give.

Spread love because you know people love you. Spread love because love is waiting. Spread love because someone will love you one day. Or again. That unnatainable love is waiting somewhere.

You are not alone because there is love. If we can all agree that love exists, than you cannot question that you are alone. To make a connection with an individual creates a relationship, regardless of the definitions.

Friendships are relationships. Family is a relationship. Peers, to a degree. Colleagues, mentors, bosses, coaches.

Past lovers. Future crushes.

There is the potential for love everywhere. is basically what I think. And I have been repeating that in my head to get me through the day.

Something borrowed.

2011-02-07T09:13:00.002-06:00

Let’s celebrate for a moment and talk about a wedding. Between two young people you know. You know both of their families. You know their siblings. You grew up together, in proximity but not in detail. You know the group of friends they had in high school.

And now these two people are married. It was a matter of signing a document. Of taking a picture, for memorabilia sake. A picture is worth a gazillion, never-ending words.

Two families are merging and if you grew up in my hometown, and went to my grade schools, you would know exactly why it is so crazy/weird/insane.

Everyone knows who these people are. My constant drug dealer in my hometown is someone I knew from high school. Two years my senior, he was grade school buddies with the groom. He detests the bride. But now the crowd is getting a little more intimate, we’re all getting a little older. We never mention this when we come over to pick up green bud from his house. We simply shoot the shit while we smoke. It’s a fair trade.

I’m trying not to veer into my cynical side. Because THAT side of me is mean. I mock. I doubt the relationship’s sincerity. I question the validity. I’m bitter at the utter-fucking-ease that this heterosexual couple had to get married. How the benefits are just a stack of papers away, really. And what is,paperwork, anyway, but a few cuts and dry skin.

The young bride’s cousin put it powerfully. “The only thing you can give is support”

Huh. Just support her. It’s funny, one of the hardest things for humans to do. We simply ignore it. We avoid it at all costs. We make excuses to not listen, to not be there. We’re not strong enough to be present with someone. Instead we gossip behind hushed hands and judged eyes. Because that’s easier, somehow.

This concept of support is now turned and defined as annoying, cumbersome, and tiring. Yet it is free! It doesn’t cost a damn dime to support someone.

I can’t give her money or a job or a house. It is literally the only thing I can give. I hope it works out. I hope she experiences as much happiness as she can. With the circumstances, I hope it’s fulfilled in a satisfying, consistent way eventually. I wish them a lot more luck than congratulations. Because luck is something I cannot give.

A reaction poem

2011-01-29T13:49:00.003-06:00

So there is a pattern
And I don’t like that it comes back to me every time
but it does
I am burning bridges
I am creating bad blood
Because being ‘good’ and ‘civil’ and ‘minding my manners’
Is something I can’t do

Not yet
Not when I want to cry all day,
(those salty, messy tears rarely come,
and when they do they offer little comfort.
I brush them off with mere anger.
Upset that I can’t control it)

Not when I want to scream bloody fucking murder.
Yelling silently out the window

And then I faltered in my heartbreak
I stepped over the line. I do fucking stupid things sometimes
But I do them because they make me feel better

Because I’m still mourning
Because I didn’t know if you were still reading or not
Because I was worried

Because I can’t talk to you the way I used to be able to
And that makes me fall apart
So I write, instead.

And what I said, what I was trying to say
Was that I wanted you to know how hard I was trying
To let you know that I hadn’t stopped caring

These words tend to sound melodramatic,
That I can’t manage to make it out of bed
(Which has happened)
But everyday is different
I have good days and bad days
And on some days I don’t think of calling you at all

The pattern is that
I have done this before.
To other people, to past relationships
Friends, lovers, family, men, and women
I excel at harnessing resentment
I refuse to be on good terms

ihatethisihatethisihatethis

2011-01-07T21:47:00.003-06:00

I’ve said a lot in the past six weeks. Well, I wrote a lot. Which means I was thinking a lot. Meaning there were words in my head that I couldn’t say out loud.

I wrote about my past because my present was too painful to speak of. I wanted to find connections to what I used to do/be/love was at all similar to who I still was/loved. If there were any similarities.

It was December. There were two blizzards. Finals were coming up. We weren’t talking. I was beating myself up. I had every reason to be miserable. So I wrote.

Now, I’ve been quiet. I don’t have much more to say.
I’m at a loss for words. I’m still angry. I’m still bitter. How utterly fucking convenient that you found someone else so fast. What impeccable timing.

I’ve cried twice since Thanksgiving.

Once, after the phone call that ripped my heart out. I cried hot tears in my older sister’s shoulder. The other time was a few days ago during my lunch break when I was hungry and tired and locked out of my house.

I fucking hate this.

I'm not proud that nothing will seem easy about me.

2010-12-23T15:56:00.004-06:00

I went to go visit Zak in Denver. This was mid-February. I had already met Eli, yet it was one week before the night I was in her room. It was a birthday gift, this little trip. Zak had offered to host me for three days on his college campus, and my mother bought the plane ticket.
~~~~
I hadn’t seen Zak since Christmas break, a break that consisted of hurried reunions with friends I loved. I didn’t spend as much time with him as he had liked.

During this break, Zak’s parents were out of town for one night. He insisted that I should come over. He had invited some of his high school friends over to drink. Around eleven, I showed up, the lone female. I had smoked on the way over, so I was comfortable listening to the collective slurred speech of half a dozen eighteen-year-old college freshmen.

Another boy I had dated for less than three weeks two years prior, my first boyfriend, was there. I tried to act too cool to see him. I didn’t acknowledge his presence, nor did I ever make eye contact. I was still bitter at how we broke up.

They had the same name, spelled differently. Zach was tall, with short fine blonde hair. He was quiet and calm and smart. We had attended the same middle and junior high schools. I wanted him to like me. We had talked on AIM for years prior to our courtship. We had so many things in common that we assumed that we would have made a perfect coupling. We learned quickly that we could only talk through the small confines of an LED screen. This relationship ended with me feeling used, resentful.

We were always better off as friends.

I drank a bit that night, a drink mixed with rum and coke. I left to smoke with Mark, arguably my favorite of Zak’s friends. I told him of Montana and the people I had met and that I had got arrested. I told him to keep it a secret.

When everyone had left, I followed Zak up the stairs to his parent’s bedroom. The master bedroom had large windows that looked out onto the surrounding woods. There was a storm that night, with loud thunder and bright lightning. I remember how the rain sounded, softly and quietly hitting the skylight of the master bathroom.

As Zak and I were undressing, I shivered from the cold. I wanted to be under blankets, warm and safe. By this point, the alcohol and marijuana were now mixing in my blood stream at a steady pace. I was feeling awake, alive.

I saw a picture of his mom and dad on the dresser. I pushed the frame down, paranoid that there pictorial eyes were staring at us, judging us. I knew that his parents were fighting almost daily, that his dad had retreated to sleeping in the guest bedroom every night. Both doctors, they were too busy to fall back in love. Their children were the only reason they were still together.

I saw Zak out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching me do this. Shunning his parents from our lovemaking. “Good idea” he said and patted the space next to him. At this point, we were both naked. I put my hands on his shoulders and kissed his forehead. I bent my knees and looked into his eyes. I moved the curly brown hair out of his eyes and smiled. I kissed him on the lips and told him to lie down.

During, while I was on my back, my mind was racing. I couldn’t focus on what I was doing. I was making wild connections about my Montana life, my home life, and my love life. I was thinking about girls and how badly I wanted to be with one.
With that realization, I closed my eyes and climaxed for the first time, at that exact moment a lightning bolt lit the insides my shut eyelids.

Zak was smug with himself, smilingly wildly. While I felt like I had peed the bed. It didn’t feel any different.
He wanted to do it again, to flex this particular muscle. Wanted to prove that he could still satisfy me.

So I went to Denver.
~~~

When I landed, I was exhausted. I had been up since 5am. I took a cab from Roskie to the Bozeman Airport, where I had waited for an hour at one of the five terminals. I was stuck in a middle seat. I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t showered.

I called Zak when I landed. He had borrowed a car from his friend, and was waiting outside the terminal to pick me up. He was beaming in his seatbelt, ready to go. I hugged him awkwardly over the console of the vehicle, avoiding his lips. He frowned, and put his hand on mine when I offered it. I was cranky. I looked out the window while he talked endlessly of his life. I barely retained a word.

The entire weekend was like this.

He tried to make me happy. I met his friends. We went skiing. We went out to eat for dinner. He showed me his campus. I helped him write a paper. We had sex. I was trying to get back the feelings I had for him over Christmas break, over the previous summer, during high school. But he was getting further and further away and I couldn’t relate to him at all anymore.

When I went back to Bozeman I felt empty and restless. I was miserable. Our relationship was worse every time we saw each other, but we desperately tried to grab at the final shreds of what we had.

Your ex-lover is dead.

2010-12-20T15:00:00.006-06:00

[I’m on a Montana story kick. But to tell this story I have to tell more. Bear with me. I need to write about my past relationships to in anyway correlate to the one that just ended. Here is more]

Zak came to visit in early October. I hadn’t seen him since I said goodbye to him on my last day in Minnesota. I was excited to see my long-distance boyfriend.

We had been together since the previous February. By March, we were having sex on a consistent basis. By April, Zak had applied to Montana State. With his grades and Montana’s easy online application, he was readily accepted one week later. I said that it was a big step for a couple to take. That I wanted to be my own person, I didn’t want him hanging around me. We would have all summer, I told him. That we could make it work.

He bought the plane ticket from Denver to Bozeman. He was arriving at 11pm on a Friday night and was staying until Monday morning.

I still hadn’t told him about my arrest.

~~~

My relationship with Zak was void of argument unless we were talking about drugs. He didn’t support my habitual smoking. In high school, he said he didn’t want to be the couple that was defined by a stigma. The so-called stigma of being a stoner, of ME being a stoner. I hated that.

Because of his asthma, he was hesitant to smoke. I think he would have liked it. I wanted him to like it. Every time he mentioned that he had tried it, I was expecting to see a conversion, that now, finally, he would know how great it was.

So, It was a strange feeling of competition when he told me, that at one of his first fraternity parties in Denver, that he did acid. I wanted to know what exactly what it was like, where he had gotten it, if he would do it again. He shrugged it off, admitting it had been fun. I sulked. I wanted that story first.

~~~

The summer after our mutual high school graduation, we had planned a road trip to Manchester, Tennessee. Annually, this town hosts Bonnaroo Music Festival. One hundred thousand people camp in a 700-acre field for a four-day, all-day music festival. I went with eleven other people I graduated with.

Zak and I decided to smuggle in 7 liters of vodka. We didn’t tell anyone. Anna’s father, a prominent lawyer in town, lectured us before the trip about taking illegal drugs in and out of state lines. It was his car we were using after all, one of three that would be used as a caravan for the 15-hour trip.

Zak decided that when we arrived we could tell a few other people about what we had mischievously done.

He would let his best friend, John, drink. Anna also could, one of the few other females I liked. David too, the All-American athlete, whose parents and my own who -we joked- were secretly planning our future marriage. I had known him since junior high, when he had braces and bad highlights and wasn’t this charming tanned, muscular man four years later. And Tony was also in our drinking group, a kid who was considered ‘alternative’ by Lourdes standards. He wore loud colors and skateboarded.

We were secretive at first while drinking, sneaking off, and going into the tents. I felt foolish having to hide my fun at a music festival. I thought it was pathetic that we couldn’t confess to what we had done. These people weren’t my friends; they were Zak’s, mostly. Except for David, I didn’t care what they thought.

We were children trying to be adult. Or adults trying to be childish. Ben, a sneaky kid I never liked, stole one of our bottles and never admitted it. We were kids.

I was craving weed the entire time I was there. Our neighbors, a late 30’s something couple, smoked us up once. But I still wanted more. Isn’t that the way it goes?

Tony, the only other smoker, had decided to help. At this music festival, ‘looking’ meant that people would come to you and offer you drugs. Every drug under the sun was offered to me that weekend. So we waited.

Zak had wanted me to come with him to another show, but I made up excuses that at the time sounded legitimate. I was tired, I had said. I just want a day of rest. That I would go to Death Cab for Cutie with him that night but that I wanted to be awake for it. Let me be.

When they had left, a man with a plastic bag came over with special cookies. I was alone at camp with Tony. We ate two apiece. When the others returned, Zak cornered me.

He could tell I was high, but he had no proof. He couldn’t smell anything and he knew we didn’t have a pipe. He was naïve enough to believe me.

I cooked spaghetti on our makeshift grill. I held Zak’s hand as we walked to the main stage to see Death Cab for Cutie play a set. I lost him in the crowd and I passed out on the grass.

On the way back to camp, we had decided to finish our alcohol that night, as we were leaving the next morning. On a whim, I bought a pipe, the same one that a Bozeman police officer would take less than four months later, as Tony looked nearby. I hid it from Zak.

Later, when I was more drunk than high, I searched for weed. But the festival was coming to a close, and everyone was short on everything. Tony, an absolute mess when drunk, absent-mindedly mentioned my newly purchased bowl in Zak’s presence. Tony would apologize later.

This was the worst fight we ever had.

“You bought a pipe! Molly! You told me you wouldn’t!”
(Which isn’t necessarily the truth. I had said I wouldn’t smoke. Which I lied about too)
I had no words; I looked above and beyond his shoulder, silently blinking.

He told me to look at him and I didn’t, not as fast he liked anyway. He took the drink out of my hand and threw it out onto the grass. He glared at me. He ignored me for about two hours. That was as bad as it got.

He left, and then came back with a brown, heart-shaped trick box, a symbol of his remorse. We did this thing, as a couple, where we never apologized for what we had done. We had unprotected sex for the first time that night, in a tent made of noisy nylon. I closed my eyes and waited.

For the remainder of the summer, my smoking habits didn’t change. I was high in his presence more than I care to admit. I would arrive at his house; pet his dogs, chitchat with his family. He would be on his computer, and I’d sit on his knee and make fun of his nerdiness.

Zak would buy computers and put them back together. His prized possession, a two-paneled personal computer he put together, sat elegantly in the first room you saw when you walked in through the mudroom entrance. This room was his throne, his lair, and his evil genius room. He had his computer, his three guitars, his cd’s, his souvenirs, his mail, his clothes, all his stuff, for anyone to see.

What always gave it away were my giggles. I didn’t laugh that frequently when I was sober. What he was saying wasn’t necessarily funny, it was the way he said it. His behavior was what made me laugh. Obviously, he would be confused.

He constantly accused me, saying that I smelt like smoke. I would lie to his face.
~~

So, there was no way now, in the midst of our relationship, that I would tell him I got arrested.

I forbid everyone in Montana to mention it.

When he arrived I wanted to talk but I had nothing to say. I wanted to be with him, feel how close we used to be. But the spark never came back that weekend.

I didn’t know what to do with him. Campus got old, fast. I didn’t have a car and I wasn’t interested in skiing. By Saturday, I was bored.

It was my miracle of a roommate that saved the day. Sara’s sister Mary Lynn had rented a cabin in the woods near Hyalite canyon with her friends that weekend and invited us along for the night.

Before we left, we stopped to buy some alcohol. While in Denver, Zak had made a friend on his dorm floor that made and sold fake ID’s. He received it a few days before he had arrived in Montana. He was hesitant to use it, but gave in. He bought a small bottle of Bacardi rum at a liquor store on the way there.

I never said it, but I saw his actions as hypocritical. He could do what he wanted, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault, but I felt like I was being punished.

Eileen drove Zak, Sara, Jake, and me forty minutes into breathtaking scenery.

We arrived at the cabin to an empty keg and a weak bonfire. I felt ages younger than I was. These people just felt older, with a ruggedness I could never imitate. I felt so out of place. I drank until I was more comfortable. It got better, as the troupe immigrated inwards to the cabin. We ate chips and guacamole.

A mountain man, who had an impressive beard and authentic flannel, offered a pipe in my direction. I wanted to badly, I hadn’t been high since my arrest. But Zak was there, and he would surely disapprove. I abstained.

That night Zak and I talked. We decided that we should stay together, that this thing was going good, I suppose. We slept in the back of Eileen’s SUV. We had cramped, unsatisfying sex in the trunk. Sara saw the condom wrapper the next morning, accusing me. I lied, saying it was from my purse, that it must have fallen out, that it was from the previous night when she gave us privacy on his first night in Montana.

Zak left twenty-four hours later, and I never felt further away from someone. I refused to kiss passionately in the airport prior to his departure. I felt better the minute his plane was airborne.

I thought, “here is my boyfriend, one of my dearest friends, who just came to visit me and we had fun and I know he loves me and I’m in college”
The words felt foreign in my brain and it didn’t register. I should have been happy, but I wasn’t.

He was so sweet. I broke that kid’s heart.

Our relationship never had legs to stand on. Neither of us approved of how the other person chose to live their life. He didn’t like my choices, I didn’t like his.

My Montana Story, Pt 2

2010-12-17T20:45:00.003-06:00

We kissed until we passed out.

I had never learned a mouth as fast as I had hers. I could kiss all day. I still like doing this. It is such an intimate action, I like being as close as humanly possible to whomever I with.

I was drunk but I was aware of my heightened pure ecstasy. This might have been an alcoholic driven event but the event would have happen/not happened is not the main story, alcohol was an indicator variable. Actually, that ended up being our first and only inebriated night together.

I had to stay out of trouble. I found time to be occupied.

Zak was out of my life by the start of March.

Elizabeth’s schedule consisted of skiing and snowboarding, horseback riding, and school.

My schedule revolved around Elizabeth. She was never in my room, due to the disgust of Cheska’s living habits.

Elizabeth’s roommate was a girl who had a boy-friend off-campus. Bingo.

Except for the occasion meal we would eat together, I was in her room every waking moment. I slept in that room almost nightly. While she was in class, I read and read and read and studied and did homework. I cleaned, maybe. I folded her darks once.

I got to calling her Eli one day after a day in bed. She was talking about how she wanted to be more gay, but hid behind straight fashion. She expressed how she wanted to cut her hair, wear different clothes. I told her baby steps.

So as two longhaired ‘feminine’ lesbians, we were Molly & Eli. Two girls who looked like girls but one had a boy name. It was funny to us, anyway.

Eli had friends, but they subsequently disappeared. Like mine did, when all I did was to be with this person. We lived in our own world. I could no longer listen to the heterosexual rhetoric of dating and college and alcohol. I was in a new world. It’s refreshing to recall how vivid that feeling is. Ask any queer kid.

This was the secret: The girls around us weren’t like the girls we were. It was almost like a secret, the unspoken words we all knew.

We went out together as a couple, on a few occasions. There was that time when there was a spring festival held in the heart of downtown Bozeman. It was still a winter wonderland, as it would be until the day I left Montana, in May.

With so many people, we assumed that two college girls holding hands didn’t mean anything. We walked on Main Street, and we kissed as the fireworks went off. There was no reaction. It was in those moments that I thought that I could live in Montana, with this person. I liked the attitude of how they treated us. I was safe.

Another time, we went out to sushi with Sara and Jake. An obvious double date. They were respectful and kind and sweet. Everyone was finefinefine with it, but it was so unspoken.

That surprised me. I detested this lack of alliance.

I read Laramie Project that fall. I felt that Bozeman was like Laramie, Wyoming. There were some parallels. I didn’t feel hated by my peers but I was wary of what they said behind closed doors.

The ignorance in my classrooms felt tense. I once went to a lecture about gun rights for extra credit and the attitude towards guns confused me. I couldn’t handle the rural mindset. I needed an urban outlook. This isolation felt cold.

I was homesick the hardest during Spring Break. I loved the success that my family was having. My older sister Laura was in Chicago, and although was recently heartbroken, was on her last semester before her graduation. Emily was a senior in high school, accepted into her top school, about to graduate.

My dad had been sober for more than a year. I wanted to fit in with their accomplishments.

I missed my friends from high school. I accepted that this cord might be fragile after moving away. But I was still in contact, some more than others.

I wanted an urban life. My classes weren’t interesting. I was fed up.

I assumed Elizabeth would agree. But I was too much for her to handle. I was unraveling. And she let me. She was patient. I mistook this patience for anger. She got frustrated when I wouldn’t listen.

It got terrible, fast.

I was counting the days until I could leave. And while I was enjoying my time with Eli, our sex was pitiful. I felt as if I couldn’t tell her what I liked. I didn’t know what I wanted either. And she was insulted easily, making the sex worse each time.

She tried to offer me reasons to stay. I accepted none of them.
I left Montana in the middle of May. Leaving behind a guilty heart as heavy and bulky as a stone.

That’s it. Six months later I moved to Minneapolis.

My Montana Story, Pt 1

2010-12-17T10:26:00.009-06:00

On my first night of college, I was arrested.

I had moved into my dorm room hours earlier that day. My parents had helped me move. One thousand miles west we travelled; my entire life compacted in an SUV. We drove and drove until we reached southwest Montana. Big Sky Country, they called it. Where if you were high enough, you could see for literal miles. There wasn’t a single house, or building, or satellite tower in sight. Just open, expansive, beautiful land.

I was exhilarated. This is the start of the rest of my life, I squealed to myself. Funny, how one phrase can be so wrong, yet so right at the same time. We arrived on campus to the fever of a thousand other freshman and families. I spotted a few Minnesota license plates and felt relieved. I wasn’t completely alone.

I knew immediately that my dorm hall was the place to be. An architectural oddity, Roskie Hall stood out from any other residence hall on campus. I heard a rumor that Roskie had been featured in High Times magazine as one of top ten drug-trafficking dorms in the country. This was in the late nineties.

With three ‘pods’ to each floor, the unique layout created a social life almost immediately. These people were your family. You ate together, you skied together, you raged together.

After unpacking, I said goodbye to my parents. I remember tearing up. It dawned on me that they were leaving, that they weren’t coming back, and that I was alone. Call me naïve, but it came harder and faster than I thought.

I lied on my bed for what seemed like hours but was probably close to twenty minutes. I felt empty, for reasons I couldn’t even register. I got up to see what everyone else was doing.

This next part, the part between my parents leaving and me in handcuffs, is blurry because I have it blocked out. I played ultimate Frisbee. I ate dinner but I don’t remember with whom, specifically.

I remember sitting in my room around 7pm. People were canvassing the floors, gathering people for a meet and greet. So I joined them. I must have met close to 70% of the dorm that night. At one point I was standing in a pod, with a bunch of people. I remember Lindsey, the girl I would end up getting arrested with, being there. I complimented her piercings. She let me touch them. I was immediately smitten. Smoking marijuana came up. Before we, (me, Lindsey, and five boys I can barely remember) left to smoke on the recreational fields that were adjacent to the building, I grabbed my purse that held my pipe. My first mistake.

I entered the cool dusk of my first Montana night. I had to use my cell phone to light the way. This was what the officers on duty saw that night, our tiny lights in the middle of the field, glowing like bugs. This was my second mistake. I was texting my now one-day-long-distance-boyfriend. I told him the day had been good, but tiring. I opted from telling him what I was doing. He never approved of my smoking habits; he was a drinker through and through.

After sitting down in a circle, I gave my remaining marijuana to Lindsey and her pipe was packed. We shared it. I remember someone saying they saw another person headed in our direction. One of the other boys said to not to ‘get bugged out’. This was the attitude I also had. I was never paranoid before that night.

All of a sudden there was a flashlight in my face. One of the boys tried to make a run for it but we were surrounded on all sides. Three university police officers came out of nowhere.

I should have handed over my student ID, and stayed quiet. Instead my head was a hamster wheel, with my eyes darting in panic. It was evident that someone had to say something. Lindsey was the first to plead guilty. She said she had it. The rest of us were asked if we had anything. I was this close to being excused. But in fear of being searched, I thought I would be in worse shape if they found out I had been lying. My final, and most pivotal, mistake.

I handed myself, and my pipe over. I swear I saw the officer sigh. He handcuffed me in parental disappointment. I remember asking a lot of questions. For a police officer, he was kind enough. It was on a college campus after all; we were not being belligerent. In inconsolable shame, I asked if he could put my hood and he did. There were people staring out from the windows of Roskie, hollering at what was happening. I was walked and seated to the curb near the cop car. I was written a citation. I had to go to court.

A week later, I pled guilty in court in front of a Judge and my fellow unlawful citizens. I had to pay a fine. I had to go to a four-week drug and alcohol class. I had to stay out of trouble.

I tell people this story often. I get the same reactions at certain parts, from shock to anger to disbelief. Now, I can laugh it off, as almost it is a badge on my chest. It’s a story, after all. And everyone loves a good story.

But what I find even more pivotal is what happened on my second night of college.

Classes were still a few days away, so we freshman were still in power social hour. I met more and more people. My roommate was from Boise, Idaho. My neighbors were from California and Colorado. I didn’t feel worthy of any of them.
My roommate Sara was blonde and beautiful and smart. Her high school boyfriend, Jake, lived two floors beneath us exactly. Her older sister had just transferred to MSU and also lived in our dorm building. Her best friend lived in another high-rise close to Roskie. Her entire social life was within a half-mile radius. It took me months to realize I was resentful of this fact.

Her best friend, Eileen, and I hit it off almost immediately. We made each other laugh. She was tall, lean, a light brunette, with naturally curly hair that hit the middle of her forearm.

The night before I moved in, Eileen had lost her virginity to a sophomore boy who lived off-campus, someone she knew from high school. Later, after he consequently rejected her over the next few weeks, I was protective and fiercely loyal to her well being.
When I rested my head on my pillow that second night in Bozeman, my head was still buzzing with excitement. But it was a mixture of dread about my arrest, my fear of school, my success as a student.

I had a dream that I was in a pool, with Eileen. This seemed natural enough; Eileen was a lifeguard during her Boise summers. So it also didn’t surprise me she was wearing her red one-piece swimsuit uniform. In this dream, her eyes were closed. She had her back up against the tile of the pool. I know that in this dream we were kissing, I remember her lips aggressively attacking and then, tenderly, softly touching my own. I remember being aware that this person I was kissing had breasts, and that they could be touched. I remember wanting to but I didn’t. I was just happy to be kissing. I woke up with an ache in my crotch that was as foreign as being arrested.

I learned more in those two days than I did for the rest of my academic school year.
The rest of what I did with my social life that year falls between those two categories: staying out of trouble because of the arrest, and the slow realization of my sexuality.

Sara moved out at the end of the first semester. She acquired a single dorm three stories above, the only other female floor. I took it that had nothing to do with me, although it stung more than I expected. She needed more privacy, more room. I would have taken it too, if I had wanted a single room. And she had her boyfriend, who I liked well enough. I had never walked in on them having sex. Maybe, there were a few times I didn’t get the hint that I should have left room. These were the arguments I had with myself as to why she moved out. Again, it stung.

After she left, I was left with little options. Unless I wanted to pay more for room and board, I had to find a new room. My old room was to be used as a ‘show room’ for campus tours, to display for those high school seniors and their parents.
There were three girls on my floor who were in need of a roommate. I avoided doing this, partly because I felt like used meat from Katie, and partly because I was afraid to live with a woman who lived less than 10 feet away. That I would scare her off, as if she, this new roommate, would also be able to smell it on me.

I picked my roommate irrationally, I ruled out the Kentuckian Christian from my pod. I outright denied the snowboarding, ray-ban wearing, long boarding rager, who would only get me in trouble. That left Cheska, a fellow Minnesotan. She lived in a different pod on my floor.

She liked horses and Twilight. She had a splint. The pale gauze would smell for hours when she would re-bandage her wrist every few days. This splint made her literally messy. Everything was half-put together. There was a single sock on the floor all year; its partner was never bothered to be found. Drawers spilled out off cabinets, Clothes, paper, and homework were in just one large pile. I remember a pillow that would emit big, white feathers frequently.

The room was split literally down the middle. Nothing crossed the line. I never touched anything of hers.

So, for reasons that seem obvious. I had to find time. I had to keep myself busy.

I was still dating Zak, my long-distance boyfriend. But it was out of mere comfort to have him. It was someone to talk to everyday. He even came to visit once, and I visited him in Denver over my birthday weekend. It feels so awkward to mention. I was so unregistered in men at that point that I was only fooling myself.

There was this girl, Elizabeth. She was from Baltimore. She was pretty in an unconventional sense. Her smile is what I remember the most vividly. She came out to me on an early February night, in the coyest of ways. We were in the study lounge, on the main floor of Roskie, doing homework. She mentioned how her ex-girlfriend was still calling her, and while annoyed with it, she couldn’t help but still like. She asked me for advice.

My body started to hum and I couldn’t place the feeling. She was asking me because she wanted to see how I would answer. This foreign idea of flirting with a female got me tongue-tied. It would be two weeks until I ended up in her bed.

Frequently, the residents of Roskie drank together. As long as we were not too loud, the RA’s didn’t care. As long as they did not see any bottles, cans, or cups, we couldn’t be busted. I was still wary of drinking around strict supervision, so I stayed semi-sober, sipping tiny portions of my Jack Daniels and coke combination.

All the girls on my floor wanted to go to a party. There was word that a mutual friend who lived off-campus was throwing an impromptu party. He had a gazebo, a second-story porch, and exactly 3 strategically placed kegs. This was the rumor anyway. It was late February. There was two feet of powdered snow on the ground. It wasn’t actually too cold, but we couldn’t bike. There is no mass transit in Bozeman.

I opted to stay in the dorms. I made eye contact with Elizabeth. She asked me what I was planning on doing. I said that I would wander the floors, that I would be able to find someone to hang out with. She said her roommate was gone, and maybe we could watch a movie? I said yes, innocently.

Again, the parts between me entering her bedroom and waking up in her bed are blurry. A movie was put in her DVD player, I remember that. It was a Tim Burton movie I had seen before. There was nowhere else to sit besides her bed; the rooms were small in Roskie. I propped a pillow against my back. I was starting to feel drunk, and aware that if I wasn’t stimulated, I would fall asleep.

While the movie ran, neither of us talked. Our knees were touching and I remember feeling a heat emit from the friction. Neither of us moved. I ran my palms against my thighs in anticipation. I might have been sweating. While my palm was making its way closer to my hip, her hand stopped mine. She set it on my hand, softly. Our fingers interlaced. I didn’t know what to do next.
I looked at her through the corner of my eye. She was staring at our hands together. She said she wanted to kiss me. I licked my lips as an invitation

Part II coming later.

Who do you think?

2010-12-15T22:12:00.002-06:00

When I see you, the world stops. It stops & all that exists for me is you & my eyes staring at you. There`s nothing else. No noise, no other people, no thoughts or worries, no yesterday, no tomorrow. The world just stops & it`s a beautiful place & there`s only you. Just you. & my eyes are staring at you. When you`re gone, the world starts again & I don`t like it as much. I can live in it, but I don`t like it. I just walk around in it & wait to see you again & wait for it to stop again. I love it when it stops. It`s the best f**king thing I`ve ever known or ever felt, the best thing, & that ;; is why I stare at you.
A Million Little Pieces
I
like the way this quote reads. I like the formatting. I like way it has rhythm. It has a beat to it that I enjoy repeating.
But anyway this quote is what you know it’s about.

The feeling of looking at someone and the world certainly feels like it froze. That it was just you and this other person, the people around you were blurred out. There is a moment of recognition, of clarity.

It’s the feeling of not seeing you for days. And then I do and I make eye contact and it’s like I’m back to that shy kid who can’t stop herself from blushing. Of shameful flirting. It’s like I went back in time. I saw you sleeping on my pillow and I thought how lucky I am.

It’s the feeling of trying to find you. In other people. I see your hair. Everyone wears the same brown boots you have. I recognize your winter jacket.

It’s a melodramatic quote. It’s exaggerated. It’s hard not to take it with some cynicism. Look at the author for example. This could be fake. I guess he only knows what really happened. He knows how he felt.

I deserve this anguish on my house.

2010-12-06T18:31:00.000-06:00

My notebook is full of scribbles of half-thoughts, of half-sober pipe dreams that don’t make sense two days later.
There are half-written love poems, to you of all people. Feverish bursts of energetic enlightenment, followed by the fear of being eaten alive. They are from when we first met. When you said we were idiotic in nature, that we didn’t know what the hell we had gotten ourselves into.

There are lyrics from songs that tell the story the better than I can. Even though I don’t sing and they are not writing about me.
There are weeks and months missing from this notebook. Some pages are torn out. Some I threw away. I intended to keep everything, to remember it all.

But sometimes I am embarrassed by what I do.Especially now that everything is on the table.See, I’m trying something different. I’m being as straightforward as I can. I don’t need to hide behind carefully laden metaphors.You know what I’m talking about. I’m being as honest as I can.

I fucked up.

I dragged you into a situation that you didn’t ask for, that you didn’t want. I involved myself into an arena that’s destructive and against everything I’ve ever strongly denounced. I slept with another person, a mutual friend.

I fucked up.

I ruined something really good. Something that I cherished more than my other relationships, I held you, us, at a higher standard than this.
But I fucked up.
My excuses aren’t valid. So what if I was lonely. So what if I was horny. Doesn’t change the fact that it happened, or that I went back.
I fucked up.

I literally recoiled when you told me you knew. My heart dropped to the very bottom of my feet. My toes had a heartbeat. “It’s over” I though to myself. I offered a weak apology, one of many I would repeatedly iterate. If I could go back to last month, last September when you asked if we had done anything. I should have told you and suffered the consequences. But I didn’t

I fucked up.

I can’t apologize because I do that too often and it doesn’t make the pain go away. It doesn’t change how I lied. How I betrayed you. How I broke the one thing that made you feel safe. I broke the one thing you could rely on.

Another apology letter.

2010-11-22T13:09:00.004-06:00

I saw a picture of us recently. I love this picture. We match wonderfully. We look great together. I am gazing admiringly up at you, a face full of happiness. Taken more than two years ago, we look incredibly young.

Now, I can say these things without any hesitance, yet I had no courage to tell you at the time. I felt love for you. Not quite like the genuine love I feel for the woman I have seen. The ones you do and do not know about. But it was a love formed out of friendship. I admired your intelligence. I respected your social life. I thought that these things were enough.
I had visions of a lengthy, fulfilling relationship. I envisioned marriage, I envisioned kids. I could not see myself any happier with any other man. You were the first person who seemed to ‘get me’. You liked me for who I was. You weren’t looking to change me. You were what I was looking for, what I had been waiting for.

I do still miss you too. I want to know what you’re doing now. I want to know how school is, what your major is. I know you’ve been travelling, across country borders, vertical to mountains and glaciers. A sense of jealousy floods me because I want to hear all about it. I want to hear the stories that you would only tell me, in those secret moments of couple hood.
But I know that I would hear with only one ear, with half-attention, and that I would force a laugh at your jokes that I never liked. My focus on you was never my strong suit. Instead of listening, I would formulate what I would say next. I thought it was my job to enlighten you.
~~~~~~
In the beginning, we had been slowly (and for me, at a painfully slow pace) been exploring our bodies. Both virgins, we tried to communicate. Obviously, this was a disaster. We didn’t know what we liked. We didn’t know what we were doing.
I thought this was normal. That I/we/’us’ would grow out of it.
I always wanted physical intimacy, but never felt satisfied. I certainly enjoyed the friction; the pleasure of satisfying another’s needs before mine. But afterwards I felt restless and disappointed I could not arouse myself in quite the same manner that you did.

The moment it was over I felt relieved. It was a lot of work to get someone off when you felt nothing.

And as much I as I demanded and enforced a safe-sex relationship, I despised condoms. I detested how it killed the mood when you would fumble to put it on. I remember insulting you, describing my hatred for your anatomy. I didn’t want to look at it. I wanted the lights out.

I disliked taking that small white pill every morning. I hated that I gained weight, hated that I was now on some four-week schedule of intimacy.

For that small window of time when we were dating inside the same high school grounds, we barely saw each other. In retrospect, I can confidently saw that I was intentionally avoiding you. I would rush around hallways I knew you were near. I avoided eye contact at my locker. I didn’t like people seeing us together. I never knew how to act around you, if I could touch you.

I never wanted to be one of ‘those couples’ (as if I had any idea how a ‘normal’ relationship should behave) that were overtly affectionate in their romance, showcasing their obvious obsession in such broad and superfluous gestures. I deemed that behavior immature, and something I would not partake in it. And again, you would not only accept this cold cynical attitude, but also say that you were okay with it. Even though I knew you weren’t. You did not deserve this.

I am sorry I hurt you. I am sorry that I couldn’t tell you the truth when you asked for it. I am sorry that I constantly betrayed your trust. I lied to you, for small and large things, for small and large reasons. This behavior was inappropriate. I repeat, you did not deserve it. I took you for granted, like you were a little plaything. I was testing you out, testing your gender out, to see if I liked it.

I was selfish and stubborn and mean. I played you from the beginning.

In your future relationships, I would hope that the obstacles that you face and (hopefully) conquer with this faceless/nameless female never directly correlate back to that one girl you dated years ago who you loved but didn’t love you back as hard because of who/what she really loved. I hope I didn’t damage you past repair. I am sorry.

I better be quiet now.

2010-04-27T05:03:00.004-05:00

I hate to sound like a cliché,
like a walking stereotype,
but I already am one anyway.

I’m falling so incredibly hard. This girl drives me crazy. This girl makes me laugh, makes me smile, makes me blush. She gives me goose bumps. She’s a drug. I get high being from just seeing her. I can’t look away.

And she’s not a girl. I don’t know why I’m saying that. She’s a woman. She knows what she wants. She’s aware of who she is, and what she believes. And that is so h-o-t.

and here is where I replace 'her' with 'you'. You.

I like that I can be alone with you. I like that I get to have you all to myself if I wanted. I like that I can show you off. I like that we look good together. I like that people compliment you. I like that you like me.

I’m so comfortable around you. It feels so natural. And that’s never happened to me before. I don’t want to give this up for anything.

I don’t know what I thought about, or what I did, before you.

How has it really only been two months? It doesn’t feel like it’s been that long. Or maybe it feels exactly as long as it should. Time is weird; we’ve talked about this.

------

I don’t think I wear masks, but I guess I do sometimes. Sometimes I wear the ‘cool/cocky’ mask too often, exhibiting flirtatious nature irresponsibly.
This has gotten me in trouble. You wouldn’t believe me if I said that I wasn’t always like this. .

-But trust me-
-When I say that I am the exact opposite of ‘cool’. I'm a mess.

I think you saw a glimpse of that tonight. And I hope that doesn’t scare you away. I have so much anxiety about the stupidest shit. I worry a lot. I internalize. It isn’t healthy, I’m aware of it. I’ve acknowledged it’s a problem, and I try my best to suppress it. But it comes up. It flares like a machine-gun. Words come out of nowhere.

Thoughts jump into my mind, stories are remembered, and I want you to know them. All of them.
I just have so much to say and my brain doesn’t have the patience to listen to my mouth. Or my mouth doesn’t listen to my brain. I don’t know which one it is. I talk so fast I can barely spit the words out.

I have! So! Much! To! Say!
My brain is thinking so fast, and my mouth can’t catch up. Sometimes my mouth moves too fast, and my brain can’t keep up.

So now I stutter and spit and try and sound coherent.

I know you (yes, you) heard all of this already. I said a lot (talk talk talk talk bla bla bla me me me me).
I meant every word of what I said. And I’ve never been more confident in the words I’ve said to you. My gut is telling me this is a good thing. I meant it when I said you were one of my best friends. I think about you more than I probably should.
You make excited about the future.

Slip of the tongue.

2010-04-11T16:31:00.000-05:00

I fucked up and I don't know how it happened. That's a lie; I do know how it happened. There was alcohol involved. But that's a give-in. Alcohol is always involved when it comes to my fucked-up decision-making. But I wouldn't have done what I did if I hadn't been drinking. I know this for a fact.

See, your names are similar, that's all. And when we, (myself and the unspoken her), for that split second of a few weeks when we were together/seeing each other/hooking up, I said her name A LOT. I didn't tell you this because I knew it would upset you. But I did, I can’t deny that it happened. I said her name in bed. I said her name repeatedly when I was making fun of her. I said her name because it was unique and fun to say. It was our small little joke we had. The only one, really. This was before I knew you, before I knew you even existed.
So when I said her name last night, instead of yours, I knew it was a mistake. But you really can't blame me.

I clung to you, pinning you down by your arms, on top of you, begging you to stay. I apologized, over and over and over again. "She doesn't mean anything to me"/"It was a mistake"/"I'm so sorry"/"I'd do anything to take it back". But you didn't listen. You left. With good reason.

“These things only happen in movies and bad romance novels,” I thought while struggling to fall asleep. I called you, you answered after the fifth attempt. Slurring into the phone, I recognized how much of an asshole I am. “I’d give you the world on a tray” You hung up on me and I slept restlessly.

Miraculously, you called me this morning. You had left your keys in my bedroom. We agreed to get breakfast. "I don't know if I can touch you or not" I had said on the drive there. We did touch eventually, fingers brushing fingers, while I sipped my coffee, avoiding each other’s eyes. I apologized again. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. It was my mantra.

We were tired and hung over and in need of rest. You invited me for a nap. I said yes.

I left. Still not knowing how to feel.

"You're experiences all of the classic stages of trauma without actually experiencing death"

2009-12-28T19:24:00.003-06:00

The wall came down today. I made myself vulnerable. It felt like someone hit me straight in the heart. Bulls-eye.

"It sounds like you need to cry" my therapist said this morning.
And I did while she sat there and tried to grapple all of my grief.

"I may not believe in g-d, but I definitely believe in miracles. And airbags, especially airbags"
-fbook status as of 12-25-09

My mom, dad, and younger sister were all on our way to see a movie. We were running late, my dad was speeding, he hit a patch of ice and we rumbled/tumbled/got tossed down 20-30 feet into a ditch. I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. No one has any significant injuries and we are all o-k in that regard. I think emotionally we are still reeling from it.

I don't want to die young.

Like, the future is scary. Getting older is terrifying. But I would rather experience the future with ALL of it's good and bad than not to experience it at all.

And when I think about all of the dozen of 'what-if' scenarios, my heart breaks. I get anxious when I flesh out those situations.
What if both my parents had died?
What if Emily and I had died?
What if I had died?
What if I was the only survivor?

How would I be now, three days later, emotionally, if that had happened?
I don't know. Probably a wreck.

What if we all died and Laura had to find out that her entire family had died in a car accident on Christmas while she was overseas?

"So what do your first 19 years mean now?" she inquired.
"Well that I've experienced an inappropriate amount of trauma in those two decades but it has helped me better understand who I am as an individual person...I see the good within the bad"

I want to live.

I can tell that we are gonna be friends.

2009-12-23T16:05:00.003-06:00

I dropped you off at home last night and said goodbye. We had played make-believe explorers. We were co-pilots in the night. We used our silly voices and characters until our words were sore and tired. We had sat in silence, listening to the sound of the road. We saw a sign that said "taxidermy" and in our alerted state we assumed dead bodies were walking the cornfields. It's hard not to think we're in a scary movie sometimes.

And in that moment I realized that we were going to be friends until the day we both died.

"We would've driven for hours if K---- wasn't there" she texted me today. She was right. We would have. I would have kept on going until we got bored, tired, or scared. whichever came first.

When I think about how we can love eachother like that my heart burts in size like a balloon and then my heart lifts like a balloon and flys in the sky like one and nothing will be able to puncture my balloon.

It's strange how people come into your life like a mistake. Or how you make friends, for that matter. How you meet someone and you don't click right away and you only know eachother because you have a mutual friend in common who you both now hate with the passion of a hundred suns. That's what happened with us anyway. I can only speak for us.

And now we live in different states, different time zones, different climates. She has friends that aren't me and I have to deal with the fact that she can share her past, her secrets, her life with them now. I can't have her all for myself. It's a thought I don't like to think because sometimes it reminds that we are all really just looking for friendship and when you find one really good friend you fight like hell to keep them. And it scares me that I will lose her, basically. I would give her the world on a platter if I could.

That's what I was thinking when I dropped you off last night and you asked me if I was okay and I said I was I just had a wandering thought. And then my eyes started to fill with tears and before she could see I blinked them away and said goodbye.

driving on one road.

2009-12-16T16:25:00.004-06:00

As we drove on, I peered out of my passenger window. The sky was overcast. Probably due to the snow that had fallen the day prior. It was the start of May 2009, and the sky was still producing snow in Montana's Big Sky Country. Not a lot, but enough. During my last evening in Montana, it was snowing.

It seemed like a sign. Montana didn't want me and I didn't want anything to do with Montana.

"This was such a mistake" I grumbled in my head as I sunk deeper into the seat of my car. I tried to read a favorite book, but i got restless with the predictable outcome. I texted you, saying I had left. You called me a quitter.

***
I loved Montana. I mean I still love it. It's breath-taking. I woke up to a view of the Gallatin Valley Mountains everyday. I finally knew what people meant when they said 'powder' and 'radical'. People weren't being ironic when they dressed up as Mountain Men and drank PBR. Well, maybe they were. I could never tell.

A week of progress and the regress.

2009-11-26T21:26:00.003-06:00

"I've been seeing other girls"

Those words didn't sting. I didn't expect them to. I would have hoped he was... seeing other people that is. It makes it easier on me anyway.

I tried to say it in as many words without actually saying it.

But at the end of the day, he doesn't know.

I don't think I will ever be able to tell him. Not because it would crush him or affect him anyway.

He said himself he felt no sense of attachment to me.

Whether he admits it or not, I know that I will always be his first. and for that reason I cannot tell him I'm gay.

I'm glad that the "closure" chapter is over.

I moved on a long time ago and I am genuinely happy that he has too.

It's like training a dog.

2009-11-19T20:24:00.005-06:00

My father recently decided to sit me down in his office. It's safe ground I think. I don't feel intimidated there. That office is safe ground for me anyway. For my fellow co-workers it's probably pretty terrifying. My dad has a way of dismantling people. I am not sure exactly what he does. He's brutally honest. He can say one sentence or one phrase about you that brings you to your knees. Many tears have been shed in that office. My father's gentle voice and calm demeanor -unlike any person I've ever met- can break the iciest of demeanors.

But not me. Not anymore. I expect these curve-balls as they come.

So he sat me down and we talked.

I think we both weren't surprised at either of our responses.

"I'm worried about your mental health"

"I know"

So there's that.

In the end, he did the heavy lifting. He made the calls and chose the contacts. I merely spoke to a lovely woman named Terra on the phone and now I have an appointment on Monday. No harm, no foul. No one is uncomfortable here.

I have my first words planned out.

"what a treasure you have found"

2009-10-25T18:09:00.002-05:00

It didn't hurt as much as I thought it was going to. Or rather, my expectations of pain were high. I think everything is going to hurt. Clipping my fingernails hurt, brushing my hair hurts. Sometimes getting up in the morning hurts. Not physically, but the hurt you feel when you know that you can't push the clock back and sleep for five more minutes. The final alarm, on my snooze alarm is off. But the four words etched with ink across my bicep did not hurt. As it got closer to my armpit the feeling was definitely heightened, I clutched your hand and breathed deep, knowing that I should not, could not, look like a fool. But the scars on your palm proved otherwise. But the second it was over, I wanted to do it again. "Sex is like a tattoo", I said, "it hurts, but I want to do it again" And everyone laughed and I felt clever. My humor has always been my strong suit.
It means "day of my life" in french. It is my mother's family motto. I guess 'we' came over with the Mayflower. I guess I'm a descendant of the first governor of Virginia. Not like any of that matters. Those ancestral connections mean nothing. I prefer to draw my own conclusions of why the West family would choose "Jour de ma Vie" as the motto. The long version means "the most glorious day of my life". Talk about poetic. What could possibly happen in one day that it would make it so glorious? I'm guessing it's metaphorical, so I can draw my own conclusion.
So I see it as this. Every moment of every single day is building. Every day of your life is building some sort of unit of experience. Whether you know it or not, you do really learn something every day. About yourself, your surroundings, the people around you. You learn how to treat people, how to communicate with people, how to empathize with other people. How to treat yourself. How to communicate with yourself. How to sympathize with yourself. Everything I have learned in life has only been one day at a time. Day of My life. Today, October 25th, is a day of my life. That I can never get back. That will never come back. No one on this godforsaken planet had the exact identical day that I had, and no one ever will. Doesn't mean I have to live like today is my last. That would be impossible. You can't live every day of your life like it's your last. It's exhausting to exert that much energy into every day. It means I should respect today. Respect the moment I am living in. Knowing this moment won't come back. Of course, being respectful all the time is also exhausting. It demands a seriousness that can suck the joy out of any day. So the moments you can find for yourself, alone by yourself, are enough. This song will never come on the radio again. today. So drive, and wait to hear it again at a different time, a different day.