A story. THE story.

She lay on her side in the fetal position. She hated that word “fetal.” It sounded so medical, so impersonal…plus it reminded her of the baby she’d never have. So she hated the word for many reasons. She buried herself under her white down comforter that was cool in the summer, but provided enough warmth in the mild Texas winters. She burrowed into the mattress, wanting to sink down into it. She cried so hard that her body shook with each wail. Her audible cries probably carried throughout the room to the adjoining utility room and out the door to the backyard that was ajar by the help of a bird-shaped pillow, which was purposely placed there so her cat Mollie could come in and out as she pleased, in the evening hours after she got home from work. But she didn’t care who heard. Let the whole neighborhood hear. They probably heard her screaming and cussing earlier over god knows what, so why not this too, now? Who cares? It’s not like they didn’t already think she was the weird cat lady who would call to her cat as if she were a human child, saying phrases like “Mollie don’t make me come find you!” and “Why don’t you ever listen?” They knew she clearly lived alone and had no friends, seeing as no one ever came over to her house. They’d seen her come home every day about 5, carrying a brown sack from whatever fast-food restaurant she chose that night. So was her crying really that unexpected? If that was her life I just described, did it really surprise anyone that she’d be crying?

She was facing away from the door, her comforter still encompassing her, cocooning her body. She left just her face out so she could breathe, because from all the shallow breaths she was trying to catch amongst the crying, it was making it difficult to breathe, especially under a comforter. She was listening to music on her TV screen through Amazon. The words of Beck called out- “True love will find you in the end. You’ll find out just who was your friend. Don’t be sad, I know you will. Don’t give up until true love finds you in the end.” She cried harder and tried to hug herself but it didn’t work, so she envisioned someone holding her, squeezing her tightly. It had worked years ago when she was maybe 20. She actually felt arms and the tight embrace. Of course it was a trick of the mind, but the important thing is that it worked. But it didn’t work this time. She couldn’t feel it. She couldn’t envision it. She couldn’t trick herself into believing that it was happening in that moment, as much as she wanted to. She closed her eyes tight and kept thinking “I can’t do it anymore. I want this to be over. I don’t want to live anymore.” She had reached her breaking point before, so I won’t call this a breaking point. Even though deep down she knew she’d move past this moment, that didn’t matter, because this moment would come again…and again…and again. And she didn’t want to keep living this moment over and over again. She wanted it to all end. She was dying, both inside and out. Her body was disintegrating. If you blew lightly on her skin, her dusty bones would crumble before you and there would be nothing left but ash. If it happened outdoors then all it would take would be for one gust of wind to blown through and her entire being would be gone. As if she was never here. And why would she break down so easily you ask? Is she getting enough calcium? Why yes, yes she is. On her 13^th birthday she broke her femur in half and when they did surgery they said they had never seen anything like it. There was calcium leaking from bones, she had too much. They were super strong, but yet she broke the biggest bone in your body, in half. No easy feat. So it would make complete sense for someone who hasn’t felt the embrace of even basic human touch in months; who hasn’t been held on tightly and securely, body to body locking in as one, in over a decade. It would make sense that someone who has been missing out on something everybody else takes for granted, would fall apart so easily. Not quickly, but easily. There’s nothing quick about it. It had taken years to break down to this point. Years.

But then something miraculous happened, something that was impossible and can’t be explained, yet she wasn’t startled by it, which she probably should have been. She would’ve heard the creak of the box spring, if she still had her old one. Or she would’ve felt the mattress shift, if it was one of those older, lumpy mattresses, but it wasn’t, so she didn’t. She only felt arms wrap around her, scoop her up, not off the bed, but into the arms of another. Her fatigue from her crying spell left her limp, but she remained in the fetal position, a perfect little spoon for a big spoon to fit. She thought about her hair clinging to her wet face from all her crying. That’s what she thought about in this moment, not who or what or how anyone could possibly be spooning her right now. She considered reaching up to move her hair from her face when right then, the hand attached to the arms that were holding her tightly, let go for a second and moved the hair from her face, gently and methodically pushing it behind her ears. This made her cry again. Not full on cry, but she felt the tears escape from her eyes and fall. This was what she wanted for as long as she could remember. Someone to hold her and to push her fallen hair behind her ears. I mean nobody does that unless you’re in an intimate relationship with them. Friends don’t just push the hair that’s fallen in your face behind your ears. She turned her face into the mattress as if embarrassed that she was crying again. But this only made the arms hold her that much tighter. She reached her hands up in front of her body to grasp the hands as if to make sure they weren’t planning on letting her go. But they weren’t and she knew it. The hands felt soft and delicate. The fingers felt long and elegant and the hands felt no bigger than her own. But the strength of them felt ten times stronger than her own. Suddenly another song playing on her TV in front of her came on. It was a familiar one. One of her favorites. She opened her eyes to read the words along with the artist. But as soon as the first verse began, the mysterious hands grew a voice. Well more accurately a voice from behind her began to sing: “You with the sad eyes. Don’t be discouraged oh I realize it’s hard to take courage. In a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all and the darkness inside you make you feel so small. But I see your true colors shining through. I see your true colors and that’s why I love you. So don’t be afraid to let them show, your true colors, true colors are beautiful, like a rainbow.” Her voice was methodical. It sounded like what cotton candy looks and tastes like. Light, fluffy and sweet. It was a beautiful voice. The voice of an angel. Only she hoped it wasn’t a real angel. Because angels don’t stick around…or have real bodies…or are visible to the human eye. She felt the body of the big spoon move in and join her little spoon, and they fit together like the most perfect puzzle piece. With the simplest of ease. They were now One. The hands that become the voice that became the body, when she felt it bond with hers, was definitely female. She began to hum the rest of the song, in a way that lulled the once crying girl into a trance. She felt the whole body still holding her, yet the bed below seemed to have dropped from existence. It felt like she was floating, but still very much being held on to. She didn’t open her eyes for fear that she would discover she really was hovering and that would be too much for her to comprehend, even more than the mystical female being that was in her room holding her in this moment. When she felt that the voice was about to speak again, the girl felt her body rejoin the bed and the plane of existence they were currently on. Her eyes opened wide when she felt the breath of the other, on her ear. She had leaned in and began to whisper in her ear- “Don’t give up hope.” Then gently she kissed the little spoon’s cheek and as quickly as she had come, she left. She was gone. The girl knew it, but yet she could still feel the other’s arms, even if for a fleeting second. She could feel the after-effects of her warmth, of her embrace. The aftershock was powerful and she clung to it and whispered back to herself as if she had been the one to say it the first time- “Don’t give up hope.” And maybe it was just the girl all along…who’s to say really.

Lesbian-con

Sunday night I was standing by one of those moving sidewalk type things they have at the airport. Only it wasn't moving, it was broken. I was on a literal high from my weekend in Las Vegas. And no I didn't win any money. In fact I didn't gamble at all. It took all I could just to walk through the casino to the elevator to get to my room, or to get out of the hotel. Cigarette smoke is literally the worst. It gives me a headache and makes me want to vomit. Vegas is kinda lost on me. I don't drink, smoke or gamble... not because I think those things are inherently evil (like the people on the street corners yelling on their microphones: "Beer guzzlers repent" or whatever the hell they were saying, do). I just don't get the appeal and don't like to partake in them. I don't like the taste and I like my money to be spent on things I love... like button homages to my favorite lesbian characters (but more on that later). However, Las Vegas was where this convention was being held, and the suffering was well worth it. It was a convention that gave me this high. (Coincidentally I was told later that there was a Cannabis Cup going on in Vegas at the same time. But no, still wrong high).

I was on a high from the energy I felt from being surrounded by women that were like me. They liked the same things as me, the same actresses and characters in TV and film. But at the same time, I felt apart from them. I know that sounds contradicting, but it's true. These women liked the same TV shows as me and got my "Orphan Cat" t-shirt reference. But individually I still felt a disconnect from them, wherein as a whole and specifically in these panels I went to, I definitely felt the community there. The vibe, the high-energy was palpable in those panels. I listened as Ali Liebert, who is a Canadian actress who has played many a lesbian character role, and who only came out herself fairly recently, talked of her experiences, specifically on Bomb Girls, where she played the iconic and SO gay, Betty McRae. Ali wasn't ever hiding. She just realized "late" that she was gay. She called herself a "late bloomer" in the panel and I don't know her specific timeline or personal relationships, but I believe she has a girlfriend... and that factor right there is why I felt out of place or disconnected from the other individual lesbians. Minus maybe some of the underage teenagers who newly identify as queer, I'm sure I was the only lesbian there who has never even kissed a girl, but knows without a shadow of a doubt that they are gay. But even despite that difference, I still felt a connection to Ali, like maybe she knows where I'm coming from, or at least partly. Ali and I are the same age. As for me, I only journeyed through my self-exploration to my sexual identity 5 years ago. It will be 5 years this May. It really wasn't a long journey once it got sparked. I've already talked about all that in a blog titled: This is Me. It's from 4 years ago. It was that February when I wrote about that journey to self-discovery and came out to the blogosphere world. I got to meet Ali briefly at the autograph table and I got to give her a handwritten card and tell her how much her character Betty meant to me and how often the things she said in the show, mirrored what was on my heart and in my head. I'm sure she'd heard that a million times before. But it wasn't until the panel the next day, that I felt that connection to her again. Her slight nervousness and bashfulness as she spoke about her newfound self wasn't weird or awkward or off-putting. It was endearing. She reminded me of someone... oh yeah, it was me. I kinda kicked myself for not telling her...well I don't know what, exactly. As if anything I could have said to her would've made her be like- "Oh this Christie chick is interesting. I want to get to know her more." Why on earth would that ever happen? She's in Canada and I'm in Texas. But it's not even about that anyway. It's not about a relationship forming, but more so, about a connection being made. A REAL conversation being shared. Being heard and understood and seen by someone is everything. All I wanted was to just have a honest conversation with someone that I felt like maybe "got me." That knew where I was coming from, maybe. I too am 35, like her. I too am a late bloomer. It was a lot of years coming for me too; I just think that so many girls know early on and I was just so oblivious to all that when I was younger. I was really naïve and grew up a church girl. Also I think Ali could be a little shy in real life, despite her amazing ability to act and take on a character SO well. I can't do that part, but I am shy and awkward too (she called herself awkward in the panel). I just felt like she understood where I was coming from and her journey to self-discovery might've been similar to mine. And that maybe even just by talking to her, in a real way, it would've helped me out in some way; maybe not feel so alone in all this. That's all I wanted from that conversation. But of course I didn't tell her my story at the autograph table. I don't think I could've ever done that in person. I'm a writer, not a great talker. I have to grow on people and unfortunately there's not always time for that. But she did like my Orange is the new black tote, with all the characters drawn on it, that I bought from a vendor there, so that was kind of fun.

But this blog was supposed to be about the high I felt by being there and not about just one person, so I'll move on to explain that more. First of all: the buttons. Oh my god. I got the most amazing buttons/pins/whatever you want to call them, at this vendor's table. Her business name is Glorious Weirdo, and I love it. She's got a Facebook page and an Etsy store, so check her out. I'll post a picture of the buttons I got. I love them so much. From Lost Girl to Bomb Girls. From referencing a character that was killed off (and who inspired my own story) on The Walking Dead, to endless Kate McKinnon as Holtzmann on Ghostbusters, this chick had it all. I already collect pins/buttons and put them on this lamp shade I have, so I was in heaven with all these to look through. I went to her table 3 times and spent a significant amount of time looking through them all. Nowhere else on the planet would there be someone that would make these obscure references to lesbians on TV shows and put them on buttons. Man I love it so much. THAT'S one of the things I loved about being there. All these women watched the same shows as me and loved them for the same reasons as I did- for the lesbian characters in them. To see someone that is like you, on screen, it's just EVERYTHING. And to see someone relatable, means the world. Also the panels. Oh my god the panels. I laughed so hard till my cheeks were hurting, at the Lost Girl panel. And I was moved by the women on the LBGT actresses in TV and Film panel. These women that you loved because of how well they portrayed a character that you saw yourself in, is one thing, but to hear them say how they fight for us...they fight to have more lesbian roles and not just the sidekick, but leading roles and roles that mean something, means the world to all of us. They want to tell our stories and that right there is inspiring. I want to write those stories. I already do write those stories. I may not have experienced these exact relationships in real life, but I've experienced them in my stories. I have been in significant relationships before, even if they've been with the opposite gender... ok just 2, but still, I'm not completely living under a rock over here. I've written many a tale of girl meets girl (and zero of boy meets girl, in my past life, so that should tell you something. And I've been writing my whole life). Also I'm most proud of the detail I put in and of the characters (one of whom is always me in some fictional way) and how they process their feelings and work through all the emotions that come up when you're finding your true self and when you're falling in love... or I guess in my case "wanting to fall in love." It's obviously a wonderful therapeutic exercise for me, just to write it all out. So I got to go to this "Breaking into Print" panel and the lady who spoke at it, who is an Author and Teacher herself- Alex Westmore, was the most inspiring and passionate speaker I think I've ever heard. She made me believe that I could actually become a published author. I scribbled down notes at lightning speed, on the pad of paper I stole from my hotel room. I soaked up every word she said. She gave us the tools and the encouragement to go and get it! And between that, seeing Sara Ramirez (who played Callie on Grey's Anatomy) walk by me in the lobby, and hearing Ali speak at the panel, all back to back; I jetted out of there towards the end of that panel suitcase in hand and literally floated to the airport. Ok not literally. I actually took a Lyft car. But I was on Cloud9. I stood there by that broken down walking sidewalk in the middle of the McCarran International Airport, talking a mile a minute on the phone to my best friend, recounting the events of the past 2 days at the first ever Media and Entertainment Convention for LGBTQ Women and Allies. Also called ClexaCon, which is based off of 2 lesbian characters in a show I do not watch, one of whom was killed off and sparked this whole discussion about killing off lesbian characters in TV shows, an important discussion of course. It pushed a whole community into action, holding those in charge of making these shows accountable for what they are allowing to happen in them. I mean I get it. I may not have watched The 100, but I understand the death of a lesbian character. I was inconsolable after Poussey died on Orange is the new black. That mainly had to do with the fact that I saw myself in her SO much. She said things I've said out loud and thought alone in my head. It felt like they were killing me. But again, that's in a whole other blog from last June. It's a good one. Check it out. And poor Denise on The Walking Dead. Doesn't Tara deserve to be happy??! Now I'm just waiting for them to kill Tara off and I'm not going to be ok with it, but I'm trying to mentally prepare myself. At least in this show it isn't about "killing off a lesbian." Literally everyone dies on this show. It's the zombie apocalypse. What do you expect?

I know I have a habit of going off on tangents, relatable tangents, but still. And here I go again: So I almost didn't go on this trip. I literally changed my mind from an absolute no, to me booking everything, a couple hours later. It was a lot of money, all added up and I was afraid I'd go and literally nothing would happen, I would meet no one and feel like it was a waste of money. But I also knew that if I didn't try, then I would never know. I knew I would regret it. And I'm SO glad I went. Did I meet a girl and make a connection and have a new friend now or even hopes of it being more? Nope. But that's ok. I felt the power of camaraderie in that place. I felt the energy and the light of women that were like me, even if I still feel separate and different than them in some ways. Maybe that's the Gemini in me. Maybe I'm too much of "twins." I'm not two-faced at all, but I sometimes feel 2 opposite ways at the same time. But anyway, it was well worth it. Most definitely. The panels are probably what did it for me the most. I don't have friends that I can talk to about girls, even though they are girls, they are straight and they don't get it and can't pretend to. But in that room, the women would laugh at the same jokes that I would laugh at. Lesbian jokes. I felt connected when we were all together in that big panel room. It felt like we were one and not individual lesbians or bisexuals or queer or questioning or whatever. We were just ONE entity. And that was an amazing feeling. A feeling I want to chase for some time. I want to go again next year. Even if it's in smoky Las Vegas again. At least they have the fountains. The Fountains at Bellagio were fucking incredible. I could've watched them for hours...

Like what I wanted with Ali, we all want that with someone. To feel that connection. To feel understood. To not feel weird or alone. We just want to know that someone 'gets you,' and understands exactly what you've been through to get to this place and it's ok that it took awhile (for me it was a month before I turned 31) because it took them a long time to get there too. So even if in this case, this connection I feel is one-sided, and Ali will probably never even know about it, that's ok. I mean I still hope I meet someone that is like me, but I'm good at waiting. I kinda have to be, right?

Well, regardless of what did or did not happen, I'm still proud of myself for going all alone. I am used to going on trips by myself, since my friends are all married with kids now, because if I really want to do something or go somewhere, I do it. I don't let the fact that I'll be alone while doing it, stop me. I know my friends have told me that they admire that about me and I admire it about myself as well! Not everyone is brave enough to do things like that all alone, like I am. I did talk to many nice women here and there, in lines or panels for a few minutes. I guess I'll have to continue to leave the meet-cutes for my stories... for now. Maybe one day it will happen for me, but until then, at least I have the ability to write them out, and live vicariously through my cloned-self, in said stories. And maybe one day those stories will be turned into a published book that someone other than a close friend or two will read. For the first time in a long time, I actually want to grow old. If it means that I have more time to write and try to get published, then I am all for it. And THAT is something I couldn't fathom for many years. Growing old meant being alone longer and I didn't want to live that life. Sometimes your life looks differently than you thought it would when you were younger. And that's ok. It's yours, not anyone else's.

Well, thanks for bearing with me through tangents and repetition. I know I said "gets me," on a loop and I do apologize. Believe it or not this blog took several evening attempts to write it all out and edit it (yes it's actually been read through several hundred times. This is what I've landed on as the final draft). My blog posts are always written in an hour or two and posted on the same day. But I think I'm still processing through what this weekend was for me, and this blog has helped... or confused me even more; one of the two. No, I'm kidding, it's been good. I think though, that I'm going to be reflecting back on this weekend and the conversations and the inspirations I experienced, for a really really long time. And I hope I get to go back next year... and maybe I'll have someone to take with me this time... or maybe not. Either way, I know that my journey is mine and my experiences are mine and how I got to where I am is MY story. I'm willing to share it with anyone who will listen. I'm ok with me and my inexperienced-lesbian self. Because it's who I am. I finally know who I am and I'm so incredibly happy to know my true self. It's an amazing feeling. And I have to believe that there is a girl out there that is going to be so thrilled and honored to be my first and is going to take that seriously and to heart. And I'm probably never gonna let her go... but that's a story for another time...