Welcome to...

I haven't written on this blog since July, but I haven't stopped writing. I write all the time and have been deep into various stories; but tonight, on Christmas Eve, I went alone and saw the new movie Welcome to Marwen..... I connected with it so deeply, that I had to blog about it tonight. It's based on a true story of a man who was beaten within an inch of his life by a gang of men, because he was different. And now he was an artist who could barely write his name, let alone draw, so instead he created this town and used these action figure type dolls taking pictures of them, doing various things like (at least in the movie) kicking the ass of a bunch of Nazi dolls. But mostly he used this creative outlet to process the pain both emotional and physical, that he endured from his attack. While I couldn't connect with him on that exact level, I definitely know a thing or two about living vicariously through your art. I initially wanted to see the movie because of Merritt Wever. She's an actress who's had a profound effect on me for years now. She connects with her characters on an emotional level so deep, that you believe she feels every single thing her character is feeling. I particularly loved it when she portrayed Mary Agnes on Godless. But I wouldn't have watched Godless in the first place had I not already been a fan of hers from Nurse Jackie and The Walking Dead. I saw she was in it and I was on board, even though Westerns are not my thing. But even though that might've been why I chose the movie, it wasn't why I was impacted by it. She actually did have a much bigger role than I initially thought she was going to have; she ended up being a very sweet friend to Steve Carrel's lead character. However, I connected with Steve's character (the artist Mark) more than I thought I would. In the movie he carries around his dolls with him. They protect him in a way, they help him process the world and he feels safer with them. I didn't realize it till the movie was over that I had my own doll. My tablet. My tablet is where I write all my stories. It has a purple and white giraffe print cover and a purple keyboard. It's old, a first generation Surface, but I love it miles more than my work tablet which is a much newer version of the same brand. Mine's a little smaller and I do carry it with me, not everywhere but anywhere I think I may be inspired to write. I'll literally walk around the lake carrying it even though I never stop and sit on the ground and write. It is my security blanket. And I had it with me tonight! I brought it in because I had gone to this theater in a sketchy area, at night and there was a sign by where I parked that said "hide your belongings." I was like oh hell no, I'm taking this in. It didn't occur to me that literally no one would break into my broken down taped up car that's missing a headlight. But to me, I was only worried about losing that tablet. I had it in my lap during the whole movie and when it was over I realized the connection. His art was his everything. He lived vicariously through the lives he created for his dolls. And I do the exact same thing with my stories. I write fictional versions of myself into these worlds I will never live in, like how he was the WWII fighter pilot, "Captain Hoagie" in the world that he created. He had all these female dolls who represented and were named after real women in his life who were there for him, helped him, inspired him... or whom he fell in love with in the real world. I feel for the guy, because I know about this all too well. I write these stories in which I find love, either with a fictional character or the much more embarrassing much more frequent option...a real life person, specifically an actress. He sometimes confuses the women being nice to him because they are good people, for real true love. I don't have that exact problem since I don't know any of the women I've written as my love interests, in my actual life. I've never spoken to any of them... well that's not true, I spoke to one once..but it wasn't the same thing as it was with him.
Merritt's character in the movie, while much younger than Steve's, seems to really care for him, probably only platonically, but she at least tries a lot to get him to go out, be with people, do things like go try sushi. In the end he says something that wasn't hard to hear... it would've been years ago, but it wasn't now. He said and I'm paraphrasing slightly, "some people just don't find true love. It doesn't happen for everyone. Some people are just alone." And that feels like me. That feels like how my life will always be and I'm not sad about it anymore, I've accepted it. When I had my surgery for my deviated septum, I was afraid of going under anesthesia because I didn't like the lack of control and what could go wrong, medically. I didn't like the idea of going to sleep and maybe not waking up. I think a part of me always thought that since I don't have the traditional version of a "loved one" ie: spouse and children, that MY life is not worth as much as those that do. They need to live to be there for those people in their lives. But me, it didn't really matter. Who would be really affected? But facing that surgery I didn't feel that way anymore; I wanted to live. I wanted to keep going and keep writing my stories, even if I was the only one to ever read them. I love them I love them all. I love that they are hard and tough and really bad stuff happens to my lead character in them sometimes, but in the end she always pulls through and she always finds love. Like Mark with his "Captain Hoagie," only his fictional self found love... and that might be my fate as well, but I'm never going to stop doing my art; just like he never well either. And at the end and probably to give us a little hope for Mark, he asked his friend (Merritt's character) to go out for sushi and they both said they didn't know if they'd like it, but they'd try. Maybe they were referring to each other and being something more than friends, maybe it was just the sushi, but I liked that they showed him stepping out of his comfort zone and trying. I do this sometimes... far less than I used to, but I still do. I'm going way out of my comfort zone in May to Provincetown AKA "lesbian town." I don't think it's officially called that, but actually there's a single girls weekend event being hosted there and I am signing up. I am going to try. It may all be women a lot older than me, but hey at least I'm going, at least I'm trying. Plus I've always wanted to go to Boston and Cape Cod, so I'm going for that reason too, because I know I can't go just for the hopes that I meet a woman. I don't live with that hope anymore. I don't say that to feel sorry for me, I say that as truth. I'm realistic. Maybe one day I'll be proven wrong, but for me, I can't be the girl that goes to bars or does online dating, I just can't do it. If that means I'll be alone, then so be it. Mark will always have his dolls and I will always have my stories... and just like in his town of Marwen, anything can happen.... you just have to create it.

Stories are my savior, writing is the way I process the world

I’m tired of going unnoticed. I’m tired of being unimportant. I’m tired of everyone assuming “Christie’s fine.” She’s got her cat, she’s got her trips she takes across the U.S. and that one time to Canada. She’s good. She doesn’t need me, she doesn’t need people. She doesn’t need friends. She likes being alone, she’s always writing her stories or at the lake listening to music. She’s got her shows, she loves her shows. As if all those things are enough. They are not. Companionship, physical love, emotional connection; that is what is truly needed to thrive. More now than ever.

This must be what people think because the alternative is that they don’t care at all. Or…and this goes with the original assumptions, they both think I’m fine being alone all the time, but at the same time they can’t find out for sure or spend time with me because they have a husband and a baby to care for. And if they do have any free time to spare, they’d give it to their best friend. They don’t have time for anyone else but those 3 people in their lives. And my best friend lives in Sacramento. And I don’t want to live in Sacramento. No offense to Sacramento. And she wouldn’t be there forever anyway. In the time I’ve known her she’s lived like 5 places. It’s the life of being married to a military man. So I couldn’t just keep uprooting my life to be near her and her soon to be now 5 kids. As much as I’d love to be in their life more (they are the only kids I’m ever going to have) I can’t just move and Cali is way more expensive than here. I do wish I could see them more, though. Also I like my house and it’s the only place my cat knows and as dumb as that sounds, I don’t want to disrupt her life either. Not that I wouldn’t in a heartbeat for a girl. If I met a girl who was so into me and I was into her and she moved away then hell yeah I’d move to be near her, sorry Mollie. I wouldn’t get rid of her for a girl, but I would move us if it meant I got to be with a girl who adored me, who loved me and couldn’t bear to live apart.

But none of that is going to happen. I can’t even make a friend, like a normal hang out on the weekend kind of friend. So what makes me think I can find someone that wants to be more than that? And I can’t even try anymore anyway. It feels so pointless. All of it. Everything. Why should I try when I don’t fit in anywhere? I already know this for a fact. I’m not one of those people who try out for American Idol thinking they’re a fantastic singer but they sound like a drowning cat. I’m super self-aware, I’m not delusional. I don’t fit in with girls my own age because they’re all married to guys and have young children. I don’t fit in with single girls my age because I don’t drink and I don’t like going to bars and clubs. I don’t fit in with the lesbians because I’m not really one of them, I’m just a wannabe. It’s like groupies who hang out with the band. I don’t play the instrument, never given a chance to, so what the fuck do I know?

Does anyone even see me? Am I even here? Do I exist? Or am I just a ghost? I’m not a bad person, I’m not an evil person. I don’t hurt people, at least not on purpose. But I feel like I’m not good enough for anyone to like, for anyone to get to know, for anyone to connect with, for anyone to love. That’s the only explanation. I’m not cool enough, I’m not pretty enough, I’m not interesting enough. I’m not funny enough. I’d give up everything, this house, this city, my trips, everything but Mollie and obviously my family (which includes my bestie and godkids) for HER. For the one. For the girl that wants to be with me. That deems me good enough to be with. That deems me pretty enough, cool enough, funny enough, interesting enough, special enough to be with me. What makes people even like each other? I don’t even know. I can’t remember what it feels like to be liked like that, to be loved, to be held, to be kissed. I can’t remember. I’m not saying that to be overdramatic, it’s the truth, I actually can’t remember. It’s been too long and it only happened twice. But it was intense and real and felt like it would last forever. I look back and just know that it was those things, I can’t really remember what it felt like to experience it, not realistically. I only know that I did.

I wrote tonight for 6 hours, practically without stopping and mostly my story- Another Handmaid’s Tale. Thank God for that. Thank God I have the ability to write. That at least I love my stories. At least I want to read them. Sometimes it feels like it’s the only thing keeping me going. Sometimes it’s not enough or I can’t write or I don’t want to read these made up stories of love, I want to experience real love, but it’s better than nothing. It’s better than being trapped in a mind with no creative outlet. That would be far worse. Like those poor girls in Handmaid’s Tale. No music or books or writing. That right there even without all the other horrible stuff, is my Hell. Not entirely sure why I like writing this story. I guess I’m just in a place where I need to create a life worse than mine, so I can feel better. Although I always write a happy ending; eventually I will in this story too, when I get there. I always get the girl in the end…wish I could write that ending in my real life…if only.

True story

One day I will write a story and it will be real. It will be the truth. It will be my reality. It will tell the story of a meet-cute between me and some woman out there, yet-to-be-named. Not that she doesn’t have a name, I just don’t know what it is yet. And I won’t have to live in these fictional stories I write. I won’t have to live vicariously through my own characters I created or through this fake me. The story will have no famous people in it, no actresses, no characters from my favorite TV shows. It will just be about a normal girl with a normal job and we will have a normal life, like I always wanted. We won’t need to travel through wormholes and time to alternate Universes. We will just be here on this Earth. We will live wherever we live. I won’t need to rewrite my teen years in which I knew who I was earlier in life. My past will be my same past and my girl will love it. She’ll be into the stories of shy awkward me at Church Youth Camp. She’ll want to go see the swings I jumped off of at my Elementary school playground. Where I felt like I was flying for that brief moment in time. I can take her to where I broke my femur the day before I turned 13. I’ll show her the house I grew up in, the roof I hung out on and the front door where I got my first kiss. And we’ll kiss at it too, and make a new memory. She’ll read every single one of my stories and she’ll laugh at some and be turned on by others. She’ll tell me I’m a weirdo, but in a good way. She’ll find them sad but hopeful. She’ll have her favorite, but she’ll say she loved them all.  I’ll know her family and she’ll know mine. Maybe her family is her life-long best friends, maybe it’s just a Mom, maybe it’s 2 parents or maybe it’s grandparents, but whoever it is, I will be the same respectful girl I am with my own. They’ll love me. How could they not? My day job is being nice to families, so I got this.

She’ll watch my favorite shows with me, The Walking Dead and Orange is the New black. She’s a lesbian so that’s already her favorite show. She won’t want to watch The Walking Dead  because she thinks it’s too gory and gross and scary but I’ll wear her down and I’ll come home one day to find that’s she’s binged the first season in an afternoon and I’ll re-watch the rest of them with her. She’ll show me her favorite shows and I might have to tolerate them because she loves them and I love her, but I’ll get into it, if it’s that important to her, I’ll grow to love them too. But most nights we’ll lay in bed in each other’s arms and listen to music. We’ll say “Alexa play this” and “Alexa play that” and share with each other are all-time favorite songs, which will easily take up an entire night. We’ll talk until the sun comes up and I’ll call in sick and sound like I’ve been throwing up all night…cuz I want to stay in bed with her another whole day.

I’ll finally have someone to go on my trips with…more importantly someone to share a hotel bed with. I don’t see the purpose in going on a trip with someone you’re not sleeping with. That’s called an annoying extra person in a room made for one, or one couple. I’d rather go alone than share a hotel room with even a friend. I’m too old for that. Or it just doesn’t sound fun to me. If I can’t walk around holding your hand or sneaking kisses on the tour bus, then what’s the point? I just can’t see it I guess.

I hope to have this one day. I had zero hope that I’d see snow in Chicago when I went to bed at midnight and the 7pm snow they promised still hadn’t come. But I awoke the next morning to white…and I thought I had gone blind or something. A bright white light I was seeing and not the fake green grass on the roof of the building below me. But no, that was snow. I couldn’t believe it. Being jilted so many times from meteorologists in Dallas promising snow, made me not believe. But I guess I should’ve expected more, since it is Chicago and they have a ton of snow. And apparently in April no doubt. But since every time I have the least bit of hope for anything, I’m always let down, always disappointed, I just stopped hoping altogether. I got a little bit of hope back that day. I’m not saying it was a lot. Maybe the low battery isn’t flashing anymore. Maybe it’s not in the red. Maybe it’s at 21% instead of the normal 6. Maybe it’s making its way back down to 6, now that it’s been 4 days…but it was nice having a little bit hope for a time. Maybe it got me to write this. To write the hope of being able to write a real story one day, not one of my many many fiction tales in which I always meet a girl and fall in love, but an actual story of a real live girl. I’ve never considered that one day I could write the true life story of how I met…what’s her name. I never thought I would write anything but fiction, at least story-wise. But maybe I will one day…and maybe I’ll read it to her when we’re old, to remind her of how we met, how we fell in love and how we shared a life together. Even if it wasn’t as long as I’d hoped it be, time with someone you love is never going to feel long enough anyway. You could have 65 years together, like my Grandparents did, and still be left wanting more. It’s never about amount of time anyway, it’s about quality; how it felt, how she made you feel loved and how you loved her as long as you could. If she felt loved…then it was enough time.

Ghost

White as a ghost I am. 

And as invisible as one I feel. 

You look right through me as if you can’t even see me. 

You forget about me as if I died long ago. I’m still here. Same place I’ve always been. 

Like a ghost, nothing’s changed for me. Nothing new has happened to me. 

I’m still alone.

Still single. Still childless. Still unimportant. Still not normal. Ghosts aren’t normal. They’re ghosts. They used to be someone but now they’re not. They’re not anyone. They wander. They haunt, for fun or out of boredom. Nothing affects them. They can’t get hurt anymore. They’ve gotten past all that. Now they just exist...and don’t exist. They are an oxymoron. 

Ghosts have accepted their fate. They have accepted who they are and don’t try to change that. 

But ghosts can’t feel the warm sun on their bodies, like I can feel right now.

They can’t taste the sweet creamy taste of strawberry ice cream. 

They can’t feel the impact of a child as they run at you and slam into your body for a bear hug. 

I don’t want to be a ghost anymore. Ghosts are dead and

I am alive. 

An awkward concert

I went to probably the most awkward concert of my life. And it wasn’t bad at all…just awkward, but I’m kind of the Queen of Awkward, so…guess it wasn’t that much of a stretch for me. It didn’t really bother me, I just took note of it. I was excited when I heard Mary Lambert was coming to Dallas. She’s this brave, outspoken, not afraid to share pain, kind of girl. She also happens to be a lesbian. I put the concert on the meet-up concert group, I sometimes set up concerts for. There was only one bite: a lady who is much much older than me. Like older than my Mom. Which obviously wouldn't matter a bit if this was a group thing, but just us? Um no. Not happening. I was kinda mad because I didn’t want this to feel like a date. I didn’t want it to be just us, standing awkwardly next to each other…well I guess we would’ve fit right in, at this particular concert. But I was also like – “this lady’s gonna mess up my game!” The other lesbians in the room are going to think we’re together because she’s standing by me and talking to me! And so they won’t talk to me, and I don’t even know this chick!! Well luckily I was worrying for nothing, because not only did no one speak at this extremely quiet concert, but also she didn’t come, or she didn’t let me know she was there via the message board and neither did I. I got there really late, on purpose. I didn’t really care much for whoever was the opening act. When I got there she was already singing, but I managed to ask a girl that was standing there in the back how long she’d be on and she said that this was her first song. So, perfect timing. I was only able to get an hour in the parking garage because it was free and the only ticket it gave me, despite trying to pay for more hours, so I hoped she’d get in my favorite songs in that hour. She did. But I discovered that while she has an amazing voice and I love her whole “thing”- it’s extremely personal. Experiencing Mary Lambert’s songs is like being in her bedroom, on her bed with her as she cries about her recent break-up and I don’t mean that in a mean or negative way at all. It’s beautiful. But it’s heart-wrenching. It feels like you shouldn’t be there, you shouldn’t be hearing all this. It’s not your place, unless you’re her close friend. There were probably 50 people there. A few straight couples, one gay couple and many lesbian couples. And many single, presumably lesbian women standing all by themselves. If it hadn’t been dark and quiet and Mary hadn’t been doing a spoken word about her ex leaving her and not calling her after her own house burned down, maybe I would’ve spoken to one of them. Eh who am I kidding? I still probably wouldn’t have. I do find it ironically funny though, that as I was getting ready for the concert, I couldn’t figure out what to wear and I was convinced my face was not at all working and make-up wasn’t helping, so I texted a friend- “Ugh I don’t want to go, I’m so fucking ugly. But I guess it’ll be dark so it won’t really matter anyway.” It’s not just funny because I was right, about the dark part. But also out of all the artists I could’ve been going to see, she’s the last person I should’ve been concerned about how I look, when going to her concert. She even does a song about being ok with your body type, how you look, all of that. She’s very anti body-shaming and pro- YOU. She’s a bigger woman herself and she did a spoken word on it that very night. So I laughed to myself later on about how it was so silly of me to say that, particularly not at a Mary Lambert concert. I think she’s beautiful, by the way. So I moved around a lot that one hour I was there. I couldn’t find a good spot to stand. I was either behind an annoying straight couple embracing each other or someone smelling of B.O…oh wait, that was the same guy from the couple. I don’t think I’ve ever moved from the first spot I stood at on the SRO floor of a concert hall, so that was weird and awkward for me. So was standing alone away from people because there was a lot of open space. And so was that spoken word about her recent breakup. But I’d admire her so much for doing it. It obviously helps her tremendously to get it all out like that. It’s her outlet and I love that because everyone needs one. Mine is writing. Both this blog and my stories. After the heart-wrenching spoken word of her recent relationship ending, she sang my favorite song of hers- “When You Sleep.” But it’s such a deeply personal song to me, that I felt weird and awkward listening to it around people. I was like – “hey get outta my room!” It was still so beautiful though. All in all it was a great way to spend an hour. I had to leave for fear of being towed and they don’t allow you to come back in once you leave, so I left while she told a story. I was pretty sure she was almost done anyway. It was still nice to see her in person, to put a face and body to that incredible voice of hers. I’m glad I had the opportunity to go. There’s always something a little magical about seeing someone you’re used to hearing in your ears, live before your eyes. I think it helps you to connect to them even more, at least in someone like Mary. I hope she never stops making music. I’m sure it saves her, like my writings do…and even if no one listened to them, I’m sure she’d never stop making them.

Brave, weird, it’s all the same

I was thinking about all the “interesting” things I’ve done...that’s a nice way of saying- weird or crazy. I guess you could also say unusual or unique. Maybe not unique because it sounds like only you did it and that’s not true. Some of the ones that stand out the most are like when I went to a “Cuddle Party,” (which is exactly as it sounds). Or the weekend I spent at the Nudist Colony. I was the youngest person there by far but it didn’t stop me from enjoying myself. That was probably the freest I’ve ever felt in my life. I’m specifically referring to my nature walks alone in the woods with the wildflowers and only the birds to see me. I had purposefully picked an off weekend and most people hung out by the pool anyway. I also got a color tattoo of mountain peaks on my left arm above my wrist. Not necessarily unique, but it is when everyone thinks it’s just colored triangles on my arm, like I’m really into Geometry or something. When in reality I think I almost flunked that class and to this day haven’t a clue what the point of it was.  

I’ve done other brave things. Like I moved to Colorado not knowing a soul, just because I loved the mountains and wanted an adventure. I’m proud of myself for that. That takes guts moving somewhere all alone. I’ve gone on countless meetup group events, some where I find myself surrounded by senior citizens. Some where no one even shows up even though they said they were coming. I’ve gone on dating app dates to meet strangers. I go to hotels alone just for the fun of it. I’ve taken trips to cities like San Francisco alone, been to another country alone (Canada, but still). I rock out at concerts alone. There isn’t anything I haven’t done alone. I went to Vegas for a lesbian conference all alone. I went to The Walking Dead premiere event in L.A. alone and that was given out as “tickets for two.” I always try to talk to people, wherever I go, to connect. Sometimes I think there’s something there, but usually there’s not. And even if for moment there is, it’s not as real as I thought it was. Or the other party had a better offer come along. It is what it is. It still doesn’t keep me from doing all these crazy, weird, unique, unusual, interesting things. 

I’m still proud of myself for trying. Not everyone can do some of those things alone, or any of them alone. It takes guts to try. It takes a brave soul to be like- “here I am, like me or not, but I’m going to still have a great time wherever I am.”

Spoiled by Kristin Chenoweth

I don’t know how to be, anymore. I often find myself unable to move, paralyzed by an inability to live in this reality. In my reality. I want to hide away in my bedroom on my way too expensive mattress, and just melt into it. Just become one with it and let it wrap itself around me. Let it hug me, let it become me.
It’s very lonely being isolated like I am. It’s very easy to get lost. It’s easy to believe that no one in this world understands you or cares about you and maybe you don’t care about anyone either. Sometimes I want to shake people and be like- why don’t you like me? Why don’t you love me? Why won’t you give me a chance? Why won’t you let me love you and make you the most important person in my life?
But instead I just lose a fighting battle I have with myself over taking a trip, where I could be around new people again, because I just can’t believe that anything will happen, that I’ll meet anyone; didn’t the last 10 times, so why would I now? At least I finally made the decision. I was on the fence for so long that I was about to drive myself crazy, being so indecisive.
I’m not usually like that. If I want to do something, I do it. Whether or not I have someone to go with, scratch that, I never have anyone to go with, so usually I just do it if I want to do it! But this time I both wanted to go and didn’t want to go, so I couldn’t be swayed one way or the other. A big part of it was whether or not I could believe I could possibly meet someone that will mean something to me and vice versa, at said place. Whenever I take a trip or go somewhere I always think it’s a possibility, even if I say: ‘it’s definitely not going to happen.’ I most definitely try to talk to people and connect to them. But I just couldn’t talk myself into it this time. I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it. So I pulled the trigger by putting down the gun altogether, or more accurately throwing it away. I’m not going. But it is also Portland in January which it says online is the rainiest and coldest month. There could be ice and snow too, so not really beach and waterfall gazing weather. But it is also when The Walking Dead convention is being held, which is why I was going in January. There’s still Nashville and Chicago, so maybe I’ll go to one of those cities for it later in the year; because I do want to meet the actress that plays Tara. Even if it would be lackluster and not some amazing moment, like it was the first time I met someone I was a huge fan of. I was spoiled by Kristin Chenoweth. She was the first celebrity I stood in line to meet ever in my life and she was by far the best and most rewarding. I have the pictures to prove it. She was amazing. She was expressive and took the time to really talk to everyone. She acted/looked shocked and humbled when I said she was my favorite person in the whole world. She definitely was. Is. She helped me discover my true self, even if she had no idea what she did and I wouldn’t even know it myself for another 5 months, after meeting her. I’m so glad I have the pictures of her expressions as she talked to me. This was 6 years ago, before video on the phone, but the lady that took pictures for me, kept pushing the camera button over and over, so I have all these amazing pictures taken so if you were to print them out you could flip through them and see her move, like a comic strip. I love that so much. I’d like to thank that lady again, who took those pictures, because my mom would’ve messed that whole thing up if she had been the one to take it. She was there, but I think she was using the actual camera at the time. Ever since then, whenever I’ve met someone that I admire and love from her work, in my favorite shows, it’s just been…eh. But that’s how it goes I guess. Kristin is an enigma. She’s one of a kind. She’s special. She’s Southern and you see that hospitality in her. Also I just think she’s a happy peppy person for the most part, grateful for what she gets to do with her life, her love- music. I admire her and look up to her so much. I love how she went after her dreams full force and didn’t compromise. I love that she’s dedicated to it. I don’t know if she ever wanted kids, but she never had them and she’s not married and I hope she does have love in her life always, I know she has before, but it’s comforting knowing that someone else out there is making it work…all on her own. She doesn’t need a man, just like I don’t need a woman to complete me. I don’t need a better half, because I’m already an amazing whole.

 

 

 

 

 

let's do the math

It’s really hard for me to have any kind of hope anymore and that makes me sadder than the absence of that person I hope for in the first place.

I saw this post from 8 years ago. You know how Facebook does that. I quoted a line from Garden State, still one of my all-time favorite movies. I said, “You gotta hear this one song, it’ll change your life I promise you.” The song I was referring to was, “Hold Onto hope” by Amy Stroup. She has one of the most beautiful voices on the planet. These are the lyrics she sings over and over in the song: “Hold onto hope love I’ve searched high and low for you, for you. Each day gets closer so hold on stronger to me and you. Someday soon I’ll find you. Someday soon I’ll know you.” There was a time, and more recently than 8 years ago, where I could still do this. I could still hold on hope. But I can’t anymore and like I said, losing hope is the worst thing you could possibly lose. I wish I could have hope. But the fact is, I’ve tried to hold on to hope for 11 years and that’s just since my last relationship, I had to hold on for many years before that as well. Let’s just say since when I was 18, about the time I really wanted that first relationship. I’m 36, so do the math, that’s nearly 20 years. That’s a crazy amount of time to hold on to hope. Maybe I should look at the shortest number: 5. well 5 and a half if we’re being technical. That’s how long since I realized that I had been looking the wrong direction. That’s how long since I realized who I truly was. Who I’ve been my whole life but never knew. I’m into girls. Women. You get what I mean. So should I do the math and pretend I’m really 23? That’s 5 years from 18. So in lesbian years I’m like 23. And 23 year olds aren’t necessarily married off yet. Well most of my straight friends were by that age, but that’s neither here nor there. I can try to make myself feel better in saying it’s only been 5 years (that I’ve been looking in the right direction) but it doesn’t really make me feel that great because if we do the math again- if we get to my lesbian 36, I’ll be 49. And I don’t want to be 49 and finally find love. That’s too late. Maybe it worked for Ellen Degeneres. She was 50 when she married Portia, but let’s face it, I’m no Ellen. I guess it doesn’t matter in length of years you’re with someone, but in quality time spent. Man, if I had a girlfriend right now, we’d cram so much into our shortened years together. I have a long list of things I want to do with her and places I want to go. Pretty much everywhere I’ve already been. I want to do all those things again, but this time with the love of my life. I hated that I had to do it all alone. I didn’t want to. I wanted to GO to all those places and I’m glad I did, but they would’ve been a thousand times better if I had her to share those experiences with. Particularly the hotel beds.

But back to the hope thing. I mean, fuck. How can I be expected to have hope after all these years of waiting and trying and putting myself out there and putting my energy out there and believing that it will happen and going places and doing things with intentions of being open to anyone out there? Taking any connection and running with it, testing the waters, seeing if there’s anything really there with that person. I’ve done that. I have. A lot. I’m not saying I won’t ever again, but I can tell you the number has gone way down, like to single digits. I’m also at a loss and out of ideas too. I don’t know why this is so hard for me. I don’t know why it seems so easy for everyone else and I don’t mean maintaining a relationship, of course that is hard for everyone. But the meeting. The clicking, the dates to get to the point of relationship- that’s impossible for me. At least that’s what it seems. I literally don’t know what else to do, that’s why I do nothing. That’s why I don’t try anymore. That’s why I write stories of a reincarnated ghost lady coming down from heaven, gliding over the water at my lake to me, to be my soulmate. That’s why I write stories of being with characters from TV shows because they are all that I have in my life. Or even taking it another step further and writing stories of being with the actual actress herself. I do that to make up for the fact that as a human being supposedly being capable of connection-I suck at it. It’s like I’m not even human. I’m an alien. And I don’t understand the rules. At least that’s what people make me feel like. I do wish that friends would set me up with someone, but that’s never happened. Maybe they don’t know any lesbians but me or maybe they don’t think I’m capable either.

This wind out on this hill overlooking the lake is strong. So strong it feels like it takes my breath from me at times. It’s sucking the life out of me, like people do. My day job is 100% giving, compromising. And that’s fine. I get paid to do it. I couldn’t do that for free, at least not 40 hours a week. 90% of my job is compromising for others, rearranging and making it work for them. But that’s how it goes and I love what I do. So when I get home the only thing that fills me up and gives me what I need, is my cat sleeping on my lap and my shows. Seeing these characters that I either wish I could have what they have, or be them, or be loved by them, or in some cases they just make me feel better that I’m NOT them because the lives that they are portraying are 100 times worse than the one I live. THAT'S how I vicariously live.

Well, I’ve been pelted by leaves and acorns from the tree above me and I think the wind’s taking all it can out of me now. Gotta go back inside. Be with my people…and by people I mean my cat Mollie and my actresses. Let's leave the math lessons to the math teachers.  

poem from night hammocking

What if you could reach out and touch the clouds? And what if you could eat them and they tasted like cotton candy. What if you could pluck the moon right out of the sky and it use it as the big marble, rolling it into all the little marbles, watching them scatter across the floor.

And what if you were ok. What if you were ok with how your life is. right. now. And that if it remained exactly the same for the rest of your life, you’d be ok with that too. It didn’t matter what you didn’t have. It didn’t matter if you were alone. If you were ugly or broke or childless or homeless or loveless. You were alive. You could still choose to love others, even if it’s in the smallest of ways and even if that person you loved by smiling at them when most people ignored them, or held the door for someone who always does the door holding, or saying a nice thank you to drive thru attendant that gives you your food; even if they all didn’t even seem to care. What if that was enough. Not for them because you can’t control them and what they find as meaningful to them. But it was enough for YOU. It was enough that YOU chose to look up from your phone and love and spread something other than hate and bad vibes from behind that very phone. I’m not saying I do or the proverbial “you,” but some do...too many, sometimes.

What if you accepted life as it is and that it’s ok that it’s not what you thought it would be. It’s ok that it looks nothing like the thousands of women your very own age. But at the same time you can believe that anything is possible. That soulmate, that child, that Home, that love you crave. It’s both impossible and possible. 

Just like that cotton candy cloud and marble in the sky, you can both know that it’s impossible and yet hope in even the smallest of ways...that it is.

when you want it to mean something

I first heard this song, or more accurately- spoken word poem by Mary Lambert, when I was walking the streets of Hollywood. I don't know if that means anything or not, but I kid you not, just now, right now when I started writing that first sentence about this "song," it began to play on my shuffled music on my Amazon app! I always find it cool when little things like that happen. I used to think it was a sign, but I don't anymore. I still do find it pretty cool, though. Like how when I was writing my own version of Orange is the new Black and when I wrote the ending about my character and Poussey's life together after prison and how she met this old rich white lady named Fran who helped her when she first got out. And then when I did too, we helped take care of her when she was dying and she left us money for Poussey to open her own restaurant and then when we had our own daughter, we named her Frannie, after her namesake. Well when I was looking up the meaning of her name, wanting it to be something cool and special, that means something, I found out it did! It means "free one." And we were the free ones, being that we were out of prison and I had already talked about that and how we were raising her to be a free-spirit. It just feels so cool and weird when things like that happen. Almost as if your brain knows something that you don't. Your sub-conscious is SO strong that it tells you to do things you shouldn't know to do. I wish that when I went to places that sort of just fall into my lap and just how I go and do things and take opportunities that come to me, that it would mean something too! That because I went to L.A., a place I would never just choose to go to, but because I won tickets to The Walking Dead premiere; that it would just MEAN something. It would mean I went because I was supposed to meet someone important in my life. I was supposed to met THE ONE. The girl that would change my life forever. Sometimes I feel like I live in a movie or fantasy world, but then I look at all the couples around me and they met "the one." It's not a fantasy, it's not a movie, it's real life. They met someone that changed their life and that loves them so much that they can't imagine a life without that person. They are their whole world. And there's no better word to describe that it hasn't happened for me and I'm almost positive that it won't, than the word- "sucks." It fucking sucks. It sucks balls. Of which I hate, both literally and figuratively. It more than sucks but even as a writer, I can't find the word to describe what it feels like. I feel hopeless, but not in a sad way. I literally feel like there's no hope left of me ever meeting someone. And that's just a fact. It's not a depressing, sad thing. I mean I don't feel great about it, but I feel like I have to accept it and I do to a degree. Because I don't live my life locked away in my house just because I don't have anyone to do things or go places or take vacations with. I go everywhere and I do everything by myself and that's fine. I'm used to it. I know plenty of people that would not go practically anywhere by themselves. Certainly not a vacation. They would drag a friend who they haven't even been friends with for a decade, only to torture them with making them do everything that they wanted to do and not letting the other person just chill out at the hotel. No way. They couldn't possibly go have a meal or go to the zoo by themselves. Those people are actually the ones that probably will have somebody someday. Because they can't function alone, so they'll rope some lonely guy in who is just happy to be noticed. And THAT is what's sad and depressing. It's like because I'm so good at being alone, I don't get the option of having someone to love, to hold me to kiss me, to be there in that hotel room on my 10th trip alone. And that really really fucking sucks. Just because I'm good at it, doesn't mean I don't want that partner. That lover. That girlfriend. That wife. Man if I could have somebody that feels about me the way this spoken word poem song says... I could die. 'Cause I'd already be in heaven. I want to feel about a girl the way Mary Lambert does in her song, "Dear One."
"Where did you come from, bright star. What heaven did you leap from, dear love. How can I spell your name without the sound of Autumn underneath my tongue. Without acknowledging the lovers who bent me in half. Bless them for bringing me to you. How can I say your name without also breathing the words, 'my God, I found you.' How can I ever speak again with this mouth when it has found where it belongs. When you touch me I am a bed of calla lilies. I will make a house for you and fill it with evergreens. I will paint sunsets on every wall so you can only see beautiful things. How can I say 'love' without wanting to fold myself into you, like a thousand paper cranes, dear one. I was halved the moment I was born. The other piece of me is inside of your mouth. And I was found whole the moment you spoke."
Isn't that the most beautiful thing you've ever read? Its even better to listen to, so get on that. I listened to it over and over while I walked the streets of L.A. Passing the Grauman's Chinese theater and the tourists taking pictures of cement hands. Passing the constant smell of cigarette and pot smoke that fills the air that I walked through. It was chaos, but in my mind, it was peace. I was floating, walking in slow-motion past a blur of faces that I would never talk to, nor would they ever talk to me. I think I wanted the crowds to part and for her to be standing there. For once for this moment, of hearing this spoken word song for the first time, despite the whole album being in my music playlist for weeks, to mean something. For it to come true. For life to imitate art for once. For MY life to imitate art for once, instead of the other way around. Instead of me creating art from a life I want. A life I dream of. A life I see on TV even though it's not real. I could make it real. I wish for it to be real. But here I sit. Still here. Still alone. Still unable to reach out and touch anyone. I've always felt invisible. I've always felt different and out of place growing up, although I didn't know why at the time. I thought I was like everyone else. I thought I was going to be like all my girlfriends growing up. I thought I'd be just like them, marry a guy and have some kids, all before 30. But 30 is long gone in the rearview mirror and I'm not attracted to guys. I'm attracted to the life. The normal life of marrying your best friend, whom you love with all your heart and having a child that is a piece of both of you. But it's not what I'm given. It's not what I can make come true. To quote another Mary Lambert song, "I can't change. Even if I tried. Even if I wanted to." But the line I really want to come true is her next line in that song- "My love my love my love, she keeps me warm. She keeps me warm." That would be the best life I could ever imagine.
I know we all want to find meaning in things. It's a Universal Desire. We want things to have meaning. We want to know that our life, even when it doesn't feel like we are the ones making the choices, still have a reason. They mean something. I feel like in the last 10 years nothing has meant anything. Nothing has changed anything. No decision I made, no path I followed, no "going with the flow." Nothing. Nothing has mattered and nothing has changed for me. But it doesn't mean I sit in a dark room and do nothing. I still try. I still look for meaning. I don't know that I take signs seriously anymore or take them at all, but I still try. And that's all that matters. All that matters is that I still choose to live and I still choose to not sit in a dark room and no nothing. Everything else is up to... well, I don't know who, but it's up for grabs I guess! If only I could get my hands around it...

REAL

I need somebody to replace her. I need somebody real. She is a real live human being but she might as well be a unicorn. She might as well be a mermaid. Not real, but real enough for many many stories to be written about them. Or maybe Sasquatch or the Loch Ness monster. Real enough for many many people to claim they saw them. 

But she's not real to me and that fucking sucks. I even met her once. Face to face, but it's not like I got to really talk to her and it's not like it would've mattered even if I did. She wouldn't have fallen for me. She's got a girlfriend... I'm pretty sure. If I knew how to spell out a frustrating cry I would. I am so small. I am so stupid. I am so invisible. But I need someone to see me. I need someone to want me, for once in my life. For forever in my life. I can't go on liking unrealistic women. It's so pointless and not healthy. I need a girl to draw me out. I need her to pull me to her and make me forget about every unattainable girl I've ever desired, for whatever the reason. Every real but not real woman I've ever written into my stories, pretending that they fell for me, that they liked me and saw something in me that made them want to get to know me more. That didn't judge me on how I looked or how I dressed or how my hair color was or how my face was makeup-less. 

I feel like I'm a pretty normal person. Weird enough to be a little interesting. I have stories. I have trips and crazy little things I've done and weird places I've been to, and even ones not most people have gone to or done before. I'm not needy. I don't beg for attention . I'm perfectly content being alone...until I'm not. Until I need somebody to hold me to tell me they love me and kiss me and want me in their arms and don't want to let go. Want me to call in sick the next day so we can stay in bed together and binge orange is the new black.

I'm extremely independent. I go everywhere all on my own. I do everything all by myself. I'm not afraid. Well I get a little nervous sometimes, or I used to, but just like with anything, practice makes perfect and I am the perfect single person after more than a decade of practice. 

If I knew what to do, I'd do it. If I knew how to be, I'd be it. Is this really it? Is this all there is? Why are so many songs and shows and movies and musicals and books and commercials and literally everything to do with life, all about having someone? Someone to call their own. That is EVERYTHING. That's what it's all about. Not the hokey pokey; love. Connection. A partner or whatever you want to label it. That's it. That's all there is. That's THE THING. And I'm like some kind of alien, not from this planet, so I can't possibly have that. It's reserved for humans. I'm not compatible with it. At least that's what it feels like to me. I mean besides nuns who choose that lifestyle, is there literally anybody my age on the face of this earth that's been single as long as I have? I don't think so. I'd dare you to find somebody who is. And she can't have been in a coma for a decade either. It's just embarrassing at this point. It's like at this point if I did meet a girl who was really into me, if I told her how long I'd been single and how she was my first, there is no way she'd stick around. She'd find an excuse to leave. Why wouldn't she? It would freak her out. It's weird. I know. It's really weird. It's not sad; it's on a whole other level, that doesn't have a word for it. 

That's why I've given up. Not that I don't still have some hope left, buried deep down. Like I do before any trip or anything I choose to go to and be social at, a small part of me hopes I meet someone, anyone. A freaking friend, something. Anything that's real. Real is what I need right now. Real would be nice. But even if I try to not get my hopes up, a small part of me still does. And then nothing happens, I meet no one, no one connects with me, or I think they do but it doesn't end up going anywhere and I'm right back where I started. Giving up again and then another opportunity presents itself and the cycle repeats itself. I'm not going to meet a single person in L.A. At the walking dead premiere. I'm not going to talk to a single person. I'm saying all this now, so that I don't get my hopes up again, because even when I don't consciously think about it, I somehow still do. I still think I will meet someone that I connect with. Someone that lasts. Someone real. And if I can convince myself it definitely won't happen, then there's a chance I won't be disappointed when I'm right. And if I'm wrong, then I can be pleasantly surprised. Or more like a witness to a miracle. Because the parting of the Red Sea and Lazarus being raised from the dead is on par with me actually getting a girl to really like me. Like, like me like me. In a real way. Real is best, not fake. We all know that.

i am a rock. i am an island. i am an alien, but i'm still human

Sometimes I feel like an alien. Like I don't fit in on this planet. Like I'm walking around in human skin, looking like everyone else, enough to not draw attention, enough to not get noticed, but yet I am not like everyone else. And I don't mean that in a "the way you look or dress" kind of way. I mean it in a "conforming to the invisible rules of the land,"  that everyone seems to get but me. And that's the "couple up and have a family" rule. Families are fucking everywhere and it's super annoying... when you don't have one yourself and you're the only single loser you know (in your opinion). And it's not that I should return to my home planet, where I would fit in with "my people." I don't HAVE people. I just don't. That's a fact. Maybe everyone feels this way at some point in their life, but when you have your own family, when you have a partner that is choosing to be with you, choosing to live in the same house and talk to you and be intimate with you both physically and emotionally, that is EVERYTHING and i'm pretty sure most people who have that, take it for granted. I'm pretty sure at some point they wish they didn't have kids that wanted to be with them all the time. I'm sure they want a nights sleep without their better half cuddling up to them, when all they want is to be left alone and sleep in peace. Oh poor them. They have people that want to be with them. If I could roll my eyes in words, I would. I guess I just did by spelling it out. And I'm sure I'll be one of those people, someday. Well let me correct that. I THOUGHT I'd be one of those people. I don't now. Now I see myself on the outside. One day I'll die and my cat will probably eat me, because there won't be anyone to check on me. That's a morbid thought, but it feels more likely than me ever connecting to another human being on a deep level that spawns intimacy both the physical and emotional kind. Every day I play therapist to Moms with babies with special needs and that's fine. I get paid for that and I could pay someone to listen to me talk as well, they're called counselors or therapists or whatever they want to call themselves and I've been to them. I don't want someone that HAS to listen to me. I want someone to WANT to listen to me. And I want to listen to them too. Is that so wrong?? I feel like whenever I hear about someone moving forward in their lives whether it be marriage or having a baby, I feel like I've being left even further behind. As if their moving forward is causing me to move backwards. Also that there's something's wrong with me. There has to be. But there's something wrong with all of us and many messed up people are still in healthy relationships with their spouse. We all have problems. It's called life. And I don't have one. I really don't. I really really wish that I didn't want that. That I could be some emotionless robot who doesn't have feelings and lives their life doing whatever it is they were created to do, but it didn't involve another person. I wish so badly I could be that person. But it's not a person. People aren't created to be alone, but I've managed to survive this long, basically alone. Over 10 years without anyone. Nothing. No kiss, no being held by someone (well minus that cuddle party I went to twice, which was amazing the first time and the absolute worst thing ever, the second time). I may as well be that robot. Since robots can't be kissed or held, well unless they're some fancy high tech kind with skin and sensors. But I digress. I wish I felt nothing when people around me move forward in their lives, get married, have children. I wish it didn't bother me. I wish I felt nothing but happiness for them, I do. I wish that. I wish I could be one of those people that could go out and just have a good time and hook up with whoever they meet and have one night stands. I do. But that will never be me, I just can't do it. But at least it would mean I had some kind of connection with someone, anyone, to have made it past the first meeting and into that night together. Instead of how I am now, void of human connections. I'm sure it's me. I'm sure I'm not giving off the right vibe, but I am who I am. I'm not going to change. I'm a kind, decent person. I recycle. I pay taxes. I help babies for crying out loud. I am ALWAYS nice to food service people, because I feel like their job sucks the most and they deserve human kindness, because I know for a fact that most people are going to be rude to them, taking out their own crap on them. And sure they can be rude on their own, but I still will say thank you with a smile. It's called human decency. I think at one point I was probably coming off desperate with people. Friends. I tried so hard to hang on to college friendships that were never going to last. I tried to force it. I wanted to hang out with them still, but they were already married and had begun their real life. And now mostly I'm just like- eh. Why even bother? And even if I do try, I'm not really that open to it. I mean I'll talk to people, but I can read people really well, too well. I know whether or not they are at all interested in talking to me, within like 2 seconds of meeting them. I don't push relationships. If I do feel something, I do try. I really do. I got out of my way to make some sort of contact with them or gesture or anything to let them know that I think they're cool and want to get to know them more. But guess what? It doesn't go anywhere. It doesn't get any response back, or maybe like am email or 2 and then nothing. And then I forget their names and what they look like and I move on, because if anything, I'm consistent. I'm consistent at being alone. I'm consistent at going places and on trips all over the place, alone. I'm used to it by now. I always end up feeling like I wish I had someone there to share the experience, the hotel bed with in particular, but I still have a great time. That other part would just be nice. It would be more than nice, it would be amazing. It would send a great trip over the top. But oh well. It's just not going to be me. I wish there was someone to blame, like God. But I've blamed him long enough and it's gotten me nowhere. I heard that song again recently. The one about the volcano who is all alone but has hope and wishes or prays every day for someone and then when he is beaten down by the endless weight of nothing happening, he starts to sink into the ocean, but little did he know, his girl was under him in the water, listening to his song. And then she rises up there finally, but doesn't see him and he's down below and can't sing his song anymore because he doesn't have anymore lava. And then for reasons that aren't explained, he bursts out of the ocean once again and finally meets her above the sea, and they live together and their song changes the dream line to "growing old together." If you don't know that song, it's called Lava. And it is a very hopeful song. Even when he gives up and even though technically he couldn't move and look for anyone, but she was right under his nose, which is what they always say. (insert rolling eyes here). I said I was going to print the lyrics and sing the song every day like he did, as if it were some sort of magical formula that will present my volcano gal right in front of my eyes. Well...I have tried everything else, so why not this? So here goes nothing: "I have a dream, I hope will come true. That you're here with me and I'm here with you. I wish that the earth, sea, and the sky up above will send me someone to lava." Did it work did it work?? (insert silly emoji here)

I wrote most of that several days ago and even though I still agree with it, I'm not then nor am now, depressed over it. I'm just stating the facts of my life. I'm not going to pretend that it doesn't bother me that I'm left out of something I feel that everyone who is, we'll just say "typical," has in their life. And again I don't mean typical in the sense of straight. I just mean typical, tax paying, job holding, human beings. Take that for what you will. You know what I mean. I do take a bit of comfort when I find out that my favorite female actors (because really, there are no other kind) who are also my age, are also single and childless like me. Of course they probably have their eggs frozen, but still, straight or gay, I feel a camaraderie that they are still single with me. As if that really matters. But it's just nice to not feel so alone in it. Especially if that someone is someone I feel something for, even if it's stupid and pointless and will never be reciprocated. And if they do find someone... well then they're dead to me. I'm kidding. Stars deserve love just like anybody else. I don't know that anybody doesn't "deserve" love. Maybe not Hitler or certain serial killers... but how did they get that way in the first place? Lack of love? Yeah let's not tug at that shoestring. Or we'll start tripping down stairs.
Go sing your Lava song, Christie... and go live vicariously in your stories you right. Anything else that happens will be a miracle, but miracles do happen... to some people... surely...

a poem by a not-poet

I am defeated, but that doesn't define me
I am alone but I am not lonely
I may be invisible but I see me
I may be ignored but I am still here
I reach up but no one is there to touch me
I jump down but there is no one there to catch me
I will make it on my own
I will not back away quietly into the dark
I am the lightning bug in the night sky
I am the sun at high noon
I will be ok
I will be ok
Even if I go unnoticed
Even if I fail at everything
Even if I don't connect
Even if I can't make a friend
I will keep my head held high
I will be my own friend
I am still important
I am still loved
I define me
I surprise me
I get up everyday
I dance
I sing
I write
I help
I don't lie down
I don't give up
Because I am awesome
Because I am amazing
Because I am me
I am Christie
And Christie, I will forever be

I already have the greatest love of all, so do I really need more?

I feel like I spent most of today in silence. Even when I did have the TV on I wasn't really into anything that was going on, on it. And Mollie, my cat, spent most of today under the bed, which did piss me off and I told her so. I was off work today and wanted her to want to be with me. But she really didn't care. The day flew by and nothing was really done or even watched. I literally had nothing left to watch on Netflix or anywhere and nothing new of interest that I wanted to watch. I did finally go to the grocery store, so I could feel somewhat productive. People from work texted and I responded but if they called, I didn't answer. That could wait till tomorrow. I had spent the weekend and the whole week before, going through my belongings, getting rid of stuff I didn't want. I was real cut throat about it. If it didn't bring me joy the moment I looked at it, I threw it into the donate pile. I threw away all my movie DVD cases and put them into a storage album and did the same with most of my CDs. I sold some too for a ridiculously low amount at Movie Trading Company. Those people are basically pirates. 25 cents for a movie is ridiculous, but they prey on the lazy like me who isn't about to try to sell them online. I got rid of a large bookshelf and got a much smaller and skinnier one to hold my POP FUNKO figures (which are all women characters from shows and movie). It really made my living room feel even larger, with that bookshelf gone. It was the right move. But I did feel like I was trying to do anything and everything to avoid what I thought I should do or need to do, and that's rejoin the dating scene, join a new dating site and try again... for the hundredth time, but who's counting? I didn't want to. So why am I? I thought. I don't know why. I see all these couples everywhere and I suddenly think I'm missing out on something. I write all these stories and I see all these shows and I think- I should have this, I WANT this. But the truth is, I don't. I want to be held by someone that I love and to be kissed and to make love to that person, of course I do, that's something that's never going to go away. That's a desire that's on its own level, but it's not a need like water and food are needs. I don't need it to survive. I want it, and again, on a totally different level than other wants like a million dollars or to go to Alaska. The desire to be physically loved isn't a want or a need, it's something that doesn't have a word to describe it. Well other than "desire" I guess. But that word can have an undesirable (no pun intended) connotation to it, because it can be dirty or evil even. So I don't really want to use it in association to what I'm talking about. But my point being- I want all that, but without all the work. I don't want to suffer through all the boring conversations with people who have no interest in me or I in them. I want to already be with that person. But also do I really want to dedicate my free time to finding that? To maintaining that with someone even the right someone? Do I want to give up MY alone time? No not particularly. Do I want to fall in love and then have it ripped way when they got bored or wanted to move on? no definitely not. I guess no one wants that. The problem is, it's been too long for me. I've been single for over a decade now, so to have someone in my daily life who I have to really BE with day in and day out through all the boring times and everything in else, I don't know if I could even do that really at this point, if I'm being honest. It's been too long without. I'm used to how things are now for me, in charge of all my free time outside of work and other obligations. I might resent them for hijacking all my free time. All day long at my job I give. I care, even when I don't care, I have to pretend to care. Because it's literally my job. If I came in and half-assed a session with a baby and a Mom, then I'd probably get in trouble or fired. They would see I didn't want to be there, I didn't help them with their child and that would be a problem. I'm not perfect, I've gotten frustrated with a child or a Mom and it's probably showed or it definitely has showed, on my face and in my words, but I don't make it a habit. And I do love helping them so it's not faked... the majority of the time, but we all have days. I just can't hide it behind a computer screen at a desk, like other people do at their jobs. So as much as I would love to have someone, I'd have to care about them all the time and it would be like my job, I would want to do it and like it but some days I wouldn't be feeling it. And I guess that's just life but I don't know... wouldn't someone just leave if they didn't feel cared about all the time? Maybe it's about picking the right person. I don't know what that feels like. I kind of feel like I'm writing about some anthropological experience I've never had. Something that took place thousands of years ago and I just can't relate anymore. I'm lacking, to say the least. It's been too long. I can't remember what it feels like for someone to want to be with me. It's like I can't even comprehend it anymore. I guess I could copy what I see in some show, like some robot trying to come across as human. It would take a special girl to stick with me and does that type of girl even exist on a dating website? I don't know. I honestly don't know the statistics when it comes to lesbians meeting the love of their life online. It happens like every minute on Eharmony, but this isn't Eharmony and I'm not a straight girl looking for a quiet, quirky guy who is just awkwardly social and just wants a girl to adore and love and take care of for the rest of his loyal life. I feel isolated here, even if it is a big city. I feel like I've been out in it for years and it's not for me and the lesbian women aren't for me. I don't know who is. If I did finally join a dating website again, a different one, would it be any different? My best friend made a good point to extend the area to reach out across the states. As much as I was against long-distance relationships in the past, because I need to put my hands on that person, this is a luxury I can't afford anymore. It's this or nothing. I'm not willing to try any more of the avenues Dallas has for me, which they are few and far between anyway and I'm not a bar girl, so this is the choice I have: try a bigger dating app (I did a little research and HER seems to get the best reviews) or remain alone for the remainder of my life. Those are my 2 choices, cuz let's face it, I don't look like the kind of girl you approach at Target and strike up a conversation with and end up asking out on a date. That will never be me. So this is it. A part of me ( a much bigger part) wants to continue living out my days in this "giving up" stage. Where I live my life and enjoy my life alone, with no one, not even friends. My friends have all moved on and even though I will always have my best friend, she doesn't live here and has 4 kids so it's never going to be what I want it to be. I had a dream that a friend I used to be close to said, "we just don't have anything in common anymore" and she's not wrong. We're in completely different places in our lives, all my friends I've ever had, are. They are all in the same place together- married to a guy and they have young children together. And that will never be my life. I don't want it to be. But sometimes I just want someone to care about me. To ask me how I'm doing and mean it. To ask what it's like to be alone in all this, not having anyone who gets me. Who understands why I sort of obsess over these female actors and over these shows that have lesbian characters in them. They feed me. They give me life. They live out what I can't. Or what I'm too afraid to live out. They represent me and they are the only ones that understand me and yet I don't know them personally, or they don't exist, they are a character in a TV show. But I can write myself into that show, as a character and live out something that's greater than a fantasy, a reality. Not MY reality, but A reality. I don't need to fly or have magical powers or travel through space and time. I sometimes do in my stories, especially the ones where I play exactly me. I feel like I have to add that Sci-Fi aspect to it, otherwise it's just weird. It's too real life, but not my life, so it's just sad. So I add that into it, to be like- "well this could never happen because we don't have wormholes that take you to alternate universes" (or maybe we do, but the point is there's no proof). I sometimes wonder if I'd stop writing if I had someone in my life. It would be kind of weird and not okay to write out what I wish that person would do or say, because right now I do, but there's no one in my life, so it's not like it's hurting anyone. But I think I'd be very cautious before I let a girlfriend read my stories. I don't want them to think that they are failing if they aren't that girl. I'll never stop writing though, but I would write different stuff if I already had someone.

Last night I was thinking about the song by Whitney Houston- Greatest Love of all. I was thinking about how much it must have impacted my life as a child, even without fully knowing it. It definitely struck a cord with me because I remember vividly singing along to it on my Kids Incorporated  cassette tape, with such passion, such commitment, such...conviction. I probably didn't fully understand it, every lyric. I was young when I used to watch that show on Disney Channel. Kids Incorporated was a musical variety type show, but with more of a storyline than say The New Mickey Mouse club, which I also loved. I don't remember watching it a lot because I'm pretty sure we didn't always have the Disney Channel, but I do remember these free preview weekends, and bingeing on it. I had the cassette tape of the kids from that show singing popular songs at the time, this was the mid to late 80s. And that was by far my favorite song on the tape. I'd sing along, loudly, pumping my fists in the air, and then rewind it and do it again. I was a quiet, shy kid, but not in that moment. Not in my room alone, as if no one could hear me. Maybe my parents saw the value in the song and didn't care if I sang along to it loudly. It's such a powerful song. I'm sure what drew me to it was the "Children are our future" line. Because I was a child and I liked being recognized in a song for once. But I know that I loved singing this line the most- "I decided long ago, never to walk in anyone's shadows. If I fail, if I succeed, at least I'll live as I believe. No matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity. Because the greatest love of all, is happening to me. I found the greatest, love of all inside of me...Learning to love yourself, it is the greatest love of all." I didn't know how true this line would be in my life. Maybe it soaked into my being as a child and helped me become who I am today. I'd like to think it had a hand in it. It does still help me to this day. When I hear it, I still sing as passionately as I did when I was that little girl in my room.

Burning...?

15 years. That's how long I had that shoebox for. I brought it home last night from my parent's house. I kept it taped up and in their closet for 2 reasons: one being, so I wouldn't be tempted to open it and two, in case of a fire at my house. Of course there could've been a fire at their house too. Written on the box was "stuff for when I get married." The only thing that I knew was in there for sure were letters I wrote more than 15 years ago to "my future husband." But I figured it would still translate over to the opposite gender, when that time came. But it was the night of my 36th birthday and I was like fuck it I'm done. I wanted to open it and see what was in there and be done with it all. I was pretty sure none of it was relevant anymore. I don't see myself ever getting married. Most definitely not to a dude (thank God), but I don't see myself ever connecting with a woman in a way that leads to that kind of a commitment. Maybe it's just not for me. Maybe I'm just meant to write about it endlessly but never to experience it. I was reminded recently of a book written by a guy who wrote of his experiences as a drug addict. He was even on Oprah back in the day. But then after it became a hit and everything, we all discovered it was a lie. He hadn't experienced it and the world called him a fraud. The book was A Million Little Pieces. I think I meant to read it only because the cover looked so cool with all those tiny sprinkles on a hand. I haven't researched why he did it but if he wanted people to take the book seriously and see it as truth and not fiction, I guess I can understand that. I mean I guess he didn't think it would sell if he wrote it but said "I've never actually been a drug addict." No one would've taken it seriously. I heard it sounds very realistic. If I ever sold one of my lesbian stories I wonder if I would have to lie and say "Oh yeah I've been with a girl before. I've had girlfriends." I write as if I have. I write as if I know what I'm talking about. Maybe no one would read it if they thought I was a liar. But my stories are fiction and I've never said otherwise. I mean they have science fiction in them so clearly they are not non-fiction or biographies.
But that tangent aside, I videoed myself opening the box for my reaction. I immediately saw the first letter I wrote back in April of 1998. I was a Junior in High School and I had just watched the movie Dirty Dancing and I wanted someone to dance with me like Johnny danced with Baby. Ironically later when I discovered I was gay and that I particularly had a pension for naturally curly haired girls, I thought back on that movie and how I was always watching Baby. Like in those close-up dance montages where they show her in like a sports bra and tights and you see her stomach. Or when she's on the floor crawling up towards Johnny. I don't remember ever paying attention to him and what he was doing... the things you realize a million years later. But anyway. I wrote "when I get married, I want to dance with you like they did on that movie. It's one of my favorite movies." That line still holds true today. Except I want to dance with my "Baby" and not a "Johnny." The other letters were from college. All in 2000 and 2002. There weren't as many as I thought. I have written more since then but they are in a different, not taped box. I discovered the common denominator in all of them- GOD. I was raised on church 3 times a week and True Love Waits campaigns and all Christian rock music even though also ironically, my favorite artist was Jennifer Knapp. And she ended up realizing she was gay after some many years out on tour and retreated to Australia after the Christian music scene shunned her. But thank God she's back and she's been to Dallas 3 times in as many years, so it's pretty sweet to see her again. I even got to meet her in person.
In all these letter I wrote, I talked about all this bullshit I was fed in those formative teen years. I thought about how I wrote about keeping Christ at the center of our marriage and remaining pure to our wedding night and I was 18 and prayed that God would give me someone soon because even then all my close friends had boyfriends in our Freshman year of college and they all ended up marrying them. And I also wrote things like "if God chooses me to have you." I rolled my eyes at least 15 times in reading those letters. All that belief. All that trust. All that devotion and dedication to Him and for what? What a waste. I'm sure God appreciates it but he's gonna do what he's gonna do. You have no say in it. Or you do, if you don't believe in him. But things still happen to you even if you don't believe it's any one entity allowing it or causing it or whatever. I was glad I burned that shit. Those letters were not me. Not the me now. I was some quiet, shy, followed the rules little perfect Christian girl. I was the one that did what I was asked to do. I was the one the choir director asked to be friends with the girl with special needs. Asking a popular girl would've made more sense because she would've been able to get her to meet everyone, but I would be polite and nice to her and popular, even in Church, doesn't necessarily mean those things. It's crazy that I believed all that I wrote. I do remember that girl, the one that wrote those letters, but just barely. She's like this meek, lanky girl I can barely picture. She's like the one the girls in the show The Handmaid's Tale pretend to be. All routinely spouting "praised be" and "blessed be the fruit." In all their meekness and quiet obedience. But who I really am are the ones the girls really are, underneath that Pilgrim's bonnet and red floor- length dress. I am the one that says "Nolite Te Bastardes Carborundorum" which loosely translated means: "Don't let the Bastards grind you down." That's the real me. The me that was under there, buried deep under politeness and shyness and Biblical theology and a desire to both be invisible and be seen. The girl who followed her friends. Mimicked their lives, because it was the only example of a life I had. I wasn't told I could be anything. I could love anyone. I could be single. I could not wear makeup. I could not look "nice" which translates to dresses. So I mimicked them and everyone I ever met in college went down the same path. And I thought, what else is there to life? Husband and kids. There can't be any other life worth living, can there? I certainly hadn't heard of it. Or been exposed to it. I met my first lesbian in Colorado at my job there. In 2005. I was 24 years old. A very sweet older lady who loves horses as much if not more than the babies we worked with. She's the exact same age as my Dad, to the day. And she kind of became my mentor for awhile there... years later... not when I actually lived there. Because I still didn't know back then. I was still focused on mimicry.

So this box had more than just letters. It was heavy, I knew that, but I didn't know why. After the letters on top there was a cacophony of heart themed and more so "Christian love themed" paraphernalia. Candles and tissue paper and stickers and note cards. And weird stuff like a VHS copy of "An officer and a gentleman." Why? I have no idea. I can't even recall ever watching that movie. I must've associated it with getting married, though. There was a lame-o book I actually remembering buying in college with my first boyfriend at the time. Because we were so sure at 19 that we'd get married. Well he was 21. The book was called "Saving your marriage before it starts." I kind of hoped the couple wasn't still married but I didn't see anything in my 30 second Google search to state otherwise. There was also a plague with that Corinthians 13 verse everyone uses at every single wedding ever. (More eye rolling ensued). And a heart shaped candy dish and a weird framed drawing of a cartoon bride. All of it went into the trash. Except for the letters. Those I burned in the shoe box. It caught fire more quickly than I thought even though duh, it was paper. But the box didn't burn and held it in nicely until I poured water on it. I burned it in my backyard night. The light of the fire and the smell of burnt paper was intoxicating and oddly cathartic. I wasn't necessarily burning away the idea of a "husband" cause I've known for years I didn't want that and when I realized I was gay it was like a sigh of relief I didn't have to have sex with a guy. As if I HAD to, because it was what everyone else I knew, did. And it was what was normal. Of course finally knowing who you are and what you truly want, didn't make it any easier. Girls are mysterious and I think a million times harder to connect with. Men are simple beings who all want the same thing and don't necessarily care about the deep complexities of a person. I mean men do have lines they draw, of course. Well, some of them do. The good ones.
Regardless, I don't know that I even know what exactly I was burning last night on my birthday. I didn't get a cake with candles, so maybe I just wanted to see a fire burn. Who knows. I'm glad that box is gone...I do have another one though. It's not taped up. But each letter is sealed. There are still some letters in this box that I'm sure were written to a husband that doesn't exist, but I don't feel the need to burn this box quite yet. These letters are post-college by several years and there's even my first lesbian letter in there as well. I write to her sometimes in a journal on my tablet more so than hand-written, but I will give her all the letters if she does exist (husband ones included). If not, maybe I'll burn this box in another 15 years. We'll see. Only time will tell.

Our dreams take place in alternate universes. *That's my theory and I'm sticking to it.

These are excerpts from my journal titled: Semi-daily musings to a love that may or may not exist 

May 1, 2017

I wish I knew that someone might read this but even if I do meet a girl one day, she’s not gonna want to read all this, well this Word document journal is only 31 pages, which is nothing compared to my stories which are almost always over 100 pages each. But it would take her months to read all my stories. I mean I kinda hope she would want to, because to read my stories is to know who I truly am. I’m vulnerable in them because they are an alternate version of myself. They are sometimes quite close to the actual me, but since the experiences in them I have never actually experienced before; this alternate reality christie is just that: not real. I can only speculate what I would do or say in the situations I’m in, in them. But the situations are fantasy. Comparatively, I feel that traveling through a wormhole to an alternate universe with my girlfriend who came down from heaven and previously died in the 1940s, is as far-fetched as the part about me having a girlfriend in the first place and having sex with that girlfriend. Those are equally improbable, at least in my mind. But I have this theory which has no scientific background other than “I wish for it to be true,” but I’m going to convince myself that in my dreams when I’m asleep, I’m actually crossing over into one of those alternate universes. Who’s to say that’s not true? Millions of people believe in heaven with absolutely no scientific proof that it exists. No one has come back from it to say for sure. Sure some have “seen a bright light.” So? I see bright lights too, like when I gave blood and passed out. I didn’t die, but if your blood pressure bottoms out or something like that, you’d most likely see bright lights anyway. Your body’s reaction. If that’s all heaven is: a bright light and people who died before you- bore snore. I’d rather go to my place. So when I dreamt a couple nights ago that I was hanging out with Kate Mckinnon at a house and I was helping her with some project in which I was handing her cutouts of letters; that was actually me in another Universe. And when she sat on my lap and she was wearing a t-shirt and just panties and I looked down and saw her creamy white thigh and felt her smooth skin with my hand, that was actually another me doing that. I was that “other me” for a time, being that I was taking her place in that other Universe for the time being. But then something pulled me back as I was trying to get the courage to talk to her. I knew what I was going to say. But I didn’t get it out before I was sucked back to THIS Universe and was awoken. Maybe it was because I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was taking that other Christie’s place for a second. But what I was going to say was: “Sometimes all it takes is one incredible moment, to make all the other boring, un-special moments, worth having in the first place.” And then hopefully she would look down into my eyes, from my lap, wrapping her arms around me and kiss me. That’s what she’d do, if I could’ve stayed in that alternate Universe a little longer. Well, at least one of the versions of myself is having a fun, sexually rewarding life. One of the Christie’s should.

June 3, 2017

I had another dream about Kate Mckinnon last night. We finally made out. Finished what was started back a month earlier I guess. We were in bed and we were full on kissing. I think I could feel her lips, taste them, even in my dream. A day has gone by now since I woke from that dream early this morning, so I’m already starting to forget the details but when I woke I remember thinking I did it! I can die now. I got to make out with Kate in a dream. I’m good. I’ve accomplished everything I wanted to accomplish. That’s really sad I know. My life is so freaking pointless and depressing that just by merely having a dream where I got to make out with my dream girl, I’ve made it. I’ve reached as far as I can go. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, or I guess I don’t think it could get any better than that for me. That dream is the best it can get. Since I’ve never been one to be able to make myself dream something that I’ve wanted to dream, just the fact that I dreamt it all on my own, without forcing it to happen, I feel “accomplished” or something. That’s really depressing, but it’s the truth. We hadn’t made it to the sex part before I woke up. But maybe that’s for another night. At least I got to kiss her. And it wasn’t something I wrote in one of my stories. It was real. Well it was a dream, but it was as real as anything could ever be for me. My stories are literally all I have, where I make things happen in them that I wish would happen in real life. I write them into existence. Into MY existence. But my dreams are not something I can control. Much like my real life. I had a dream a few weeks back that was terrifying and involved monsters and melting faces. It was so weird you would’ve thought I was on drugs. So I know that I can’t control what I dream. Sure things come up from what you saw on TV that day or something that’s bothering you or just your most deepest desires, but you still can’t “make” yourself dream something and make all the details exactly how you like them, just like you can’t in real life. So, I’m taking this as a win. Score one for team Christie.