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.

 

Live YOUR life, not someone else's.

Sometimes you just have to decide that, “you’re fine.” That this life is enough. If I were living in a cabin in the woods and I had my animals, cats, dogs, deer, rabbits whatever the heck was out there and I had food and I had my imagination, my writing as I do now, I might still create worlds outside that cabin, but I would be content. Maybe I wouldn’t even know that people are supposed to have a companion, a partner. Maybe I would think I was the only person on Earth. I think I would be happy though. If I had a roof over my head and food and animals to talk to. Last weekend, I kinda just decided that I don’t really need anybody, I’m fine alone. And I don't mean that in a bitter way. Or an "I give up" kind of way. I mean, I spent the whole weekend writing mostly, didn’t see anyone or talk to anyone and I didn’t even notice. It seems as if the only reason I get sad over not having someone is when I see others “having someone.” It’s the truth! If Facebook didn’t exist or I wasn’t reminded of others, friend or otherwise having that one person, that husband or wife, then I really wouldn’t care. I mean I’m totally self-sufficient, I don’t need anyone to take care of me or provide for me. I entertain myself, I have my writings to provide worlds in which I can travel to in my mind. I’m not unhappy. I’m fulfilled in my life. I only seem to be really bothered about being alone whenever I’m reminded that most people in the world have someone. Whether or not that relationship is a good or healthy one, I can’t attest to that, but most people couple up in this world. I felt pressured by society and the world in general and watching every single friend I made since grade school meet the love of their life or the person they are spending it with (which I hope is one of the same). If I took all that away, if I spent my entire life away from the knowledge that people couple up, it wouldn’t even cross my mind that I “needed” someone to spend my life with. I hope my point is coming across and that makes sense. It’s been more about being “normal” and doing what everyone else does in this society, this world, than it is about what’s best for me or what I want. I mean sure, yeah I’d love to have someone to kiss and hold me and hold my hand in public as we walk down the street and share life with, but that also means I can’t do whatever I want to do close to 100% of my free time, which is how I live now. I couldn’t spend entire weekends, burying myself away, entering worlds completely unlike my own through shows or my stories I write. I could maybe do that an hour every once in awhile, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t take my attention and my focus off my girl, off maybe any children we would have together, at least not for an entire weekend. Although I’d probably try to get a weekend away from everyone every so often. Whether or not that's reality, I don't' know. At least at this point I’ve been alone far too long that if I ever did meet someone it would be a huge and overwhelming transition for me. I’d probably go get a hotel room all by myself every once in awhile, pretend I'm single again. I’d tell them of course where I was going. I think all mothers and wives should make time for themselves in order to BE good mothers and wives, otherwise you stretch yourself thin and you’re suddenly snapping over spilled milk. My Mom would always gasp and make a big deal over spilt milk. It always made me feel small, like I had done something awful. It was probably just a knee jerk reaction, but when I grew up and I thought about it I was like geez, it was only spilled milk! If it were red fruit punch on white carpet, well then that’s more understandable. But that blame really goes on the mom for giving their child red fruit punch and having white carpet to begin with. All that nonsense aside, ever since last weekend when I just decided that I was ok, that if this was it, then this was it; I didn’t “need” someone  just to feel like I fit into society better (or to prove I was in fact a real lesbian) I have become a more content person. It was like suddenly the pressure was off me to "find the one" and to have children. That weight was off my shoulders, like it was when I figured out who I truly was (kind of later in life than most).  I’m ok with me. I’m ok alone. I wouldn’t turn down a girl that came along who actually responded to me and didn’t ignore me after meeting and thinking there was a connection, because well she responded once or twice, but then that was it! If it happens it happens, I’m just not willing to seek it out anymore. I’m not willing to spend my free time doing things I don’t want to do, only because I feel like I have to in order to “meet someone.” When you take away that pressure to “be like everyone else” even though that ship has already sailed in terms of being in a heteronormative relationship, you suddenly feel free. You feel free to live your life how you see fit. What makes YOU happy. Fuck everyone else. If you think they are out there thinking “oh poor girl, she’ll never get married and have a baby and be as happy as me,” you’re right. You won’t. You’ll be HAPPIER than them, because their life is NOT YOUR LIFE. Their life is theirs and your life is yours. (Plus happiness isn't measurable any way).

It’s human nature to compare: our houses, our children, our husbands or wives, our lives. But if everyone had the exact same life, it would be one boring ass world. There would be nothing to talk about. “Oh your husband plays golf on Sundays. Yeah mine does too…” bore snore. We’re all here on this Earth to tell our own stories and to help others. Anyone. Help anyone. So that that ONE person you helped can have a better story to tell…and then the cycle will continue.

smitten smile

I was thinking about those little times I’ve been smitten. Most recently with someone I only met briefly but have since emailed a few times with. If anything I was thinking maybe I’d gain a friend like me. One that gets the same references to my favorite characters on shows, or who just agrees that Kate McKinnon is the greatest gay gal in our generation. Regardless, I just felt myself gain a little bit of hope when she replied to me that first time. And then when she replied back a second time, I felt a little smile creep up on my face. That little smitten smile. One I’ve very rarely ever had. She responded in a timely matter, it became a back and forth thing, even if just for the better part of a week. I felt a little bit of hope, a little bit of excitement of where it could lead. It wasn’t a full blown crush or a full blown anything. It was just a little bit, but it was enough. And when she didn’t reply a couple days later, like she had with the previous ones, I knew this was probably it, the end. But I still gave her the benefit of the doubt. She was probably just busy. But then when a week went by with no response, I knew for sure that that was it. She wasn’t busy. She just wasn’t interested. And that’s ok. I mean it has to be, right? People either feel a connection or they don’t. People don’t invest in what they aren’t interested in. People don’t engage if they don’t feel there’s a reason to. People might respond out of politeness a few times but that’s it. They aren’t going to keep it going if they don’t see the relationship going anywhere. I like to think I give people more of a chance than I’m given. You have to get to know someone in order to get to know them. Well that’s a redundant statement. But I’m glad I tried. I’m glad I reached out. I’m glad I didn’t just cast aside following up on a chance meeting of someone that I thought was interesting and had similar interests as me. Maybe it had nothing to do with me at all, she’s just already maxed out on the number of people in her life that she can invest time in. That’s understandable. I feel I have all the time in the world, but no one to give it to. Even when I do try, it’s not reciprocated. Not because that friend doesn’t like me anymore, but simply because they’re at capacity in the relationship category. They have their husband, their children and their one best friend and that’s the cap. They’ve reached their limit and the lights are flashing that there is no more room for anyone else in their life. Not in a real way, at least. It is what it is. As sad as this may sound, I love writing because it always has time for me. Never once have I not been able to write. Even if I don’t have a pad and paper or my tablet, I always have my phone and the notes section in it. It’s rare that I don’t have anything. But I guess when I don’t, I have my brain. I have my thoughts and I can stare out and just write away in my mind. I might not necessarily remember all of it later to write it down, but sometimes you don’t need to. I don’t need to re-read it. I just needed it in that moment. Writing is definitely better than thinking and like I said, who doesn’t ever not have their phone on them nowadays? There’s always a place to jot down what you’re thinking.

And this was what I was thinking about today by the lake. On this shore. In this picture.

I’m glad I had that moment of smitten-ness. Even if it was fleeting. Because it meant I was alive. It meant I still had a sliver of hope left buried down deep in the depths of my soul. I still believed that meeting someone could turn into something more than a few seconds of my life.

And that’s it. Short and sweet blog. Much like how that encounter was.

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...

 

"Million reasons"

My favorite song right now is Lady Gaga's "Million Reasons." I'm sure I've said this before about songs, but what I love most about them is that even though I didn't write them (I have no talent to write a song. A overly descripted novel sure, but not a song) you can always take the lyrics of a song and make it about you. You can apply it to your life. You're not the artist. You don't always know WHY they wrote it or what they mean by it, unless they've shared it in an interview. But you know what it means to you. I love that about them, because music speaks to all of us differently and on so many levels. And even if it is apparent what they are talking about in a song, I usually just take my favorite line from it and make it about what's going on in my own life. I don't need to know that the first verse clearly alludes that it's about a boy and I'm making it about my life... which never includes a boy. Which brings me to my point, well not brings me, but here it is. I love this song because of its rawness and plea for a sign, for a reason not "to walk away." Maybe she's talking about a relationship or maybe she's talking about the music business and her specific career, or maybe something totally different. But since artists give us songs so that we can relate to them how we choose and give us a creative outlet to sing it at the top of our tune-deaf lungs; this song is about just going on... it's about living. It's about finding a reason to keep going; to live. I don't really feel like I have that. I don't really think that finding out how they end the show The Walking Dead, is a good enough reason. This song begs, it has a plea, in this case to God. "I bow down to pray, I try to make the worst seem better. Lord show me the way, to cut through all the worn out leather..." Yeah been there Lady Gaga. I try and try to just see the good in my life and what I have. I try to just hang in there, but I'm worn out. I'm tired of not being special. I'm tired of feeling unloved, not beautiful, not desired by anyone in the physical or literal sense. To not feel desirable... I don't need someone to tell me it everyday but I do need someone that chooses to walk in this daily life with me. Someone that wants to fight for me/with me. Someone who makes me want to improve, to be a better person. Because I love that person and I would do it for them as much as I would for myself. But JUST for myself? Nah. I'm good. Life: "you're giving me a million reasons to let you go. You're giving me a million reasons to quit the show...I've got a hundred million reasons to walk away. But baby I just need one good one to stay." But I get to choose what that one reason is. And that one reason is a partner in life. Not a friend I see twice a year or every few years or next to never. That's not enough. That's not enough for anybody I don't think. Maybe for some animal that mates once a year and then checks out and comes back a year later to do it all over again. But I'm not a freaking animal. "Oh baby I'm bleedn' bleedn.' Stay. Can't you give me what I'm needn' needn'? Every heart break makes it hard to keep the faith. But baby I just need one good one... Baby I just need one good one to stay..." Whether that means one person to want to stay with you, to want to commit to you, or if it means one good "one" meaning "reason" to stay here on Earth, I feel it all. I get it all. It's both, for me. Why "God" or the "Universe" or Mary freaking Poppins won't give me someone in my life is beyond me. But I know that I can't do it anymore. I can't try. I heard about this convention in Las Vegas that is about LGBT women in media and entertainment. There's going to be panels with speakers in these fields and guest celebrities, 2 of whom I am HUGE fans of and would never get to meet otherwise. And even more importantly one of the panels is called "Breaking into Print," specifically lesbian fiction. And I've literally already written a book. But before I even did the math to see how much it would cost me, I was already talking myself out of going because I knew nothing would from it. I wouldn't meet anybody. I wouldn't even make a friend, a connection. Because that's not who I am anymore. I'm a shell of a person, I guess. At least that's how people make me feel by not wanting me in their life basically at all. It really is way too expensive of a trip anyway, but if an actual real relationship were to come out of this, or even a lead that ended up getting my book published, then Hell yeah! This thousand  dollar trip or whatever the exact amount is (but that's pretty accurate) would TOTALLY be worth it. Worth every single penny if one of those 2 things were to happen. But I can't even talk myself into believing that that is even the remotest of possibilities, not nowadays. I used to have even the slightest bit of hope that something could come out of all my efforts, but once it doesn't, for the 12 hundredth time... it just starts to feel like you're pushing something that's never going to happen. Maybe if I had friends encouraging me, believing in me, cheering me on to do it. But I really don't even have that anymore. I think they've all given up on me. I'm 35. If it was going to happen, it would've happened by now, right? Which brings me back to the million reasons. I don't think you always need a reason to stay, to go on. I think you sometimes just need to CHOOSE to. The easy way out is to take your own life. But that would be your legacy. It wouldn't matter if you cured AIDS or fed the homeless, people would most remember you for doing that. I'm sorry but it's true. You can get a pass if you have some horrible sickness that you were going to die from anyway, then it's out of mercy, but other than that, it's just taking the easy way out. Life is hard. Life sucks. I am always alone every single day of my life. It literally never happens that someone asks ME out of the blue to hang out, and then it actually happens. I'm the one that asks people to hang and 99% of the time they have a valid reason why they can't, but it still stings. It still makes me feel like I'm not even the least bit important to them. Or even if they do ask, something falls through and they end up cancelling, literally every single time. I'm not even that important to my parents because I didn't marry a guy and have children like literally every other female in their 30s does. But it doesn't mean that I can't go on. I may not be normal. I may not do things the way every one else my age does them, but I can still hang in there. Hanging in there is better than nothing. Writing is better than keeping it inside. Eating pizza is better than drugs. Technically they can both kill you if you overdose, but there's a greater chance with the latter, plus your brain gets pretty fucked up on them.
So in conclusion, there is no conclusion. You keep finding your reasons or you keep hanging in there. You can also fight and try and maybe you'll get lucky, but I've never been one of the lucky ones.