You Do Not Need Me

I was 15 when I kissed him for the first time. He had Freddy Mercury’s lips and I watched as he dove in to kiss me. We were lying on the grass that covered the top of the crypt in the cemetery in the middle of town. We had barely met and spoke but a few words, but I knew I wanted him. My young body woke to the sound of his voice, a deep and soft growl that told me he wanted me.

I heard crickets in the distance as he kissed my trembling lips. I knew there were no seeums crawling on my skin as he covered my young body with his. Instinctively my legs opened and wrapped around his skinny waist. He covered my mouth with kisses. His hands reached up under my shirt and expertly squeezed my left nipple. My body arched towards the stars and I moaned the sound of my Neanderthal ancestors.

You’re my one and only, he lied.

I’ll always be your girl, I lied back.

He wrapped his arms underneath my shoulders and ground himself into me. I moaned again knowing that this feeling was fleeting. I knew he’d never belong to me. I was too fiery for him. Too empathetic.

His hands reached into my hair while he pulled my jeans down. With my sex exposed, he pulled himself from his jeans and filled me. I screamed like a banshee into the star filled night and told him that he would always belong to me.

When he was spent he helped me back into my clothes. I reveled in the scent of him and the fullness he left inside of me. The inside of my thighs were bruised, but I didn’t care. All I wanted was him, but he left me there, on the cold grass filled with his nectar.

Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. The kisses on my lips, the tongue in my mouth, the fullness of him inside of me while I cried out into the starlit night. He was my everything, my first love and he always will be.

It’s been 35 years and I can still feel his hands on me, and in my hair. His whispers in my ear as he entered me and the guttural sounds he made when he filled me.

I’ll never forget him, and I know he’ll never forget me either. He’ll always wonder what might have been, and so will I. I will move on in this life of mine. I’ll brave new adventures, while he remains stagnant and mourns for me.

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Watch Your Fucking Language and 5 Minutes to Change the Next 50 Years of Your Life

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When we were little girls we were told to be ladylike. Don’t talk too loud. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Let the boy come to you. When we were grown, we were told to find a man to take care of you. Be a delicate flower. Be thin. Be anything but yourself. Don’t eat on a date. Don’t drink too much. Blend in. Be the wallflower. Be demure. Be, be, be, but don’t be you.

I was never the quiet girl. I was never the one to follow the crowd. I was the unicorn. The girl with the big boobs that weighed 150 lbs. and was thought of as fat. The one that decided rebellion was a good thing. I laughed too loud. I swore a lot. I drank, smoked cigarettes and weed, but I was the good girl too. And did I LOVE boys! I wore clothes to reflect my mood for the day. I didn’t belong to any group or clique. Just flitted from clique to clique like a butterfly lighting on the blooms in a garden. I belonged everywhere and nowhere, and that was okay.

As I get older, the butterfly that flitted from group to group is tired and looking for a home. I still belong everywhere and nowhere. I think part of it is because I was adopted and might still be feeling lost from that. It’s not healthy to be feeling abandoned at this age. I know that this thought is of my own making, and I have to be the one that steps away from that sorry and into the light.

So today I say fuck the fuckers, and use my loud voice. I’m the girl with the big boobs. I’m the girl that is not the typical beauty. I’m not a delicate flower, nor do I want to be. I want to be the girl that rages against the dying of the light. It’s time for me to be, be, be and to the real me. I am a goddess rising, a butterfly and a unicorn. I’m not just a manic pixie dream girl, hell bent on being the sidekick.

I’m the dreamer and the dream, in charge of my own destiny. So what if I say fuck, a lot!?

Kiss Your Own Fingertips

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I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love myself.

To look at myself in the mirror and see beauty instead of flaws.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To touch my flabby and cellulite covered skin and not hate it.

To rub my own feet with thick lotion and not wish that the heels were softer.

To hold my hips and wish I could remove all of the fat inside of them.

To trace my wrinkled hands across my ample breasts and hope that someday a man will behold their beauty again.

To gaze at my face in the mirror and not see wrinkles, but amaze at the brightness of my blue eyes and the perfect symmetry of my lips.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To find that little girl that resides inside and tell her that she’s going to be okay.

That she is loved.

That she is free.

That she is important.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself, but I do hope in time I’ll be able to again.

I No Longer Hunger

I knew I was depressed the day food no longer held any allure.

He told me that he’d met someone and of course I was jealous, but what struck me was when he said that she didn’t eat much, like him. That they both never ate much so he asked her to have dinner at his place.

Of course my mouth got the best of me, and I spouted off, ‘well fuck, she must be skinny, how lucky for you!’

He responded, ‘it doesn’t fucking matter if she’s young or old, skinny or fat, I just wanted to have dinner with a friend.’

I knew she was more than a friend. That it was a date, and he had moved on.

I lost my appetite and became an empty vessel. I felt nothing, except the iciness of anxiety as it crept into my heart and made a home where my sparkle used to be. Something inside of me broke and I shut down. I hadn’t felt like this in ages, but I knew what it was.

My old friend depression had returned, and it had put its cold, dead hand in mine.

I finally admitted it to myself, and then my daughter this weekend.

‘Mom, I don’t think your anti-depressant is working.’

‘Honey, I know it isn’t, but I don’t know what to do.’

I sobbed while we talked, and I think I used about 25 tissues in about ten minutes. Meg kept reassuring me that I was going to be okay, but all I could say was I knew that I would be without a partner for the rest of my life.

The whole thing with K had devastated me. Here was this man that I was sure I loved already moving on.

Sure, he has his demons, but so do I.

There’s addiction, of food and alcohol that continually sing their siren song into my ear. There’s the nagging feeling that I’ll be alone for the rest of my life. That I’ll leave no mark. That I’ll have been brave enough to save myself from insanity, to only die alone in some hospital bed while machines whir and measure my heartbeat till I’m no more.

The pit of depression is a deep one and I’m at the bottom of it.

To begin clawing my way out, I sent a text to my therapist. I’ve contacted my closest friends and I’ve told my sponsor the work I need to do. I think I need to make a call to my addiction psychiatrist, because I think I need a stronger medication to battle this. Meditation is great and prayer even better, but I know that I need it like a diabetic needs insulin.

I want out of this abyss, and I want to be loved. I want to love myself first, but that may never happen. There are women like me that feel love for those around them, but will never feel their worth until they are loved by someone else.

Tomorrow, I will get up early, and prepare for work. I’ll go through the motions of life and I will take time for self care and meditation. I’ll force myself to take care of myself, until it is no longer a battle, and I can do it with ease. And even if I’m never held in the arms of man again, I will find something in this life worth living for.

Memories From a Little Girl in a Plymouth Duster

We traveled home late one night down Southbound US-23. I sat next to Mom in our mustard yellow Plymouth Duster, and did my best to try and sleep. The black sky was spitting snow at the headlights while the heat vents blew warm stale air onto my face and chest. It was warm enough in the car, but I used my long winter coat as a blanket. Sis was asleep in the backseat and I envied the ease in which she could sleep just about anywhere.

I could feel the thick, hard vinyl of the mustard yellow seat as I shifted my weight and tried to drift off. The seat was anything but comfortable, but I liked riding up front with Mom.  The radio was playing low and the AM dial glowed in the dark. Mom listened to the late night news on WJR which I have to admit even at an early age, scared the heck out of me. Maybe it was the staccato rhythm of the announcers voice or the sound of the teletype and the occasional beeping that signaled the end of one segment and the beginning of another. It seemed that the news was always bad.

There was a murderer on the loose in another state that I was convinced was going to show up at our front door. There was disaster somewhere in the world and my mind would race with thoughts of could it happen here in my state, or the city I lived in. The stories of missing children, of wars in other lands, of leaders that would kill their own people. Even at the young age of eight, I felt that the world would never be safe for me. Maybe it was because my parents were divorced and my daddy wasn’t there to protect all of us, I don’t know.

Mom’s family was located on the west side of the state. When she married my father she pulled up stakes and moved away, but our homes were always pretty close to the highway. She loved my dad, but not in a traditionally romantic way. Dad wasn’t her Prince Charming, he was her best friend. He offered security and unconditional love and the escape from the abuse she had experienced her entire life. I don’t ever remember living with my dad, which is kind of sad.

Maybe the anxiety that I experienced at such an early age wouldn’t have been so devastating if Dad had been there to fight the monsters in the closet, or under the bed. Maybe he could have quelled my fears from the horrible news stories I heard on the radio and t.v., but maybe not.

After all these years of dealing with a backwards fight/flight response, I’ve come to realize that it’s pretty much how I’m wired. Therapy and a good anti-depressant/anxiety medication have made my life better, but there’s the little girl in me that still wishes for my dad. My parents’ divorce wasn’t anyone’s fault, but I’m sad it happened all the same.

Sometimes, I wish I could take the knowledge I have now, and go back to being that little girl trying to sleep on that crappy colored vinyl front seat, and tell myself not to fear life. To not fear the unknown sounds in the walls, and not fear the darkness of my bedroom, to not fear whether or not I will be liked or loved, and to not fear being alone. There are so many things in the world to fear, but there is so much more to be experienced and enjoyed.

Friday Fictioneers-August Heat

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The young vet sat across from the crumbled building. The August heat soared, and  concrete burned through his fatigues and t-shirt. In his right hand he held a cup for ‘donations’, and with his left he wiped his damp brow.

Concert goers walked past, paying him no mind. Their only mission to pregame before the big event. Except for one pretty woman, but not ‘pretty’ in the traditional sense. Her smile made him shiver and her blue eyes he could’ve drowned in.

She handed him a ‘fiver’, then to his surprise, sat down beside him.

Hi, she said, I’m Michaella.

 

This is my first entry in Friday Fictioneers in forever. I’m forcing myself to get back to writing after dealing with some major heartbreak. I’m tying to post at least one story a week, but if the words start flowing again, I’m hoping to post a few times a week.

Thank you Rochelle for hosting this wonderful prompt. I’m so glad to be back in it again. Please be assured I’m ready for all constructive criticism.

Hope you all have a wonderful day!

 

To Remember touch More than Thought

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“I remember that feeling of skin. It’s strange to remember touch more than thought. But my fingers still tingle with it.”-Lucy Christopher

My pulse quickened as Matt enclosed his left hand around my right. The intimacy of his actions brought a blush to my cheeks. Confused, I wanted to pull away but I craved the contact. Instead of retreating, I allowed his hand to engulf mine. My mouth went dry, as his thumb repeatedly caressed the palm of my hand.

I yielded to his touch, my heart slowed its thready beat, and I allowed myself to enjoy the closeness of my dear friend. He asked for nothing but my hand. He told me he loved me and how glad he was I came into his life. We grew silent, as his thumb continued to make lazy circles on my palm.

His was the first intimate touch I’d felt since I’d become sober. It wasn’t a sexual touch. I wasn’t sure how to label it, and honestly, I didn’t care to. In that five minutes, I felt more protected and loved than I had in a long time.

With our hands clasped, my friend silently asked nothing of me, but to love every broken, raw and damaged part of him. And in return, I asked him to do the same for me.

The Day the Music Came Alive

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I’m nobody, but I am someone

The last year of my addiction to alcohol had killed my love of music. Every time I listened to any song I would feel it so deeply that I would be left sobbing. If I couldn’t listen to music, I damn sure couldn’t write either. So in the last six months I fed my need for words by listening to NPR and the great Dave and Chuck the Freak morning show on 101.1 The WRIF in Detroit.

During detox and rehab we weren’t allowed to have our phones, so I was starved for information, morning radio shows, and finally, music. The few songs I did get to hear during that time made me cry, but there was no longer any deep seeded pain connected to it. The pain I felt was the itch and burn of healing to my tattered and war torn soul.

On the day I walked out of the Brighton Center of Recovery, the sun of early fall was shining. It lit my hair and my spirit on fire and I knew I was on the path to rebirth. I threw my suitcase in the backseat, and placed my ID and insurance card back into my wallet. I slid the keys into the ignition, turned the engine over, and rolled the windows down. As I drove out of the parking lot, I turned the radio up to 11, the wind caught my hair and I sang the words to whatever song that was playing on the radio.

I  finally felt at home in the music, no matter if it was upbeat or a ballad. The words helpd incredible power! Not to hurt me, but to help me heal. Everyday I get closer to fine with the help of my IOP group, my AA community, my other Brighton alums, my friends and family and my music. Oh my fucking God, I am so incredibly blessed!

May you find peace and serenity today, and may you find joy in the little things in life.

 

 

A Letter of Forgiveness

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‘Let us be willing to release old hurts.’- Martha Smock

Dear Renee,

The last three years have been especially harrowing, yet you’ve persevered. I always knew you were  a strong woman.

I want you to forgive yourself for the last ten years of drinking. I want you to love and accept yourself and know that you are a beautiful spirit.

You are not your past, and it does not need to define you. Your future and your community are the sober people, the perfectly broken.

Your children love you. The longer you are sober, the more their trust will return.

Do not look for love until you can find it within yourself.

Go to meetings.Work with a sponsor. Keep busy. Dive into work and become a stellar employee again.

Be kind to yourself and know that you alone are enough.

Let go of your past. Let go of love that is not evenly returned and move forward.

Find peace.

Find joy.

Find love from within, and the brilliance of it will flow to everyone you encounter.

Forgive yourself, and put your trust in the future.

Love, Renee

(This is a letter I wrote to myself the last night of my stay at the Brighton Center for Recovery. My addiction counselor told me to save doing this section of my homework after everything else was done. I read it to my community the day I ventured out of the Brighton Bubble into the sunlight of new future. I’ll  share of my journey when the time is right. For now, I have another story brewing about a wheat farmer and his wife. I hope to post it soon. This girl is getting her sparkle back for sure. Thanks for following me on this journey.)