confession: i bought doubles. one for his house, one for mine, my favorite scotch, the good tequila. the bottles for my place are put away in the liquor cabinet. the bottles for his place sit on my table, staring at me, daring me to open them. i speak to them in a stern voice, “you are mighty tasty poison, but you’ll have to wait til wednesday.”
confession: he bought me flowers. the big ones. my favorites. and they make me happier to see and smell each day, happier than anything else i can think of, happier than anything in the world, so happy that i feel guilty loving (and wanting) them this much.
confession: i wrote an epic email that included the recurring dream that isn’t a nightmare but always brings tears the next day, the dream where they wave at me from the front yard with droopy sorrowful eyes as i drive past them.
confession: the funniest thing he said to me was “i like it when you leave and then come back to yell at me.” he was kidding, i think. but maybe not. maybe he’s glad i come back, even if i yell. (i don’t actually yell, but i curse. i say “fuck you” when what i mean to say is “i’m hurting more than i can manage in this moment.”)
confession: i’m trying harder. but it’d be smarter if i tried gentler.
confession: she invited me to join her. i hope my presence was supportive rather than distracting.
confession: i want more, way more than i give myself permission to ask for. and when i ask, i don’t ask. i speak the desire as a statement and then run away. and then return and curse.
confession: i talk to myself all day long. i talk to myself while in public, usually without volume, usually only mouthing the words…which makes me look equally crazy (possibly crazier) than if you could overhear my monologue.
confession: when choosing between one or the other, buy the taller one.
confession: i’m afraid of what happens next.
confession: when i slow down, i begin to feel the feeling that’s always present, the feeling i run from, the feeling that is too scary to speak about.
confession: i wonder if the feeling you are running from is the same or different feeling from mine.
confession: please put more horseradish in my bloody mary. and more jalapeños. and more olives. and an extra shot of vodka. yes, that’s it. thank you.
confession: since i have to start somewhere and asking for anything is practice, i’m practicing asking for the table i want in a restaurant and the garnishes i want in my bloody mary.
confession: i’m asking you to practice with me. please practice asking for what you want. (and you, little one, ask him to spank you. again. ask him again. and again. and again. be brave. keep asking.)