Goddammit Diane. Signed, The Internet.

There are 36 trillion self help books and everyone on the internet has read them all.

BUT WAIT 

THERE'S MORE!

Not only have they read them,

they have applied them and adopted them and molded them 

into the very fiber of their being 

so that when they go out into the wild and interact with other humans who have also read the 36 trillion self help books, they will know how to behave precisely so as not to show any, or maybe just not too much, emotion because

That 

Is 

A

Giant 

Red 

Flag or a GRF

and we don't wave those fuckers around here, you guuuys.  

We bury them six feet underground 

and plant rows of daisies and begonias and tulips on top of the fresh dirt so that when a motherfucker comes along and stumbles upon us, they will only smell the roses, as it were, 

and not the dank shit that is the very reason

for the vibrancy of their leaves.

 

Everyone is doing this now 

so you need to do it too 

because it's just unheard of to be 41 years old 

and still have unresolved issues from your past because 

THERAPY, Diane! 

GET THERAPY 

and work all those kinks right the fuck out because after talking to our therapist for 26 years, we are finally ready to give ourselves to someone but we can't give ourselves to you until you go to THERAPY because you are just a little too emotional and we are 41 years old for gods sake!  

God, Diane.  You're so fucking yesterday.

 

But 

 

you're also super hot

and hilarious 

and you give the best head 

and you're fun in the bedroom 

and we laugh constantly 

and something about you just feels so goddamn familiar. 

And your tits!  They're just the right amount of perky and sag for a 41 year old mom.  They're kinda perfect, Diane.  

In fact, you're kinda perfect,Diane.

 

But only just kinda.

 

That shit you pulled at that park in Mobile CANCELS OUT your generosity and kindness and overall hotness. 

Get yourself together now Diane and DO NOT UGLY CRY AT PICNIC TABLES IN THE MIDDLE OF THE GODDAMNED PARK!

You are embarrassing yourself

And everyone else on the internet who does yoga at 6 a.m. and drinks hot lemon water for breakfast and laughs at appropriate jokes only and has a rich and full life and who does not actually need us at all (being needed is so 1950 now, Diane) because their life is so full of wonder and joy and enriching things like museums and enlightenment. 

 

What   do   you   even   mean   that

the light shining off this crevice in his forehead 

reminds you of that canyon 

you went down in 

when you were 14 

and  it was so dark, so dark, so dark

except for that tiny shaft of light 

peeking through at the top.  

 

FUCK, DIANE!

That's so fucking weird! 

 

Now

PLEASE CONSULT THIS SELF HELP APP  WE, THE INTERNET, HAVE DOWNLOADED AND PUT ON THE HOME SCREEN OF YOUR PHONE WHILE YOU WERE CRYING IN THE SHOWER.

You're kind of a psycho, Diane.

Kind of like for real, Diane.

 

But god you're so pretty! 

And you're so funny.  

And you're so sweet.  

And you liked that Indian food you had never tried 

and you climb fire towers in the middle of the forest when it's raining

and you rub our arms when we're not expecting you to 

and you play with our beard 

and scratch our head 

and you put your arms around us just because 

and we've never had a woman feel so soft and so warm.

 

 

Fuck, Diane.

Can't you just get it together for now?  

He came all the way down here 

from all the way up there.

Diane?

Why'd you have to go and drive across four states for him?

Didn't your brothers ever tell you not to do a thing like that?

Didn't your daddy ever tell you a man who wants you will come and get you?

Didn't your mama ever tell you to hide your crazy?

Diane?

He almost 

Sort of

Could have

Wanted to

Love you.

Diane.  

He maybe

Sort of

Can

But won't

Ever

Love you again.

 

Because 

Everyone on the internet has read all 36 trillion self help books and have applied them and adopted them and molded them into the very fiber of their being.

And we don't live here in this space where lines get blurred

and greens give way to browns in the same square of grass 

and ketchup clumps at the top of the bottle and we  don't wipe it off 

and t-shirts get torn from that splinter of wood on the picnic table 

and everyone is a walking disaster all done up in their Sunday best and when they take those dresses off there are tears in the stockings underneath and sweat stains on the armpits of their slips.  

 

No, Diane.

 

We live on the internet where we behave precisely 

and choose our words carefully 

and time our responses perfectly.  

We live on the internet where we've all been in therapy for the past 26 years and are finally ready to give ourselves to someone who has also tied up all their loose ends and cut off all the frayed edges.  

We are just sitting here waiting for our perfect match.

 

We thought it was going to be you, Diane.

 

But that shit you pulled at that park in Mobile.......

GODDAMMIT DIANE

 

One Hundred Forty Hours

We were two for one hundred forty hours

give or take

subtract the hours you slept

you're down to one hundred four hours now

give or take 

subtract the hours i slept

i'm somewhere around one hundred twenty

give or take

you picked my towel up from off the floor

not once 

but twice

the slight nod of your head

when you told that man 'thank you'

i wanted to take my towel off for you then

let it fall back to the floor

of course, i wasn't in a towel 

we were in my car

and you didn't notice

the desire that dripped 

like the ice cream down the sides of those cones

we licked and licked

on that red bench 

the same color as my nose

from crying all that morning

and most of that day

"well where can this go"

and

"someone will get hurt"

this street we took from 'hello' to 'goodbye' 

long and winding

partly uphill

the road signs all overgrown

and

you the navigator

and

i the helmsman

going up and up

to that fire tower we weren't supposed to climb

but did 

and that other one back there in the forest somewhere

a notebook with our names written together

blue ink

the only evidence

that we ever existed anywhere

together

for one hundred forty hours

give or take

Past the Guard Rails

 Hey.

It's Saturday morning and I woke up thinking about the times you used to call me sometimes in the morning and want to start my day with a release and how I could never get off that way on the phone with you even though you were really good at talking to me like that.  I always loved hearing you tell me all the things you were going to do to me and all the ways I was going to open up to you.  

But I didn't need the release you promised.  

You were always the release.

And so I wanted you to know this because I want you to understand that I don't regret driving to see you last Saturday.  I know I'm supposed to and I tried to carry that regret with me all week because I thought it was a thing I was supposed to wear.  

It wasn't.

I carry a lot of things with me to all the places I go and some of them weigh me down in ways you could not ever imagine.  

But not love.

Love has never weighed me down.

I know it's supposed to.  I'm supposed to stop giving my heart to people and strangers so freely and openly and close up these avenues.  Or at least turn off the neon vacancy sign that flashes all morning and all night.

But I'm never going to.

It's not who I am.

Who I am is past the guardrails now.

 

I can't not be her.

I don't even know how to try.

And so.  I'm foolish and ridiculous and impulsive and passionate.

But I'm not angry or bitter or broken or desperate.

And I'm not ever going to guard my heart or play by a set of rules that the world says are appropriate or acceptable.

Maybe that means I will end up alone and destroyed but I will also be beautiful and defined and whole and I would not choose to live this life any other way.

So.

I'm taking this cloak of shame from around my shoulders and I'm not ever putting it back on.

I'm standing naked and unabashed with my heart beating and bleeding on the outside of my chest.

And I'm giving myself freely and without debt to anyone who chooses to have me for however long they need me.

 And this is where I'll live.  

Forever until I'm dust. 

 

What else is there really?

 

Noah.  Thank you.  You were radiant.  You were divine.  

You are brilliant, bold, beautiful.

I love you.

 

The Real Bitch

Bad Bitch. 

The Real Bitch.

Those are compliments of the highest order and I was given them just this afternoon.

Well, maybe not Bad Bitch.  That's future me.  That's for sometime in the next thirty minutes or three days or 3 months when I realize my worth and start wielding the powers that have lain dormant inside me for 29 plus years.  Once that happens, I'm going to be a BAD BITCH.  

And I'm going to know it.  

And then I'm going to own it.

 

At least that's what a chorus of beautiful women told me when I recounted to them the story of Noah and Stephanie.  

First, they laughed uncontrollably..  I have a way with words, you see.  Especially around people I'm comfortable with.  I know how to tell a good story and embellish it with facial expressions.  You may not know that about me.  I don't expect you to.  I stand in the shadows and let other people's lights shine most of the time. 

I had a roommate in college who used to tell me I was the 'real deal' all the time.  She came to visit me when I first moved to Atlanta.  She met my then boyfriend and before we parted ways in the hallway of the hotel she was staying in, she yelled to him "That's the real deal bitch right there.  Don't ever forget that."  

I had not heard that phrase spoken to me again until this afternoon.

 It came after the laughter and the incredulity had subsided a bit.  

"You're the real bitch.  Not just a real bitch but the real bitch."

And then, "When you own yourself, you're going to be a bad bitch, Ms. Stephanie."

 

What do they know that I don't?  What did my roommate know a lifetime ago that I never understood?

There's a story in here about Noah but I don't know if I have the words to write it.  I can only come at this from my own point of view and I'm not sure that's good enough.  I think it deserves more.

He deserves more than the scratched and dented, blurry and faded, point of view that these glasses I've been wearing for way to long will offer.

But I will try.

 

Yesterday, I was trying to figure out how to save a word document to my google drive folder.  It was a story I wrote in college and I wanted to send it to Noah.  I'm not sure why as I've never shared any of my writing with him.  I suspect it's probably a feeble attempt at holding his interest in me for just a little bit longer.  There is space here for me to admit that.  I'm not ashamed of it.  I fully and completely own the blood that bleeds and seeps from the cavities of my heart and does not slow down for anyone or anything.

While I was in my google drive folder, I looked around to see if I could find any lost treasures I may have forgotten about.  You know, pictures or poetry or odd musings I had scribbled down.  At the very top of the list was a document titled "Stephanie's Great Adventure."  What is this?  I open it and it's a packing list that Noah had started for us for our bikepacking trip.  Of course I had seen the list.  I remember when he sent it to me.  I thought it was so cute and thoughtful.  

But I had never seen the title of it.  

It punched me right in the gut.

"Stephanie's Great Adventure"

 

The adventure that never was.  

 

The bike that I accidentally on purpose forgot to bring when I met him last weekend in Montgomery.  The look that flashed across his eyes when he asked me where my bike was and I told him I forgot it.  The tiny little cloud that took up space in his pupils but quickly vanished in the millisecond it took him to digest and accept this news.

He does that.  

Noah does that.  

 

It's a thing of beauty to watch his brain rework and regroup and not miss a single step in the whole process of regeneration.  He makes a new plan.  The old plan is yesterday and we don't dwell in yesterdays here.  We live right here in the now.  Today.  8:36:15 p.m. on a Friday night in the doorway of this bedroom in this old fire station they've turned into a retreat on a street named Mobile in Montgomery, Alabama.  All we are is right now.  This instant. His hands on my shoulders, the heat from them seeping through the jean jacket and t-shirt I'm wearing underneath.  The understanding and acceptance in his eyes when I say "I'm sorry" and he says "It's ok."

It's ok.

It's ok.

It's ok.

Except 

It's not ok

Because ok is not a state I've ever existed in for more than 23 seconds.   Only he doesn't know this about me and he believes his ok is enough to make me understand that we don't dwell in yesterdays here.  We live right here in the now. 8:37:42 p.m. on a Friday night in the doorway of this bedroom in this old fire station.

Soon, in only seconds, we'll live on top of the bed in that bedroom.  That will be our moment then.  It will give way to another moment and then another until that revelation in the doorway won't have big enough wings to fly or hurt us.  Except.  I will stumble over it on my way to the bathroom at 9:17:04 p.m. on that same Friday night and I will pick it up on my way back and tuck it away down at the bottom of my suitcase and spend the next 5 days sewing wings for it from scraps of conversation, looks I can't decipher, touches I want but don't ask for, words I hear through a filter so their meaning gets muffled.  The wings will grow big enough to give the revelation the flight it's so desperately seeking and it will fly around me then; a part of my right here and right now forever.

 But I don't know that at 9:17:03 p.m. and so I roll over and run my hand through his beard and wonder how I ended up here with this man next to me in this bed.  

I'm happy.

Really happy.

But I can't live in the happiness forever and I know this.  So I take the winged revelation out of its suitcase on Wednesday morning and bring it with me to the park where we play disc golf.  It only needs a few more stitches now and it will fly.  I know I should take it to the edge of the lake and place it there on the water and watch it drift off towards the middle until an alligator comes along and snatches it for dinner.  Noah would like that.  He's been wanting to see an alligator.  

But I don't do any of that.  

I finish her wings before we've even had a slice of the pizza Noah has ordered for us.  She's flying so high and so free now and I know it's over for me. She's a part of me now.  

 

You accidentally on purpose forgot the bike.  

He went to a lot of trouble.

He drove a really long way.

You sabotaged everything.

You have no respect for anyone.

That was so rude.

He made plans .

You devalued his time and energy.

Her voice in my head is all I can hear.  Noah is trying to get through but she flaps her wings in double time when he speaks.  

It will all fall apart soon.

I'm helpless to stop it.

I know what I have to do.  

I have to crash and burn to get rid of her. 

That's the only way.

Her ashes smoldering there 

in the wreckage of the crash 

release the clarity she's held captive. 

Clarity.

Clarity.

 

I can see clearly now.

But it's too late.

 

It's always too late.

 

 

 

 

Metamorphosis

The days are going fast now.  So fast I look in the mirror and I see the fading light of my design casting shadows across my face.  I'm still here inside, though.  This girl.  This little, young, adolescent, preteen, early 20's girl.  She still lives here.  But her face... her face is changing.  It's morphing and seguing into this unrecognizable shadow of the girl.  The reflection in the mirror is not the reflection in my soul and I wonder if the face knows?  Does the face know I can't relate to it?  Does it know it's a stranger to me?  The face... the face becomes it's own entity while my mind tries to catch up.  It can't.

The face, the body, the joints, the back...they change.  So hard and so fast.  But the soul.  The soul is relentless in its endeavor to remain in its most reverant state  Pure and open.

Growing older is a virtue.  Becoming wiser is a gift for which we are not entitled and few receive.  But no one told me when I was 22 and in love with the night and the aging jazz pianist at 54 and Berry that one day I would lose the ability to care.  To really care about a thing.  That someday my passions would be displaced by the utter harshness of life and that I would feel absolute desolation at the lack of joy life sometimes brings.  Oh, please don't get me wrong.  There is joy.   There is plenty of joy everyday.  But it is not the same joy of my youth when I conquered my days with nary a thought beyond the night and the stars or this beautiful person I am sitting beside at this dive bar who is offering up little gems of his soul for me to devour before we part ways.  There is no more excitement about spending the day in leisure and not knowing or caring even what the afternoon might bring, maybe a movie, maybe a nap in my bed with a good book, maybe a study session at the library for an exam, maybe work.

Your vision, it changes as you grow older.  All of the parts are still there that make up who you intrinsically are but the stuff on the inside, it changes.  It just does.  It is as inevitable as the sun rising and setting.  You can't continue to see life through the same lenses you wore when you were 25.  You need new glasses.  Your vision changes.  If you are lucky, it changes for the better and creates in you a unique perspecitve on which to view your new world. 

If you are unlucky, you go in mourning for the you that is no more.

Descent

Being a mom is hard as all hell.  There's no way around that fact.  You never feel like you're doing it right.  There's no handbook.  We're all coming at it from our own broken places.  We swear to ourselves when we hold those tiny hands in ours that we are not going to break our children the way our parents broke us.  And we don't for a while.  Life is easy when they're little.  Sure, you're tired all the time but it's so goddamn rewarding watching them discover the world.  It's euphoric.  Your life is complete.  You don't need anything else but this amazing little person who holds onto you so tightly while they navigate the world.  You are their center of gravity and nothing feels better than that.  You teach them all the things you want them to know like love and kindness and forgiveness.  And they believe you!  You know everything, mama.  You're the absolute best.  You and your babe are all nice and secure in this cocoon of love you've worked so hard to knit together.  You've made sure to secure it as tightly as possible so the outside can't get in.  You don't want the outside to get in.  Not yet.  Not until you've built his foundation out of steel so that when the world tries to break him, because they're going to try to break him, they won't be able to.  He will be unbreakable and he will know all the love and goodness and he will walk out into the world and the world will not hurt him or bend him.

But then.

Before you've had a chance to add all the extra layers you want to add, that little boy starts scratching at the cocoon.  Just a little at a time.  He starts to notice things.  He sees you now when you cry and he wants to know why. He hears the change in the tone of your voice and he understands what it means now.  He sees you slam the pantry door when you're angry and pretty soon he slams doors too.  You try to tell him, mama is wrong for doing that, that's not how we deal with anger.  But then you do it again and so does he. 

And you never wanted him to see the things you saw 
when you were a kid 
so you swore he never would.  

But then,


It's 3 in the morning
you saw him texting her on his phone 
and it's 3:05 in the goddamn morning 
and you're laying right beside him and his kid is in the other room
For fucks sake!
Why is he texting her at 3:10 in the goddamn morning?!
He tells you he's leaving and you beg, 
plead, 
yell,
demand that he doesn't;
not because you want him to stay
you were planning to jump ship yourself later when the kid was stronger;
but because you have worked so hard nobody knows how hard you've worked
to create this life for this kid and you've been holding it all together for so long
HOW DARE YOU get to decide when.
You
emotionally
physically
spiritually
BANKRUPT MOTHER FUCKER.

I wish to god I'd never laid eyes on you;
except i did lay eyes on you and I got the kid out of the deal 
so THANKS FOR THAT.
Sincerely,
and from the bottom of my heart.

But I sold my goddamn soul 
for too many long years
trying to fix you;
you let me do everything 
without even an offer of help.
I put you through school,
took care of all of the things,
bills, 
laundry, 
yard work,
dishes.
you still couldn't pass the fucking test.
I don't even care anymore. 


but you fucking broke me that night 
when the kid woke up and saw ME
his mama, his best mama
pleading and sobbing
in the middle of the hallway floor.
and the fear in his eyes when he looked at me....
oh god. 
The fear in his eyes. 
Of me. 
The fear of the only world he's ever known
Crumbling
all down around him

I blame you
and I'll hate you forever
That shit is going to stain his soul
So FUCK YOU
Sincerely,
and from the bottom of my heart

And now

There's a hole in the cocoon
and he's got both legs out.  
You (mama) are frantically trying to sew it back up 
but he's seen things now
and he knows more than he should 
and it's all your fault, mama.  
You thought the world was going to break him, mama
You stupid fucking bitch, mama.
You broke him, mama.  
 
you did that.  
you broke him.  

You swore you never would
So FUCK YOU
Sincerely,
and from the bottom of your own shitty heart

And now it's a Monday morning before Christmas and you are yelling at him about an orange and green shirt and you're not worth the fucking foundation you thought you were so carefully constructing.  You don't deserve to be the guardian of his soul.  

But you're all he's got and you're so tired

And you won't know until he grows up
if you've fucked everything up or not.

Hot Dish

Last night I called you a 'hot dish' and waited for 10 uncomfortable minutes for you to text back.

It was torture.

What the hell is a hot dish?

Word Hippo said it was an acceptble version of hottie.

Sometimes I embarrass myself.

Hottie is what you call me

but you don't know that I've got lines around my eyes

and they don't disappear when my smile does.

You don't know

there's a tiny spider web of broken blood vessels

and they live on the left side of my nose

You don't know 

that Max weighed almost 10 pounds at birth 

and left me with lines across my stomach

that will never go away.