Morrigan's blog: "I rant...therefore I am."

Wednesday, February 29th

Eight years.

It's been said before, hasn't it? That little two word phrase that will mean nothing more to most of you than a span of time. Maybe a span of time in which you grew a little older, got a little fatter, drank a few too many beers, fucked a few too many of the wrong people, lost a little bit of hair [or gained it, as the case may be], and just generally aged.

Me, I spent it taking care of the one person who had always taken care of me. My mother.

She was the person who taught me just about everything I'll ever know about anything that matters. She taught me that laughter is the best medicine, but a capful of Nyquil can't hurt. She taught me that every moment in life should be cherished...because those moments will soon be gone and nothing can ever bring them back and every moment brings us closer to death end of, which is the end of all those moments. She taught me that you can't teach an old dog new tricks.  She taught me to always stand up for myself and to know when to stop standing up. She taught me that skinny men have bigger dicks than fat men[Don't blame the messenger, tubby. It's a proven fact. I should know.].

There was a time when I was...how shall I put this...less than virginal. I tried everything I'd ever even thought sounded interesting sexually. I'd been with men, women, pairs, groups...just about every combination your dirty little mind can think of. I'd tried bondage, veourerism, roleplay, dominating, being submissive, blood play...the list goes on and on. I was quite the popular girl.

And all while raising two children.

I lived a bit of a double life, you see. My mother kept my children every other weekend. I spent that time going to clubs, hanging out backstage with my friend's bands [I miss you guys from Shattermask most of all. Goku hair and Tekken and clown makeup and the weed fairy. And your afterparties...let's not even talk about the afterparties...makes my ass hurt just thinking about it. Priest can fly. He's a fucking blackbird.] I danced in mosh pits while people poured beer all over my tits. I licked beer off other people's tits.I had a hell of an interesting bedroom. To the untrained eye, it looked normal. But, if you opened up drawers or peeked in the back of the closet, you found all sorts of new and interesting possibilities. Polaroid snapshots of me in stockings and boots and very little else...whips and things in all different sizes and shapes...rolls of rope tied into intricate knots...it was a veritable sex shop.  I dated so many cute, verile, nubile boys...and yes. I do mean boys.
Nearly every single one of them was at least 3 years younger than me. I was THAT fucking good. My friends envied me. My mother was amazed by me. I spent those weekends living out my fantasies and having a blast. And on Sunday night, my kids would come home and tell me about the awesome weekend they had with grandma and I would bake cookies or pop popcorn and we'd watch a movie before bedtime. It was an exhausting life. I was like two people. It was a tough life to keep separate from my kids. Every so often it bled through.

I really wish that it hadn't.

My last relationship was with this guy I'd been seeing on and off for a while. He was a recovering drug addict and not always the brightest crayon in the box, but he was a free thinker...and amazing in bed. For a while, at least. Then he started doing the shit again...and it quickly wore thin. He constantly accused me of cheating or other transgressions. During our time together, he had hurt me so many times...but always when I wanted it and with a safeword in effect. He started to just...hurt me. We fought constantly. I tried so hard, but it was like the meth was the other woman, you know? Even worse...I could compete with another damn woman. How could I ever compete with the high? It all built up, like a bomb about to explode. For days, it was like you could hear it ticking...he'd walk in the door and the sound of his steel-toed boots was this tick,tick,tick across the hardwood floor that I'd worked so hard to strip and refinish. Tick, tick, tick until one night he hit me. He grabbed me by my hair and spun me around...and almost threw me through a glass door.

There was no safeword that could have made it stop. There was no pleasure in this pain. I had trusted him...with everything in me. And he betrayed that trust.
He left with his balls in his throat and a threat to call the police on my lips. I could think of nothing else to say, but I know now that I would have sooner killed him than called the cops. And that, my friends, scares the hell out of me.

But even more frightening...he left with all the sex toys...stole every single one of them. He even took the Polaroids. I can't help but wonder if, right now, there's some 15 year old boy out there somewhere jacking off to those photos. It kind of creeps me out.

So, I quit. I just plain quit. I stopped calling my friends back when they wanted to go out. I started spending my weekends at the zoo or the science center or the museum with my kids. We went hiking and we camped at Meramec Caverns and we told ghost stories around campfires. And, aside from my ever present best friend, Dina, my kids were my world.

And then Mom got sick and that was the greatest and most convenient excuse to keep going on that path. I was too busy. Between taking care of her and raising my kids and holding on to my sanity by a thread...there was just no time for anything else.

Eight years.

Seven years into that time span, my mother died. December 15th, 2010. A part of me died with her. She'd become my best friend. my lifeline. We had shared this huge adventure together by moving across the country. Just packing up and going because we both needed the change. Because of a great job offer that didn't last as long as it should have...a better health care choice for her...and a chance to escape.

I had run away. And, now that my partner in crime was gone and it was time to stop running and look in the mirror at the person I'd become, I had to admit that I was older, less attractive, and painfully lonely. But I didn't know how else to be.

I could hear the ticking again. Only it wasn't the ticking of a bomb this time. It was the ticking of time as it flew by.  It was the ticking of a clock on an old worn down mantlepiece, over a cold hearth, in an empty room.

For so many years, I haven't felt much of anything. I went through life one day at a time, plodding methodically from one chore to another, taking care of everyone but myself. Now, my kids are grown up. They don't need me as much anymore. Even with everything I did over those eight years, the scars of the past are upon them...reminding me of every mistake I ever made.

It was a rough time for a while there after Mom died. Dina and my brother begged me to come home and, oh, how I wanted to. We sold almost everything we owned, keeping only those things most precious to us. Everything else could be replaced. I had a job waiting for me...a place to stay all lined up. We were ready to head back across the country. Back to St. Louis. Back to HOME.

We found out my daughter was pregnant. Her boyfriend decided to go along with us.

We made it as far as Mesa before everything fell apart. Literally, everything that could have gone wrong...DID. We ran out of money. Daily job hunting was our occupation. Donating plasma became our main source of  income. We were homeless for much of her pregnancy...hanging out in a motel room and living off sandwiches and water. I worried constantly. I cried every night.
I met some people. These were the most unlikely sort of people...people whom you would think would be of absolutely no help in a situation such as ours, but they knew their way around the area. They introduced me to other people who could help. They gave me connections.

Right now, at this very moment, I could tell you where to find the best resources for just about anything you could ever want in Maricopa County. I could tell you where to find the best drugs. I could tell you where to get the cheapest drinks. Hell, I could lead you to an all night high stakes poker game in the back room of some shitty little  dive bar. Those connections led me to my job...to the apartment I'm living in and the SWEET deal I got on it...to the cheapest cigarettes in the county...to everything that's brought me to this moment where I'm sitting on my bed and my bills are paid and my beautiful granddaughter is asleep in the downstairs apartment with her parents and I have nothing better to do than sit here and pour my heart out to a group of virtual strangers.

I can feel again. And, oh, it's so sweet. Every touch, every breath, every moment is like something completely new again. I really want to let loose.

But I don't really trust anyone.  Not anymore. Not after what he did. Not after that pivotal moment when my shoulder hit glass and cracked it into shards.

I don't know how to interact like a normal person. I talk too much. I squirm. I get pushy and overbearing. I say crazy things sometimes just to be saying something. I've made a lot of friends, but I still kind of feel like I'm on the outside looking in. I've started dating a little bit again...and I'm finding it more confusing than anything. I never know the right move to make...the right thing to say. Everything that used to come so easily to me now feels like a constant struggle. I don't want to make the same old mistakes. But at the same time...I totally do. I want to feel the things I used to feel. I want to feel powerful. I want to feel weak. I want to feel wanted...needed...used up. I had bite marks on my inner thigh once that brought a grin to my face. Damn it, I want that again.

I don't care much if I'm loved. All that comes with time. I don't want someone to move in with me or spend all their time with me or pay my bills or marry me or even say that they're never going to leave. I probably wouldn't believe it even if they did. I don't want someone who's perfect or who has it all together. I don't want to have it all together. I just want to FEEL.

And I want to trust again.

Everything else in my life right now is up to me. And all of those decisions have been made. I go to work and bring home a steady paycheck. I'm waiting for my tax return right now and then I'm signing up for online college and applying for buckets of grants and student aid. I'm gonna earn that degree and it's going to take me where I want to go. Not just home, but to all the places I ever wanted to be. Right now, I'm not leaving my daughter and the baby...but soon enough, they won't need me so much anymore and, baby, this bird is ready to spread its wings and fly.

After going out to lunch with my friend today and spending some time with my granddaughter, I went to the workout room at my apartment complex tonight and I  let off some steam, burned some energy, released some frustration.  I texted with my friend throughout it all and he gave me a much needed boost of confidence.  I came home exhausted and feeling like I could take on the world.

After my workout, my daughter randomly handed me a stack of condoms. She noticed that I've had one particular guy around and she sees me becoming myself again.  It's like she's giving me her blessing to go get laid or something. I find it hilarious...and strangely touching...that her biggest concern in all this is whether or not I'm safe. She doesn't care what I do. She just wants me to be happy.

There are a few people out there who will get what I'm about to say. We all need to get our lives together. We all have to make the best of what we've been given. We all have to know when to hold 'em and know when to fold 'em. But wouldn't it be so much easier if we helped each other? Wouldn't it be nice to just let it all go?

I bought handcuffs the other day. The start of my new collection. They're hanging from the metal post of my bed...dangling there and making little clinking noises as I shift in my sleep. Holy fuck, but I love that sound. Maybe someday I'll trust someone enough to let them slide those cuffs onto my wrists.

I'm ready.

I'm waiting.

I'm fucking going to bed.