Silly Girl

Where did I come up with the crazy idea that love included things like affection, connection and a general feeling of being a part of a team? Why did I think that being in love meant having the feeling that two people were truly joined as one? It feels like the only time that I’ve ever felt that way, it has fallen apart or been a complete lie.

Peace from the Rogue Mare

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A Sunday Quickie

I don’t like it when people continuously play the victim and I hope that I don’t come across as that type of person. I prefer being victorious over things. I was not a victim of a random act of violence. I  willingly entered into the blinding haze of love. Most of my pain is somewhat self-inflicted. That doesn’t mean that I don’t suffer or that my pain, or that anyone’s pain, should be discounted.

The healing process has been a combined effort of my faith, my friendships and my mind. I began attending yoga and am working on healing some physical pain through massage. I had no idea how much these visits would enlighten my mind. I’ll save those adventures for a more lengthy post though.

As my youngest son would say, “I’m off to go see the Baby J.” I adore the teachings of Christ and the life that he lived. Everyone needs to believe in something. It’s okay to be in different boats but we all need oars…….or twin two-hundred horse motors.

Peace from the Rogue Mare

Strippers Have a Story

I have my homework nest built and I’m ready to settle in for roughly six hours of homework. I knew that the Rogue Mare needed to pour some of her own grammatically incorrect, non-math related words out of her head to be able to proceed with the mind numbing world of “have to do” things.

I recently found myself in the midst of topless dancers. Yes mom, (she reads my blog), I was hanging around strippers. I’m sure that this does not even phase my mother though. If it does, she’d never show it. I would consider mom to be pretty conservative but she knows her daughter is always looking for a story. A person’s story, an animal’s story or her own story.

I’m not really sure how to label the girls that I met. It doesn’t matter to me though because, when I’m not at work, do folks refer to me as my occupation? No, they don’t. I’m just gonna call them “the girls” for the duration of this post. This paragraph caused me to think about how family members would say, “My son brought a stripper to Christmas dinner.” Would that same family member say, “My son brought a library assistant to Thanksgiving dinner?”

I spoke with girls who, for the most part, like their job, some who hated it but needed the money, and some who didn’t think there was anything wrong with what they did. I can identify with all of those feelings in regards to career choices and I’m sure most of you will concur.

Every face has a story. The girls were very open about who they were, if they had children, where they were from, whether they were going to college or merely trying to survive. Some are just trying to stay well enough to make it through the day. When I say well enough, I mean that they have found themselves to be addicted to drugs and they need this job to buy or trade the substance that keeps them functioning.

The girls were very kind. They were telling me how beautiful and sweet I was! No, they weren’t trying to get money from me. That was not the forum in which this meeting took place. They were just happy to talk to someone who was interested in who they were. That, gentlemen readers, is how you get a girl to like you.

The girls are people with beautiful bodies, stunning smiles and tortured souls. Many of us, especially artists, have tortured souls. You may or may not agree with the fashion in which they make their living but that is extraneous. Wait, I take that back, it is of greatest significance. Many career choices have the ability to derive a negative connotation. My first job was at a pizza joint. I seem to recall a pastor asking my parents if they were okay with my working at an establishment that sold alcohol. Really? He had the nerve to ask that while his daughter worked as a checkout girl for a local grocery store! I’m sure that she rang up her share of beer and wine on any given day. Funny thing is, the pizza place I worked at didn’t even serve alcohol.

I’m almost down to the conclusion. The core of my experience is that I respect the girls. We live in a money driven society. It is an animal that most of us have created. These girls pay sales tax and pay  into the economic system just as much, or more, than you and I. Sexuality sells.

“Judgements prevent us from seeing the good that lies beyond appearances.” ~ Wayne Dyer

Peace from the Rogue Mare

And the power has shifted…..

Power is a wonderful thing to have. Power: ability to do or act; capability of doing or accomplishing something. Control is good for some but others want nothing to do with it. Control:to exercise restraint or direction over; dominate; command.

I know that my readers do not need an English lesson but the topic of this post had me grasping for the proper word to employ. Power won. Ability, accomplishment, those two words infer nothing but positive energy and that is all I need at this point in my life.

If you have read my previous posts, then you are aware that I contacted my lost love. I didn’t know how I was going to feel in the days following that contact and that is the purpose for this post. I feel empowered. I feel like I am able to look at things through the panoramic lens (which is how we should always envision our life).

He hasn’t attempted to contact me which could mean one of two things. It could mean that he is on such a high horse that he really doesn’t have any feeling left for me whatsoever, but here’s what I think, I think he knows he could never get me back. He knows that I’m gone. He knows that I was a weak soul when he caught me and that I’m too far out of reach for him to be able to capture me. It is ever so easy to catch a bird with a broken wing, but try to capture a peregrine falcon that is swooping at two-hundred miles an hour! Yes, this mare has wings and she’s flying.

I have no regrets for my actions. People in pain are always looking for comfort. The love story now has its ending and it’s an ending that I created, not him. I took the power, I have the conn.

Peace from the Rogue Mare

Wine is a Woman

People who are in pain do strange things. It’s very difficult, and I might add wrong, to judge someone who is in pain. It doesn’t matter if that pain is physical, mental or both. It doesn’t matter if that person put themselves in that position or not. Pain is just pain. As humans, we should be there to comfort one another when we observe another human’s pain. This doesn’t mean that one should enable negative behavior. Just hold someone’s hand, give them a hug, or just do like I do, tell a raunchy joke or make light of their situation when needed.

I broke a rule. I contacted the one who broke my heart. I didn’t ask my friends if I should do this. I didn’t ask anyone’s permission. I did consult my favorite bottle of red wine and she said, “Go for it.” You know that wine is a woman. She has to be. She’s beautiful to gaze upon through a transparent glass. She’s seductive. She wants to be wanted and enjoyed. Some are full bodied while others are bare bones. Some are sweet and some are like vinegar. My favorite, Apothic Red, has an awesome nose and a fabulous finish. I’m sure that you’d love to meet her, but I digress.

So I contacted the lost love. I could also say that Adele made me do it. Sultry, broken, fierce lyrics pour out of her like lava. I sent a text message. I still have the number memorized. I frequently dream about dialing the number and the numbers don’t work. Maybe I’ve pushed past that dream because the numbers did work. I sent “Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’.” It took a few minutes and I received a reply, ” I listened to the song. Who is this?” Lost love never knew my number. All this time I kept from breaking the rule to ensure that there was no way of contacting me and I kept it that way. I responded, “If you listened to the song then you should know who this is.” Lost love knew and asked how I was doing, how my family was doing. I responded by saying that we were all fine and to forgive me because I wouldn’t ask how he was doing because it would hurt too much. Lost love understood. The interaction lasted for about forty-five minutes. Not once did we lash out, lay blame, or overemphasize how grandiose our lives were now.

I needed to make this painful memory into a human being and I needed to put my feelings in order. This interaction had nothing to do with wanting to return to the life I had before. It had everything with doing what I needed to do to survive my own twisted heart and mind. It was an experiment and I was willing to do anything. I don’t like being angry or confused. I don’t like harboring ill feelings toward anyone.

So far so good. Once again, I’m not perfect. I went against the rules, but I repaired a tear in my heart. I feel relieved. Lost love is a human being and someone I once viewed as a hero. I recalled all the wonderful things that we once shared. I realized and embraced what I already knew, focusing on the negative doesn’t provide any comfort.

I won’t ask for forgiveness for my broken rule. I compare it to a hungry person stealing a piece of bread. It’s about survival and it’s about learning.

Peace from the Rogue Mare

 

Porn Star Dancing

Okay, the title has pretty much nothing to do with my writing. I hit shuffle on the old iTunes and that’s the song that was playing when I decided to start typing. Caught your attention though.

I’ve had this urge to write a letter to the one who broke my heart. There’s no way I would ever send it because it would only serve to feed that person’s already over-inflated ego.

I’m going to give you fair warning here and let you know that this is a no holds barred piece. You might come away saying I’m bitter or give me advice to just let it go. Those are great words. Legalizing/decriminalizing marijuana are great words as well, but putting it into action is, well, pretty impossible. I’ll save my marijuana thoughts for another day. Hopefully the DEA won’t come knocking. They would leave sad and empty handed.

Here goes nothin.

To the one who threw me away like garbage:

Our relationship began as a friendship. That’s very important because I felt like you already knew me and I knew you. I knew that you lived with your mom in a trailer that had no air conditioning or heat. I knew that you never even went to middle school because you were too overweight to wear a belt to school. I saw the dead roaches on the counter and saw the mice on the porch. You knew how many times I had been married and the domestic abuse I had survived. You knew that I had two children and that I threw things when I got mad.

Instead of looking at you as someone who was beneath my standard of living, I looked at you as a person who saw what they wanted and went for it. You never knew this, but one day I was taking a nap in your bed and I awoke to overhear you and your mom talking in the kitchen. “Are you sure about that?” “Yes, mom. I’m as sure about her as I am about being a police officer.” It was then that I trusted you completely. You were sure. You were going to be there until the end. I trusted you so much that I poured every penny of my divorce settlement and my retirement into making a home for us. I sold my vehicle. I bought you guns, knives, legos, anything you wanted. I put in a pool, I built a deck, I fenced in our property and fenced a yard for our dogs.

I put up with your mind games. The ones where you demanded that I tell you that I loved you more than anyone I ever loved in my life. The ones where you would talk about how fabulous you were and how every woman on the planet adores you. I watched you admire yourself in every passing mirror you could find. Funny thing is, I was not attracted to you physically. I was attracted to your heart.

I put up with those things because of the way you smiled at me every day. If I wore my hair in braids you would tell me how cute I was. You were always happy to see me. You called me your princess. You loved the lyrics to music the way that I loved them. You saved me from myself sometimes. You taught me to respect myself. You taught me to defend myself. You taught me how to properly handle firearms and I have a pretty tight pattern now. You made me stop throwing things when I get mad, which is your biggest accomplishment yet! When we went to the beach and had bought an umbrella without a “pokey” end, you dug a hole with your hands to make sure I had some shade. You could make the most delicious food out of nothing! You filled a place in my heart shortly after my dad passed away. I thought you were so much like the greatest man I’d ever known. I guess I was wrong.

For some reason, which I assume I’ll never know, you suddenly decided that I was insane. Unfit to live with. You didn’t want me any longer. You broke off our engagement through a text message while you were in the middle of a shift at work leaving me at home to go crazy. Thank heaven for my family and close friends who were there in a flash. They stayed with me until I was ready to go to sleep. Thank God I had somewhere to go because at that point I had no money and no vehicle. I left within three days. I was responsible. I took only what I came with or purchased. I left you with a bed and your beloved guns and the $800 gun safe that I bought.

Some people say that I over-reacted. That I should have stayed. Stay? With someone who doesn’t want to marry me? You don’t go from engaged and back to “living together”. You don’t get the cow or the milk at that point.

I’ve been told that you still openly discuss the fact that I’m crazy, insane, whatever to people who used to be my friends. I don’t think that’s fair. I don’t know the reason for it. Your niece has said horrible things about me as well. That’s very sad. I remember buying her a beautiful dress and shoes to match for her graduation from high school. I remember taking you, her sister and her to Emeril’s for a lovely dinner after her graduation. What did I get in return? Ugliness from both of you.

I’ll get over the pain one day. I know that I will. I live a good life and I’m happy being where I am now. I just wanted you to know how I feel/felt about you, about us, about how unfair it all seems. Life isn’t fair. I’m on a path to somewhere. Maybe it’s somewhere that I never would have reached if you were in the way. Maybe you’re going somewhere in life that I shouldn’t be. So many maybes. Maybe I’ll never know.

I have no idea how I feel about you now. I don’t think I could ever look you in the eyes and have a conversation. I don’t think I would want to give you the satisfaction of being in my company again. I’m pretty special and I know it. Women are special as a whole. They adapt for their mates, they comfort, they entertain.

Not ending this letter with love or regards. Simply ending it. I may write to you again. I might not.

To all who read this, Peace from the Rogue Mare

Dark Places of My Heart

Maybe it’s the holidays or maybe it’s the nearing anniversary of my father’s passing. All I know is that I feel as if my heart has been turned inside out like a pillowcase and all that is exposed are the dark corners. These places are so dark that you cannot see your hand in front of your face. Do we all have these dark places or do I carry with me an ever-shaded hitchhiker that taunts me from time to time?

I try to appease myself, calm myself, and find my center when this aphotic cloud emerges. Some would say this is depression. I don’t think so. It’s more of a tugging restlessness that pushes its way into my soul. Television doesn’t help. I can’t focus on reading a book. I’m just being tossed about right now. Soon enough the waves will stop crashing and there will be peace again.

I attend college and I’m on winter break right now. I think that leaves too much time for my mind to go haywire. They say that idle hands are the devil’s workshop but an idle mind is vulnerable to self destruction.

It doesn’t help that I’ve allowed anger to move back into my life. I’m still angry at someone who hurt me. I don’t know where to put that energy or how to use it for my own good. I talk people through this sort of thing all the time but I can’t take my own medicine. A very dear friend of mine told me to stop letting people “rent space in my head.” I loved it when she said that and it makes total sense. The people who insist on hurting me don’t deserve a moment of my precious thinking…… but that’s easier said than done.

Those of you that have read my other posts know that this one is a bit unusual. It doesn’t have a focus. It doesn’t have a theme. It’s simply my inside-out heart on a page. Maybe it will help someone else or maybe these words will leave the tips of my fingers and I will once again find concilation.

Peace from the Rogue Mare

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