DANCING

I feel like a rock star. I led a staff retreat for a charter school in LA for over two hundred people today, and I killed it! I feel so full. I have never led a retreat before. And they paid well. I like this gig.

I barely thought of Highland Park all day.

I have red toenails.

My four-year-old daughter picked them out.

I am rediscovering classic Radiohead.

I am tired. From today.

It feels like mercy, this respite from thinking about Highland Park.  Or maybe I am just in between waves. I have killed him in my head in so many ways. Tried ripping him physically from my heart. Visualized cutting the cord. A purple cord.

He doesn’t care.
He is married.
He doesn’t want you.
He has forgotten.
Move on.
He wasn’t even that nice to you.
He showed you compassion, but that was because he hurt you.
My ex-husband never showed me compassion.
I remember how Highland Park rubbed my forehead.
He is married.
He doesn’t want you.
Move on.

I am hungry.

I know two single women in their forties with children around my daughter’s age.
They have been single for a long time now.
That thought does not bring me comfort.

I shattered my identities:

I was a sober married mother.
Now I am just a mother
Not sober
Not married
Not tethered to anything
Or anyone
Except my daughter
I will be forever tethered to her. And I love that.
And my dog
Bug

I wanted to text him.
Come over. Bug misses you.
But I didn’t.

I went to hear some writers read their writing. Two were good. Two were bad. I thought to myself, I write more compelling shit than that. And the two good ones, I thought, I need to up my game.

I showed face.

I drank a glass of red wine.

I cried the whole way home listening to Radiohead as loud as I could with the windows rolled down. I was loving the 90 degree wind blowing through my hair. Although I hate living in the desert, I do love warm summer nights.

I want to be wanted. In the baddest way.

I want to feel HP’s naked hard complex and smooth body next to mine.

I can’t do man boobs

I Can’t do the limousine driver the chef or the frustrated producer.

I want the artist

I want him

Did I make it all up? Was it real? Did any of that really happen? Is he thinking of me? Is he missing me?

Being forgotten is a big fear.

FANTASY:

A dark dank bar called The Echo. I sway softly to the indie band playing in front of me. I am wearing a skin tight dress all the way down to my calves. My good friend is on my right. We have had a few drinks. We have smoked a little pot. We feel good. The slow steady beat drives my hips back and forth as I close my eyes briefly, allowing the base to penetrate me. Suddenly, without warning, I feel a strong pair of hands grab my hips and surreptitiously begin to slide themselves around my body and waist, pulling me close into a warm embrace, from behind. I look down at the pair of hands encircling me and I recognize them immediately. They are his.
I melt, bowing my head, with a sigh, and lay into his body I know so well.
I feel his lips on my neck.
I reach an arm up to touch his hair.
Yes. It is him. Without a doubt.
We sway to the music. Together.
I pull his hair down into my neck as I grind into him.
I don’t want this moment ever to end.
He brings one hand up to my chest, grabs at my heart, while the other hand moves down my thigh.
Only then do I turn around to face him.
There he is, pale blue eyes.
We touch foreheads.
I curl my hand through the back of his hair while he holds the small of my back.
There you are. I whisper.
Here I am. He whispers back.
And we kiss.
Our lips touch, I pull his neck into me, he pulls my back into him.
The world stops, we melt. Eyes closed.
Feels like an eternity before he grabs my hand and pulls me off of the dance floor, through the crowd, down a hallway and outside. The air is warm. A light shines on us from above. He pushes me up against a brick wall under the light, puts my face in his two hands, looks me deep in the eyes, and says, I love you.
Before kissing me deeply.
And then he fucks me.
And then he leaves.
Because he always leaves.
And he doesn’t love me
And this is just another stupid fantasy that will never come true.

Wake up. Real life is happening all around you. So you better pay attention or it will pass you by.

1:45 in the morning

It’s not the wine so much as the mental anguish about drinking the wine that is keeping me up. Or maybe it is the sugar. Regardless, anxiety courses through my body around this time every time I have, even one glass.

I am not sure ayahuasca is such a good idea anymore. I am not sure anything is a good idea.

I keep pushing the envelope. Is it curiosity or destruction?

I am a different person than I was. Cellularly.

At least, perhaps, it gives me something to write about.

So cliché.

Grabbing life by the horns and going for a ride.

I miss my daughter so much the ache is palpable.

I can’t sleep.

I want to sleep.

My heart hurts.

Do I miss AA? Being a part of something bigger, greater than I? Is it community I miss?

Where is my community?

Meditation?

I am at a place where a sober meditation group could help me. I believe that to be true.

What nourishes my soul and body?

I did nothing wrong. Was there some thinking associated? Feel like I have fleas crawling all over me. Infested. Dog keeps itching.

Rip my heart out of my body and I give it away.
Gratitude! That changes the energy immediately!

What am I grateful for???

Today. I am grateful that I killed it today. I am grateful that I was given the awesome opportunity to lead a retreat for teachers, the unsung heroes.

I am grateful for my beautiful precious daughter.

I am grateful I only had one glass of wine.

I am grateful for meditation group and Jessica Graham, my meditation teacher,  in my life.

I am grateful that my ex is a good Dad and provider.

I am grateful that I have Bug right now.

I am grateful that I can make myself a cup of tea and drink it.

I think I will make myself a cup of skullcap and passionflower tea.

I think too much, of this I have been told.

Of this, I know.

Stop head.

Stop.

It’s only thoughts and emotions.

That is all.

Watch them pass through.

Watch what they do.

Watch the havoc.

Drinking the herbal tea doesn’t seem to do shit for me, so I am smoking it. Out of a peace pipe, no less, that I purchased at a flea market in Idaho with my real dad, his wife, my daughter, who was only two at the time, and my soon to be ex-husband.

I was somebody something connected to someone some group at one point in time not too long ago.

Now I am no one no thing no part of an international group.

Is that the source of this unyielding anxiety?

I can not sleep.

I can not relax.

I want moorings.

But not the AA kind.

Everything is impermanent.

I know I should just close my eyes, sit still, and meditate.

I know it is the only thing that will really help me.

In the long run.

Maybe it won’t do shit right now.

Nothing does anything.

It’s only thoughts and emotions passing me by.

Which came first?

The chicken or the egg?
The thought or the emotion?

I want to be soothed entertained distracted and comforted.
I want something or someone to “take the edge off.”

Relax.

4-7-8 breathing- already tried it three times.

Lights are on.

Computer is on.

Dog is asleep in my bed.

Keep watching video of daughter telling me good night and she loves me that her father sent me.

From her father’s lap, in a busy restaurant in San Diego, where he is staying with her, and his ex-girlfriend.

They are taking my daughter to Legoland and the San Diego Wild Life Safari.

And I wonder why my heart hurts and I can’t sleep.

The anguish is real.

A real thing.  So palpable. In my chest. Hurts. Real pain.

They say the heart has an electromagnetic field that supersedes it by 8 feet

All around me, I am surrounded by heart energy.

Tap into that shit.

White people problems.

The Untethered Soul and other such nonsense.

I wanted to throw that fucking book into the fireplace I do not have. Burn it baby, burn it.

White people problems.

I can’t help but think how a person in the Congo would feel if they read that book.

Just be happy!

Just choose happy!

Maybe they would like it?

Maybe because that is what they do anyway?

I hear there is a joy in Rwanda.

Even in the prisons.

People dancing side by side.

The victims and the perpatrators.

Side by side.

Dancing.

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