Scar Tissue

Time heals all wounds

No words from me today. I’m going to let Rose Kennedy tell it. Er, well, she’s dead so she already done told it. You get the gist though.

As I’ve said before, I’m all about heart connection. If you break my heart, I move on. The break will make me stronger.  My heart more resilient. I will connect and love again.

(Okay, so I lied. I had a few choice words. At least I didn’t say the F word.)

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

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No words are coming to me today. There’s sadness in my heart. It’s dark and rainy too. Just want to stay in bed on days like this. Headed to the funeral home later to say goodbye to a cousin that died suddenly a few days ago. I want to be happy that Meggie is getting married, but my heart breaks for my cousin’s family. They are in mourning while we are celebrating. It isn’t fair. But who said life was supposed to be?

Love of mine, some day you will die

But I’ll be close behind

I’ll follow you into the dark

No blinding light or tunnels to gates of white

Just our hands clasped so tight

Waiting for the hint of a spark

If Heaven and Hell decide

That they both are satisfied Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs

If there’s no one beside you

When your soul embarks

Then I’ll follow you into the dark

In Catholic school as vicious as Roman rule

I got my knuckles bruised by a lady in black

And I held my tongue as she told me “Son fear is the heart of love”

So I never went back

If Heaven and Hell decide

That they both are satisfied

Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs

If there’s no one beside you

When your soul embarks

Then I’ll follow you into the dark

You and me have seen everything to see

From Bangkok to Calgary

And the soles of your shoes

Are all worn down

The time for sleep is now

It’s nothing to cry about

‘Cause we’ll hold each other soon

In the blackest of rooms

If Heaven and Hell decide

That they both are satisfied

Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs

If there’s no one beside you

When your soul embarks

Then I’ll follow you into the dark

Then I’ll follow you into the dark

The Chill of Autumn and The Death Of A Love

As Rita walks the path, she wraps her coat around her. Tries to stave off the chill in the air. She hates this time of year. Everything around her is dying. There is a gentle mist sailing through the air. She hold her umbrella over her head but it doesn’t help much. The wind has picked up and is whipping the mist in her face. It chills her to the bone. Just like the memory of him. Of her sweet punk. Rita thinks about him and her heart aches. He told her he loved her. It was summer. The day was warm, sunny and vibrant. She felt alive for the first time in a very long time.

She saw his name today. Read his words. Used to be he wrote for her. But not anymore. Those days are over. All that’s left is the bitterness of a love that once was. Of the love she thought they had. She pulls her coat tighter and keeps walking the path. The leaves on the trees are yellow where they were once so bright green and full of life. She longs for the warmth of summer. The warmth of him. But he is gone. What’s left is decay and the chill of autumn.

She thinks of him. His name. It is a word that dances on the tip of her tongue. Still. But then she remembers, and the name sours instantly. Rita remembers it’s over. She’s empty. She wishes she’d never uttered it. That name.

She speaks to the air, “Do you miss me? Do you wish for me? Do you still say my name at that exquisite moment?”

Rita holds out her palm from under the umbrella and feels that the mist has turned to rain. She lets the drops fall on her hand and keeps walking. The woods envelop her and she wishes she could forget. The words, the love and him.

I Can’t Look at the Stars

I lit a fire with the love you left behind
It burned wild and crept up the mountainside
I followed your ashes into outer space
I can’t look out the window
I can’t look at this placeI can’t look at the stars
They make me wonder where you are
Stars
Up on heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all
I know you’ve gone too far
So I, I can’t look at the stars

All those times we looked up at the sky
Looking out so far we felt like we could fly
Now I’m all alone in the dark of night
The moon is shining
But I can’t see the light

And I can’t look at the stars
They make me wonder where you are
Stars
Up on heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all
I know you’ve gone too far
So I, I can’t look at the stars

Stars
Stars
They make me wonder where you are
Stars
Up on heaven’s boulevard
And if I know you at all
I know you’ve gone too far
So I can’t look at the stars

Sweet Child O’ Mine, A Meeting with an Old Friend

She was drunk. She had hoped it would help her sleep. She had hoped it would help her to be able to finally climb into the bed that she had shared with her husband of over 20 years with. She was so tired. So fucking tired. Her husband had been convicted of hurting a child. Her youngest son had run off in response, while her oldest stayed by her side. She’d been barely holding it together for too long. Living in a little cocoon. But at that moment of trying to get into bed, she finally broke down. Finally, she laid on the floor and wailed. Her oldest son, her child, her baby, had to see her in her weakest state. Drunk, and sobbing uncontrollably because she couldn’t get into the bed she had shared with a man who was now in jail, as he would be for years to come. She begged her son to call her mother. He did, while taking care of her as well. He waited for his grandma to get there and put his mother to bed, so she could get some rest after living a nightmare that actually came true.

She walks into the bar and I see her as she once was, when we were just teens. Striding towards me, she is statuesque, blonde, violet blue eyes, and wearing a huge smile. As she zips to the table, so many men turn their heads to look at her. Some of them appear to get whiplash as a result. She’s a ravishing beauty after all that she’s been through. We hug for what seems like forever. We haven’t seen each other in 26 years, but you’d never know it, by the sounds of our laughter and the constant exchanges of “I love you.” I think to myself, “Oh my God how did I ever let this light out of my life?” We were best friends at one time. But life pulls us in different directions. Even though we lived just a few towns away from each other, our lives were busy. She was married, and so was I. We’d each had two children. We were part of our community, and our kids kept us plenty busy.

I’ve already ordered her a Bud Light. I’m sipping white zinfandel and water, because I have to drive home after our meeting. We sit down and start talking. She goes first because she has a story to tell. One that is difficult to hold in. I let her have the floor. I let her go, and let go she does.

But this story is not about her ex-husband. This story is not about her sons. This story is about her. A beautiful woman, that was my best friend during our teenage years. She and I fell away as high school friends often do. We find lovers that we marry and plan on staying with for the rest of our lives. We have children that mean everything to us, that make us better somehow. That we in turn make better by raising them up right. We become involved in the places that we live, in our communities, in our children’s activities, in our lives. It becomes our lives and nothing else matters. But then the unthinkable happens: your husband is accused of taking advantage of a young woman.

She told me that she knew that the light had switched in his brain somehow. They’d been married for 20 years and he started becoming abusive – mentally at first, and then physically. But she had been living with the mental abuse, or as she called it, “passive-aggressiveness” for so long she knew how to diffuse it. For some reason though, this time she no longer could. He started hitting her. Why after so long? She has no idea. But he did hit her. He made her feel small, like she was inadequate. He turned into a stranger. Someone she didn’t even know. She stayed though, for her kids, for the idea that they were “pillars” of the community. They took good care of their kids and the kids of their friends.

When her husband eventually went to prison, she hid herself away. Her youngest son started his senior year of high school shortly thereafter. He told her that he was dealing with some aggression at a home football game. That was what brought her out of her funk. She said to her self, “no one is going to make my child pay for the sins of my husband.” So the next football game, she went. She dealt with the animosity, so that her son didn’t have to. She is one tough momma bear and she loves her boy immensely. While she was there she saw a good friend of the family who, taking her hand said, “If you need anything, anything at all, call me.” She looked at him and knew that he meant every word he said.

She did eventually call him, and they became inseparable. He brought her back to life. He helped her figure out her way, helped her figure out how to continue to take care of her boys, even though she was damaged. He helped her to realize that the man she had married all those years ago was no long the same man. He helped her figure out that the men that were contacting her with offers of help, were only wanting to take advantage of her. To fuck her, own her, hurt her even more, and then disregard her like yesterday’s trash. If she didn’t have this wonderful, flawed man in his own right by her side during this time, who knows what mistakes she might have made.

She finalized her divorce as quickly as possible. She lived in utter poverty for two years. Sometimes, without even electricity, warm water, heat, or food. In short, all the damn things that we normally take for granted. She had nothing. Every time she went to an interview, they would uncover her history and the job offer would disappear. She would think to her self, “They have no reason to judge me. I am NOT the sins of my husband. I am ME!”

Taking a break, we both look at the crucifixes around our necks. As our conversations have progressed, we keep touching them throughout. This recognition turns our conversation towards the topic of faith, and therapy, but mostly faith. We realize as we hold hands across the table and cry, that our faith is what’s gets us through. I told her I haven’t taken my crucifix off for 14 years. When I had to have an MRI recently, it killed me to remove it for even that hour. She told me that her original crucifix broke, and she found herself lost without it. She then acquired the one that she wears now, and she finds herself touching it daily. It’s her center, as it is mine. She says that without her boyfriend, her faith and her therapist, she would have never made it through this part of her life.

She’s grown. She’s changed. Yet she’s still the wonderful and fun girl she always was. With a twinge of jealousy, she looks at me and says, “You are so lucky. You get to grow old with the man that loves you. My ex-husband stole that from me.” She does tell me though that she has been redeemed with her new love. The man who simply took her hand at a football game, and said if you ever need me, call. God, she is so glad that she did.

I think she’ll make it, I do. I think she has found her happiness. She’s found it in her children and in this new man that accepts her for what she is – good woman, with a tough past. But then again, who doesn’t have a tough past? Who doesn’t have a broken road? Isn’t it astonishing when that broken road leads us to the right one?

As I leave her, we hug some more. We once again exchange our “I love you’s.” We promise to not leave 26 years between us again. And we haven’t. We talk almost daily. She is of my heart and one of the strongest women I know. I love her now and forever. What her husband did, doesn’t define her, or her grown up babies. I admire her strength and the ferocity of her love. She is a good woman, a strong woman. And she always will be.

***Edited by t from aslongasimsinging.wordpress.com. Read him. The man rocks my world, and makes my pretty words more beautiful with his touch. This may be my last post for awhile. I promise to come back. Just not sure when. Take care my dear readers and followers.***

Do I Want to Give This Blog Up?

“Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are.” ― Marilyn Monroe

(I do believe I’m a lot like Marilyn. I’m not sure why I feel a kinship with her. I guess because all I want is to be loved and understood.-Sparkly Girl)

There are times in my day when I think about writing and it overwhelms me to the point that I don’t know if I can write another word. I I have met people while doing this writing thing that have changed my life. In good ways and bad. I’ve been on an emotional roller coaster and I think I may want to get off the ride now. I’ve found this passion and I’m feeding it. But at what cost? To become emotionally connected with people I don’t know? And then lose that connection and be devastated? Where is my happy medium? Why can’t I find it anymore?

Maybe I never had one. Maybe this is how I’ve always been. Mixed up, confused, discombobulated, crazy and too clingy. I’m forever changed by the words I’ve written on these pages. I’m changed by all of those that I have “met” while doing this. I’m having a hard time prioritizing my life. I want to write a book. I’ve written the ending. I’ve written the first two chapters, but now I need to continue it. To put the meat in the sandwich, I guess. It’s a love story of course. It’s what I do well for the most part. How I ever started writing about love, I have no idea. This was supposed to be a journal about weight loss and change. It turned into so much more than that.

Will I continue to write this blog? I don’t know. For me it’s difficult because I’ve become very close to some of you. It’s how I communicate. But when I see some blogs come up on my reader, my heart beat freezes and a chill spreads throughout my body. That anticipatory anxiety is what gets to me the worst. It makes me irrational and feel out of control. If you’ve read me for very long, you know I like to be in control. Those of us with Anxiety and Panic Disorder and ADHD need to be in control. It’s a built in defense mechanism.

I hate that part of myself. The angry, crazy and jealous person I can be. I’ll step back for awhile. Type up my couple of chapters and the ending of my book. Then start filling in the rest of the story. The love story. A word of warning to you all. It won’t be pretty. But then some good love stories aren’t. Most aren’t. There’s anger, pain, jealousy, loss and a lot of hurt. My main character does not win the love of her life. But she does change his life for the better.

I don’t know where I’m going just yet. But I’ll let you know when I get there. Thanks so much for reading me.

I See Heaven

Photo courtesy of Takenbytina ’12 (She said some people see a cloud. Some people see a masterpiece. Written below is what I told her I see.)

I see Heaven and hear God’s voice speak to me. He’s telling me that the souls of those that have gone before me are safe and waiting. When it’s my time, I will ascend and be free from sadness, sorrow and pain. That I will feel so much love and belonging, I will be overwhelmed by the joy of it. And I will know that every trial that I went through on Earth was worth the wait of Heaven.

Sundays in the Grooming Salon-Revisited

“There is no psychiatrist in the world like a puppy licking your face. -Ben Williams

Today I’m quite emotional, but when am I not? I have to say goodbye to my second home. To a job I love. And to people that I think of as my children.  They are my confidants, and my friends too. But they are ultimately my “other” children. They complete me. I know this post is lengthy, but it has to be to explain how I feel for each one of salon bitches.

Lucy: She was the first one I fell in love with. She was cranky, snarky and dramatic. Such a brat, but so damn funny. I found the more I got to know her the more I loved her. She is a lovely Goth girl. Her hair color changes with the phases of the moon. Her dark eyebrows made darker with kohl pencil. Her lips red and full. A Medusa piercing above her lip and one in her nose. Her ears are gauged, but I don’t really notice the holes anymore, because all I see when I look at her are her eyes. Her eyes are the color of midnight. Her laugh is a symphony and her dirty whorish mouth, music to my ears. We have often said to each other we wish we could find a time machine. One that would take me back to her age, or bring her forward to mine. She is me and I am her. We’re twins even though we look nothing alike and we have a 20 year age difference. If I was her age, I would be exactly like her. I AM her but older and blonder.

Marlena: She is my Goth goddess. Her painted on eyebrows and curvy body are to die for. She has a wicked laugh and an arch to her eyebrow that would make you melt. She is provocative and wickedly funny. She and I have issues with ourselves. With our fears, passions and emotions. For some reason we get each other, even when no one else understands us. The first time I met her, her hair was the color of a Beta Fish, vibrant blue, and a shocking magenta. I commented on it immediately. We barely knew each other then but I liked her instantly. We have become close like sisters. She told me recently I am like a mother to her. I replied, Honey, here, I am your mother. She smiled and said, Yes, yes you are. I love her and I know that she will find her way in this life. Though I may not be right beside her every step of the way, she will make sure to keep in contact to share her joys and sadness with me.

Betty: She is like a young child when you see her. You think she is all of 17. She is tiny but full of life. A beauty. Slender, with gorgeous blue eyes. A smile that lights up a room. I love to watch her groom a dog. The loving care she gives to each one of her dogs amazes me. She told me she loved me as she was finishing her shift last Thursday and I burst into tears. She is the one that I’ve most recently gotten to know. I still want to know more about her. Talk to her about her writing. She’s a poet, and she has carried life inside of her too. She is a good momma. Her baby boy goes with her everywhere. Says her life wasn’t complete until he was born. I will miss her smiling eyes and wicked grin. The way she loves animals and focuses solely on them when she’s in the “zone”.  I will miss her so.

Clara: She’s the happiest, earthiest little hippie Goth I know. She’s a little bit of German dynamite. I’ve told her on more than one occasion to come live with me. I’d be happy to take care of her. Her eyes are like that of a cat. Their color I can’t even describe. They are more yellow than hazel. Her hair is the color of wheat ready for harvest. She talks a mile a minute but you understand every word. She is tatted and gorgeous. She wears her art with pride. She is an artist in her own right. She is designing a spine piece for me. I can’t wait to see it! She and I sang the Making Christmas song from that movie during the holidays. La, la, la, la. She is an earth girl and loves to camp. I look at her like she’s crazy. I ask her, why the hell do you want to sleep outside. She said, there is no better peace than lying on the ground, looking up and seeing the stars. Plus her boyfriend is probably in the sleeping bag with her so that makes it even better. I’m sure we’ll go see Joey our tattoo artist sometime. Hang out and flirt with him. Or go to Factory Night at Necto.

Rock: What to say about Rock. He’s a tall blonde god, with blue eyes I could swim in. His hugs are beyond compare. He’s funny and makes me laugh so hard I become weak and I ache all over. He was one of the first employees I took a shine to. He let me in and we became fast friends. I screamed when he showed me an old picture of me on his phone recently. It was from before I started my weight loss program. He says he looked at it and was shocked. Said he never thought of me as overweight. He just saw my beautiful face. I love him like he’s my own. He is, essentially. He really is one of mine. I love that he gets me, even though I’m old enough to be his mother. He never lets me get away with doing all the work. Oh and he calls me a whore all the damn time. Some would say that’s disrespectful, but for me I find it fucking hilarious! I make sure to say something filthy to prove to him that I kinda am. I miss him already.

Renaissance Girl: When my husband first saw her, he said she was a cutie. He wasn’t lying. She is a gor-geous! After some of our conversations, I tell her she is just like me when I was young. I told her, see you don’t have to change as you get older. You can still be a potty mouth. You can still be loud, gregarious, outgoing, smiley and funny. She and I have shared some wild stories. We’ve motivated each other to take of our bodies. To get healthy and nurture ourselves positively. She is young, exuberant and kinda jaded. I will miss her smile, and the fact that she makes me feel young.

Holly: How do I describe Holly? She’s a firecracker. Smart, loud, funny. We are so much alike. We are the same age. Born days apart. Adopted. We love the same music. Have a propensity to be a bit mouthy and say the word, fuck. We have past loves that still devastate us when we recall and share the memories. We love our lives but strive for more. More life, more time, more love. She is tough. I believe she could kick my ass. I don’t ever want to chance finding out if she can. I love her and I will miss her. She was the one that wanted me to work with her. She’s proud of the work I do. I’m proud to call her my friend.

Today as I leave, I will take with me the scent of dirty dog, their hair, their slobber on my chin from kisses and maybe even a bite or scratch. I will also take with me love, hugs, kisses, and terrific memories of those that I’ve worked with and come to love. Though I walk out that door, I know I will see them all again. They will still be a part of my life. I will miss my Sundays in the salon though. My Sundays will never be the same. I will miss them them with all my heart.

I Think I’m Finally Spent

God Dammit, I’m exhausted-Lili von Shtupp

So after running around like a chicken with my head cut off for the last 18 months, I’m spent. Because of all of the changes in my life and the sedentary lifestyle I lived for 13 years, I’ve been running on overdrive and adrenaline. Don’t get me wrong it’s been fun for the most part, but I’ve become distracted, disoriented, and disorganized. This Sparkly Girl needs to disconnect and re-group. I’ve found something I’m good at and I’m extremely passionate about it. I’ve found writing. I never in a million years thought I was good at it. This all started from funny Facebook status updates. Serious status updates, lyrics and quotes. Inspirational shit too. Somewhere along the way, I got over-extended and tried to do too much. I’ve lost sight of family, friends and well, the rest of my life.

I need to slow down. But I want to write every damn day. 24/7 preferably. I don’t care if I get paid for it. I get new followers every day, so I must be doing something right. I’ve been told by friends and acquaintances that I’ve given them a voice. That I crawled into their heads and brought out their innermost thoughts. By putting myself out there, I’ve helped them sort out their shit. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken care of my own life. I’m going to take a few days off. I’m not going to post until next Monday, when I’m in West Virginia with my sister from another mister. Hopefully I won’t be chased by a huge ass snake while I’m there. I’m sure Tracy will be glad to take pictures of me running around, peeing on myself, and screaming like a girl. I know she and I will make great memories that I’ll want to share. I’m going to post some of her beautiful photography. She is a goddess behind the lense.

No worries, I will keep writing. On paper for now. As I’ve told K., it’s called longhand. Why I call it that, I’m not sure. Think it’s what my great-grandma called it back when I was a kid. I’ve got a book noodling around in this lovely blonde brain of mine. Some parts of it have already spilled out onto my blog. We’ll see what happens. Keep following me. Keep sending me pictures for stories. I think that’s my favorite. A lot of my readers send me their pics. They tell me a bit of their story and I create a story from it. I embellish of course. Add my own characters, my dreams, my wishes, my past. But it’s fun to go back to the person who sent it to me, and they tell me how close to the truth I get. I’ve even done it for one of my followers. I think that was the MOST fun!

So long for a few days. This demented Tinker Bell and blonde bombshell is going to sleep the sleep of the dead. When I get back, WATCH THE FUCK OUT! Giggle. Oh wait, Roger Darling is telling me to go clean the cat litter. AWESOME!

My Ode to Clark

Nobody is as good as me. And I’m as good as nobody.-Clark Gable (Not really, that’s just my subject’s sexy alias.)

I remember the first time I met Clark. I was in the middle of the mundane task of training for my new job at Petco. He walked into the breakroom, smiled and extended his hand to me. I shook it. His handshake was firm, honest, and real. I knew I liked him immediately. His dark brown hair, his eyes playful and his voice is very gentle. His story is a sad one, but it gets better as we go along.

See, he moved to Michigan for a girl. She helped save him. He was in the service and had a breakdown. He was honorably discharged. He followed his savior. To live with her, to love her. He had always struggled with depression, and anxiety. With feelings of worthlessness. Growing up his home life wasn’t easy. His father was evil. His mother weak, but she loved her son. Unfortunately things fell apart with the girl. Now what was he going to do? He wasn’t from here. Would he go home?

He drifted. Found a band to sing with. This dark haired, handsome quiet voiced man can scream a lyric that will make your knees buckle. He found Marlena and John too. The three of them are all displaced here in the state of Michigan. Marlena and John are from the West. Clark is from the East. Now the three of them are a family. They complete each other. Families are families. Doesn’t matter how they come to be. It just matters that they are. I’m proud of them.

Clark has changed so much in the year and a half since I first met him. He has gained confidence. Found his self worth. Realized that life is most certainly worth living. His short hair is now longer, darker. His face stubbly and his clothing a bit edgier. But his heart, his sense of humor, and his kindness are still very much the same. I hope soon he finds the woman of his dreams. She won’t be sorry to love a man as genuine as him.

On a personal note. I just want to say that if I hadn’t needed the second job, I wouldn’t have met such incredible people. I am so blessed to have them in my life.