Our eyes met and you wanted me.
Our lips met and I wanted you.
Whiskey and lemonade and deception
Stolen breath and hushed mirth.

You spoke to me in platitudes I planned desperately to believe.

Time is the killer of compassion.
Reality, of dedication.
Trite idioms and an insistence of intention
(It’s not about you, I didn’t intend to hurt you)
Turn my reflection to Medusa and my heart to stone.

Faith and trust are cotton in my mouth and water in my lungs.

Thoughts bound and tongue glued, the tomorrows weigh heavy.

I still want you.


I want to write something bigger than you.
I want my words to move mountains.
To stretch from sea to sand to lonely cliff,
metaphors tumbling with sharp staccato, edges wearing thin, smoother than your glib lies will ever be.

I want to write something other than love.
Having love, lacking love, I want to
I have bound myself in by submitting to you.

I want the colors to burst from me, a kaleidoscope
hard as diamonds,
soft as skin.
Fractured, I want to bind myself together, fitting the torn edges. Broken, I want to find myself whole again.

I want to navigate the deep trenches between us.
To open the gates
I did not close,
I did not break.
To stumble into the sunlight blinking,
fingers like keys in locks,
pulling us into adventure.

I want to write about the path not taken,
my words and actions in harmony
as I do on to you as you cannot
(or will not)
do on to me.

I want to be enough to hold this stumbling cadence together.
To define myself not by you,
but with you.

I want to believe with every fiber,
heart to loins,
crest to sole,
inhale the future you whisper into my lungs.

I want the sun to rise. I want the earth to warm. I want the days to stack like stars, infinite and vast in light and heat.

I shiver in the chill
as I reach my arms across our bed to stroke you.
I slide across your back and wonder where you are.

I write something smaller than you, the ice building to a wall of stone, impervious.


I watched the sunrise over the Oregon mountains from an airplane this morning, and it broke my heart.

How can twenty years be an eternity and an eye blink? Twenty years. Twenty years.

I barely remember the girl who didn’t say “I love you”. The girl who preferred not to be touched, who shied away from hugs until the day that connection became necessary because it was the closest thing she had to solace.

I don’t know what path I was on when you left us. My life has been divided so strongly into before and after that I feel there is no way I could know. Perhaps I am exactly the person I would have been with you that I became without you. The details from before are hazy now. They were, even before the passage of time smoothed the corners I could remember.

I remember your death more than I remember your life.

I wish I had known then what I know now. I wish I had written down everything I could remember of you, read it again and again until I was certain those memories would never fade. I wish I could celebrate your life the way I can still relive the weeks after you died.

I carry guilt and responsibility for the last moments of your life. It has been twenty years of living and experience and I know now that the conclusion of that last phone call will probably always be the thing I regret the most.

I want to miss you, but time has taken that. I do mourn you. I wonder if our friendship would have survived our youth or if we would have slipped from each other’s lives, become a late 20s friend request and the occasional conversation when we both happen to be in town. I wonder if you would have grown up and gotten out, or if you would have followed a path that kept you home. I wonder who you would have become as an adult, if you would have a family, a life you had built for yourself.

I think about all the things I have experienced, the people I have loved, the places I have been in the last twenty years and I wish, desperately, that you had a journey of your own.

Maybe I do miss you. Maybe I miss the person you would have become, whether you were in my life or not. I miss the space you occupied on this earth. The absence of you left an empty place in me that even time has not filled.

Know that you are remembered, and in memory, loved.

100: Freedom

She tries to cry freedom as if it would make it so.

She would never wrap around him in the night again. She would never slide out from under an elbow hooked around her in sleep, or feel him snuggle into her neck, face rough with morning, the tickle making her feel special, warm, loved. She would never crinkle her eyes just that way, lament his humor, hear him whisper “you’re pretty” to end a conversation.

She would never shoot Nerf darts decorated with hearts or wish on another shooting star.

She nods, swipes before the tear breaks her lashes.


2015 is a New Year

I ended 2009 kissing someone who was not mine, while the one who technically was worried about me kissing someone entirely different. It was over.

I was pregnant at the end of 2010, with twins, but I didn’t know it. I was also at the beginning of something new. At midnight we toasted with champagne and someone spilled, he spent the next few minutes on his knees cleaning instead of kissing me. I wish I knew then what I know now.

I don’t remember the end of 2011. I know where we were, probably, but I was miserable and he was miserable and the misery would end us six days later… but not permanently, unfortunately.

I ended things with him on the last day of 2012, then pushed pause on the breakup to go to a party. I was broken. I stepped on a scale and was pushing 300lbs. I left him, and Texas, six weeks later.

I moved to Portland and went to a party to end my drift of 2013. I started 2014 happy and over, dressed as a cat, complete with drunk pictures and slightly inappropriate texts to a much younger man who was completely off limits.

2015 began with a whisper and a kiss, just that younger man and me in a hotel room. New Years on two other coasts lead me to this room on the east coast and the sailor I am sharing it with. It may not work out, but this is right where I want to be.

Writing Fail

I’ve written more letters this year than I have in the last decade. Probably more.

I’m happier than I have been in the last decade. Probably more.

New place, new life, lots of good. Maybe it’s time to start updating this blog for real. Might be nice to have, to be able to look back at it later.

Oh! And I have a new tattoo!



Letters and Sailors, Sailors and Letters

I make questionable romantic decisions.

In April of 2013 I met a guy at a party in my hotel room. It became an intense fling that couldn’t go anywhere for a variety of reasons… he already had a girl, he was going into the Navy, he’s eight years younger than me.

I’ve spent the last year pretty much crazy about him but trying to just be friends. Through the girl cheating on him. Through his breakup. Through him being with someone else. And now he’s at bootcamp and I’m writing him letters every day.

… And I’m still crazy about him. So I have decided to just… tell him. Put it all out there and see what happens.

I make questionable romantic decisions.

– m

Question: My Greatest Aspiration in Life

I have recently been playing a get to know you question game with someone pretty fun via text. It’s really legit way to get to know someone. I’ve known this dude for about eight months and we’ve kind of skirted the surface… but in the last six days I feel like I have gotten to know him incredibly well.

Today he asked me what my greatest aspiration in life is. I wanted to post my response because I realized while writing it that I really, really meant it… and it’s a good start for the new life I’m building for myself.

So here it is:

To be a great friend and an even better lover. To surround myself with people who love, inspire and support me, and to love, inspire and support them in return. To live my life to the fullest, be fully present, embrace passion, refuse fear, try as many new things as possible, grow up without growing old and die having made a difference in as many lives as possible with very, very few regrets.

I figure if I aim for that, everything else will fall in place.

– M

Growing Up Without Growing Old

Do you ever feel like you’re terrible at being an adult? I feel like I’m terrible at being an adult.

About two months ago I decided I was going to do this whole Portland thing. Move out here, get a place, settle in and start the next chapter of my life. It was fucking time. I’d been marking time in Idaho, waiting for the moment that it would become clear to me where it is that I belong.

So here I am in Portland. I’ve been here for a little over a month, camping out in a friend’s spare bedroom, working, going to the movies and the gym and occasionally hanging out with people. I did a little dating, which I am SO not ready/cut out for, and I’ve spent more time thinking about my ex than I really should have.

I did a fucking frenzy of apartment hunting when I first got here, but since then I’ve pretty much settled into wanting this one particular place in Vancouver. I’ve been playing the waiting game for what feels like a ridiculously long time on this place, even though it’s only actually been about a month. I haven’t even seen it yet. I’m finally seeing it on Friday. If it isn’t horrible I will almost certainly sign a lease because it’s month to month and fuck it.

Knowing that it should finally happen is freaking me out, though. I don’t know why I react the same way to permanence that I do to change… I’m terrible at settling down. I’ve spent this last year knowing I could pick up *whenever* and go *wherever*. Signing a lease – even a month to month lease – apparently ends that freedom in my head and sort of freaks me out. I can’t quite figure out how much of that is money and neighbors and having to take care of adult things like paying my bills on time… and how much of it is not having any idea what I want from my life right now.

I have never been one of those people who has a plan for my own life. Long term planning is not my thing. I can plan for events and things like that, but planning for my own life… not so much. I’ve been thinking about needing more of a plan lately, though, in conjunction with wanting to be healthier and better with money.

But… how do I start?

Song of the day:

Said The Whale – Mother

Getting My Shit Together

I hate New Years resolutions. They’re stupid and they don’t mean anything.

I’ve spent a year of my life… running from my life. J and I broke up last year on New Year’s Eve. I left at the end of February. And since then I haven’t had much of a home or a life. I bounced around a bit and then went to Coeur d’Alene and stayed. Now I’m in Portland, Oregon where I am starting again. I haven’t found a place yet but I know the one I want and I’m going from there.

I’m more determined to be the person I want to be than I ever have been before. This comes in both mental and physical forms. I want to be strong and I want to be happy and I am going to work my ass off to get there.

The first step was getting away for long enough that I could think straight again.

The second step is to start working on feeling physically strong. Losing weight is part of that, but that really isn’t what it is about for me. I want to feel stronger. I want everything that comes with that.

That being said, I fucking hate weight loss stories where the person is all “I did so good, here are my before and after shots!”… but have no details. So here are some details.

I am 32 years old. I weigh 269 lbs as of this morning. That’s a size XL Old Navy’s woman’s t-shirt or a size L men’s. 38DDD bra. A size 18 or 20 jeans. Also usually from Old Navy. I shop at Old Navy a lot. It’s anywhere from a 16 to a 20 dress size.

I’m pretty proportional. I’m one of those girls who gets bigger all over. Emphasis on thighs, hips and ass.

So that’s where I’m starting. My goal is 100 lbs. I know I should probably break that up into smaller chunks, but the truth is I don’t actually care if I lose that much provided I end up feeling stronger and better about myself.

Initially I am going to try to be good about what I eat for the most part and try to exercise for 30 minutes a day. I want to work on building initial strength before I try to do too much so I won’t end up feeling sore and using that and an excuse not to go to the gym.

That’s that for now. Writing in this fucking thing – mostly to make myself write – is also on the list. So we’ll see how that goes.

– M