A Queer Life

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. “I didn’t think grown adults celebrated Valentine’s Day,” I said to Steve. He said he still wanted to do something Valentine’sy. Okay, that’s kind of sweet.   I am working as a server in a restaurant. I miss my kids. I miss my kids. I miss my kids. I’m not used to working all day on my feet but if I am going to do anything, being a server is pretty close to being a mom, but my kids aren’t there. I just hope I can make enough money to survive and hopefully thrive.  I could talk about socioeconomic issues. I could talk about what it is to be human. I could talk about the Chiefs winning the super bowl. But instead I will talk about the strange surrealism it is to be me right now.  Tyler surprised me on Friday by showing up at my work with the kids. They kissed me and said hello then goodbye, then I cried for the next twenty minutes while serving tables. When I got home that night, the kids were asleep on an air mattress on my bedroom floor. ...

The deed is done. Tyler and I are separated. I did it with lots of support from my family. I don’t think I could have done it without them. Leaving your spouse when you have no resources and little children at home and years of not working is a daunting task. Especially when your spouse is not being violent or aggressive. If he has a gun and a history of violence then there are government resources to keep you and your children safe. But if your husband is being supportive and kind and yet you have panic attacks around him and you feel like you are dying a thousand deaths every moment you are together, no one understands your need to be free. And if you have no resources, that lack of understanding amounts to traversing the Sahara alone to find independence.   I was at a party where a woman was asked about her boyfriend and she shouted: “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!” When asked why she stayed with him she said: “Money. I can’t afford to leave.”  I have a friend who h...

I am made of flowers. I used to keep them hidden. Sometimes I picked a flower and gave it away but not very often. My flowers are sacred.  I gave John a flower. He smiled and set it down. The wind blew the wilted petals to the ground as he walked away. I gave a flower to Tyler. He loved it. He put it in a jar with water. He wanted more. He danced and sang about the flowers. I gave him more whenever he asked for more. He loved them so much he started picking them himself. My flowers thinned and died. I began hiding my flowers and only picked a few for him when they felt healthy, but that was becoming rarer. I stopped giving him flowers altogether. He cried and said I didn’t love him anymore. I said I loved him but he couldn’t have my flowers. He didn’t understand and kept crying. I picked another flower and gave it to him. Then I met Steve. I didn’t pick any flowers for Steve but he saw them. He sat by them and watered them. He fed them and they grew. Even when he wasn’t there,...

One of my readers said: “This blog is really good; depressing as fuck, but really good.” Depressing as fuck, huh? Well it’s about to get even more depressing….. just kidding. I don’t have anything depressing to say. I mean I could probably come up with something…actually, maybe I will. Okay, onward depression ho! Let’s talk about abuse (abuse is totally depressing). When I was a Mormon I would hear stories about people being sexually or emotionally abused by leaders and how that led them away from the church. My response was always: “Why would you leave the church? Just because that leader was a bad person doesn’t mean the church isn’t true.” My response was not unique. Members are taught to defend the church, attack the people. I was a little robot programmed to spew assholery. I would like to apologize for the person I was when I was Mormon. And now that I’m not, my response to those people is: “I’m really sorry that happened to you. That is really awful. I hope you have gotten he...

I keep writing blogs and not posting them. Will I post this one? We shall see. My life keeps changing from moment to moment. Steve and I weren’t seeing each other and then we were, and planning an ongoing relationship, but within days he called it off again because he saw my failing marriage as a mine field, which it was/is.  Then, days later, I had a meltdown and realized I couldn’t live with Tyler one more day. My body is in a constant state of panic around him. So we had a stand off and then I left just because I had to, and then I came back and then I planned on moving out, but instead he found a place in town so I could stay in our house with the kids. But with him paying rent, that delays our plans to fix up the other house which is my longterm housing solution. That is the only reason we didn’t separate sooner.  I haven’t seen Charles in months and we barely text or talk anymore. We may never see each other again. Our tiny relationship ran its course and that is okay...

When I was in high school my addiction was at its fever pitch. I thought about it all day. I thought about whether I would give in or not when I got home. I didn’t want to. It was an addiction. Addictions are unhealthy. I was out of control. How long could I go without losing control? Never very long.  Could something so simple create such relief? Was it simple or insidious? I didn’t know, I just knew I had to relieve the pressure. When the pressure built to intolerabile levels I would rush home after school, dash into my room like a full bladder dashes to a toilet. In my bedside table lived my dirty little secret: my notebook and pen. Was it really so simple as that? Would it really work this time the way it had in the past or was this when the rug would be yanked out? Addictions could never be trusted.  I would lay on my floor, open my notebook and empty the vault with the pen. It took hours to get everything out but relief always came. Addiction fulfilled.  It needed t...

The party was wild, but not so wild we didn’t notice each other. Not so wild we didn’t discover we spoke the same language. He said I put my hand on his leg. I don’t remember that part. We left the party and ended up in my friend’s guest bedroom. Clothes on, souls touching. We wanted to be close, holding each other.  We talked. I poured my fairy magic onto him and he loved it. People don’t always love it but he did. We breathed each other swirling among the planets, Steve and I. What the hell was I doing? Was I using my fairy magic irresponsibly? Did that make me an evil fairy? Who the hell cares? Steve activated my pixie dust.  In the morning things might look different but it didn’t matter in that bed, arms mouths minds.  My cup was full, I said. We couldn’t have a relationship, I said. But we exchanged numbers. He came over the next day and met Tyler, ate dinner and played games. I thought of him all week. He returned the next weekend bringing food and wine. This time ...

I’m drunk and high off my ass right now. The only reason I’m capable of writing is because I ate and urinated several times. Anyway, that’s not what I’m talking about right now. What I’m talking about is how I started watching Sex and the City and how interesting it is that these women are trying to figure out love but they aren’t really articulating what they want from love. They want to be powerful and independent, and financially they are, but in the romance world they don’t seem to know how to do it. So they decide all men are the same; and respond by acting the way they think men are acting toward them; I guess to give men a taste of their own medicine. I’ve only gotten through a few episodes. I’m so behind the times. But it’s a good show. It’s kind of inspiring though. I realized that I’m kind of doing the Carrie Brashaw thing with this blog. It’s all about sex and all those such things. But I feel like I have a bit of a leg up on Carrie Bradshaw because I know what I want from ...

Sexuality isn’t just about who you are attracted to, it is about how you express that attraction sexually and interpersonally. I think one of the biggest problems in my life has come from thinking that my sexuality is supposed to be a certain way when that way doesn’t work for me at all.   The monogamous narrative is that our sexuality is supposed to be with one person for the rest of our lives, and if you really love them you will want that. If you don’t want that you are a bad person. The heterosexual narrative says that person needs to be the opposite sex; which further limits the already restrictive norm.  Because this was the ideology I consumed, it never occurred to me that anything else was possible. I remember seeing men on TV who had misteresses and I always thought I would prefer to be the misteress than the wife, which had its own shame.  Misteresses: are evil bloodsucking moneygrabbing whores with no hearts.   are sad sacks with low self esteem who...