A Letter To My Mom. Because Cliches Are Okay.

Dear Mom,

This year, something happened.  Something so big and so far-reaching, and it's time to tell the world.
I've forgiven you for that bowl-cut you forced on me in second grade.  That's right.
I've decided to let the darkness of that event fade into the ether.  I've thrown it into the volcanic fires of Mordor, if you will.  I've accepted that little girls with long curly hair are a pain in the ass, and that bowl cut probably made your life a hell of a lot easier.  I get it now.

I get it because I watch my best friends with their kids, and I see that some days, they are just happy that their kid has clothes on, and isn't eating dirt.  And yeah, that makes sense.  And I see that there comes a point where you're balancing that smile with a scream, and that cutting off my curls was probably one of those moments.  Or maybe I wanted it.  We all know I'm capricious when it comes to my hair.  Even now, I'm sitting here thinking about going back to brunette, wondering how it would be received by the man I've met.

But this...mom?  Ths letter is to let you know that you did okay.  That I know I've scared you through the years.  My depression.  The ways it manifested itself in the world.  I know you were afraid for me, when I was away at school.  And that there were times when you were so afraid for me, that you stayed silent, fearing that broaching the topic would push me over the edge.

But I didn't give up.  (well, I guess I did, a few times in there.) But I always kept trying.  And in the last year, in the last 12 months, I finally figured it all out.  Or at least figured out my own broken pieces.  Bruised, not broken.  I carried the weight of your sadness for so many years, too.  The loss of dad.  The struggle and fear of all the years after he was gone.  I took that inside myself and it became me.  But I'm not afraid anymore.  It turns out that I'm more than I ever imagined.  That as soon as I stopped hating myself so much and being terrified of being abandoned- as soon as I found my REAL voice, my honest one, not the angry one that had so much trouble finding the truth...but as soon as I found my voice, the bruises started to fade.  The whte sheet of depression that once covered my world, and now lay at my feet...well, now it burned up in the sunlight.  No, no, I know.  I'll always have to work to stay above water there.  But I'm not clinging to it anymore.  There's new things, new people, new love, with which to fill my time.

Please don't be afraid for me anymore.
I am, quite finally, happy.  And I understand why sometimes, we cut off the beautiful curls.
Because we need time for more important things.
And the curls don't make the girl.

"I'll love you forever,
 I'll like you for always,
 As long as I'm living,
 My mommy you'll be."

Love,
Your Kid

A Letter To Grown-Up(per) Me

Dear Future Me,

Hi.  Hi, you.  I don't know how things are for you these days, but I wanted to remind you of some things, okay?  Because CONGRATULATIONS, YOU MADE IT!  YOU'RE OLD!  And there were a lot of years where you didn't think you'd make it to Old.  There were a lot of times you thought about giving up, and a few times when you DID give up, and I want you to know that I'm proud of you for making it out alive.  Rock on, you (me.)

So, first of all, do they still make books wherever you are in time?  I mean, that sounds dumb, but it's entirely possible that you used your bonus one year to have yourself cryogenically frozen, and it's Reanimated You (Me!) who's reading this right now, 3000 years in the future.  Which...mind blown.  In case there are no more books- in case all the Ideas are played out- maybe it will make you smile to remember how much you've always loved books.  Written words on paper were always your favorite.  Remember the time Neal Pollack gave you a copy of his poem?  And the summer that Famous Drunk Southern Author wrote you a poem?  And the postcard from Pynchon, arranged to be sent to you by a lover?  You spent a summer away at university, exchanging postcards with Gary Park, covered in poetry and art, falling in first love, breaking one another's hearts, mile by mile. 

I hope our brothers are still there with you, wherever you are.  You should call them.  No, really, go use your magical communicator thingie and call them.  They miss you when you're gone too long, and aren't great at reaching out, but they're always really happy to talk to you and see you.  Stop pouting.  It's okay that you always have to be the one to reach out.  You aren't all built the same, and you've had trouble remembering that your whole life, because in so many ways, you're JUST the same.  Sometimes, it's hard to see where the lines blur between you guys, and sometimes, it's like you're from three different planets.  Tony used to hold your hand, crossing the street when he walked you to school, though.  And Jonathan once lent you his prized possession, his shiny red car, for weeks when you needed to buy a new car.  And let's face it- you were kind of a weirdo.  Different and dark and sad for such a long time.  I'm not sure they knew how to pull you close sometimes, for fear of breaking you. 

Oh my god, are we married yet? Is that still a thing?? And if so, what did we WEAR?  I hope we finally got to wear the huge poooooofy replica of Princess Diana's gown that we spent years doodling inside our notebooks.  I kid.  (well, not really.) I hope you didn't settle for some guy just because he loved you.  I hope all the years of fucking up and learning and fucking up again and learning more and then getting fucked over and then REALLY learning...well, I hope we finally got it right, and I hope we found someone who likes sleeping like spoons, and knows our coffee order, and loves singing in the car (spacecraft!)  I hope we are taking good care of one another, Future Me.  I hope you still wear lipstick for our guy, and I hope he still trims his nosehair for us.  And I hope you go for long walks on Sunday mornings together.  You learned that one from a friend.

I want you to know and remember that it wasn't all depression and toil.
You (I!) had so much goodness and love and fun.  Friends to play with, boys to have sex with, tattoos (oh! oh! NOW THAT YOU'RE OLD, DO YOU WE I REGRET THEM? EVERYONE FUCKING WANTS TO KNOW,) all the crazy hair, concerts...and you have been loved.  Deeply and truly.  There were weeks spent with your head on the lap of a certain friend...don't you forget or give up, Future Me. 

I want to remind you of this one thing, when we were a little girl.  It's what I came here for today. 
We didn't sleep well last night.  Sometimes the darkness creeps in.
But when sleep finally took me, I dreamed about being a small girl, in the back yard of the Big Brick House on Church Avenue, the grass green and the sun bright in the sky.
And in that moment, arms outstretched to the sides, head tilted back to the heavens, world-innocent eyes closed.
Spinning.  Spinning slowly and quickly and silently and with humming and with singing and spinning turning twirling and peeking my eyes open to feel the dizziness and the vertigo and the breathlessness of not stopping and of being propelled and compelled and finally falling into a smiling gasping pile of play clothes and grass and sunshine and the entire world ahead of and around and behind me.

This.  Remember this, Future Grown-up Me Lady.  Remember how the world loved and propelled you and sustained you, and that retreat is not an option.
You are Beautiful.

Yours til Niagara Falls,
Present You

Back From Camping...Almost Thawed Out

I have to start this post with a HUGE thank you to my hosts, Chrissy and Ed Denelsbeck, who kind of rock my world in that completely non-panicky parents to the world hey sit down have a beer relax way, possible.  Chrissy and Ed work hard, and deserve a quiet weekend away from the world, and instead, they invited us all up to their cabin in the woods to share their time away.  So, thank you.  Your generosity is unparalleled.

Oh, wait.  EXCEPT BY THESE OTHER PEOPLE.
(I'll come back to that)

So, I picked up some audio books at the library for the drive to Tinytown, USA, where "Denelscamp" is located.  Huge Starbucks in the drink holder, I set off for muddier climes with a smile on my face and the belief that I would be eaten by Satan-worshipping ax-murderous bears (John Wayne Gacy? Is that you?)
After getting lost for like 20 minutes (literally a mile from the camp, because I can't read directions that quite clearly say TURN LEFT, MORON) I arrived.  (Look.  I have to tell you.  I was happy to note that "town" was only about ten minutes away.  Just in case.)

Oh yeah.  I was super comforted when I passed this on my way to camp.

I was greeted by Chrissy, who warned me to park as close to the road as possible, because it was POURING rain and muddy as hell, and she didn't want me to get stuck at camp.  Now, look.  You and I both know that this conversation is completely foreshadowing that when the killer bear has killed all of my friends, and I finally make it to my car (after I drop the keys five or six times, because suddenly I'm not just the hunted, I'm the CLUMSY hunted) my car will be completely stuck in the mud.  Luckily, this wasn't the case, because Chrissy was wrong.  Instead of mud, the temperature went below freezing, and the ground became PLENTY SOLID.  ICY SOLID.

While Ed chopped wood, we waited for the others to arrive, and arrive they did.  Car by car, tent by tent, little kids screaming with joy that their stick fort (Blair Witch Fortress) had survived the winter.  The camp only had a few rules.  No running water meant we used a bucket to flush, so unless you were dropping a deuce, there wasn't much flushing.  Sooooooo, I made the executive city girl decision that all bathroom trips were going to happen at the town McDonalds.  This, Cari and Chrissy explained, was fine, and most of the women were already hip to that trick, so no one would think less of me for it.  Also, I had my period.  Which made the whole thing a real testament to my awesome woodsman skillz.  (I spent the whole weekend worrying that a bear would sense my fertility and attack me, and then I remembered that it's Great White Sharks that do that, and THEN I remembered that Peter Benchley made that whole fucking thing up, and THEEEENNNNN I started to really resent the Male Establishment and how they create all these menstruation myths because they are secretly afraid of the Vagina Dentata, and then I ate some pretzel rods.)

So, once Cari and Jacob and Mikaya arrived, shit got real.  First of all, Jacob was wearing this black cowboy hat all weekend.  We played a game where we called him by every name we could think of from literature and pop culture that fit the hat.  "Carl Junior! Get in the house!" "Randall Flagg, do you want a campfire pie?" But the real fun here was watching Cari go totally bad-ass on the whole outdoors thing.

Cari...hmmmm.  Cari is, aside from myself, probably the girliest girl I've known in this lifetime.  We went and had pre-camping manicures together, for fuck's sake.  So, watching her haul out her own toolbox and tents, and then seeing her put them up in like ten seconds flat while explaining the amenities to me (our tent had a closet!!) was a thing of beauty.  Throughout the weekend, Cari blew me away with her knowledge of camping stuff, from tent construction to cooking on a fire, to the best way to take a nap in front of a fire, wrapped in a huge blanket, without catching on fire.  I am continually proud of and impressed by what good and strong women I am friends with.  And I'm so honored to stand by them and learn from them.  I felt a little dumb all weekend, having to ask questions at every turn, but every person there, and there were many, was loving and patient and helpful.

And the kids!  Seeing them unplug from the world was so great! No cell phones, no cable, only a portable DVD player to lull them to sleep at night.  Watching them beg for an adventure walk with Ed and Jacob made my heart dance.  Playing Zombie Apocalypse at 7 in the freezing morning with Mikaya was so much fun, I can't help but crack up at the memory. ("here, eat these hobo guts- they'll give you energy for when the zombies come.  My Zombie-illator says they'll be here at 6pm. EAT THE GUTS!") Watching tiny baby Eddie eat 3 hot dogs in a row in front of the fire, covered in mud and smiles.  Little Penny, feeding Jacob a cookie (her best friend, her grown-up crush) reminded me of every grown-up man who indulged my own sweetness as a child.  How beloved these children are to us all.  What a safe place we build for them, all of us, this family we created.

And there was silliness.  Theresia, falling into the fire (tipsy, juuuust a little tipsy,) Ginny and her perfect hair AT ALL TIMES.  Cari and I going in to town, searching for a place that could wash her hair for her, and ending up buying art in a tiny little gallery for our homes.  Ed, making himself a tie out of tree bark, because he "missed" his work so much.  Baby wipes.  So many baby wipes.  Snacks and booze and Julie telling stories about bunnies while wearing some sort of coat covered in llamas.  VELOUR PANTS.  Sitting by the fire as it SNOWED ON US, asking one another "is it SNOWING ON US?"

And no bears.  Not even a one.
Just...just friends.  And kindness.
And all-laughter.  All-love.
I'm humbled by these friends of mine.  Thankful to be part of their families.
I'd kill a thousand zombies for them.
I'd eat all the hobo guts.
They are a village, these friends of mine.

It's Camping Day!!!

So, you know, I'm kind of girly.
I mean, I spent an hour yesterday, researching the exact color pink Elsa Schiappiarelli called "shocking pink," just because I was curious how close NARS Schiap lipstick is to the iconic color created by the designer. (It's pretty fucking close.)  And then, I started wondering what color nail polish I own that I could use on my toes to duplicate it (OPI Pompeii Purple over a base of China Glaze Fluo Pink.)

And none of this comes as a shock to you, intrepid reader.
Because you know me.  IN MY HEART, YOU KNOW ME.

But...I'm going camping today.  For the weekend (don't rob my house, please.)
And like...REAL CAMPING.  In a tent.  Outside.  With bears and stuff.  (I mean, we didn't actually invite any bears, but I KNOW YOU'RE OUT THERE, SHITTING IN THE WOODS.)  And I'm pretty excited.  SUPER EXCITED.  Which is weird, because there is nothing girly about this trip at all. 
But I've been doing so many new things, and opening up to new experiences, so...I can be not-girly, right?

Cari and Chrissy staged a Camping Wardrobe Intervention (the screen cap would say "PrettyLittleThingamajig, 38: Wears dresses and fancy shoes all the time, even to sporting events with beer spillage." at Coven Coffee on Wednesday.

"You know...you can't wear dresses at camp, " said Chrissy, gently, so gently, as if I might make a break for it.
"Yeah, you should wear...pants.  And uhm...socks...and boots or sneakers," whispered Cari, afraid for our friendship, but knowing that she had to get me help before the weekend.

So, I bought some...yoga pants? Lounging pants?
Pants with rhinestones down the sides in the shape of swirls and skulls and tackiness and 15 dollar blowjobs?
Yeah, those pants.  I plan on wearing them one-up, one-down, like I'm some bad-ass dealer at camp with my friends. 
"You holding?" one of the little kids will ask me.
"Yeah, bitch," I'll mutter, as I palm a balloon full of water to them, and watch them nail one of the other kids with it gleefully.
So, I'm all packed, my hoodie, my blankets, my sleepingbag (hahahahahaaahahaha I kid. It's my brother's fucking sleeping bag.  Maybe there's some weed and Jack Daniels hidden in it from one of HIS camping trips!) an air mattress, my machete (Hello Kitty Machete!)  a few books to read (trash, utter trash reading) some music stuff, 500 pairs of clean panties (shut up, you never know who you might need sexy undies for!) and a nail file.  Because when the crazy ax murderer comes to get me, I'm gonna do his nails.

worst machete ever.

So, look.
If (when) I get hacked to death in the woods this weekend (because I will) please make sure you go my place and remove the Dong Box (tm) from under my bed and wordlessly toss it into the river before my parents arrive to mourn and eBay my handbags (the Louis' go to Josee. Dibs.)  It's important that my parents know that I died a sweet innocent virgin (SHUT UP.)

See you Monday.
Wish me luck.

Return of The Monday Quiz: How Mean Am I?

I am laughing even as I start typing this.  Because I can be pretty mean, y'all. 
I think meanness can come from a lot of places.  But most of it comes from being super smart and super amused by stupidity.  AT THE SAME TIME.  (Actually, I'm not sure if this makes me mean or if it just makes me an asshole.  Because they aren't the same thing.)
And I'm RARELY mean.  That's the truth.  I am a good-hearted person who does kindly things and cares for others.  But oh. Oh oh oh oh oh.  Can I ratchet up the Mean when it's called for.  Or when I've been wronged.  It's like that scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark when the Stupid Nazis open the fucking Ark, and it melts off their faces with the power and heat and light.  That's how fucking mean I can be. (I am cracking up out loud at my desk while I write that oh my god- MARIAN CLOSE YOUR EYES!)

So, let's find out just how fucking mean I am.  Bitches. (giggle)

1)  GET READY TO TAKE THIS TEST
a) Shut the fuck up already
b) ok! :)
c) Alright, let's start it.

I'm going to say C, just because A is a little hostile (which is STILL not the same as MEAN) and I'm not feeling hostile towards the quiz (yet.)  And B...B is the answer that some over-achieving cupcake-snorting meth-craft-making mom would give, right before shaming you for not storing all of your healthy snacks in decorated mason jars, labeled with days of the week (have we even talked about how I believe that Pinterest is the reason women feel so bad about themselves?  Later this week.  We will.  Right after I make a fucking centerpiece for my coffee table out of tampons, some old placenta, and sparkly hairspray.)
So, uh, C. 

2) You see a kid from your school crying, you:
a) tell him to grow up and quit being such a fucking loser (oh my god I think I just peed my fucking pants.  Did my drunk friends write this quiz? This is the best answer EVER.  Right up there with "why are you crying? YOU DID THIS."
b) just pass by and pretend not to notice (okay, I might do this.  I mean, are they trying to be surreptitious about it? I've occasionally had a public cry (hello, last fucking week) and I don't necessarily want anyone to call it out, a la Adrienne Maloof ("Who izzzz Adrienne Maloof in zis world, anyway?"
c) Ask him or her if they want to hang out and give them a warm hug (dude, seriously, no.  This is such a creepster move. "Heeeeeeey, buddy I don't know, you're weeping...LET ME HOLD YOU IN MY ARMS AND INSINUATE MYSELF INTO YOUR LIFE."

I'm gonna go with B on this.  I mean, really, I'm not going to taunt the kid, but I'm ALSO not going to violate his personal space by grinding my heart-shaped box against him while asking him OR HER out for an Orange Julius.  Plus, he's probably crying because His dinner rolls shaped like bunnies that he found directions for on Pinterest turned out looking like expelled fetuses (yes, I tried this one, and yes, they did.  Bunbortions, you might say.) and his mom shamed him for it in a fabulous letterpress poster she made for display in the common room of their McMansion.

3) YOU GET IN TROUBLE AT SCHOOL FOR DOING SOMETHING BAD, YOU:
a) plot revenge on the person who told on you (yes.)
b) curse under breath, but go anyway without acting out the revenge (fuck yes.)
c) accept what I did and learn from it and besides I never get in trouble (yes mom.)

Fucking all of it.  I mean, okay, C.  Wait, no, B.  Fuck.  No.  All of it.  People who've been through the last month at work with me know that it's all THREE OF THESE BUT SERIOUSLY EVERYTHING IS FINE NOW AND THANKS FOR ASKING IT'S ALL GOOD.  It's B, though.  More than anything. 
Except, A and C.  Because psychology.

4)  A KID IS BEING HARASSED BY BULLIES, SO YOU:
a) push the harassers out of the way, yelling, " OUT OF THE WAY! THIS IS MY JOB, LOSERS!" (again, did Drunk Cari and Drunk Chrissy write this?  Are there googlie eyes glued to the back of this quiz?)
b) well, there's nothing I can do (BlackBabyJESUS, again, this isn't MEAN, this is just being a waste of SPACE.)
c) push the bullies out of the way and ask the kid if he is okay (oh.  well, ok then.)

C.  I mean, of COURSE it's C.  This quiz isn't really about being mean, is it.  This quiz is just trying to piss me off and see if I'm HUMAN.  Although I love A.  THIS IS MY JOB, LOSERS! (I'm hyperventilating with laughter.  I am crying from it.  WANT TO HUG ME AND ASK ME TO HANG OUT?)

5) (oh shit.)  WHAT DO YOU TALK ABOUT WITH YOUR FRIENDS/FRIEND? (ohmygod I love that it thinks I might only have one fucking friend.  Fuck you, Quiz fucker.)
a) about the nerdy kid in your class and how you are going to beat him or her up. (actually, yes.  we actually do this all the time.  No joke.)
b) say mean things about the new kid behind his or her back (yep, we do this, too, fucker.)
c) invite the totally cool new kid to lunch. (wait.  we do this, too.  seriously.)

Well, shit.  Now this IS a problem.  I'm going to actually go with B, because it's the middle-point of A and C (yes, thank you, Dr. Obvious) and we really DO all of these things, so...B.  Shit.  Now I feel sad about what a bitch I am.  THIS IS MY JOB, LOSERS!!

6) HOW DO YOU GREET SOMEONE?
a) "wassup, brainless losers?" (I...what?)
b) "dudes." (yes.  this makes much more sense.  right.  dudes.  duuuuuuuudes.)
c) "Hey there, how ARE you?!" *does awesome handshake* (that was actually part of the answer.  I did not make that last part up, but...well.  In my head, the person in C is Arsenio Hall.)

B.  It's B.  Unless you are my nieces, who I lift up in the air with hugs and kisses, or you are my employees, who I greet with a big smile and a GOOD MORNING, MY PEOPLE or my stepfather, who is greeted with "hey, fucko, how's tricks?"

Okay, let's calculate my meanness score!

On Wednesdays, we wear pink.

BEEP BOOP BEEP BEEP BOOP BOOP BEEP BOOP!!

I am...Average.
"YES YOU'RE KIND OF MEAN AND SHOULD TRY STICKING UP FOR PEOPLE AND GIVING MORE HAPPINESS."

Do they mean blowjobs?  Giving Happiness sounds like a euphemism for blowjobs.
I'm just asking.

So there you have it.  I'm 46% mean.  So fuck you very much, punks. 

It's Katie's Birthday, Y'all...

...so let me tell you a story about two little girls and their mummy and teenaged Thingamagig.

My freshman and sophomore years at university were ridiculous.  I was at the wrong school, it snowed constantly (you could wave at the Canadian border from my window,) and I was a clinically depressed overweight 17 year old with a perm.  (uh, yah.  that pretty much sums that shit right up.)

Sometime during my freshman year, my mum made friends with a new family at our very preppy, very old-money, very not diverse but there were always donuts after service and everyone was very loving, church.  And one weekend, at home (because I was home. A LOT.) my mum introduced me to Jennifer.  Jennifer was super preggers.  Like about to pop preggers, and already had a wee little blonde girl with weeeeee little glasses named Andrea.  And I sort of fell in love with them.  Jennifer wasn't a whole lot older than I was, and she was...cool.  She'd grown up with intellectual artsy parents, and lived a crazy young life, and she...she loved my family, kindly, unconditionally, and with her own rough edges always peeking through.  Jennifer and Andrea and then New baby Katie would accompany my mum on the loooooong snowy drives to and from North Buttfuck University, and on nights when they couldn't, they'd lend their bag phone (BAG PHONE!) to my folks for the drive.  They were those people.  The ones that let me sleep over when I was fighting with my stepfather.  The ones that let me use the dumb terminal (DUMB TERMINAL!) in their basement on weekends and breaks to log onto my VAX (vax!!!) account to talk to my virtual BBS friends.  Jennifer was forever baking amazing things, and I sewed the red gingham curtains for the girls' bedroom.  When I graduated from University, Jen took me to the mall and offered to buy me contact lenses, my Holy Grail.  Instead, I opted for a watch from the (sadly now defunct) Sesame Street store, depicting Super Grover.  I still wear it.  I still cherish it.

Andrea, Jennifer, and Uterus-dwelling Katie

And all the while, these two little girls were growing up.  And I was babysitting them.  And painting their tiny fingers and toes.  And watching Disney videos with them on the big console (console!) VCR (VC...you get the point) television, while changing diapers and telling stories and fending off cats.  (were there cats? I just have this feeling of cats.)  And I loved those girls.  Birthday parties and dinners and temper tantrums (that was you, Andrea) and lazy hours reading books and snuggling and eating chocolate chip cookies together...that house was as much a part of my holding my shit together as anything.

Eventually, Jennifer and her husband and the girls moved away.  And once, soon after September 11, I drove down to visit.  My girls were...creepy teenagers.  Adorable and smart and funny and curious, and completely foreign to me now.  I remember returning home, and feeling like the world had tilted a bit.  I think that's how we mark getting older: not by our own growth or age, but by the passage of time and element in those we love.

Fast forward to now.
Jennifer, who was always trying to get in a college course here and there, has just finished school, and is single and beautiful and has two amazing accomplished daughters-
Andrea, a nurse (a nurse!) and Katie, who...what the hell ARE YOU DOING, KATIE?
Katie, who is a newlywed, and has a blog about being this young Martha Stewart chick, and works, and has a hot husband (yeah, I said it. I'd hit that. Hi, Phoenix! Call me sometime!)

Scolar-mom Jen, Bride Katie Who Escaped The uterus, and Life Saving Andrea

And today is my Katie's birthday.
I remember when you were born.  My mum calling me at school to tell me.
It coincided with the first time I ever dyed my hair red.  Literally the same day.
Which cannot be a coincidence, right?  Right. You were, in your way, my tiny soul mate in so many ways from the start.  Utterly girly, utterly derpy, completely sarcastic.
Happy birthday, baby I babied, who became my friend.
And thank you, mummies who gave us all to one another.

The Apology That Isn't Coming

Who owes you one?

And do you hold a grudge when it doesn't come your way?
Or do you forgive and forget?
Or forgive and never forget.

It's weird and sad and kind of funny that I've forgiven one of the people involved in my recent dating debacle.  And that, somehow, it isn't the man I was dating.  I...think I was lied to.  And he, I think, is too caught to own up and tell me the truth. 

And I've been there.
I've been that liar.  I've hurt people that way.
And I'd like to say I forgive him, but I don't.  And that makes me sad, and angry at myself, because all I ever wanted from the people I lied to was forgiveness.  For someone to say, "you are good enough not to hide and lie, and your truth is something beautiful, so make it your life."
And in my heart, I know that one friend's forgiveness really did change my life, really did help me to live in truth.
And in my head, I know that nobody made this change but me.  And that I had to come clean about my lies and what I'd been hiding from, and I had to apologize for real, and I had to promise myself never to go back.

And there's a kind of bravery in it.
In admitting you fucking sucked.
In fucking fixing it.
In manning up and explaining your lies.
Or your real damage.

And I'm not patting myself on the back, oh no.
I'm forever ashamed that I lived that way.  That I hid myself away and hurt people I loved, people I could have loved, people who loved and liked me.
And so, no.  I'm not proud of that time, that long dark time.

But I own my sanity and my truth and my gentle fierce heart now.
I sold my darkness off, like a haunted suit in a heart-shaped box.
Watched it fade into the darkness as it was driven away by its new owner (because someone always wants it, someone always wants your darkness for himself.)

And so, I'm waiting for that apology that's never really coming, because I need it to come with truth, and I think...well, I think he's not really ready for his truth yet.
And while I don't forgive, and I doubt I can forget, I still want him to know that his truth is a good place to start, and that I believe he is good enough not to lie, and that his truth, whatever it is, will be beautiful.