Holidays

The holidays have arrived. I've been in my kitchen for four hours now, prepping and readying the turkey for the oven. I've been on and off the laptop; I've been checking in with family and friends online, wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving to my friends here in the States and bragging about my mad cooking skills to those far away.

For as much as I adore my family, they are stressful. I know I add to that stress by wanting everything just perfect and not having patience for those with a different idea, agenda or timetable than mine. Everyone knows to ignore me, and I know to pour the first glass of wine just about... now.

I will try to post another story before the end of the year; I've ideas rumbling around even now. When I learn more of how this site works, I will put the majority of the stories under a link, so that if you'd rather peruse my blog without having to scroll through my stories, you've the option. They aren't for everyone, I know. And I would very much like everyone to enjoy visiting my little blog.

So, to those who celebrate, Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you are blessed with family and friends, with a warm home and health. If you are striving for those things, or even if you are not, I'm wishing for every good thing for you.

Dari

Inspiration

I've been doing a lot of writing lately, and the stories are becoming more and more intense, it would seem. There is no particular reason, other perhaps than wanting to test my writing and creative abilities, to push the boundary of what is comfortable and easy for me as a writer. The next story I'm posting crosses a lot of boundaries for me. While I maintain I've always written that which interests me and excites me and fascinates me, this next story, Switch, does so in new ways. Until now, I can honestly say there have been elements from my own life in each of my stories. Perhaps a scenario, perhaps some level of excitement, perhaps something more. In this story, everything is new to me, and there is not one element in it of which I am familiar.

So, while I am very excited to be posting this story, I'm very, very nervous, as well. I've had nothing to draw on in writing it except my own imagination and understanding, so if you are reading and find flaws, please know they are my own.

I do hope you will leave a comment and let me know what you thought of it. Authors do appreciate feedback.

Pain and Failure

Some of you may recognize this.

He’s gone. Fucking gone. Forever. The words keep circling inside my head, repeating themselves over and over. I’m being crushed by the weight of them - horrible, gut-tearing, soul-bleeding words. How am I going to do this? How many times will I have to try, only to fail? I can’t do it. I can’t keep doing this. This is killing me; every time I try, it just keeps happening. Not the same way, but I can’t stop it. He’s gone. He left. HE’S GONE!!! The words scream and echo and bounce in my brain.

I can barely breathe. My heart is twisting in my chest; I’m gasping and heaving, doubling over in my pain, desperate to dispel the poisonous images. I vomit and vomit until nothing remains but pain and failure. They sear my every thought, every movement, every blink of my eye. He is dead to me, and I am alone.

I have to pull myself together, somehow. I have to go back to… To do what? What can I possibly do? What can I try that I haven’t tried? What can I do that I haven’t done? My eyes sting, my lungs burn from crying. My brain hurts from the words twisting around inside, from trying to think, yet not think.

What do I do? What do I do? I’m pacing, - back and forth, back and forth throughout my house. The words loop in my mind. He’s gone. What do I do now? He’s gone. What do I do now?

There’s nothing left to do. I’d given him everything I had inside of me. Was it not enough? Was it too much? He would never say, would never tell me what he wanted, what he needed from me. He told me I was his best friend. He told me he loved me. And then she walked back into his life. Why was I not enough? What didn’t I tell him? Did I make him too happy, that he wanted to go back to being miserable? Did he miss the agonizing thoughts of pain and failure he had with her so much that he had to share them with me, so that I too would know the pain of losing someone, the pain of failure of not being enough for the one I love?

I hate you!!! My brain screams. But it does not hate him, it hates me. For losing him. For letting him go.

I lift my chin against that final onslaught. I will not be the desperate one. I will not beg. I will not plead. I will not bargain with him or blackmail him or make him feel guilty for leaving me. Let it be on him. Let him be the desperate one in their relationship. Let him be the one that wants more, who must lick his wounds in the corner when she kicks him, when she rejects his love. Let him wonder why he chose her when he could have had me, when she leaves yet again.

You want to be miserable? Be miserable. I have a life to live.

I will retrace my steps through our relationship and leave without a backwards glance, without a raised hand in goodbye. I’ve said all I had to say, except this: You know where I will be when you are ready to be happy again. Don’t wait too long or you won’t be able to catch up.

Why I Write...

I'd forgotten why I write.

For more years that I care to count, I wrote in a journal. I've dozens and dozens of journals packed in boxes under my bed and in my closet. I'm not talking about the "Dear Diary" kind of journal; I'm talking about analyzing and questioning and theorizing about my life and all that it contained. I wrote when I was happy - not just, "Today is a great day; I'm happy." I wrote about what kind of happiness it was and all the events that made it happy. Sometimes I just woke up in a great mood and things just seemed to go my way. I could write five pages on the whats and hows and whys of my happiness.



When I was upset, that number easily increased to 25 pages. Yes, 25 pages. It is not a stretch. I would write and write and write and write until what ever it was that had to be worked out, was worked out. I'd write until I was done. Until all the worry or sadness or reason I had for a heavy heart was worked out and I felt lighter and freer.

There are only a hand-full of online friends that I've spoken to in person. And of those, an even smaller number have heard me talking when I really had something to say. On those occasions, I talk fast. I mean really fast! I'm animated and sometimes loud and I even trip over my words in my haste to get it all from my brain to the tip of my tongue. I write much the same way. Run on sentences and sentence fragments are littered throughout the pages. The words and the cadence mirror my thoughts. Sometimes disjointed, sometimes smooth and coherent.

The point is, I write because I need to; I'm not one for sharing my feelings or problems with anyone. I'm weird like that, I suppose. My journals keep all of my secrets and never think me strange or over the top or pathetic. Not that I think my family or best friends would think that, but I'm the type that keeps her own counsel. If I were a guy, I'd be the strong, silent type, I think. Not that I'm particularly strong, but silent, yes.

I haven't written in a journal in ten years. Why? I got pregnant, and suddenly, there was no more time! I was so preoccupied with the baby that all thoughts of myself went out the window. Over time, they forgot to come back.

For the past ten years, I'd no thoughts of myself, of stopping and writing and working out in my journals the ups and downs that were going on in my life. Going back to school, taking a job with a long commute. My feelings of inadequacy and failure at not being able to work closer to home or spend more time with my son. Nothing I did was good enough in my own mind, and because I wasn't expressing myself in my journals, I began to believe that those feelings were justified and not temporary.

The results of ignoring my thoughts and feelings, of not expressing them on paper was a deterioration of my self worth and self esteem. I could list for you my accomplishments, but they couldn't compare to my list of failings. I'd forgotten who I was and why I was of value and all those things that made me me.

I'd often been told I wasn't Daria any longer, but Mommy. I wasn't to have an identity outside of my son. And stupid me, by ignoring my thoughts and need to work out these issues via my journal, I began to believe these foolish ideas. I began trusting myself less and other people more.

But I'm writing again. It's slow; I'm a bit rusty. But I'm getting there. Writing was always my coping mechanism; nothing could happen or not happen that I didn't write about. I wrote until I felt better. Those days are coming back.

For now, I'm identifying problems and working on solutions. I'm once more recognizing my feelings towards people and situations. It once came naturally to me; I don't think it will be hard to get back into the swing of things.

I write because I need to; it is an integral part of what makes me, me. I write because I don't function properly otherwise. I write to become a better person, a more complete person. I write for me, about me, and to me.

I write until I am finished.

I'm finished.

Meeting and Falling in Love Online

I love meeting people online. For someone like me, who holds back in person, who is more comfortable in small groups than I am in a faceless crowd, meeting people online is a dream!

I've three friends I met on Live Journal for whom I would give my right arm; Jeannie, Shelly and Jill. They are the most wonderful human beings, and my life would be very empty without them. I met Shelly in May when I flew out to California. I'm hooking up with Jeannie in October at her place. Jill, by the grace of God, I'll meet sometime soon. These woman have made me a better person, a richer person.



I've met other people online, as well. Amazing people whom I cannot imagine not having in my life, regardless of where they are: West Coast, Midwest, South, even in another country all together. I am an exceptionally lucky woman, honest to Christ.

But what do you do when online friends cross the line from friends with whom you chat and share a few laughs and become a person with whom you want to share more? And yes, we all know what I mean when I say the word "more." We are all adults, after all.

I'll admit, I like to flirt, but it is harmless flirting. It's a wink and a slightly suggestive comment or reply. It's not lewd or salacious. No one takes me seriously, and I don't take them seriously. It's a bar chat in a digital setting. But what happens when you start liking the person you're chatting with on the next digital bar stool?

I've met a couple who met and fell in love online. They are the most amazing people; they have so much faith and hope in each other and what they share with each other. They will be meeting each other for the first time in a week or so. I'm waiting with baited breath to hear how things work out. These two people inspire the hell out of me. They give me faith and hope. That in this day and age, when it is harder and harder to meet someone, meeting someone online can work out. That it isn't some sort of hallucination; you can find someone honest and caring and genuine hundreds or even thousands of miles away.

It is possible? I'd like to think so, even though there are more non-believers than believers. There are nay-sayers and pessimists and those that say, "They can be anybody online," and "How can you believe anyone you haven't met?"

I'll admit it, I'm a very literal person, much to my detriment. It takes me an extra moment or two to make the connection from what I am reading to what it really being said. It's not that I don't believe people lie, they do! But I don't. If I don't want to answer a question, I won't, but I won't lie and make up an answer that will get you off my back or appease you somehow. I'd rather not say anything and suffer an uncomfortable silence than lie. But people do lie. Horribly. All the time. And for their own reasons, most of which, I'm counting on, are not malicious.

But to these nay-sayers I say this, I've just as much faith in the person I meet face to face as I do in the person I meet online to be as truthful and as honest as they can be, with me. Some say it's easier to be truthful when you can't see their face, other say it's easier to lie when you can't see their face. Both are true.

But still, I have faith and hope. Because I've met someone. I'll not go into any details, except to say, I was not looking for him; he found me. He says he's the lucky one, but I know differently. The Daria in every day life is the Daria in digital life; I don't make friends easily or often, but sometimes I take a chance. I'm determined to be realistic; despite not wanting to be, so I'll not make promises I don't know if I can keep. I'll not jump in with both feet without knowing if it is safe or not. But sometimes, it is hard not to say, "I love you." Not that I'm in love, I'm not. But he inspires me to love. I think that's a good start, don't you?

How the fuck did this blog become about me?? I'm turning into a fucking wuss. Honest to Christ.

A Realization

I've now posted two stories that I've written to this blog, and in a few moments, I am going to be posting another. And I can't help but pause for a moment and wonder if this was somehow a part of the plan all along. Not intentionally, of course. In the beginning, I could not imagine sharing what I've written in this manner, but after my first story was posted, the response was immediate and slightly overwhelming. And it appears I've found a small outlet for my creativity for now.

That's not to say that this blog is suddenly going to be just about posting stories, nosiree! I will be posting the odd bit here and there, sometimes rambling, sometimes ranting, perhaps even, if I'm tipsy and in a good mood, I'll make a social commentary that I will undoubtedly regret at some point in the future.

But for now, it seems a good enough place for me to introduce some stories.

Thanks for joining me and reading.

Twitter and the Taboo Word

I'll admit it, I am fucking addicted to Twitter. It is bordering on unhealthy, in a really good way. That doesn't make sense, you're thinking. I know. It doesn't make sense to me, either.

I love Twitter. I love meeting new people, reading their tweets and learning about them. I love funny, sarcastic and intelligent people. They tickle my brain and my funny bone and occasionally, another region, as well. I am extremely fortunate that I have those kinds of friends on Twitter; they make me laugh, make me think and offer tidbits of their lives and adventures. I have friends and followers all over the world, and they constantly remind me that the world is much smaller and intimate than it was twenty years ago.

I've also learned a valuable lesson while talking to my new, international friends. I've learned that words are just words. They hold no more or less power than you give them; and it is not just the speaker who gives the words meaning, it is the listener or reader, as well.

Take the word cunt, for example.

Growing up in a small, conservative community, I was taught that girls were girls, boys were boys, and boys should always respect girls. The word cunt was, and still is, taboo. Seriously taboo. It is THE word that is never said. It is perfectly acceptable for a girl or guy to call a guy a dick, if he was acting obnoxious, idiotic, rude, belligerent or, in general, an ass.

But GOD FORBID, you call a girl a cunt for acting in the exact same manner. A bitch, yes. In fact, the moniker "bitch" is about as bad as you can acceptably go in calling a female a derogatory name. To call a female a cunt, however, is taking a shot at her womanhood, at how she defines herself and her place in society. It is calling into question not just her femininity, but her worthiness, as well. Utter the word cunt, and her behavior gives way to hysterical crying and will form a complex so severe that it will take weeks of reassurance and chocolate to overcome.

Which brings me around to Twitter again. Brits have mastered the word cunt and use it with razor-sharp precision; yet, it's true meaning is in the context. I was told by someone very high up in cursebird.com's rank that it is the vilest of vile words, when no other word can match the depth of disgust and loathing, you throw out cunt. Instantly, there is the sharp intake of breath and a low murmur. There is no comeback. There is no evasion. You stand there and take it on the chin.

The word has other uses, as well. Guy friends call each other cunts, either jokingly or giving warning. I've heard of a woman calling a guy a cunt, although I've never seen or read it, personally. I was slightly appalled at first, but that feeling has since given way to pride, that a woman broke that barrier, feeling strong and brave enough to venture not only into male territory, but out of her own perception of the word. To say, this isn't about guarding my womanhood or how I define myself, this is about you being so horrible that I'm going to call you the one word that will take you out.

Rock on, and all you cunts can fuck off.

I love Twitter.