Seven: On the occasion of my wedding anniversary

Seven years ago last night…

I’m going to be honest. I don’t remember much. Bits and pieces, but I don’t remember my emotional state. I don’t recall having the jitters or what I talked about late into the night (or with whom). I don’t remember it being difficult for me to fall asleep.

But I remember just about every moment of the next day. All of the amazing ones and all of the stressful ones, too.

People still tell me it was the best wedding they’ve ever been to.

It’s so far away now. Seven years – If we’d broken a mirror that day the curse would be ending today.

But all we did was break a glass. One of the three concessions we gave my parents – the glass, the chuppah, and the blessing over wine.

There’s a part of me that will always love him. When people call him my “ex” I have to correct them. He didn’t walk away. We didn’t divorce.

I still refer to him as “my husband,” because that’s what he was. It amuses me. I once told a friend that there’s a part of me that will always be polyamorous because my love for him continues to exist, though he does not.

Some time ago I wrote something on an alt account. I can’t remember if I ever shared it here or not. I went back and looked at it tonight, and I think that…in honor of my seventh wedding anniversary tomorrow, and the 18 months since I’ve found love again, I’ll share it here now.



Passing the Torch

There was a version of him who worshipped the light in my eyes. Before the darkness overtook his soul, and maybe even still then. He’d stopped going to church, but he still prayed in his own way.

Now, he is a memory, an idea, a series of stories that have been carefully curated into an album one pulls out to show company.

And here is the time that….

And then there was the time that….

It’s hard, sometimes to pinpoint exact moments when I felt his love, but not at all to remember how it felt to be consumed by his love. Not the kind of love that is fleeting and temporary. The kind that is unhinged, unhampered, and undeniable.

There was love after him but it was careful and methodical and questioning. It was too afraid to fly, and instead it fell.

You are not afraid. You, with your quiet confidence. With your understated presence. You fill the room by not trying. You are just you. Without apology. Without need for apology.

You look upon me as though I were fine art. To be admired, and cherished, and even celebrated; but not worshipped. For you, I am not descended from the heavens but grown from the earth. There is the magic of fairy tales and the miracle of science.

And I do so love to do science with you.

I wonder, had this been a relay and not a reboot, if he’d been around to meet you, how he would have felt about this quirky situation of ours?

He worshipped the light in my eyes. I think, if he could, he’d take one look at me now that you’re in my life and drop to his knees before you with gratitude for bringing it back.

1000: Even deeper than I thought I’d go

I began blogging on FetLife (a kinky social media site) close to three years ago. Today I reached the milestone of my 1000th post there (many of which began crossing over to this blog about a year ago). That’s the context you need to have the post make sense.  Carry on. 


When I first started writing on Fet, it was in the wake of heartbreak and renewed hope. When my writings first started getting noticed on fet, it was in the wake of even more heartbreak and lost hope.

The more I exposed my pain and vulnerability, the more tenderly I was received. It was a light in a dark tunnel, and I followed it through.

But there came a time when I realized I was perhaps exposing too much. I don’t exactly recall how I came to this conclusion – but, it was (at first) a suggestion made by someone else.

That someone turned out not to be compatible for friendship, but nonetheless – their suggestion remained present in my mind. I was able, eventually, to recognize there were some unfortunate consequences to my oversharing, but they ran deeper than the ones I’d been warned about.

I’m not having a good day.

In fact, I’ve not had a good couple of days.

Relax: I can handle it. It’s okay for me to have bad days. But, it’s been a while since I’ve felt so low. I am experiencing emotional doomsday feelings where my mind travels to the worst places, and drag up memories of the most helpless moments of my life. I am also experiencing physical manifestations of the anxiety that has been dragged upward – the choke-sobbing fits and the acidic ache in my chest and knotted pains in my belly that won’t seem to pass.

I feel, at any moment, like I could give in to the bubbling emotions just beneath the surface and go into a full blown anxiety attack. And for teetering moments at that edge, I almost want to do it – if only so I can let it all out and find myself in a state of dulled emotional capacity on the other side.

Though it has been some time since I’ve been in this state, it is one with which I am familiar. Reverse back a few years, and this is a shadow of what I used to experience on a near weekly, if not daily, basis.

I know what this is.

I also know why it’s here. Not just the obvious catalyst for its arrival, nor even the underlying essential motivations, but deeper down to the fathoms of my existential being, – the stuff I think most people don’t access on a regular basis – I do. I’ve got my number.

1,000 posts ago I’d have shared those details. I’d have given you, the anonymous reader, all of the data: the catalyst, the motivations. I might have, by the end of the essay, drawn a line toward my existential conclusion.

And the reason I’d have done that? I’d have painted you a word-picture of my pitiful state for the purpose of gaining your tender support. It’s a form of manipulation, but not in a nefarious way. After all, writing and story-telling of any kind is a form of emotional manipulation.

So yes, I’d have explained the who, what, when, where, and why of my despair and swam in the soothing elixir of your concern.

It’s what I needed then. But, over time, I became dependent on it. It became a crutch without which my emotional limp would heal but never reach maximum strength.

Now, 1000 posts later, you’re not so anonymous. I know who many of you are on some level.

I also have, for perhaps the first time in my life, an understanding of who I am independent of my relationship to anybody else, (including family, friends, lovers, husbands, stepchildren, or colleagues).

I exist as a person on my own. The people in my life closest to me that inspire love and affection provide an enrichment that I’d never want to take for granted, nor mistake for the emotional equivalence of oxygen.

What’s this got to do with my bad day?

Well, that’s just it. It’s my bad day. I know why it’s here and what caused it, and I’m well aware that it will be fleeting.

So, while I feel the urge to tell you all about it – to dive into the details of the why and how I’m feeling the way I feel – I also now know that the resulting concerned feedback does not help to achieve my purpose.

I just want to share. I just want to to share my truth. I want to illuminate that even one with a charmed life can sometimes struggle – not for the purpose of eliciting your pity, but in an attempt to narrow the chasms that sometimes separate us.

We all suffer, in varying degrees and for different reasons – but we all suffer.

I don’t want to feel separated from humanity. My current (and admittedly temporary) state of despair should not serve to isolate me when, in fact, it has so much potential (and history) of doing the exact opposite.

I want to tell you that you’re not alone, because – in doing so – I remind myself that I am not either.

Countdown to year three

I’m 11 mornings short of three years.

Like with most of my traumas, I’m able to talk about it now with time-seasoned detachment. It’s a story that happened to someone else – a different version of me.

But sometimes the emotions sneak up on me. Like, when I’m approximately 12 mornings short of three years and I’m laying in a different bed beside a different man in the same room of a house transformed, feeling happier than I’ve ever felt….

…12 mornings short of the three year anniversary of the worst day of my life. A day I woke up believing it impossible to ever feel any form of happiness again.

“He would have wanted this for you,” imaginary people in my head tell me.

And silently, I respond back, “I want this for me.”

Eleven mornings short of three years ago, he stopped living. Sometime between then and now, I stopped living for him.

For me, it was Anton Yelchin

We lost a lot of our heroes, idols, role models, and artists this year. For many people, a David Bowie, a Harper Lee, an Alan Rickman, a Muhammad Ali, or a Carrie Fisher might have been the person they could look to in an isolating world and feel less alone.

Did you know Alan Rickman didn’t have his breakthrough role as an actor until he was a year older than I am now? There were many times when my late husband, who felt he’d reached his peak in college, looked to Alan Rickman and his story as a beacon of hope that there might be more ahead than behind him.

For so many people, these artists were more than just famous people. They were hope in human form.

Some of those losses hit some people harder than others. The one that really sort of threw me for a loop – the one that really had me reeling this past June was Anton Yelchin.

He was young and talented. He was at the start of what might have been an incredible career doing the thing he loved to do, and everything was falling into place….

And a freak…and I mean super freak accident took his life at 27.

It was a very shocking reminder of the lesson that had already cemented itself into my bones the morning my husband passed away at 52 from an accidental overdose of prescribed medication.

You really never fucking know.

A night or two after Anton Yelchin died, I had a nightmare. I don’t want to get into the details, but suffice it to say I woke up in a panic thinking I’d lost another love of my life way too early. It was horrible, and it shook my otherwise stalwart optimism about the future.

This year, my grandfather finally succumbed to old age. He made it to the end of the game – two grown children, five grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren – all happy, healthy, successful. He was the embodiment of the American Dream. He immigrated to the United States with a couple hundred dollars in his pocket, a wife and two children, and grabbed hold of every opportunity he could to make it work.

I wasn’t devastated when he passed away. Sure, it was sad, but it was also peaceful. He accomplished everything he’d set out to accomplish, and in the end, died painlessly and peacefully in bed with his wife and children at his side.

Different from my mom’s cousin, who also passed away earlier this year in his 60s after a battle with cancer, or my husband who’s struggle with addiction and depression had already taken his mind and spirit from me long before it took his body.

But Anton Yelchin….

That one hurt in unexpected ways. Because it could be any of us. Any time.

The thought of despair crosses my mind in those times, and I think about trying to protect myself from life; but I don’t do that. Nearly every time I’ve gotten behind the wheel since Anton Yelchin passed away, especially in inclement weather, I think about whether or not that might be the time I’m destined to go.

And then I stuff down the anxiety and keep moving forward. ‘Cause I got shit to do and people to love, and when my time inevitably comes, I don’t want to have wasted too much of it worrying.

You know….I lost my original point along the way for this post, but I do like where it ended up. I was going to say that for some people these losses hit so hard that they truly are in mourning. Real people with real feelings are suffering a tremendous loss in Carrie Fisher because of what she meant to them and how she helped them cope in a sometimes very scary world.

I saw it when David Bowie passed, as well as Prince, and to an extent Alan Rickman as well. Those deaths did not affect me in monumental ways, but I saw how many people were devastated as they reminisced on social media what these larger-than-life icons meant in their very real, comparatively less gargantuan lives.

My husband was a drug addict who suffered from severe mental illness and chronic physical pain that forced him to put his life at risk every day by either taking opioid medication so he could cope with living or suffer so intolerably he’d wish for death. I wonder how he might have reacted to this news. I’m certain he would have been devastated – far more than I, because he’d have seen her as a kindred spirit in some ways.

My experiences influence my reaction, as others’ experiences influence theirs. A little kindness has not, to my knowledge, ever killed anybody. Perhaps now is not the time to pick fights in the posts where people are sharing their pain about a loss that means something very personal to them.

Can you help me? (Or: Why I’ll never allow a television in my bedroom again)

It’s not surprising that he’s crept into my thoughts more during the past week. I learned how to Christmas with him in my life. Doesn’t help that google likes to remind me what happened “on this day” X years ago. Anything more than 3 years usually includes memories of the time that my label was “wife.”

This morning, as I have been for nearly all the mornings during this holiday break, I woke up way too early. The light coming from outside my bedroom window was still dark enough that I couldn’t find my phone on the bed without feeling around for it.

In the process, my hand found the handle of my vibrator. I’d fallen asleep last night before making use of it. I thought perhaps a nice, slow morning orgasm would relax me enough into another hour of sleep.

I peeled off my underwear and pulled the sheet up over my shoulders to keep the chill out before I got started. As I do, I let my mind wander through the Greatest Hits – the handful of fantasy situations I imagine when I’m just trying to get straight to the orgasm without so much meandering along the way.

I lightly grazed my hand over the sheet and felt the little jolt of sensation when it traveled over my pert nipples. I smiled, thinking about recent events that involved my nipples and my lover’s warm kiss.

But then, it happened. The sound of my own voice, in my head…

Can you help me?

Instantly my mind shifted from this happy place by remembering her. The she that was me before he died.

“Can you help me?” as I lay in bed beside my loving husband with my vibrator pressed up against my clit and his hands clutching the video game controller.

The orgasm evading me as I tried to call up the feelings of being desired while he focused all his attention on smoking pot, taking Ambien, and watching documentaries.

“Can you help me?” I’d ask in my small voice, laced with yearning and unmet hunger and the wanting of the slightest bit of attention.

And he would sigh. Hold the controller with one hand while reaching over to grope my breasts with the other.

With my eyes closed, I could pretend he was actually looking at me while he did it.

The orgasm would come. I’d drop the vibrator. And, without a word, he’d pick the controller back up and carry on with his game, or the documentary, or the bong hit I’d interrupted with my request.

Can you help me?

It dawned on me, not for the first time – but for the first time in a long time, that for nearly three years, that was the entirety of my sex life. That was how we “did it.” That was as much as I could get in terms of active participation from my husband in my orgasm.

It pained him, by the way. He knew that he wasn’t giving me what I needed. He knew I wanted more, and more often. But tired. Pain. Depressed. High. Busy.

There was always some excuse to mask the complete lack of desire he had – not just for me, but for anything. The drugs and the pain killed it all.

The best he could muster was a healthy grope on one of my breasts. It was really all he could do for me.

I flashed back into my present tense. I set the vibrator down. I was never going to get there thinking of that. I went back and read some of my texts from yesterday evening from my lover. That’s not my life anymore. She is not me anymore.

But yeah, for a few minutes this morning, I felt really, really sorry for her.

From the secret archives: Passing the Torch

I have a “secret” profile on Fetlife where I post some of my more sensitive blogs.  This is a love letter I wrote several months ago.


There was a version of him who worshiped the light in my eyes. Before the darkness overtook his soul, and maybe even still then. He’d stopped going to church, but he still prayed in his own way.

Now, he is a memory, an idea, a series of stories that have been carefully curated into an album one pulls out to show company.

And here is the time that….

And then there was the time that….

It’s hard, sometimes to pinpoint exact moments when I felt his love, but not at all to remember how it felt to be consumed by his love. Not the kind of love that is fleeting and temporary. The kind that is unhinged, unhampered, and undeniable.

There was a love after him but it was careful and methodical and questioning. It was too afraid and it fell.

You are not afraid. You, with your quiet confidence. With your understated presence. You fill the room by not trying. There is no search for glory, there is no “game” to win, there is no disembodied force to fight.

You are just you. Without apology. Without need for apology.

You look upon me as though I were fine art. To be admired, and cherished, and even celebrated; but not worshiped. For you, I am not descended from the heavens but grown from the earth. There is the magic of fairy tales and the miracle of science.

And I do so love to do science with you.

I wonder, had this been a relay and not a reboot, if he’d been around to meet you, how he would have felt about this quirky situation of ours?

He worshiped the light in my eyes. I think, if he could, he’d take one look at me now that you’re in my life and drop to his knees before you with gratitude for bringing it back.

Wipe the Glass (Happy Birthday, Tony.)

He’d have been 55 today. I didn’t want it to affect me, but I can’t pretend it didn’t. It’s a really strange combination of emotions – knowing that I’m happier and healthier now, knowing that I’ve found love again and pulled my life back together and survived an incredible loss.

And still feeling off on his birthday.

This would have been the birthday that I’d have broken the bank to get us a reservation at the French Laundry in Napa. It was a lifelong goal of his to eat there one day. I tried for this 50th birthday, but I missed the window of opportunity for a reservation and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could get it, so we’d decided to do it for his 55th.

Maybe one day I’ll still get a chance to eat there. At the very least, I have Thomas Keller’s cookbook somewhere in the garage (the gift my parents got him for his 50th). Now that I’m a fancypants home chef, I’ll dig that sucker out and make something.

So, I’m digging into these emotions, because I think if I can shed some light on them, I can overcome them. I mean, it’s not like I’m overcome with grief that he’s gone. Like I said, my life is better now. There is love again, and not just for the guy but for some really great people he’s brought into my life by association.

I’m gonna take a minute away from this whole thing to share some gratitude for my metamours. They’re both really wonderful, really unique people an I’m very, very grateful for them. I had a really rough night last night, fraught with nightmares and sleeplessness, and this morning wasn’t entirely pleasant, and one of my metamours came through and 1) made it feel safe for me to be honest, and 2) said exactly what I needed said to make me feel better. I’m really, really grateful for our growing friendship. The other one is her own brand of fantastic and has made me feel comfortable and welcome since day two of this relationship. I say day two because he forgot to introduce us to each other on day one.

Anyway, back to the other thing. Right. Guilt. What I’m getting at is that the reason I think I keep crying this week is that I feel guilt for moving on. Not surface guilt; like, rationally I know I have no reason to feel anything of the sort. But deep, deep, down there’s this sense that if I didn’t feel something on this day it would mean i’m a callous, unfeeling, cold-hearted bitch.

So I look at the date on the calendar and I furrow my brow because I’m happy and …what does that make me?

If I were you and you were me and you asked me this question, I could be completely rational about it and tell you that you’re crazy. Of COURSE you deserve this happiness. Of COURSE you’ll feel something on his birthday. Of COURSE being happy doesn’t make you an evil cold-hearted bitch.

And I can tell myself that, too.

When chatting with my metamour this morning I came up with an analogy for how this feels. So, if you’re in a glass-enclosed shower, the glass fogs up with steam. When I pick my emotions apart and tell myself there’s nothing to feel badly about, it’s like I’ve taken my hand and wiped a large swath of clarity. I can see the world clearly through the glass. But slowly, very slowly, the steam starts to fog it up again.

I have to keep wiping at the emotional fog collecting in my brain.

There’s more to it than just Tony’s birthday, there’s other stuff going on that has nothing to do with Tony. Work stresses. Family stresses. Distances from people I care about.

Life is awesome, but just ’cause it’s awesome doesn’t mean there aren’t days when the awesome isn’t front and center.

I was trying to think of a way to commemorate Tony’s birthday this morning. It was hard. I thought about asking people to donate one item of clutter …you know that thing that “might be useful one day” to someone who might use ittoday. Tony was a hoarder and I can tell you that after he died, a great many people benefited from the mountains of clothing and kitchen supplies and furniture and canned food that he collected.

I thought about asking people to reach out to friends or loved ones who struggle with depression or anxiety and saying “hey. You matter.” Tony suffered from both of these, and chronic pain. There were days when he didn’t want to live and lost himself in video games and ice cream to get by.

I thought about asking people to embrace something bizarre or do something weird today. Tony loved the bizarre, obscure, and perverse.

I thought about suggesting people show kindness to someone in need today. Tony always did. If it were his last dollar, he’d give it to someone needier than he.

But, this morning on facebook all I asked people to do was to find a reason to celebrate. Have a treat. Blow out a candle. Find a reason to feel good.

‘Cause he’d have been 55 today on Friday the 13th. And despite all his troubles, he was a good man who loved me. There is nothing wrong with celebrating that.

wipes the glass