A Bridget Jones Moment

I just got back from Austin, Texas, which is why this week's blog is a little late. It was a weekend where the days were filled with keynote speakers and meetings, and the nights were filled with flirty cops, fun bargoers, and the most amazing best friend a girl can have. It was exactly what the doctor ordered. While intoxicated, after the adrenaline high of riding a mechanical bull for the first time, I got a hold of my phone, which sadly does not have a breathalyzer. Drunken texting really can be perilous for my health, or at least my sanity. I ended up texting a few good men. The one I really wanted to hear from, my fighter, was the first to respond, but he was busy, of course. The person I heard the most from was my ex boyfriend. What can I say? I was drunk. I rode a bull. Exhilaration is a heady drug.
My ex, the one that sprained my hip, has been having a tough go of it lately. We've recently been back in touch, which started when he was one of the first security guards on the scene of a shooting at our mall. I was worried about him. No matter what has happened since we broke up, even including the birth of a child with someone else that he got together with soon after me, I will always care about him, even if I don't want to. His father has recently fallen unexpectedly ill, and is on his death bed. He is out of state now in order to see him one last time. Our flights actually left near the same time, so we were able to talk a bit at the airport, and I was able to see him off like you used to be able to see people off in the '80s prior to the TSA. Although we both remained dry eyed, it was definitely an emotional experience that was led up to by some intense events prior with the shooting and his father's illness. It's not surprising that he is the main person I was texting with when I was drunk.
Though it sounds cliche', I wasn't texting with him in order to get him back. After the baby thing, getting back together with him is not something I would ever consider. It didn't break my heart, it shattered it. You don't come back from that. There's an obvious attraction between the two of us, though, and that gets confusing, and sometimes even hurtful. An offer was put out the other night, and I don't even quite know which one of us put it out there, all I know is that we both accepted. I know the reason I accepted, outside of stupidity and hormones, is because deep down I am a horrible person, and it was gratifying to know that he, a man who never cheats, would cheat on his 20 something year old fiance (who chased him down right after we broke up and tricked him into knocking her up) with me because he wants and misses me. I felt vindicated, and that made so much doubt that I had disappear, and yet it is so forbidden at the same time. Even the thought of it was delicious, and almost scary.
A huge part of my heart is really itching for a tryst with him, and to be able to cuddle up to him again. I used to fit into him, physically. He's almost a foot taller than me. When we spooned, his feet would be under mine, my back fit perfectly against his stomach, my head snugly under his chin. I never felt so safe in my life. I miss it more than anything. The thing is that with my state of mind and heart with the situation, I am just as likely to beat the crap out of him as I am to snuggle into him.
I am looking for something real and long term, and though I don't know if that is what will happen with my fighter, I absolutely know that it is never going to be with my ex. I just wish my lady parts would listen to common sense.

Screw The Knight In Shining Armor

Ohmygawd I can be stupid. So stupid. How am I supposed to react to something when the full story is being withheld? I feel like I keep screwing up, and somehow this huge "maniacal" fighter keeps his head when I go overboard.
Over the last year of dealing with him, I've had to learn some fighting tactics of my own. He has built a fortress around him, emotionally. I've had to fight him tooth and nail in order to get in, and slowly, this second time around, he's actually been letting me. And then when his surgery was approaching, the walls went right back up. He wouldn't tell me what his surgery was on, only that it was life threatening. He kept telling me I couldn't handle it, until I realized that he couldn't handle talking about it, and his fears with it. He was protecting himself from me, and in his own strange way, he was protecting me, too. Though I understand it, it is what also makes me give up, time and time again. It's what breaks me into pieces.
When I told him goodbye the other day, it was via text, as he physically couldn't speak after his surgery. I had forgotten that I had an email left floating out there before I had heard from him, asking if he was okay. He responded to it the next day. This is what I hate about modern technology: if you are going to end things with someone, you have to make sure you do it via text, skpe, chat, email, smoke signal, whatever. It's too much. I hadn't blocked him on facebook, so he responded, and I let loose a barrage of anger due to feeling rebuffed at not being able to see him. The torrent of anger lasted a couple of days. Sadly, I'm not exaggerating. He finally had to tell me that there were complications with his surgery - they ruptured an organ, and that is why he couldn't see me. I know it sounds like a chicken shit excuse, but this man is more self conscious than any person I have ever met. So here I had been a horrible selfish child acting out, when he was laying in the hospital, unable to speak, now dealing with a new ailment to heal from. I have no idea why he is still dealing with me. I've apologized, but the child (adult?) in me still wants him to understand that he can't blame me for being upset when he has purposely left me in the dark because he has his heart locked up like a little princess in a tower with a moat and high walls. Though I feel like I haven't been the prince running in with sword drawn to rescue it, I've been the mother fucking dragon, breathing fire, trying to burn that sucker down in order to free it. We'll see how well that works.

Sweeney Todd And A Broken Heart.

A half drank bottle of crimson Cabernet sits next to me, rivers of blood and the music of Sondheim on the screen before me, and all I can think about is Mrs. Lovett. Yet another dream to survive unalone dashed, another heartfelt desire for children of her own to take care of kept out of arm's reach, and she ends up burning in flames, for wanting what is promised to the heart unduly. 
Another birthday passed for me. Thirty six years, an old maid.
"There's a hole in the world and it's a big black pit, and it's filled with people that are filled with shit..."
I told myself when I started this blog that I was going to be honest, because it is only with honesty that we learn. I almost wish I hadn't done that, because I'd rather not discuss this, but I never learn, probably because I don't fess up to things I don't want to admit.
I did it again. I gave my heart to someone that would never acknowledge that it is valuable enough for him to make sure never to lose it. I gave my heart to someone that put his job, his pride, and everything else above it. I've told myself again and again that I am only worth what I put up with. It turns out that when I really want someone, I put up with a lot, but make myself worth nothing.
My fighter had his surgery. I took time off to help, but he won't see me "until he is healed". That is code for not this time around, again. The last time I was supposed to see him work got in the way. He felt so horrible, he apologized again and again, and promised to make it up to me. The time before that it was too late in the evening, and the next night made more sense, except that work contracts got in the way the next night. This time, with taking time off to help, and being denied yet again, I guess it finally hit me: if he doesn't want me when he is in need, no matter what shape he is in, he doesn't really want me. I can't do this anymore. I give up. So now, while he is laid up in the hospital, trying to recover from life threatening surgery, I told him goodbye.
I now sit at home, swigging wine, watching Mrs. Lovett manage to get imitations of the love and child that she craves from the bottom of her soul, the things she would do the unthinkable for, only to lose it all in the end.
I crave pie.

The Art Of What The Heart Wants.

As an artist, I have had a few muses in my life that have stuck out more than others. I have also held a few artists in high esteem as inspirational influences. One of the most influential artists for me has always been Frida Kahlo. Her work has always spoken to me, as has her story. The lifelong love affair with her and Diego Rivera, though it may seem insane to some, is completely understandable to me. Yes, Diego was an insatiable womanizer, much older than she, that, though he loved her completely, never stopped his promiscuous lifestyle. He was also an influential artist, political activist, and a charismatic friend and lover. When you come across such a person, it's difficult not being intoxicated with their charisma, and consumed by their art and politics, especially when they give voice to your own.
About a year and a half ago, I started a random conversation with such a person on Facebook (what can I say? Facebook has been good to me). He is an older celebrated actor that I had studied in college and had always found to be talented and well spoken, not to mention gorgeous. This actor has always selected movies and works that had something to say and that would educate the audience rather than just mainstream star making vehicles. He has spent his career as an activist in the arts, bringing attention to the struggles of his culture, as well as being a positive and loving force of nature in his own accord. Anyway, awhile ago a major event had happened for him, and I decided to throw in a congratulations amongst all the other fans on his page. Because of this single act of kindness, recognizing a stranger, an unlikely friendship began. He responded to my comment in kind and a conversation started, where he kindly informed me that I looked like a girl he had dated years before. I didn't think much of it, but I copied and pasted the conversation into an email to myself, just to have a reminder that at one point in my life a man that I have always looked up to had told me that I was pretty.
Months later I saw a post of his about a young child he knew that passed away from a major illness. I wrote him a private email offering condolences, and another conversation began, and has continued to this day. He has become a close friend of mine, with our friendship having progressed to phone calls and Skype.
That being said, I can easily understand what Frida and Diego had. My friend is someone that cannot be tied down, even when committed to someone, he makes no bones about it and I respect him for that. His life is a rollercoaster ride, and being a part of it is amazing and devastating all at the same time. Dealing with someone that understands my politics, my artistic side, and who gets my humor and then some, is more than I have had with anyone, even my fighter. He is a muse, a mentor, and an ally all at the same time. It's intoxicating. He is also practically married, has an unforgiving lifestyle, and can become alienated easily. As friends, we work very well, especially as flirting friends. I have a complete respect for his home life, his career, and his politics. As I said, in dealing with a man like him, you either accept his lifestyle, or you don't.
Though I admire, adore, and am amazed by him, I have to acknowledge that at this point, my feelings for him are not completely real. Oftentimes, they are similar to the feelings someone has for a really good set of books. They can consume you, make you think, and change your world, but in the end, at some point you have to put the book down and live your actual life. These feelings, though encompassing, are not what my future will be built off of. My fighter, though we argue at times, and he doesn't understand my vegetarianism or my political mindset, and he's far from perfect, he has a smile that melts my heart and knows my moods and when I'm trying to work him over like a petulant child. He calls me on it, and yet still makes time to talk to me about whatever small problems I have.
I guess my point is, though I am blessed enough to have good friends that inspire and intoxicate me, sometimes what is real is more important. Don't get me wrong, ten years from now, I will still be good friends with my activist actor, and who knows where my fighter and I will be, but I don't feel that I will be missing the love of my life for not pursuing my Diego single-mindedly. I love the artist, the man, and the activist, but it's not the same as loving someone because they are a part of you. Sometimes there's just not enough room for everything.