I'm Closer

It’s 1:22AM.

Dark.

My woman is coughing her fool head off. She wakes The Dogs.

Now, this wouldn’t be a problem if SHE took them outside to go poop. But she doesn’t. She sleeps on the OTHER side of the bed. You folks who use that argument amaze me. I mean, how do I let that work? I’m educated. I went to college. Have some Master’s work. But somehow I can’t come up with a rebuttal for, “But, you’re closer.”

Apparently, I’m not lawyer material.

It’s 20 degrees outside and they have to poop. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that big of a deal. I just have to walk to the back door to let them out. But it’s so cold. Oh, and I don’t want to. It’s 1:22AM.

But I do it anyway...because I'm CLOSER.

Trace has something to say. She was raised a Search and Rescue dog, so she has her ways of saying, “Really, you need to see this.”

I assume she wants to show me the back door in hopes that I’ll open it.

As I turn the corner into the kitchen, she looks at me with that, “SEE!” look.

Poop. EVERYWHERE. All over the kitchen floor. Hard. Dry. A major dump.

THIS is not my job. I’m in charge of everything but poop. It makes me squeamish. It’s the reason that I don’t have children and must have a girlfriend or understanding neighbor close by. I just can’t do it.

But tonight I have to. My girl’s been sick in bed since Saturday night. Not like her at all. She’s so sick she’s not even made it to the couch for the TV marathon that lets most of us know that we’re on the mend.

I throw something on just in case Leighann’s peeking again. Isaac Wayne sits in the doorway of the kitchen with the “ Ima so sorry. I wish I could help” look.

He watches over me as I finish and walks me back to bed. Like he always does. He never goes to bed without me. If I’m up, he’s up.

I just hope in my next life that I come back as one of their dogs. Big, fluffy beds. Belly rubs. And somebody to love me even when I poop in the floor.

Shiny Things

Buffalodickdy at Opinions and Rectums, We All Got One said...

I'd like to hear how you started making jewelry! Is that what you do for your job?


Hey Buff,
Sadly, no that's not what I do for a job. I'm an office manager for my family business. Bohr-ring. I'm an artist trapped in the body of someone who likes to live well. You can't have lobster in TN off of what I make on my jewelry.

I have always loved glass. In 2000, I took a stained glass class from Prism Studio and fell in love. Not with them. With the glass. Then one day, as I was spending my paycheck at their store, I saw a necklace on a woman. It was stunning. I asked her where she had gotten it and she told me that she had made it in her kiln AND that she taught classes. I took a few classes from her and here I am.

My next venture is learning silver smithing. I'm taking a class in April, so that I'll be able to set my own stones. Ima so excited!

Now I just need someone to come over and help me organize my glass table. It's a disaster. Typical artist style with stuff strewn EVERYWHERE. I'll give you a free bauble!

Oh, For Fuck's Sake

Jodie Foster acknowledged her long time lova-girl Cydney Bernard during her acceptance of the Sherry Lansing Leadership Award. Jodie thanks "My beautiful Cydney who sticks with me through all the rotten and the bliss."

Am I the only lesbian that just doesn't give a shit. Jodie, we know. What's the big secret? Just say it and get it over with. Everybody's doing it. If you're wanting publicity for being gay, you may have missed that bus. We're damn near normal now.

Being in the closet is so last century. Hell, the teenagers are going all LUG and BUG. Catch up, girl. You're just a plain ol' lesbian now.

Yeah, yeah...I, too remember when we used to be cool and different. But that was last year.



P.S. If you need a laugh...look here.

Lesbian Fantasies

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shane from You Go Ahead And Keep On Believing That said:

"My question for you is this...

Since it's a popular fantasy of men to wish about having sex with 2 lesbians (or at least two women) what is the popular fantasy for real lesbians?"

Hi Shane,
I can only speak for myself, but I like role-playing. You know, Sexy Girl Plumber and Horny Housewife, The Professor and Ginger and the old "Is The HandyGirl Here Already? I'm Still In My Nightgown!" So, we kinda make those fantasies come true.

I have some bondage fantasies, but I'm not that crazy about playing them out. I keep those in my head. I've had some S&M fantasies, but they didn't turn out so well. And occasionally, I have the man fantasy.

There, I said it.

It's only a fantasy, because honestly, I hate whiskers. HATE. THEM. Even on Patrick Dempsey and Keith Urban.

What are YOUR fantasies? Everybody, please. Not just the lesbians. What TURNS YOU ON in the depths of your brain where no one else can look?

Quiet Please

There are four of us in the room. Me, her, one white rottweiler and one black rottweiler.

I'm asleep, lying on my stomach with my arms wrapped around my pillow.

I rise up on my forearms and look to my right at the love of my life. She's still awake. Watching TV.

"Whoever is growling, grumbling or snoring needs to STOP." In my most irritated tone.

I've been rustled from dreamland. Damn them. Waking me up. They are all three looking at me.

She's stifling her laughter.

I keep looking at her as my brain comes out of the fog. The room is silent. The TV's volume is so low that I can't even hear it.

She can't control her laughter.

A smile crosses my lips as I realize what has just happened.

I snored so loud that I woke myself up.

You Don't Know

I didn't tell you everything, because well, I just didn't. I've learned that I don't have to answer every question that is asked of me nor do I have to tell every detail when I tell a story. Plus, it would have been damn long if I told all of it.

But, I will tell you this...

I was involved with some really bad people. They were setting up shop in Nashville. Down from the North East. Let your imaginations run wild. Seriously.

Now, imagine a 25 year old, extremely sheltered young woman that was CLUELESS that those people even existed, dropped into the middle of it. I started out as the main guy's housekeeper. He knew that I was smart. He groomed me. I started working for him doing office work. Eventually I helped him open three different businesses and became a management consultant.

It wasn't all bad. I learned volumes about the Futures and Stock Markets. How to handicap horses. How to start a business. I escorted him to the Rockhaven Nudist Colony in Murfreesboro, TN. There were lots of good times. That's what made it so hard. I really liked this man.

I'll tell you one more thing. That daring of God to save me. Did you wonder how that all worked out?

Kim and Suz, my buddies, forgot that I had told them that I wouldn't be around that night. When they both talked to me, they knew that I was drunk. This was rare for me. I'm just not a big drinker, plus I had asked her about diazepam, which is a sleeping pill. Kim got nervous and called the police. She convinced them to come check on me. All she had was a phone number and my name.

Kim gave the police my parent's phone number and they looked up the address. They arrived at my parents and knocked. No one came to the door. They used a battering ram to bust down two doors to get to me. They weren't even sure that I was in there.

If Kim and Suz had paid attention to the fact that I told them I wouldn't be around that night, I wouldn't be here.
If they'd just blown it off as me getting wasted, I wouldn't be here.
If the cops hadn't believed Kim, I wouldn't be here.
If the cops would have just knocked and left, I wouldn't be here.

Who saved me?

Was it Kim and Suz?
The cops?
Or was it God?

Finally: Chapter 6

"Tell me about the events that led up to you attempting suicide."

I elaborate. I tell someone for the first time. I tell him everything. About how I know too much. About how scared I am. About how I was almost pulled into an elaborate scheme that would have put me in prison, too. People around me went. They spared me. Lied. Said I knew nothing.

"I can see how you thought that suicide would be your only way out. I'm not going to prescribe any medications. I don't think you're clinically depressed. I think what was going on was entirely situational. As a matter of fact, I might consider the same thing under those circumstances."

I didn't expect such understanding from a psychiatrist. I thought maybe I had overreacted. It feels good to be understood. For someone else to validate my feelings.

I head back to my room without any drugs. It's nice to talk to someone who can't repeat anything I've said to him. It feels good to just say it all. Get it out in the open.

I spend four days going to group therapy, individual therapy and finally therapy with my parents. I tell them with my own voice that I'm a lesbian. And now they know. For sure.

I leave this place with feelings that I haven't felt in years. I feel joyful. Happy to be alive. Hopeful. Light-hearted. Happy. Loved. Understood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recently, I spoke with someone that is very down. I wrote this for her. So that she can see that there is light. You can get help. If the therapist who is supposed to be helping you right now isn't, you can find another therapist. Keep looking. Go right now. It's okay if you go through 42 different therapists as long as you find the right one that will help you. Don't worry about hurting THEIR feelings. Screw 'em. You do what's right for you.

Listen to me...there is hope. Your life can be so different in a month that it would be impossible for you to believe.

After I started writing this, someone else came up. She had been on the other side. We both thought the other couldn't understand our perspective. I hope that I've given her mine. I would love to hear her side. If she ever decides to talk or write about it. I, for one, would love to know her story.

Trust me when I say that writing this was difficult. I've never told this story in this much detail. I've told it, briefly. But never with the feelings. I've brushed it off as something that happened years ago. That I'd gotten past. And I have. It is in the past. But if bringing it up again helped either of them or another person reading it, then it was worth the tears that I've shed over the past few days as I revisted my 25 year old self.

I know that I didn't tell you everything. I can't. I don't know who reads this. And knowledge is still my power. I'm keeping my mouth shut.

In case you're wondering, not once since that time have I ever tried suicide again. It has crossed my mind. But that is a totally different place than doing it. I hope you understand. You never know when you might use what you've learned here. Keep it in the back of your mind. Somebody...somewhere might need you to help them. To show them where they can get help.

If you're feeling like suicide might be the answer. Don't do it. Get help.

Locked Away: Chapter 5

You won't tell anyone? No. No one.

I make a list of people that I want to know that I am here. She begins the list. Parents? Yes. Aunt Gladys? Yes. Anyone else? My family. Is that it? Yep. Your ex girlfriend? No. Boss? No. Friends? No.

If anyone else calls, they'll tell them that I am not here. I'm not in this hospital. I disappear. The funny thing is, that's what I have been wanting to do for a long time now. I just didn't know that there was another way besides dying.

I was brought up to care how other people felt. But right now, I don't. I only care how I feel. What I want. Right now, I want to hide and feel safe. Heal. Recover. Not care. Be dependent.

The nurse brings a bag of my things. I guess my Mother got them together for me. She's so thoughtful. Everything that I would need for a vacation is packed for me.

I'm in my sweats following down the corridors of the hospital to huge, double green doors. They are secured. We are let in. She tells me again. No one will come through these doors that is not on your list. No one.

Relief. Safety.

She also tells me that they're only locked from the inside. I can leave if I want. I am not a prisoner. I am here of my own volition.

The Psych nurse asks for my bag. She needs to check it for things that can't be on this wing. She removes my fingernail polish. Someone could try to drink it. No hairdryers. Someone could electrocute themselves. My nail file. Someone could stab themselves.

I explain that I'm feeling better. But it's not about me. It's about all of us. We're all on suicide watch. She takes damn near everything that I have. The nail file. My curling iron. I'm going to look like hell.

They ask if I want to be in a room with someone or alone. Alone, please. I'm not in the mood for conversation or company. I don't feel like making nice. I just want to be. Breathe. Not worry. Not look over my shoulder for who could be following me. Not wonder if the FBI is going to question me again.

It's late. I use the soap that comes with my bathroom and lie down. I'm tired. I've put myself through a lot. But I'm feeling better. Until I hear the screams. People rush down the corridor to her room. Someone cracks the door to check on me. I'm okay. They're helping her. She's crying now and I can hear all of it muffled. More screams come. More checking on me. They know that it's unnerving to the rest of us, so they move her somewhere more secure.

I sleep soundly for the first time in a long time. Safely locked behind the green doors of the crazy wing.

Committed: Chapter 4

There's a bathroom chair right beside me and as I open my eyes I know that I need it. Close. The Undoing mud is coming out of me. Rushing out of me. And will for the next 12 hours.

My nurse is the most angelic woman I have ever met. She's as heavenly as the ER nurse was hellish. Nothing but kindness and empathy. She looks at me and says, "You didn't mean to be here, did you?" I have no words. Just more tears as I shake my head no.

I'm in a private room in the Intensive Care Unit with my very own angel. Tubes and wires snake around me preventing me from moving without her. I look up and see the number 38 on the monitor. The number that she's keeping an eye on. I know that whatever it means, it's way too low to be good.

I spend hours coming into consciousness and going to the bathroom chair. Every time I need her, she magically appears. Helps me. Is never rushed or angry. It's as if I'm the only thing she has to do.

I haven't seen anyone I know but my angel. I don't even wonder about anyone else. The peace of this place and the drugs to calm me are doing their tricks. My number is starting to go up and I know that's a good thing.

I feel saved. Safe. For the first time in a long, long time.

Things start to clear up and the reality starts to hit me. I didn't die. How the hell am I still here? I remember that my Aunt Gladys was in the ER with me. She was going to call my parents who were out of town for the holiday with the rest of my family. That means everyone knows. They'll all think that I am one of those weak people who just want attention. Who put themselves in a situation so that everyone must be focused upon them.

They walk in and I feel like their child again. I'm her baby. Her only child. I can tell it's breaking her heart to see me like this. I see the pain and guilt in their faces. What ifs float above their heads and swirl around the room silently.

They smile through their sadness and ask me how I'm feeling. I still have no words, only tears. They can only stay a few minutes. I need my rest. Just seeing them makes me tired. The angel asks them to leave.

Later, a lady comes in. She wants to talk and asks if I feel up to it. She's evaluating me. Seeing if I know what day it is, who the president is. She says that I can choose to stay if I want to. That no one will know I am here. I will be invisible to the world. She thinks four days would be a good stay. But it's up to me. I will be admitting myself. No one's committing me. My choice.

I say yes. But not for why she thinks.

Emergency: Chapter 3

Through my hazy eyes, I see a firefighter. He's over me. Busy. Much later, I see him again. I'm in an emergency room. On a hard bed. He asks, "Boyfriend troubles?" I shake my head no as tears roll down the sides of my face. "Girlfriend?" I nod. My heart sinks a little lower as I realize that I've failed. I'm still here.

A nurse stomps in rushing around and hands me a bottle of something. Says that I must drink it. It will taste awful. But it must be done. It's charcoal to absorb what's in my stomach. What I PUT in there to get rid of me. It's like drinking mud. Undoing mud of what I've done. But I do it because she told me to. I've always tried to be good.

This is not what I wanted. The nurse thinks that I wanted attention. That I was crying out for help. I wasn't. I didn't want any more help. I didn't want attention from anyone. I just wanted a way to go. To be gone. To finally wither inward into nothingness.

She treats me as if I've personally offended her. Nothing nice comes from her in word or deed. She's made her point. I'm an inconvenience. She forces the tube down my throat to suck out the contents of my stomach. I feel the suction on the inside of me. It feels like a forced vomit. But the tube prevents the awful taste of it.

I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry. Not for what I did. But that it didn't work. I'm sorry that I'm still here and that I'm her problem.

Then I'm gone again.

Killing Me: Chapter 2

It has been a couple of years coming. Things have gotten worse and worse. It seems as though there is no way out of any of it. No light at the end of my tunnel. I have taken it and taken it and taken it until I am full of hopelessness and agony and I can't stand one more day on this planet. I don't care where I go, I just don't want to be HERE anymore. Don't want to live MY life anymore. Don't want to be ME anymore.

I have great friends in the Clinical Psy program with me and they know I'm down. We talk about it. And I let them think they help. My girlfriend, Diane doesn't know what to do besides love me. And frankly, it's not enough. I need something more. But I don't know what IT is.

I set the pills down on the kitchen table that I've eaten at since I was 7 and head to the bottom kitchen cabinet by the phone. That's where Mother hides the liquor. There is plenty there since neither of them drink much. It's mostly for friends and holidays. I find a quart mason jar of shimmery clear liquid. Welcome to the South. A quart of moonshine makes a great gift.

I remember that it's the Fourth of July. Just 15 years prior, when I was ten, I was baptized into the local Baptist church. I was saved and I'll die on the same day.

Damn, it's like jet fuel. I take the pills in three swallows and force the rest of the moonshine down. I'm drunk before I even finish the moonshine. I throw my head back to get the last drop and set the jar down, "Ok God. Let's see you get me out of this." I know it can't be done. I've taken enough moonshine to prevent me from asking for help and the pills will finish me off. Silly to even say that. But I want the last word. God surely isn't going to have it.

I sit down in the easy chair that my Mother watches TV in to let things take their course. I know she'll be sad. I'm her only child. But at the same time, other memories rush forth. Asking her to play and being refused because her "show" is on. Being whipped too hard. Desperately wanting to be understood. Always feeling like the black sheep. I close my eyes and know it will only be a moment.

The phone rings. In my drunken stupor, I answer it as it's sitting right beside me. It's Suz, an ex girlfriend. Her girlfriend is a nurse and they are my best buddies. I'd told her that I was going to be out of town this weekend, why is she calling me. And here? Why's she calling me here?

I don't even know what I'm saying. Just answering and being polite. She knows something's wrong. Shit. She gives the phone to her girlfriend, Kim. I ask if she knows what diazepam is and she does.

That's the last thing I remember.

Time: Chapter 1

After I had cooked dinner, made a blackberry cobbler and sent my girlfriend off with her best friend for the evening, it was time.

All of my life, my mother had kept the pistol in the cupboard by the back door. Behind the plastic cereal container. To the right. On the top shelf.

My hand searched. Reached back. Nope, it's gone. She must have moved it. That's what I get for going off to college. She moves the one thing I need right now.

I'm going for the quickest way possible. Finish this off. Right now. But the damn gun is gone.

Plan B.

I wonder how many sleeping pills I can find. Perfect. Daddy just had his prescription refilled and there are 30 in the bottle. Diazepam. Not as fast, but I can Marilyn it up and get the job done.

I'm 25 years old and it's the Fourth of July. To say that things aren't going my way is a phenomenal understatement. My girlfriend and I are on the verge of calling it quits. I have no clue what to do with my life after another semester in the Clinical Psychology Master's Program. And I work for some very bad people. Very bad.

I got a phone call yesterday telling me that if I talked, there wouldn't be enough room in this town for me. He knows that I know. Sean would kill him for scaring me that way, but Harry is scared. Scared that I'll talk and everyone will go away to prison. I'm scared, too. But Sean always told me, "Knowledge is power, as long as you keep your mouth shut." I plan on keeping my power.

So I won't talk. Anymore. Ever.

I'm tired of all of it. Life. Love. School. Everything. I'm just going through the motions of living. I'm existing. Doing the bare minimum to get through this time in my life. But I can't try anymore. I just don't want to.


I thought we'd take a break from all the lesbian questions. ;)

Suicide: Full Story

After I had cooked dinner, made a blackberry cobbler and sent my girlfriend off with her best friend for the evening, it was time.

All of my life, my mother had kept the pistol in the cupboard by the back door. Behind the plastic cereal container. To the right. On the top shelf.

My hand searched. Reached back. Nope, it's gone. She must have moved it. That's what I get for going off to college. She moves the one thing I need right now.

I'm going for the quickest way possible. Finish this off. Right now. But the damn gun is gone.

Plan B.

I wonder how many sleeping pills I can find. Perfect. Daddy just had his prescription refilled and there are 30 in the bottle. Diazepam. Not as fast, but I can Marilyn it up and get the job done.

I'm 25 years old and it's the Fourth of July. To say that things aren't going my way is a phenomenal understatement. My girlfriend and I are on the verge of calling it quits. I have no clue what to do with my life after another semester in the Clinical Psychology Master's Program. And I work for some very bad people. Very bad.

I got a phone call yesterday telling me that if I talked, there wouldn't be enough room in this town for me. He knows that I know. Sean would kill him for scaring me that way, but Harry is scared. Scared that I'll talk and everyone will go away to prison. I'm scared, too. But Sean always told me, "Knowledge is power, as long as you keep your mouth shut." I plan on keeping my power.

So I won't talk. Anymore. Ever.

I'm tired of all of it. Life. Love. School. Everything. I'm just going through the motions of living. I'm existing. Doing the bare minimum to get through this time in my life. But I can't try anymore. I just don't want to.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It has been a couple of years coming. Things have gotten worse and worse. It seems as though there is no way out of any of it. No light at the end of my tunnel. I have taken it and taken it and taken it until I am full of hopelessness and agony and I can't stand one more day on this planet. I don't care where I go, I just don't want to be HERE anymore. Don't want to live MY life anymore. Don't want to be ME anymore.

I have great friends in the Clinical Psy program with me and they know I'm down. We talk about it. And I let them think they help. My girlfriend, Diane doesn't know what to do besides love me. And frankly, it's not enough. I need something more. But I don't know what IT is.

I set the pills down on the kitchen table that I've eaten at since I was 7 and head to the bottom kitchen cabinet by the phone. That's where Mother hides the liquor. There is plenty there since neither of them drink much. It's mostly for friends and holidays. I find a quart mason jar of shimmery clear liquid. Welcome to the South. A quart of moonshine makes a great gift.

I remember that it's the Fourth of July. Just 15 years prior, when I was ten, I was baptized into the local Baptist church. I was saved and I'll die on the same day.

Damn, it's like jet fuel. I take the pills in three swallows and force the rest of the moonshine down. I'm drunk before I even finish the moonshine. I throw my head back to get the last drop and set the jar down, "Ok God. Let's see you get me out of this." I know it can't be done. I've taken enough moonshine to prevent me from asking for help and the pills will finish me off. Silly to even say that. But I want the last word. God surely isn't going to have it.

I sit down in the easy chair that my Mother watches TV in to let things take their course. I know she'll be sad. I'm her only child. But at the same time, other memories rush forth. Asking her to play and being refused because her "show" is on. Being whipped too hard. Desperately wanting to be understood. Always feeling like the black sheep. I close my eyes and know it will only be a moment.

The phone rings. In my drunken stupor, I answer it as it's sitting right beside me. It's Suz, an ex girlfriend. Her girlfriend is a nurse and they are my best buddies. I'd told her that I was going to be out of town this weekend, why is she calling me. And here? Why's she calling me here?

I don't even know what I'm saying. Just answering and being polite. She knows something's wrong. Shit. She gives the phone to her girlfriend, Kim. I ask if she knows what diazepam is and she does.

That's the last thing I remember.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Through my hazy eyes, I see a firefighter. He's over me. Busy. Much later, I see him again. I'm in an emergency room. On a hard bed. He asks, "Boyfriend troubles?" I shake my head no as tears roll down the sides of my face. "Girlfriend?" I nod. My heart sinks a little lower as I realize that I've failed. I'm still here.

A nurse stomps in rushing around and hands me a bottle of something. Says that I must drink it. It will taste awful. But it must be done. It's charcoal to absorb what's in my stomach. What I PUT in there to get rid of me. It's like drinking mud. Undoing mud of what I've done. But I do it because she told me to. I've always tried to be good.

This is not what I wanted. The nurse thinks that I wanted attention. That I was crying out for help. I wasn't. I didn't want any more help. I didn't want attention from anyone. I just wanted a way to go. To be gone. To finally wither inward into nothingness.

She treats me as if I've personally offended her. Nothing nice comes from her in word or deed. She's made her point. I'm an inconvenience. She forces the tube down my throat to suck out the contents of my stomach. I feel the suction on the inside of me. It feels like a forced vomit. But the tube prevents the awful taste of it.

I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry. Not for what I did. But that it didn't work. I'm sorry that I'm still here and that I'm her problem.

Then I'm gone again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There's a bathroom chair right beside me and as I open my eyes I know that I need it. Close. The Undoing mud is coming out of me. Rushing out of me. And will for the next 12 hours.

My nurse is the most angelic woman I have ever met. She's as heavenly as the ER nurse was hellish. Nothing but kindness and empathy. She looks at me and says, "You didn't mean to be here, did you?" I have no words. Just more tears as I shake my head no.

I'm in a private room in the Intensive Care Unit with my very own angel. Tubes and wires snake around me preventing me from moving without her. I look up and see the number 38 on the monitor. The number that she's keeping an eye on. I know that whatever it means, it's way too low to be good.

I spend hours coming into consciousness and going to the bathroom chair. Every time I need her, she magically appears. Helps me. Is never rushed or angry. It's as if I'm the only thing she has to do.

I haven't seen anyone I know but my angel. I don't even wonder about anyone else. The peace of this place and the drugs to calm me are doing their tricks. My number is starting to go up and I know that's a good thing.

I feel saved. Safe. For the first time in a long, long time.

Things start to clear up and the reality starts to hit me. I didn't die. How the hell am I still here? I remember that my Aunt Gladys was in the ER with me. She was going to call my parents who were out of town for the holiday with the rest of my family. That means everyone knows. They'll all think that I am one of those weak people who just want attention. Who put themselves in a situation so that everyone must be focused upon them.

They walk in and I feel like their child again. I'm her baby. Her only child. I can tell it's breaking her heart to see me like this. I see the pain and guilt in their faces. What ifs float above their heads and swirl around the room silently.

They smile through their sadness and ask me how I'm feeling. I still have no words, only tears. They can only stay a few minutes. I need my rest. Just seeing them makes me tired. The angel asks them to leave.

Later, a lady comes in. She wants to talk and asks if I feel up to it. She's evaluating me. Seeing if I know what day it is, who the president is. She says that I can choose to stay if I want to. That no one will know I am here. I will be invisible to the world. She thinks four days would be a good stay. But it's up to me. I will be admitting myself. No one's committing me. My choice.

I say yes. But not for why she thinks.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You won't tell anyone?

No. No one.

I make a list of people that I want to know that I am here. She begins the list. Parents? Yes. Aunt Gladys? Yes. Anyone else? My family. Is that it? Yep. Your ex girlfriend? No. Boss? No. Friends? No.

If anyone else calls, they'll tell them that I am not here. I'm not in this hospital. I disappear. The funny thing is, that's what I have been wanting to do for a long time now. I just didn't know that there was another way besides dying.

I was brought up to care how other people felt. But right now, I don't. I only care how I feel. What I want. Right now, I want to hide and feel safe. Heal. Recover. Not care. Be dependent.

The nurse brings a bag of my things. I guess my Mother got them together for me. She's so thoughtful. Everything that I would need for a vacation is packed for me.

I'm in my sweats following down the corridors of the hospital to huge, double green doors. They are secured. We are let in. She tells me again. No one will come through these doors that is not on your list. No one.

Relief. Safety.

She also tells me that they're only locked from the inside. I can leave if I want. I am not a prisoner. I am here of my own volition.

The Psych nurse asks for my bag. She needs to check it for things that can't be on this wing. She removes my fingernail polish. Someone could try to drink it. No hairdryers. Someone could electrocute themselves. My nail file. Someone could stab themselves.

I explain that I'm feeling better. But it's not about me. It's about all of us. We're all on suicide watch. She takes damn near everything that I have. The nail file. My curling iron. I'm going to look like hell.

They ask if I want to be in a room with someone or alone. Alone, please. I'm not in the mood for conversation or company. I don't feel like making nice. I just want to be. Breathe. Not worry. Not look over my shoulder for who could be following me. Not wonder if the FBI is going to question me again.

It's late. I use the soap that comes with my bathroom and lie down. I'm tired. I've put myself through a lot. But I'm feeling better. Until I hear the screams. People rush down the corridor to her room. Someone cracks the door to check on me. I'm okay. They're helping her. She's crying now and I can hear all of it muffled. More screams come. More checking on me. They know that it's unnerving to the rest of us, so they move her somewhere more secure.

I sleep soundly for the first time in a long time. Safely locked behind the green doors of the crazy wing.



"Tell me about the events that led up to you attempting suicide."

I elaborate. I tell someone for the first time. I tell him everything. About how I know too much. About how scared I am. About how I was almost pulled into an elaborate scheme that would have put me in prison, too. People around me went. They spared me. Lied. Said I knew nothing.

"I can see how you thought that suicide would be your only way out. I'm not going to prescribe any medications. I don't think you're clinically depressed. I think what was going on was entirely situational. As a matter of fact, I might consider the same thing under those circumstances."

I didn't expect such understanding from a psychiatrist. I thought maybe I had overreacted. It feels good to be understood. For someone else to validate my feelings.

I head back to my room without any drugs. It's nice to talk to someone who can't repeat anything I've said to him. It feels good to just say it all. Get it out in the open.

I spend four days going to group therapy, individual therapy and finally therapy with my parents. I tell them with my own voice that I'm a lesbian. And now they know. For sure.

I leave this place with feelings that I haven't felt in years. I feel joyful. Happy to be alive. Hopeful. Light-hearted. Happy. Loved. Understood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Recently, I spoke with someone that is very down. I wrote this for her. So that she can see that there is light. You can get help. If the therapist who is supposed to be helping you right now isn't, you can find another therapist. Keep looking. Go right now. It's okay if you go through 42 different therapists as long as you find the right one that will help you. Don't worry about hurting THEIR feelings. Screw 'em. You do what's right for you.

Listen to me...there is hope. Your life can be so different in a month that it would be impossible for you to believe.

After I started writing this, someone else came up. She had been on the other side. We both thought the other couldn't understand our perspective. I hope that I've given her mine. I would love to hear her side. If she ever decides to talk or write about it. I, for one, would love to know her story.

Trust me when I say that writing this was difficult. I've never told this story in this much detail. I've told it, briefly. But never with the feelings. I've brushed it off as something that happened years ago. That I'd gotten past. And I have. It is in the past. But if bringing it up again helped either of them or another person reading it, then it was worth the tears that I've shed over the past few days as I revisted my 25 year old self.

I know that I didn't tell you everything. I can't. I don't know who reads this. And knowledge is still my power. I'm keeping my mouth shut.

In case you're wondering, not once since that time have I ever tried suicide again. It has crossed my mind. But that is a totally different place than doing it. I hope you understand. You never know when you might use what you've learned here. Keep it in the back of your mind. Somebody...somewhere might need you to help them. To show them where they can get help.

If you're feeling like suicide might be the answer. Don't do it. Get help.

Fashionably Bi

Jay at Cynical Bastard said...
Seems like more and more women are claiming to be bi these days. Do you think they really are, or do you think most of them are just "fashionably bi?" Hell, do you even believe that any person really is bi or do you believe we are either straight or gay?


I think more people are more comfortable exploring their sexuality than ever before because they HEAR/SEE it on the tube. In 1997, Ellen came out becoming the first out lesbian on TV on her sitcom. Plus she kissed another woman!!!! That was the first time that I remember seeing anything like that. It was such a big deal that we had a big ol' lesbian party over it and watched it all lumped up together!

So, I don't think that they're fashionably bi. I think that they're falling in the middle of the Kinsey Scale and that society is such now that they can explore how they feel.

I think that people fall all over the scale from Totally Queer to Totally Straight. I'm pretty queer. After I had one full on girl kiss....I only went back to boys once. And it was to piss Michele off. Oh, and it really did! There's something about boys that flips out some butch girls. I guess it's a competitive thing. But I would have screwed a girl if I had had that option...you know, to piss her off. My 16 year old mind wasn't that sophisticated, mkay?

However, there are some women that do it for attention from men. I have noticed them goofing off and kissing other girls. That's just stupid.

What do the rest of you think?

What DO Lesbians Eat?

Matt-Man at Bagwine Ruminations asked...

Other than your Hoo-Ha, do you have anything good to eat at your house...I got nothin' here. Cheers!!

Why yes Matt, we do. Sunday night, my love thawed some tails. We love tail around here! She broiled them in the oven with some Cavender's Greek Seasoning. Last Spring, we went to the Panama City Beach condo and the guys at the local fish market told us to use it on our rock shrimp. FABULOUS! We figured it would also be wonderful on the lobster, and it rocked!





I smashed-roasted-and-loaded some fingerling potatoes and a whipped up a fresh green salad to go along side.

I think I kinda annoyed my love taking the pics. I have some REALLY cute ones of her...but you can't see 'em. Sorry.

There. Another question answered. More to come in no particular order.

You Asked For It

From my vast pool of readers:

Jen said..."When did you know that you were a lesbian? Was it easy for you to come to terms with it? I only ask, b/c, well, society can be a bit of a bee-yatchay. I have very close friends who are gay, most of whom were lucky enough to have their families embrace them. I find that wonderful. Some were not. I find that tragic and heartbreaking."



Well, Jen...I always knew that I was different. But I didn't know how. As a child of the 70's and 80's, the terms lesbian and gay crossed my path but once. Tracy McC called me a lezzie in 4th grade on the bus, but I doubt she knew what it was either. I certainly didn't and promptly figured it wasn't good, since she didn't like me none.

I met a girl named Michele when I was 16 at my first job. We hit it off, right off the bat. After work, she'd take me ridin' around in her Jeep Wrangler in her cut off shorts, wife beater and red bandana tied around her head. Gotta love 1981! We'd sneak into bars and drink. Then one weekend, she came to my house for a sleep over. THAT's when things changed.

While lying on my bed that night, I said, "I'm going to do something to you that you've NEVER had done before." Yes, I realize how cocky that was NOW. Thinking that I was the only lesbian that this big ol' butch girl had ever encountered. I leaned over and kissed her.

Insert fireworks here. The big ones. Like downtown on the 4th of July.

But that's not when I knew. I remember later that night asking her if she was gay. She said "No." And then she asked me if *I* was gay! Um, no. WHY would she think THAT?

My boyfriend didn't like her AT ALL. Weird, huh? He even told me so, "I don't like that butch girl, Michele that you're hanging around with." So I got rid of him...pronto. Dumbass. Plus, he dangled his participles. Funny that I remember his exact words.

That's all. We just kissed. And kissed. And kissed. For a long time. Weeks. I don't remember when the sex part came into play. But, being the hornster that I am, I doubt it was too long. We didn't have the opportunity to be together alone that often, but when we could, Motel 6...here we come. Sex for $15.95!

At first, I thought that I had just fallen in love with a woman. Really until we broke up and I didn't want to date a boy. I wanted to date another girl. That's when I knew that Michele wasn't the only girl that I wanted. I wanted LOTS of girls!

So, to answer the second part of your question, no, I didn't find it hard to come to terms with. It was just love to me. No big angst about loving a girl. It just felt right to me.

Michele and I had been "hanging out" for about 3 months when my nosey mother went through my things and found the letter that I wrote to Michele about kissing her that first time. I hadn't sent it, yet. Just put feelings to paper.

She was mortified. And I was, too.

All Out of Words

So, I'll open myself up for a good mental whippin'.

Anybody a question for me? Lesbian or otherwise? I'll answer them all. Anything you want to know. I'll promise to be honest. And as clear as I can be.

Ask away.

Yeah, I've been drinkin'. (Winking and smiling)

Candy Ass

Last year, a friend gave me a riding crop as a gift. We were at a horse tack store in Muddy Pond, TN that was run by Mennonites and she bought it for me, well us.

We got home and put it in the bedside table drawer for JUST the right time. (winks and bobs head)

The time comes. We're in the We're So Wild and Lesbian mood. Let's get the crop out and hava little fun.

She thwaps it in her hands a couple of times. Oh yeah, Baby! This is so hot! You are making me so...

THWAP!

•••GASP•••

Tears well up in my eyes. I cannot speak. I can barely breathe as I'm trying to assimilate the pain and the fact that this was sexy just seconds ago.

Me with tears in my eyes: You hit too HARD! That HURT!
Her...rolling her eyes: It's supposed to hurt...that's the whole point.
Me still trying to get my bearings: I quit.

Now we just hang it on the bedpost so people will THINK we're hot.