Just. Fucking. Say It.

Your sarcasm hides your insecurities; the fear that if you actually give a true compliment, that someone might read into it. So we stiff arm one another with harsh words and cruel jokes, following with “I was being sarcastic…facetious…I didn’t mean it”

No one ever means it.

Maybe it’s time someone said something they mean.

I like it black and white. Say what you mean. Don’t cover it up with passive statements, gaffs and jokes and insecure statements.

We are all afraid of getting hurt. People don’t compliment or let themselves fall in love because they are afraid of being hurt or rejected, so as a defense mechanism, we say sarcastic things. We belittle one another and that has become our culture.

So many people in this town are chickenshit.

Yup. I said it.

Chickenshit.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” they say. But that hurts.

Or “I don’t want to lose you, so I don’t want to get into anything with you” (bullshit)

Or even more so, they just don’t even bother. Instead they pull away, never willing to forget what it was like to hurt, and not wanting to remember what it felt like to be comfortable in their own skin and enjoy the touch of someone else’s.

And I am no better.

Behind my mask of sarcasm, joking manner and bold statements, I too am scared shitless to get hurt like I once was. Not in just a relationship, but in friendships as well. I joke, I make fun, I stay just far enough away so that you can’t know me so you can’t hurt me. I fear rejection as we all do. I love being social, I love to have fun, and I love getting others around me to have fun too.

But even in the most uplifting of times, there is always someone who is hurting, feeling left out or insecure, and in that moment they say harsh things, push others away and because they are hurting, hurt you in return.

In relationships and friendships there is always the possibility of being rejected; of being pushed away. So, to preempt that, we push first. Others feel they must have as many eggs in their basket as possible so that they have something to fall back on, never thinking that maybe they just need to be comfortable being alone.

I like attention. We all do. That is why we are on this thing called Facebook. My attention seeking is not one of drama or anything more than I want people to join my fun. I have fun by myself all the time and I honestly just want to share that with others. It is one thing to laugh alone, it’s another to laugh together. I love that. I love sitting on the floor with Sam, telling stories of our past lives, laughing hysterically. I love people, and maybe I want people to love me too. It’s human nature. I accept it. But the one thing I am having a hard time accepting is people’s inability to want to share that as well.

Fear is only a fear of the unknown. If you know your friends will be there no matter what, you are free to be yourself. When you know the person you are with truly loves you, you are free to trust them and be yourself. But when the insecurities of not knowing fall into the equation, that is when things tend to get awkward and painful.

Use your words.

I hate the passive aggressive behavior of people. JUST FUCKING SAY IT. Whatever it is, just say it. Waiting, contemplating, deciding and then maybe kind of saying something is what is creating all the hurt and insecurities.

If you knew that everyone was telling you exactly how they felt at all times, you would never doubt yourself or them and we would all just have an understanding and no one could be mad, because how can you be upset at someone who is being honest with you? If you’re mad, say it. If you’re concerned or hurt, say it. If you are not in love anymore, say it. Nothing is worse than knowing what someone is thinking, just for them to say something they feel will overshadow what they are thinking. Just so you don’t get hurt.

But that hurts.

I use sarcasm because I think it’s funny. But I am sure deep down I use sarcasm to ease people into what I really feel; that I like them; that I care for them, or that I am looking for an excuse to be a part of their life, and because I am too afraid to actually tell them that, I say something smartass and hope that they can read between the lines.

Not everyone is this way. Most of this is from people who are still in the raw stages of finding themselves or finding someone else. I am as guilty as the next person and no, I will not stop being sarcastic, but I will be aware of when I am using it and I will be honest with myself.

I guess in the end the issue with sarcasm and passive aggressive behavior is we really have no idea what people are thinking. Do they like me? Are they serious when they say that? It all becomes a stupid mind fuck. And frankly, after being in this town, I have had my share, and I’m pretty much over it. If you like me, just say it. If you don’t like me, just say it. I can’t possibly be upset that you’ve just told me the honest truth. And no one should say these things to be mean, but because it needs to be said. And frankly, it would make things much more simple…but sadly, probably not all that funny…

So I Thought I Could Dance...

I imagined my first night of salsa to be in a dark, crowded dance room; young hot bodies guiding one another to sensual music with bright lights swirling overhead. I expected to be surprisingly good for my first time, wooing men with my charms and wit, never mind the fact that it was my first time…no one would really notice, and in the end they would find it both charming and exciting that I was willing to try something so sensual and sultry, just for the heck of it.


My evening salsa dancing was nothing like that.


The night took place in a small dance room with light wood floors and dark tan silk drapes that hid the coatroom. It was brightly lit with florescent lights and while the mood was extremely welcoming and warm, I began to see the night was not going to be anything like I had expected.

For an hour we were instructed by a very small Philippine woman who wore a short, uncomfortably tight black dress with stiletto heels. She and her son guided us through a few basic moves before the social started.

Jennine did not warn me that salsa was going to be so humbling. I envisioned passionate moves and sensual rhythm. Instead I stood small and skinny among older gentlemen who were even more uncoordinated than me, but because they were leading me, made me feel awkward and clumsy. And shitty.

Salsa dancing wasn’t supposed to make me feel shitty.

When practice was over and the social started, the lights were slightly dimmed, and in the far corner a miniature party light shined bright colored orbs in a 5 foot radius, shining on nothing more than itself and the feet of a man who decided he was going to sit the rest of the night out, embarrassed about his inability to spin a girl or walk to a simple eight count. I was sympathetic on so many levels. I too decided that my atrocious dancing skills needed to be shelved.

Embarrassed I hid in the refreshment room, meticulously eating a small mandarin with my head down, avoiding eye contact. Salsa dancing was supposed to make me feel sexy and empowered. Instead I felt small and clumsy. Old men avoided dancing with me after a while. I apologized for missteps, my head constantly down looking at feet. "Look up and smile" they would say, but in reality I wanted to cower and cry. I just wanted to be left alone...or surrounded by young forgiving men who would hold me tight and move me meticulously and yet smoothly and effortlessly around the floor, their hips guiding mine through the air; the music moving my hips with its magical beat. Instead I felt heavy, clumsy, un-rhythmic and awkward.

After finishing my orange, I snuck to the coatroom to write my thoughts. I thought my sexuality, young spirit and tight pants would be enough to make me a good dancer. But no. That is not the case. I grew up in a Hispanic family...these moves should be inborn...but they aren't. So instead I hid out, letting the music pulse inside me as I dodged potential partners.

No one told me it was going to be like this. That I was going to suck. Ok, so maybe I'm not that bad, but really, I believed deep down I had the rhythm to move mountains, to rock worlds and to take down giants. Apparently I don't. So I stand and pick at my nails and tell suitors I am resting my feet when in reality I am resting my bruised ego. I came here to be set free, instead I feel trapped and pushed and pulled and I can feel their frustrations, even if they are laughing with me as I awkwardly and humbly struggle to find their rhythm.

Alone I am pulsing with passion and rhythm, wishing there was another me here to dance with because that me would be understanding, coaxing, smoldering and would know how to move me. Instead I dodge old men who smell like my grandfather’s medicine cabinet and continually look for excuses of why I don’t want to subject anyone to my pathetic and awkward movements. I wish I were in a dark room full of 80s music. I see now why no one goes with Jennine salsa dancing. "Its like this for everyone" she told me as I coward in the coatroom, sweat dripping off her brow as she reached into her cubby for water. I wasn't mad, I was disappointed...in myself. I wanted everyone to be drunk so that I could dance to the music alone, content in my own rhythm. I hate sharing myself with others for fear of rejection. I am content with me, and the last thing I want is someone I don't know who smells like cheap cologne looking at me as if I am a lower life form for not being able to follow their clumsy lead.

As the night progressed, a smooth dancing Asian man with light denim jeans, tight around his bulging athletic thighs, coaxed me into dancing as Jennine pushed me towards him saying into my ear, "He's a great lead, trust me" and so I went.

He led me, told me what I was doing wrong "stand up straight, don't duck" and he pushed and pulled me delicately and I felt light on my feet for the first time all night. His breath was bad, but I ignored it in hopes of feeling the rhythm of the night. And I did. If even for a small moment, I felt the rhythm, his guiding hands, and the magic of what salsa had to offer: subtle sensuality, light and classy, an ability to be guided across the floor and spun with ease and grace. And for one song I grasped the night and let it spin me and move me.

Later he danced with a girl whose rhythm and grace far surpassed mine, shaking my already delicate confidence. The Asian man came to me later and asked me to dance again. This time around I fumbled and lost the rhythm and began to feel self conscious over the fact that my moves and knowledge of this magnificent dance paled in comparison, and I got in my own way.

This second time dancing together was not as graceful or full of as much ease, but I was ok with it. I wasn't in the coatroom, avoiding offers to dance or in the corner meticulously peeling mandarins (which left a lingering smell as later I was asked if I had been eating mandarins from a fellow who danced the basic step the entire time the song played). Dancing so close to others is frightening, mostly because you think they can smell not only the mandarin, but also your fear and insecurities.

After the old white men left and I began to enjoy the night, the bongos and drums and maracas came out. I began to feel at home. Had there been an accordion at any point in the night I would have thought I was in the backyard of my grandparents house at one of our usual family get-togethers.

And then the young people showed up.

There is something to be said about being youthful. There is a spirit and a drive and an understanding that is refreshing and desirable. I am not sure at what point someone becomes old, but I never want to be there...not if it makes you clumsy and awkward and makes little girls feel bad about themselves.

So the young ones came and we danced. Kevin, a cute, short, sweet little Hispanic guy with moves and swagger and an ability to play the bongo that will make your thighs tingle, finally asked me to dance. I wanted to dance with him, not because he was cute, but because he was having fun...and I wanted to too.

I stepped on his feet and it took me a second to find out where he was leading me but in the end he said, “It doesn’t matter what we do, as long as we just go with it and have fun”. And I smiled and let go. Our dance was not as smooth as it was with me and the Asian man, but it was more fun, wild and free. I would have killed to have him lead me in Bachata...just to see what it would be like. But we never got the chance.

As the ballroom filled with the sounds of bongos, and maracas and laughter, I found myself lost in the night and enjoying more than just the music, but the culture, the love, the freedom and the comfort that the night brought. It was hard to leave, even though my feet ached and I was exhausted, but in a good way. As Jennine and I began to walk away, they began to play zumba music and before we knew it we were both joining in on the ballroom floor with the men and women, dancing to the beat, our thighs burning, our hearts racing, and both of us laughing, ending the night on something beautiful.

As Jennine and I walked to the car, we were buzzing with an electric energy, both of us grinning from ear to ear. We laughed the whole drive home and reflected on the night. When we got home and were changing in the bedroom I thanked her and apologized for letting my ego get in the way of the night. She laughed it off and knew exactly how I felt.

“Salsa isn’t easy”, she said, sitting at the edge of the bed, untying her ballroom shoes, and rubbing her bare feet before she placed them back on the floor. “You actually have to take classes to really be good at it,” she said, standing and walking out of the room in her bare feet.

I just laughed and shook my head. I guess maybe I wasn’t so bad at salsa after all...

I Just Don't Think I Will Ever Get Over You...ever.

I'll never forget the phone call...or the drive...or anything about that last day...

The soundtrack from Garden State always reminds me of sitting in my car outside my apartment in Oxnard, late at night, the smell of the sweet ocean air in the breeze, my body crumpled up against the steering wheel, bawling uncontrollably. A sob that escapes from so far deep inside that you didn’t know that you went that deep and it escapes from your lips in a blubber and you fall apart.

You just. Fucking. Fall. Apart.

7 years ago today I got a phone call that my mom had passed away. She finally let go of what she was holding on to. She finally accepted the facts and let go.

It was a Tuesday morning. 7am.

The significance of that is what is so heartbreaking.

I got a phone call in late February that I needed to come see mom. They brought her home from the hospital because she wanted to spend the rest of her days at home.

I drove up the next week.

Mom and I had talked and I told her that in the second week of March that I was going to come see her. On March 7th. But because of her progressing condition I bumped my visit up early.

I will never forget the last day I saw her. For the rest of my life, until the day I die, I will never forget what it was like to say goodbye, never really realizing that it was goodbye forever.

Mom sat in her bed in a white tank top and dark blue sweat pants. Her hair was short, gray and curly; a far cry from her once long luxurious red tresses. But even in this state, in her final days, she looked angelic. The sun came in soft and bright through the window. On the television she watched “The Mating Game” on the Game Show channel. One of her favorites. I laughed.

“Oh mom,” I said with a laugh, shaking my head. I spoke to her like she understood me. Like she wasn’t delirious from pain medication. Like it was any other day and not the last time I would ever see her on this earth.

She had scooted to the edge of the bed and I sat next to her. I looked at her as we sat shoulder to shoulder. Her skin was soft, like silk, pale and elegant, just like her. Even without makeup she was still the most beautiful person I had ever seen. Like Linda Carter. Wonder Woman.

She was my Wonder Woman.

And so I talked. She would nod and respond in whisper. The esophagus cancer had left her unable to speak, so she would whisper, or softly clap her hands together to get your attention. Her long elegant hands had grown thin, her rings jangling loosely as she clapped. A nurse came in and I left while she answered my mom’s request. When they were done I came back in to talk some more.

At one point in our conversation, or what little of it there was, we locked eyes.

I could have just about lost my shit at that point.

I wanted to crawl up in her arms like I did when I was younger. I wanted to lay my head on her tummy like I used to do so many times before while Golden Girls played on the television. We would be back in our old house on Newell street. I would listen as mom’s stomach would growl softly, our bodies moving softly and slowly to her breath as the water bed rocked us to sleep.

That damn water bed.

And now we just sat there, a knowing look on our faces, but I pretended like I didn’t see it. I pretended like this was just a bump in the road and once this was over it would be like it had always been. Long, drawn-out conversations over the phone; Tearful goodbyes; nights full of laughter; stories and stories and more stories. I would dance for her like I used to when Pretty Woman would come on the radio, or dance slowly with her to a sweet love-filled country song, the smell of Listerine on her breath; the soft smell of her clean shirt. The way she used to tickle my back or read me stories in bed. She was the epitome of a mother.

The greatest one on earth.

But there I sat with her, pretending like it would be ok. Pretending like I was going to come back. Pretending like I wasn’t dying inside.

All of a sudden mom broke the silence.

In a whisper, while softly touching her arm, as if feeling it like a sweater, she looked down at it and said, “Cashmere”. My heart stopped and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Yes, mom,” I said, tears began streaming down my face and I laughed, “Cashmere”.

That was my mother. Elegant, beautiful, smart, witty, sassy and bold. Only my mother would see herself wearing a cashmere sweater while sitting in a tank top and sweats. Only my mother would envision herself as elegant and pristine as she has always been. And so I cried, and I laughed and we sat in that moment for a long time. I don’t think she understood how much of an impact that moment had on me, but for the rest of my life, I will always remember her in that moment…in cashmere.

As I stood up to leave I turned around at the door frame and leaned against it, watching her as she looked ahead at the television.

“I’m leaving now, mom” I said, looking behind me down the hall at her husband, who was still holding the urn he had showed me a few minutes ago while the nurse was taking care of mom.

Fuck that urn.

I hated it. It was ugly and didn’t do mom justice. She needed to be in porcelain and gold and diamonds, not some brown urn that blended into the back ground. I turned back to look at mom as she looked my way. She was in the room in front of me, and her urn lingered behind me…the feeling is inexplicable.

“Do you want me to come back?” I asked, the words tasting bitter and confused as they left my lips. My heart sank. I think deep down I thought if I said it like that she would stay longer. That she would come back from this and it would be something we laughed about over tea, or tequila, or spaghetti. Anything, as long as we were laughing…and living.

She looked at me and slowly shook her head and I could hear her whisper “no”. And in a small way, that broke my heart because I wanted her to want me, but I understood. So I stood in the doorway and took it all in for a moment, then turned and left. I left her all alone. And I will never forget that feeling.

A week or so passed and I got a phone call on Saturday that mom had slipped into a coma and that she was to pass any day.

Sunday came, and she was still there. Waiting. Her husband had called and he didn’t know what she was holding on to. But she was still with us.

Monday came she still stayed. Patiently she waited. She held on for one more day. For one more day. For the day that I said I would come see her.

But I never did.

I forgot that I told mom I was going to be there that Monday, March 7th. She waited all day, and I never showed up. So, on Tuesday morning, she let go and left.

She left and I never really got to say goodbye. And that breaks my heart into a thousand pieces. She left and I wasn't there. She would have been for me.

For the rest of my life I will always remember the day of her wake. The sweet smell of spring and wet earth. The colors, the bright sun, the sounds, the feel…every damn thing as if it just happened yesterday.

So today I remember how magnificently beautiful it was when we celebrated her life. I miss her more often than not. I keep that to myself and love her quietly and cry to myself when I miss her most. She was my everything, and it took me losing her to really appreciate who we were, who she was. I will never be loved like I was loved by her, and I have learned to accept that. I guess the best I can do is love myself the way she did…though, if I am honest with myself, I don’t know if that is entirely possible…

I love you, mom. And for the rest of my life, I just don’t think I will ever get over you….ever.

Please Secure Your Mask Before Helping Those Around You...

Sometimes in order to survive, you have to be selfish.

When the plane is going down, what do you do when the air masks fall? You secure one on yourself before helping someone else because if you're helpless, you do no good to help others.

My selfishness in what I have been going through is not intended. I don't mean to grab my air mask before I put on yours, but I know that when given the right tools, I can help you later.

Last night I had another anxiety attack. It was absolutely horrible. I pretended like I didn't have an urge to throw up or scream or lose my shit. So I stood with an eerie calm which was probably bizarre to those around me, but it was all I could do not to explode on the inside.

I begged for a drink last night.

Had I been alone, I would have done it. My guy friends knew I would hate myself for giving in, so they refused to let me.

"If you're going to blow it, it's not going to be over one shot," Zach so wisely stated.

Good point.

But at that moment I would have done just about anything to stave off the nausea of my anxiety...the same anxiety that was brought on by the nausea. There is so much conflict going on inside that some days I think that my body is fighting against me. Screaming for the amber elixir that once used to make everything ok and then throwing a fit when it doesn't get it. And all I can do is wait for it to get tired and give up and leave me alone.

Sometimes it takes hours.

So back to being selfish. I had a fight with my brothers the other day. It was over something so ridiculously stupid, I don't even think it is worth mentioning, but I guess I have to.

This new job is probably the only thing keeping me going right now. Without it I have no idea what I would do. I only have one, so there is nothing to fall back on to get me through. So when I work, which is from home, I work my ass off. You can also imagine that in this job being so new, so stressful and so completely self-reliant that there was a lot of pressure on me to do good initially so that I could hopefully get to full-time. No time to talk, no time to play...so when my younger brother approached me one afternoon while I was working from my parent's house, I was short with him. And because of that, he snapped.

The Bromley men are sensitive. Yes, this is a fact. They are sweet, loving, caring and sensitive as all hell. Forgive me for being rough around the edges and a bit aggressive. This is my nature, maybe from living in cities for the past 10 years. I say what is on my mind and I do what I need to do to get shit done. If this includes holding off on pleasantries, I apologize. Unfortunately, my brothers do not understand this.

So when I got short with my younger brother, he got offended and brewed on it, later on calling me at work to tell me I hurt his feelings. I don't understand how a few seconds of time brewed into this overwhelming need for a deep discussion. I guess working for the Nuclear Fusion Professor made me a little callus, but still...get over it.

He didn't. In fact, it's gotten worse. And on that same day my older brother called for my mom and the conversation went something like,

Beau: "Hi"
Kyleen: "Hi, hold on, let me get mom"

That was it. But that too brewed into some horrible, ugly, monster. And now, according to them, I am a horrible, selfish, bitch. Yup. I have dedicated myself to becoming a better human being and in the midst of that, I am the most selfish, horrible human being you can possibly imagine. Awesome.

So here I am reaching for my mask so that I can then reach over and put a mask on them, and in the midst of it, I am completely berated, ridiculed and harassed. All for a single second of time. Funny how that works.

This journey has not been easy. All and all my life is spectacular! I have a great job, great friends, lots of love and time for the gym. For once in a very long time my life has settled and I am getting my shit together.

Finally.

In fact, some days I lay in bed and cry because of how overwhelmed and thankful I am. I recall the days I was tormented by my own thoughts and actions and how fucking hard I pushed myself to pay bills and just figure it out. There was just so much pain, so much anguish, so much stress, so much humbling, so much heartache...my soul was in disrepair and I was falling down this rabbit hole, praying to God I would just hit the fucking bottom so I could climb out.

The one good thing about hitting the bottom really hard, you actually bounce up. That's when you know you hit the ground as hard as you possibly can...when you are actually thrown back up by the momentum of your own weight slamming into the ground. You can either let the fall break you or bounce you. I used it to bounce back up as hard as I could. It hurt. Oh God it hurt something fierce. Feels like every bone in my body was broken. But whats cool about them healing is it makes me feel stronger.

I am currently trying to work on my selfishness. When you're in survival mode you forget about others at times and do all you can not to drown. For a while I went into hiding so I wouldn't take anyone down with me. It was really hard and no one really understood why, but I knew I had to do it. I just didn't want to take others down with me. It was a fight and in being so social, it was not easy.

But that was one of the times I reached for the mask. I did what I could to catch my breath so I could come back. It was hard when others were trying to take it away from me, not understanding that it was a survival technique. This whole time I have been grasping at something to save me, something to help me get the fuck out of the hell I was in.

Now the only hell is the anxiety attacks at night. They suck and they make me feel weak and sick and dizzy, but I can survive them. It's not easy, and I get desperate, but when I had someone there to keep me strong during one of my weakest points so far in this journey, that made it ok. I was scared, and I panicked and I was willing to own up to admitting I got weak, but I had someone there. And whether or not they know it, they helped me get through one more day. And right now, that is all I can ask for.

This experience makes me appreciate those who are supportive in my life more and more. So if I seem a little more loving and caring, don't be afraid. There is something about finding the love of your self that makes you want to share that love with others...so enjoy it...

Weaker Than My Weaknesses...

Fuck.

I need a drink.

Also, if it wasn't evident, I have given up on caring whether or not I cuss in this blog. It's therapeutic. I gave up drinking. Trust me, you'd curse too.

There is something to be said about giving up something that was once a comfort. It doesn't matter how much it hurt you. You don't think about that. All you think about is the fact that it staved off the things that hurt you (even if after it made things worse). Sometimes just a few minutes of peace feels completely worth anything that follows it.

But that's addiction for you.

Look, I didn't drink to the point of vomiting, or passing out in gutters or flashing cops or meter maids. I just drank to feel good. I never stumbled around downtown like an asshole pissing on myself. I just drank. And maybe drinking isn't the vice I should have given up. Maybe drinking is the vice I took up to get past some other addiction. Some other beast that still haunts me.

And now that I gave up drinking, I can see The Beast clearly. It is there every day, taunting me, fucking with my head. Tormenting me. Just enough out of reach, yet close enough to burn me. Time and time again. And even though I thought I staved off The Beast, I have not. I thought drinking was making me miserable. It wasn't. It was just a way to cope with all of the continuous heartbreak, and anguish and self hate that The Beast contributed to my life.

Now, the real test of inner strength is to get past this Beast and move on.

This Beast, this horrible putrid thing, is probably the truest form of evil. The deceiving part about evil things, is they put on a facade that they are something splendid and beautiful and your heart "sings" when it is around and until you get that fix of whatever evil it may be, you feel incomplete, frustrated, angry, and hateful. THAT is an addiction.

Addictions come in many forms: drugs, sex, alcohol, porn, computers, television, adrenaline, hoarding...ANYTHING. That's the scary part about addictions. We all think it's as simple as alcohol or drugs or sex. But that isn't the case. Sometime people even have addictions to another person. An addiction can be anything in your life that hinders the way you would live your normal life if that addiction were not there.

For a while I thought it was alcohol because when The Beast was "doing it's usual thing" to me, I would cope and drown it out with alcohol. Sometimes it would help, most times it would make it worse. I would use alcohol to sleep to tire my mind from thinking about it. I would use alcohol to deal with it and make excuses of why it was still in my life. Alcohol was my scape goat. And now that it is not there anymore, all I have is me and my own weaknesses. And nothing is worse than being weaker than your weaknesses.

So as I stood in the kitchen this evening with my roommate, she listened quietly as I tried to explain the evil that was in my life. My eyes were wide and welling with tears. My arms and hands tried to tell a story my mind couldn't wrap around. The moments I took to pause to gather myself, she stood there, in silence, trying herself to figure out a remedy. But she herself was as perplexed as I (and the many others I have told my story to) was. We stood for a moment and I looked at her, and in the most honest and heartfelt way asked,

"That is the true essence of evil, right? I mean, the truest darkest, most bizarrely tempting, slimy essence of evil."

She looked at me and said, "Yes".

And even as I write this. Even as I have been told this and said this and stood in my kitchen a millions times before and came to the same conclusion that this Beast is killing me, I still have an addiction to it. Even if it is killing me, and ruining my life and destroying my self-esteem. Even if it is the thing I truly in my heart believed was good for me, it has just become the purest form of evil. So why then does its presence in my life seem to be the only thing to give me comfort?

That's the shittiest part about addictions. Not only are they inexplicable, they can control you and make you feel weak and vulnerable without them. They can make you feel both elated and devastated. They can tear you into a million pieces and make you feel like the strongest human being ever.

They will straight up, fuck you up.

A lot of you are speculating on this Beast. A lot of you who are close to me know what I am talking about, many of you do not. There is a reason for that. I may never admit what this beast is, and I don't have to. It is my fight and my struggle for sanity and you can speculate and ponder and worry and care all you would like, but in the end it is my fight and my choice to divulge the details. I have given you a lot in this fight. I have bared my soul and stood here naked in front of all of you.

In saying that, please respect this struggle and fight for my sanity and do not ask me about this Beast. I doubt any of you would really ask, but if the thought were to cross your mind when you drunkenly stumble into me at La Salles as I stand there sober, hating life, and you ask me, I will not hesitate to punch you right in the mouth. Addictions can be funny, but not really. I can joke because I am going through it, but really, it fucking sucks. This has been the hardest fucking thing I have ever had to do and I watched my mother wither away and die of cancer. So in saying that, yes, this fucking sucks.

So, if I joke or make sarcastic remarks, just go with it. From the feedback I have gotten from a lot of you behind the scenes, I know I am not the only one who is going through or had gone through this, and for those who have been strong enough to stave off your beasts, you're my heroes. I am here now in the trenches and just trying to stay alive. Those of you who are with me in this fight, no matter what your addiction, I commend you and am right there with you.

As I embark on this emotional roller coaster, which has become a lot less fun and a lot more frightening, understand that putting this out there is not easy. But I know that in the end, after going through all of this that maybe I can save one more person from the evil thing that torments their life. And maybe we can walk away from all of this, maybe a bit bruised and torn up, but definitely stronger and wiser and a fuck ton happier with ourselves...

It's Not Pretty...

My friend Adam is in Panama right now. The things he sees and lives with are beyond anything I could understand or handle. A foreign country with a foreign language, foreign customs and foreign parasites swimming in your gut.

It's not pretty.

And though it was his choice to go out there, it doesn't make the fact that I complain about stupid shit any less stupid.

Don't cry over spilled milk when the cow is being slaughtered.

I know, what?

In other words, what you're going through is beans in comparison to the bigger issues of the world. Not that your issues in themselves are any less significant, but really, there are so many more things to be grateful for than to complain about. And really, if you look at the basis of your issues, most likely they were your initial choice, so there is no one to blame but yourself.

That being said, I have come to feel extremely grateful for many things, and in letting go of the negative, I finally came to a realization. The thing I had always wanted to do. The one thing that makes it all worth it.

(we'll get back to that in a moment...but first...)

I gave up drinking because I started drinking (just go with me on this). I realize that the things that have made my life so miserable were choices that I made. I made the choice to come home. I made the choice to make rash, irresponsible decisions. I was the one who made the choice to be miserable. No one did that to me. No one said I needed to hate myself. I was the one who made the decision that I wasn't good enough and I was the one who decided to throw myself a pity party.

So, needless to say I must apologize for my last selfish rant. Not just because I had no right to ask for anything when I myself didn't give anything, but for not giving credit where credit was due.

After I had posted my "bitter" (albeit satirical...mostly) Valentine's day blog, I headed over to a very handsome and sweet gentleman's house, the one I call The Tall Pretty One. I was told the week before not to make plans on Valentines (yes, I laughed when he said it too, cuz really, what plans?) I didn't even know it was Valentine's since what he actually requested was that I not make plans on Tuesday. Also, who makes plans on Tuesday?

Either way I said "ok".

So, all day I was kind of butt-hurt because I wasn't even getting texts from my friends after I had been asking them how their day was. I was bitter because, yes, deep down inside, I wanted to feel loved. There. I said it. Yes, cold-hearted Kyleen actually wanted some attention. Don't go tellin people.

So that night after I finished my blog I went over to The Tall Pretty One's house and when he answered the door, he had a bouquet of a dozen roses. Yup. And on the table? 2 pounds of chocolate. Yes. 2 pounds. And not just chocolate, but Truffles. Instantly I felt like an asshole. I really did not give The Tall Pretty One enough credit. And that was unfair of me.

And of course he proceeded to make me an amazing steak dinner. Yeah, I know. The guy is legit. I felt like even more of an asshole. And mostly I think I felt like such an asshole because I didn't do a damned thing for him. I honestly didn't even think about it, and that's what makes me the asshole.

Look, don't make a holiday where people are supposed to emphasize love with a lover and not expect 68% of the population to get pissy.

Needless to say, The Tall Pretty One really didn't get a quarter of what he desereved. I was so shocked and so blown away, I honestly didn't know how to react. I didn't think to do anything for anyone because I had been single for so long, I never thought to do anything for anyone else on a day like that.

Of course, as a little topper to my childish and selfish little rant, apparently my cell phone was broken and was sending texts, but not receiving them. So it wasn't until the next morning when my phone turned off and turned back on that I saw about 15 text messages from people wishing me a happy Valentines and even extending an invite out.

Yeah. I'm definitely an asshole.

So this was a little bit of a learning experience. And a bit of a wake up call. I complained for so long about not teaching and blah blah blah when really, what did I do to get there? Nothing but complain, really. So that brings me back to my main point. I finally remembered what I wanted to do. And this really isn't a surprise if you know me, but the Tall Pretty One reminded me again what I want to do in life, and that all my passion for it is still there.

I want to finish my book.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking and frankly, it doesn't matter. All I ever wanted to do was finish Kayden's Toby. It's been at least 7 years and I know I will finish it, I am just not sure when.

Maybe it's the fear that I won't perfect it. Or that later I will have wished I had done more with it. It's scary to put a lot of yourself into something you believe in, just to have to find others' approval to get it out there. I am sure there is a way I can do it, and one day, I will. This has been my dream my entire life, and I believe in it. Not just for me, but I know that in the end, it will help others. And I want to get out of my selfish ways from fear of getting hurt either emotionally or physically. Adam selflessly gave his body (including his intestines) to help others. I can't ever imagine giving my body in that way, so I will have to find another way to help, maybe by giving my mind and knowledge. Even if it's just one book. One story. One blog. One moment where I actually do something life-changing for someone else, maybe then I will finally get to that place I have always wanted to be...

and maybe not drinking for the rest of the year will be absolutely worth it...

Might Have to Sit Today Out...

Valentine’s Day single and sober….not as much fun as Valentine’s Day single and drunk.

Right about now I would be in Safeway buying my bottle of Jameson and a box of cordial cherries and a really girly movie about a chick who finds her independence just to get a guy.

But being single and sober really isn’t all that fun.

Another thing that sucks sober is just about anything else right now. Yes. I said it. I’m not upset that I am not drinking, but man, I did not realize how much it is so prevalent in my life. Some days I just want to relax and have a beer to take the edge off, you know? But just in saying that, I already feel myself leaning back to that dependency feeling. That need to escape everything and just zone out. And I am not ok with that.

I have anxiety attacks at night now. This weird nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach that just makes my body feel really weird.

Anxiety attacks are like feeling every single emotion you can possibly feel all at the same time. It’s horrible. And my usual fix for that was a shot of whiskey.

Now I just suffer through them.

And it sucks.

So here I am on Valentine’s, just as disappointed as I have always been on every Valentine’s, but now I am sober and completely aware of this.

I’m only bummed because it’s kind of like not getting a Valentine’s day card when you are in Elementary school. You see all the other kids opening up cards and chewing on chalky candied hearts, and even if you despise those, you’d really to feel included in some small way. If I didn’t know everyone else was getting love and adoration from someone else, I wouldn’t care. In fact I was TRYING to ignore it, but thanks to Facebook and Google, it was impossible to ignore.

And now I am annoyed at everyone’s need to throw in my face the things someone felt compelled to give to them. In all fairness I didn’t get anyone anything, so maybe I shouldn’t care, but more so, sometimes you just like to feel loved, you know? That feeling of someone big and strong holding you close, kissing your forehead and making you feel small and safe. It’s a nice feeling. It’s a feeling I didn’t really know I wanted until today.

Thanks Valentine’s Day for making me see the things I was missing out on. And now that I am sober, I can’t pretend today doesn’t exist. What I wouldn’t do for a bottle of Jameson and some chocolates right now…