What Am I Fighting For?

Much of the time, I am extremely happy. I recognize and truly appreciate the many great things and people in my life and I am (for the most part) content where I am. It hasn’t always been this way for me, and it didn’t come easy. At different times over the last several years, I’ve found myself struggling and fighting for my happiness.

It can make you feel resentful, and, rather bitter having to fight for what should be rightfully yours. After all, we generally come from a place of happy, don’t we? We’re bright-eyed, bubbly little children. We’re innocent, carefree and seemingly invincible. But, where does it all go wrong?

I could try and pinpoint exactly where it might have happened in my life, but it would require many pins, and even years later I’m not so sure I’m ready or willing to face down the many demons that have been in my life for so very long.

All I know is that shortly after my children were born, I went on a personal quest to be happy. Their birth brought great clarification in choices that I had made and how happy I truly wasn’t at that time. And I knew that to be a proper mother to them, and to gain peace of mine for myself, I had to do something. That “something” involved sacrifice and tears and doing things I really didn’t want to do, and it was actually chronicled here on this very blog. But I did it, and just a couple of years later, it seemed that my efforts hadn’t been for naught.

But we always recognize that old familiar feeling. It’s reappeared here over the last few years and, admittedly, I ignored it. I tried to convince myself that I was happy enough, that maybe I was simply asking for too much…but no.

I fought and I fought hard. And I did it for a reason. And this…what I’m living right now…this isn’t the reason.

While I’m still fighting, I’ve realized more and more that I’m fighting to get someone to see me for the person that I truly am, when I exposed that very person years ago, and didn’t change a thing. I’m actually changing things now to make things better, make it better, make him feel better, but I’m altering myself. If that’s the person I have to be, the person he would be happy with, then I can’t make him happy…not if I’m not.

I’ve offered him several times an alternative to being with me, but he believes that this makes me a cold-hearted bitch. I’m really not. I simply want for him what I want for us all, happiness and I’m not naïve enough to believe that I’m solely responsible for giving him this.

He blames “love” for keeping him trapped in a place where he is (apparently) miserable and I’m supposed to bear the load. I refuse to do it anymore, and I said it out loud.

I wish I wasn’t so up, down, and all over the place. I wish that you could read this and nod along and really “get” where I’m coming from. But… I don’t chronicle everything, every time or at any particular time, so this blog, like my life, can be quite confusing.

All I can say is look for change, because…it’s gonna come.

The Stuff Stories Are Made Of…

I don’t consider myself a nympho, or horn-dog, or any of the like, but I enjoy sexual intimacy with my husband.

And since we’ve “reconnected” over the past couple of months, it had been non-stop. I was amazed at the seemingly boundless energy he suddenly had and how attentive and in-tune he was. And though I am an eternal optimist, I wasn’t always that way. So, of course, I waited for the other shoe to drop.

And, at risk of jumping the gun here, I believe it may have.

During this time, he’d tried to convince me that his sudden ravenous appetite had nothing to do with his insecurities or fear of my searching elsewhere, but I knew better. There had been lapses before, dry spells even, but he vowed to not let it happen again.

I realize that we are married with children, and three days could hardly be considered a dry spell, but…it’s been three days and well, I’m a little pissy.

I’ve been out sick from work and I’m more rested than words can say, so yes, I might be a little bored and restless. He still works his crazy schedule and he’s been tired. But I still awakened this morning wondering if these three days are the start of old habits reforming. I don’t want to seem like some desperate or oversexed housewife, but I also don’t want to lay back, shrug my shoulders and let things fall by the wayside once again.

However, I’m not the “keep initiating until he complies” type. I have my pride, you know.

The other night I dreamed an idea for a story, I guess my crazy, geeky version of a “wet dream” really, and I started writing it the next day. Now, my stories are rarely inspired by my (lack of) sex life, but I wonder if doing more of the type of writing could be somewhat of a good distraction.

Sigh.

Oh well.

Say It (Out) Loud

I’m currently working on a project. I’d even go so far as to say a big project in the scheme of things and where my writing career is concerned. I’ve been mum about it and I still am for various reasons, but I think my not talking much about it has kind of kept it all from feeling “real” in my mind.

For instance, I’ve been working on “my part” of it off and on for the past month or more. , and going back and forth between two things I couldn’t decided between. I’m starting to recognize all this as that old familiar foe, procrastination, and I don’t want to be responsible for throwing up my own road block where this project is concerned. And being in the position that I’m in, no one’s going to give me a hard and fast deadline here. It’s up to me, all in my hands whether this thing comes to fruition for me, so here’s the thing:

I give myself until Sunday to finish “my part.” That way I can send it on Monday which will be halfway through the month which I think would leave good time to make our target goal.

I’ve learned I can’t depend on my muse or wait for bits of inspiration to just appear, though I am listening to a lot of Joss Stone.

“But if you drive all night…tell me what use is a night when you can’t sleep anyway…”

Just a thought.

Honestly, she picked it up to light her cigar. It was something to do to get through the ride home, the pull and puff, while he sat there silent, and staring out the window. But, she had the sudden urge to grab a corner of his crisp, white shirt, hold the lighter down, and spark the flame.

He’d be too mad to notice right away, but then he’d feel the hot tinge on his skin or inhaled the stench of burning cotton, whichever came first. And by then, he’d have no recourse but fanning, which wouldn’t get him anywhere, or screaming, and she’d only act like she didn’t hear him.

She made sure she drank all the water first, so he wouldn’t even have that, the mean bastard. He’d sear, burn slow, stink fast and she’d pull over and walk the rest of the way home. Damn the brand new car.

She shrugged, turned up Lenny Kravitz and lit her cigar. It had sounded good anyway. Almost as good as finishing the cigar, then putting it out on his bald head.

Four Poems

Wardrobes

How is yours
better
than mine…
when you
take yours
and, run…
don’t share…
or you
hide it…
or leave it
in a closet
ignored?
How is yours
more
precious
when you
wrap
yourself up in it
at night
and leave me
cold?
Why does yours
get to be
armour
and mine
gets to be
flesh
turned inside out?

-Tenille Brown, 2011

Untitled

It is not
an infant.
You don’t have to
hang around
for its sake.
Matter of fact,
you can pack
all its
cute little clothes,
bundle it up
nice, tight,
and warm
and carry it
with you
when you go.
I won’t
fight you
for custody
or
ask for visitation
or
pictures every
now and then.
I won’t even
acknowledge
I’m its mama.
I won’t
regret it
like an abortion
or wonder
“what it?”
like an adoption.
It’s not a child.
It won’t have
separation anxiety
or be fucked up
for life
behind this.
But
it will
wipe the dirt
off its coat,
find a hanger
and jump
right on
a brand new rack.

-Tenille Brown, 2011

Hostage

And I
don’t care
how big
or strong
you insist
it is.
It will
not…
It can
not…
It did
not…
hold you
against
your will

-Tenille Brown, 2011

In Inches

I want someone to give me
a ruler
So that I might
measure it.
Because…
If mine
stretches
from here to here…
and yours
stretches
from there to there
then what is
the difference?
Because
if my love
simply stretches
and has worn
over time
but yours
skips spaces
and
cuts corners,
then
might mine
be bigger?
Wider?
Truer?
Or…
you think…
the same?

-Tenille Brown, 2011