There's always been something about the fall that makes me feel bolder, clearer, more secure. Maybe it's the breeze of fresh air after a long and muggy summer, or maybe it's the changing colors and fall aesthetic that really vibes with me. No idea.
But last night, I had the desire to be outside. I was already feeling a little... Well. Tuesday night was spent, again, in the hospital with my mother. I didn't get home until 5:30, catching a quick nap before and after work to make up the difference. So it would be safe to say that my mind hand transcended fuzziness and moved on to that strange sharpness that comes from a deficiency of some necessity(that's what fasting is all about).
I decided to engage in one of my favorite fall sports: Hiking to the store to get hot chocolate. On a whim, I asked Alex to join me. Fall is, after all, the season we got to know each other, and there's a certain familiarity in walking and talking with him when the air is like this. So we walked, and talked. And the talking was going very well.
So well, in fact, that I invited him to sit outside with me while we ate dinner. For the first time in quite awhile, we actually talked openly and honestly. I told him about my long night at the hospital, and my anxiety getting worse, and some of the things that were going on in my life when I first met him.
And, at some point, we brought up relationships(more specifically, ours). I know now that A.) He is most certainly ok with me having other people in my life, if a bit jealous and B.) Screaming out the window "HEY! YOU GOTTA DATE?!" when the muse showed up at my house was, in fact, a "dominance display"(he said that he actually used that phrasing like what the hell). Alex also firmly believes that the muse absolutely has feelings for me which, honestly, I'm both scared and excited by.
It was good. It was nice. I think, if we keep this going, Alex and I could really become friends again. What a nice change of pace.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
Thursday, September 17, 2015
98 Days
In all the places you find love, it feels like Christmas
It is the season of the heart
A special time of caring
The ways of love made clear
It is the season of the spirit
The message if we hear it
Is 'Make it last all year'
A special time of caring
The ways of love made clear
It is the season of the spirit
The message if we hear it
Is 'Make it last all year'
It's in the giving of a gift to another
A pair of mittens that were made by your mother
It's all the ways that we show love that feel like Christmas
I love Christmas. Which, of course, everyone and their mother knows by now, but it bears restating at this point. There are only, as of today, ninety-eight days left until the big day(That's right, we're in the double digits!)
And while I usually spend my entire year looking forward to the Christmas season, I don't feel so desperate to reach it now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still eagerly counting the days, but it's not a life line. I'm not grabbing at the one thing that brings me relief from the constant barrage of crap the universe has seen fit to dish out to me. I don't feel like a thirsty man wandering the desert, working his way toward the oasis that he knows is just ninety-eight steps over that sand dune over there.
You may be asking "Why, Cass? What has changed in your life?" Well, let me tell you, friend!
He makes me feel like Christmas all the time.
He's warm, and he cares. He makes me smile. Every conversation, every new thing I learn about him, is like a gift, and I wake up every morning excited to tear off the wrapping of the next one and find out what it is.
Even if I find out that Santa isn't real and the feelings aren't mutual, the gifts are still there. The tree still sparkles with lights and tinsel alike, and my soul still celebrates.
(Plus maybe I don't know how he acts around other people but I kind of think maybe it could possibly be mutual but hey)
A pair of mittens that were made by your mother
It's all the ways that we show love that feel like Christmas
I love Christmas. Which, of course, everyone and their mother knows by now, but it bears restating at this point. There are only, as of today, ninety-eight days left until the big day(That's right, we're in the double digits!)
And while I usually spend my entire year looking forward to the Christmas season, I don't feel so desperate to reach it now. Don't get me wrong, I'm still eagerly counting the days, but it's not a life line. I'm not grabbing at the one thing that brings me relief from the constant barrage of crap the universe has seen fit to dish out to me. I don't feel like a thirsty man wandering the desert, working his way toward the oasis that he knows is just ninety-eight steps over that sand dune over there.
You may be asking "Why, Cass? What has changed in your life?" Well, let me tell you, friend!
He makes me feel like Christmas all the time.
He's warm, and he cares. He makes me smile. Every conversation, every new thing I learn about him, is like a gift, and I wake up every morning excited to tear off the wrapping of the next one and find out what it is.
Even if I find out that Santa isn't real and the feelings aren't mutual, the gifts are still there. The tree still sparkles with lights and tinsel alike, and my soul still celebrates.
(Plus maybe I don't know how he acts around other people but I kind of think maybe it could possibly be mutual but hey)
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Overwhelmed
He asked me if I was doing alright, he brought me coffee, he listened to me. He told me about his concerns. We listened to each other.
I don't know what I'm feeling right now. I've never been someone who could talk about things, and even then it takes me years to truly open up.
And yet, here is this boy, this strange and wonderful boy, that shows up at my door with coffee, and he cares.
For the first time in my life, I feel like there's someone that will take care of my heart, and I can't get over it or stop playing the afternoon over in my head. But that's what a muse does, isn't it? Captivates, inspires, makes you think of things in a different way.
I don't know how to feel, I don't know what I do feel. I'm frightened and excited all at the same time.
God help me, may he be gentle with my heart.
And yet, here is this boy, this strange and wonderful boy, that shows up at my door with coffee, and he cares.
For the first time in my life, I feel like there's someone that will take care of my heart, and I can't get over it or stop playing the afternoon over in my head. But that's what a muse does, isn't it? Captivates, inspires, makes you think of things in a different way.
I don't know how to feel, I don't know what I do feel. I'm frightened and excited all at the same time.
God help me, may he be gentle with my heart.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Heritage
There comes a point in every child's life where they begin to understand their parents and accept them as being more than just a mother or father.
I got to that point sometime a few months ago. And yesterday, I learned something: Accepting your parents as beautiful, flawed individuals also means holding them accountable for their shitty actions.
Around three in the afternoon, I stopped by my mother's house to drop off a ficus. Someone at work gave it to me, and since everything I touch dies I decided to pass it on to my mother and her magical green thumb. I wrote a little note for it that read "My name is Fenwick the Ficus! My mommy couldn't take care of me :( Please love me!" and planned to leave it at the doorstep like a cartoon baby.
When I went to ditch the plant baby, I noticed that my mother's car was running and her door was ajar. I assumed she had stopped home for something, and marveled at my slickness and great timing. What a fun surprise, I thought, giggling at my porch baby.
Of course, I assumed that sometime soon, I would be getting a phone call or text message asking me if I had, indeed, abandoned the plant. When that didn't come, I felt slightly alarmed, but not terribly so. I left Tony's house around seven that night, and swung by my mother's apartment to check on things.
Fenwick was still on the porch.
Her car was still running.
I, keeping as calm as one can, skipped into her house. Not to mince words, but I was almost entirely certain that I was going to find her on the floor. Where I actually found her was her bed, sound asleep. I shook her awake and said "Momther, your car has been running for like, four hours." To which she says, so eloquently, "Go fuggin turn it off, then!"
I begrudingly do so. Then pulls up Uncle Frank, a childhood figure from my church, asking me to go help him work the ATM. I tell my mother as much and oblige, getting to hear all the juiciest gossip from my past churchfellows(A few of the deacons had become preachers, our pastor won a big settlement from getting hit by a boat, etc.)
When he brought me back, I went back inside. Mom had managed to move to the couch, and was coughing. Just continuously coughing. I asked if she needed water, she shook her head no. I asked if she need cough syrup. Yes. Did she have any? No. Ok, well, I'll go get some.
I got some NyQuil from our local convenience store, and rushed it back to her. Of course, now she wasn't coughing. She was, however, slurring every word in the book. At this point, I wasn't sure if she was drunk(likely) or having a stroke(equally likely, given how much she drinks). I asked her a few basic questions: When is your birthday, what color is your car, who is president? She had a little trouble remembering Obama at first, but she got there. I squeezed her fingers, hand, arm, face, feet-She could feel it. Bonus points to Tony for looking up signs of stroke for me so I had a nice checklist to go by.
At this point, I started asking her how much she'd had to drink, if she was drunk when she came home, yada yada. I forced her to drink some water and eat a cookie. She didn't want to eat anything, but I was going to force some food into her one way of another. I almost wish she hadn't, so I could just shove a piece of bread into her dumb drunk smart mouth, but that wouldn't have ended well for anyone.
I got her a cheesesteak, and it seemed to help soak up some of the booze in her stomach. I tried asking her questions, but it was obvious that nothing was hitting home. She managed to get half of it down before nodding off. I roused her and put her to bed, fed her cats and gave them water, put the other half of her cheesesteak in the fridge, stole her last bottle of Lord Calvert and went on my less-than-merry way.
When I got home, I tried(for reasons that I simply cannot fathom) to relay the story to Alex and express my concerns about my own future. He responded with sarcasm about self-fulfilling prophecies and silence. I slept on the small couch in the library, which I guess is my bed now, but that's a story for another post.
I've texted my mother a few times, with no response. I'm not incredibly concerned, because I know she doesn't rise until noon when she can help it, but if I don't get an answer I'll ride over there after work. Why do I have to have a drunk for a mother? She went eleven years without it, and now her blood is mostly alcohol. Am I doomed and damned? Am I trying to repair a relationship with someone who is making that all but impossible? Biggest question-What do I do now?
I got to that point sometime a few months ago. And yesterday, I learned something: Accepting your parents as beautiful, flawed individuals also means holding them accountable for their shitty actions.
Around three in the afternoon, I stopped by my mother's house to drop off a ficus. Someone at work gave it to me, and since everything I touch dies I decided to pass it on to my mother and her magical green thumb. I wrote a little note for it that read "My name is Fenwick the Ficus! My mommy couldn't take care of me :( Please love me!" and planned to leave it at the doorstep like a cartoon baby.
When I went to ditch the plant baby, I noticed that my mother's car was running and her door was ajar. I assumed she had stopped home for something, and marveled at my slickness and great timing. What a fun surprise, I thought, giggling at my porch baby.
Of course, I assumed that sometime soon, I would be getting a phone call or text message asking me if I had, indeed, abandoned the plant. When that didn't come, I felt slightly alarmed, but not terribly so. I left Tony's house around seven that night, and swung by my mother's apartment to check on things.
Fenwick was still on the porch.
Her car was still running.
I, keeping as calm as one can, skipped into her house. Not to mince words, but I was almost entirely certain that I was going to find her on the floor. Where I actually found her was her bed, sound asleep. I shook her awake and said "Momther, your car has been running for like, four hours." To which she says, so eloquently, "Go fuggin turn it off, then!"
I begrudingly do so. Then pulls up Uncle Frank, a childhood figure from my church, asking me to go help him work the ATM. I tell my mother as much and oblige, getting to hear all the juiciest gossip from my past churchfellows(A few of the deacons had become preachers, our pastor won a big settlement from getting hit by a boat, etc.)
When he brought me back, I went back inside. Mom had managed to move to the couch, and was coughing. Just continuously coughing. I asked if she needed water, she shook her head no. I asked if she need cough syrup. Yes. Did she have any? No. Ok, well, I'll go get some.
I got some NyQuil from our local convenience store, and rushed it back to her. Of course, now she wasn't coughing. She was, however, slurring every word in the book. At this point, I wasn't sure if she was drunk(likely) or having a stroke(equally likely, given how much she drinks). I asked her a few basic questions: When is your birthday, what color is your car, who is president? She had a little trouble remembering Obama at first, but she got there. I squeezed her fingers, hand, arm, face, feet-She could feel it. Bonus points to Tony for looking up signs of stroke for me so I had a nice checklist to go by.
At this point, I started asking her how much she'd had to drink, if she was drunk when she came home, yada yada. I forced her to drink some water and eat a cookie. She didn't want to eat anything, but I was going to force some food into her one way of another. I almost wish she hadn't, so I could just shove a piece of bread into her dumb drunk smart mouth, but that wouldn't have ended well for anyone.
I got her a cheesesteak, and it seemed to help soak up some of the booze in her stomach. I tried asking her questions, but it was obvious that nothing was hitting home. She managed to get half of it down before nodding off. I roused her and put her to bed, fed her cats and gave them water, put the other half of her cheesesteak in the fridge, stole her last bottle of Lord Calvert and went on my less-than-merry way.
When I got home, I tried(for reasons that I simply cannot fathom) to relay the story to Alex and express my concerns about my own future. He responded with sarcasm about self-fulfilling prophecies and silence. I slept on the small couch in the library, which I guess is my bed now, but that's a story for another post.
I've texted my mother a few times, with no response. I'm not incredibly concerned, because I know she doesn't rise until noon when she can help it, but if I don't get an answer I'll ride over there after work. Why do I have to have a drunk for a mother? She went eleven years without it, and now her blood is mostly alcohol. Am I doomed and damned? Am I trying to repair a relationship with someone who is making that all but impossible? Biggest question-What do I do now?
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