What do you see?

 

What do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

Who do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

Tell me the good, the bad and the ugly.  Here I am.  No filter, no make-up.  Just me, raw and vulnerable.  Opening to you.  What will you do with this? 

 

I wonder if you see what I see. Do you only see what I want you to see?  Do you see me? ME!

 

There are so many words I want to hear, so many truths I want to hear.  The truth can be messy, hurtful, powerful.  It can open doors and it can close doors.

Who do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

What do you see when you look at me?  Can you tell me?  Will you tell me?

 

What do you see?

Ramblings

 

Please excuse me, but these are the ramblings of an old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

 

I can say those things about myself.  I am old.  I can’t say midlife anymore.  That would mean I have another 50+ years of living.  I’m fairly certain that isn’t the case.  I am fat.  Society and medicine tell me so.  Even when the people who say they love me don’t tell me the truth, I know I am fat.  Yes, I am scatterbrained.  How can’t I be?  Who isn’t these days?  A wannabe loved woman.  That is also me.  This is one of those catch 22’s and probably most of what my ramblings and deep dives will most likely lead back to.

 

Feels like so many things are just floating around “out there”.  My girl is in therapy.  At least I think she is.  She started May 18th.  It is from 8:30 AM to 3:30 PM, five days a week.  As far as I know she has gone every day.  No real way for me to check since she is over 18 and an “adult”.  The last three weekends she has basically been gone from the house starting Friday evening through late Sunday night.  I don’t like it.  She tells me she is with a friend and ends up spending the weekend.  Is she?  I don’t know.  Is she with drippy dick?  I don’t know.  Someone suggested putting a tracking device on her car.  I honestly did think about that.  But, I need to do my best to trust her until she gives me a reason not to trust her, right?  If, in the near future, I need to make a decision to kick her out of the house or cut her off, or whatever – it will be because she messed up.  I will not spy and/or trick her.  Don’t get me wrong.  I want to spy, I just feel like I can’t right now. I need to let her go and do her thing, whatever that is.  

 

A very dear friend recently lost her mother (as did my husband).  I haven’t talked to or seen my mom since Mother’s Day.  It’s such a messed-up relationship.  She won’t break down and call me, that would mean she is giving in.  And honestly, if/when I call her at this point I will be subjected to guilt.  I carry more than enough guilt around.  But, what if something happens to her and I haven’t talked to her in over a month?  The guilt would be tenfold and would stay with me forever.  I can’t understand why she doesn’t see or refuses to see that I do all I can for my family.  I work to continue to support my kids and grandkids in things they may need.  If I didn’t spend money on kids and grandkids, maybe I could stop working – at least fulltime.  She stopped working by now.  She stayed home.  I’m not 20 anymore.  I do get tired, I do have aches and pains, things aren’t always as easy as they used to be.  I would like her to understand that.  I have tried to tell her.  She says I’m just making excuses.  She actually sees her great-grandchildren, my grandchildren, more than me.  But she still plays the victim.  No one calls her, no one stops to see her, etc.  I want to be more sympathetic.  I just can’t be at this point.  As the saying goes, “too much water under the bridge”.  I shouldn’t live in the past, but the past made into this old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman.

 

I found another arthritis lump on one of the knuckles of my right middle finger.  I found one about 6 months ago on my right pointer finger.  My hands now look like my great-grandmothers did.  At least what I remember her hands looking like when I was 15 and she was 76.  I don’t like it.  My face is getting droopy.  My neck is gross and hanging, along with every other body part a woman doesn’t want to have hanging.  I feel completely unattractive and gross.  That’s the plain and simple of it.  I like one thing.  I like my eyelashes, and those are fake.

 

Do you ever tire of people saying they wouldn’t know what to they would do without you, that they couldn’t live without you?  I do.  If you feel that way about me, let me ask you a question.  What are you doing with me?  What are you doing with me in YOUR life?  Where do I fit?  Are you more afraid that I would leave and you would have to figure out that I actually did a hell of a lot for you?  Are you afraid to lose the comfort and convenience of me being around?  Is that fair?  I am a comfort and convenience for some of the most important people in my life.  At least I feel that way.  Old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman will always be here.  She always comes back, no matter what.  You don’t have to reciprocate, you don’t have to show love, you don’t have to talk to her, you don’t have to respect her.  Because the old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman isn’t worthy of more or better.  The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman is reliable, convenient, easy, a doormat for everyone to wipe their dirt on and move on.  What happens when the doormat is taken away?  What do you do with your dirt?  Think about it.  The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman wants just that.  I wannabe loved for me.  Just me.  Not because I have become a comfort and a convenience to have around.  Show me that love, tell me about that love, tell me why I should stay, don’t make me feel like a doormat or an afterthought.

 

The old, fat, scatterbrained, wannabe loved woman says, “tag, you’re it.”

Maybe

Maybe if I was younger

Maybe if I was skinnier

Maybe if I was prettier

Maybe if I was blonde

Maybe if I had big boobs

Maybe if I had thin thighs

Maybe if I had a flat stomach

Maybe if I had no cellulite

Maybe if I cleaned more

Maybe if I cooked more

Maybe if I laughed more

Maybe if I cried more

Maybe if I cared more

Maybe if I made more money

Maybe if I loved more

Maybe if I talked less

Maybe if I complained less

Maybe if I spent less

Maybe if I laughed less

Maybe if I cried less

Maybe if I loved less

Maybe if I cared less

Maybe if I changed all of me

Maybe then…

Fucked Up

Do you ever wonder if anyone really knows you?  Or do they think they know you because of what you show them, which would actually be your fault (well, my fault because I am talking about me here).

 

I don’t know why, but I feel like I need to explain myself, maybe redeem myself.  Maybe just try to make someone understand me, my choices in life, my decisions.  Just me. Here, now, today.

 

In five days it will be my 31st wedding anniversary.  31 years.  Some days it feels like 10 years, some days it feels like 110 years.  Three kids, three grandkids, way too much trauma and drama.  My wish for our 31st anniversary is……………he talks to me.  He opens his heart, his mind and he talks to me.  He talks to me about him, he talks to me about me, he talks to me about us.  He is open and honest no matter how it hurts or who it hurts.  He tells me he if he wants to stop or keep going.

 

And what can I do for him?  I can try, desperately try, to make him understand me, to know me, again.  Try to help him see that choices I have made, things I have said, things I have done, have nothing to do with him and everything to do with me.  I know, I know – everyone says that.  But it is my truth.  I want to take the pain and hurt I have caused him away.  I see it when I look in his eyes.  He doesn’t want to look into my eyes anymore.  I see that, I feel that.  The hugs are different, the kisses are different.  The feeling around “us” is different.  And I own all of it.  Things that have happened in my past have affected my present.  I don’t need everyone to understand it, just him. 

 

I am needy.  I need to feel loved, wanted, desired.  Why?  Because that is how I feel worthy.  Yes, I need attention and lots of it.  I need the random kisses, the occasional love note, a cheap bouquet of flowers for no reason.  I am constantly fighting the demons of my past, trying to convince myself that I am enough, he loves me for me, he wants me for me.  But, it doesn’t always work that way.

 

This will sound fucked up and it is. I still try to get his attention.  I know he knows it.  At least I think he knows it.  I have always been an open and flirty person.  It’s me.  There is no way he doesn’t see it when I go into my flirt mode.  I do it to make me feel worthy, it’s always been the way I am.  It’s like my built-in defense mechanism.  If I don’t feel worthy or loved, or desired or wanted – I will go into flirt mode.  I KNOW I DO THIS.  It is a huge fault of mine.  HUGE.  When he sees or feels this happening, I want him to look at me and tell me to stop.  Tell me that he loves me, he needs me, he desires me, he wants me, he is not going to leave me.  Yes, I’m a needy bitch. 

 

And I want to wrap myself around him, crawl inside him to be as close as possible.  I can’t do that, I can’t flirt, so I will eat.  I will comfort myself with food.  I know I will.  It’s just me, it’s who I am. Yes, I am fucked up.

There are no rules

I love reading.  I love reading a phrase that speaks to me.  I feel like I’m the first person to truly get what the writer was trying to make the reader see, or feel, or experience.  There is a phrase I read recently that I think about all the time.

There are no rules where you dream.

Think about that.  Each time I read it; it means something different to me.  But that’s what words are for, right?  It’s about discovery and learning and growth. It’s about thinking of something in a different way, looking at the world around you in a different way. Maybe the words make you feel a certain way about yourself, your lover, your friend, your world.

There are no rules where you dream.

I can dream about the person I want to be.  I can dream about the person I wish I was.  I can dream about the person I am meant to be.  All different, but so very similar.  

There are no rules where you dream.

I can daydream.  I do daydream.  There are no rules when I daydream.  No one knows I’m doing it.  Daydreaming of living in a different place, living in a different time, living in a different world.

There are no rules where you dream.

Sometimes, dreams take me back to times in my life I don’t want to remember.  But there are no rules.  I have to remember that – there are no rules.  There are no rules that say I have torepeat my past mistakes, re-live my past tragedies, or feel the shame and guilt of those times.  

There are no rules where you dream.

So, tell me.  If there are no rules where you dream, what will you dream?  Where will your dreams take you? 

Remember, there are no rules where you dream.