Taking Two Steps Back (Brad)

Brad

The closest we got was making out when I was half drunk and in his car. I’m glad that’s the farthest we ever went.

I really don’t have much to say about Brad and I almost thought why should I even mention him? I mean there’s probably five or so other guys I will never write about because they didn’t teach me any lessons, or remind me who I really am or what I don’t want. Brad did teach me in a weird way. Or more he reminded me what I didn’t want. Brad was two steps back from the direction I was going in my life.

He’s about two years younger than me.

I hope people don’t take that the wrong way. I know I continually mention the guys I’ve seen as younger and actually all of my serious relationships they were all at least two -three years younger than me. I rarely meet someone I like whose older.

But dating younger guys has taught me I can’t date someone younger than me. (No offense) but I’ve gone through plenty of guys to learn that younger doesn’t work for me anymore. Younger guys don’t have realistic goals, they are still trying to figure themselves out (I mean aren’t we all?) But at 22 it’s a different kind of figuring yourself out than 27 or older. 22 figuring self out: Should I go to that rave? What should I wear to the bar on Tuesday night? Should I take that drug? Should I work or sleep another three hours? Why can’t she like me?

So no younger guys for me, because there’s no stimulating conversation and before you get your feathers ruffled because you disagree…well maybe I am wrong. But all the guys I’ve dated who are younger than me don’t read. So in my case study I’ve concluded nothing good can come from dating younger guys.

And the sex tends to be one-sided.(More me, less me).


Back to Brad

He reminded me a bit of my ex who cheated on me. About the same height as him, same humor and the lack of caring for school. Just kind of going with the flow attitude. Brad had just gotten back from the army and was a young guy who was depressed. He tended to sit in his house and drink. Also, my friend Max was always trying to set Brad up with his friends. Brad was cute, but I don’t think he was something to write home about. His beard was always a bit messy. There’s nothing worse than a messy beard. I’ll never forget the time my friend Brianne (who almost dated him) said, “I saw Brad after the bars and he was walking and threw up and kept walking like it was nothing. There is something not right about someone who can just throw up without it affecting them. Even that drunk.”

I did kiss him one night after he dropped me off from the bars. That’s about it.

No, we didn’t have sex. A weird set of events lead to why we didn’t have sex. Around this time I had set into my emotional, trust and sex issues. Sex was the last thing I wanted to get back into. And he told Max I wasn’t the kind of girl you just sleep with. I guess he was going through a hook-up phase. I don’t know if this was a compliment from him or not.

I’m glad nothing happened between us. It would have never gone any farther than sex. And I’m sure the sex wouldn’t have been that wonderful. Because there was no heat or energy in the kissing. It wasn’t a bad kiss, but it wasn’t a great kiss.

He would have just been two steps back into my old self. I don’t mind my old self. I just don’t want to be her anymore. She was always in so much pain and slept with anyone to make the loneliness go away.

When you’re finally ready to heal, you take the band-aid off the gunshot wound, take out the bullet and stitch your skin back together and wait for it to heal.

Passing Moments

Written on Tuesday January 6, 2015

Sometimes I wish my Grandmother would pass away.

Sitting at lunch listening to a long-winded conversation my mother carried on and on about my grandmother’s care, about how her brothers won’t pitch in, how crazy my one aunt is and how she may be banished from visiting and about how my grandmother is only skin and bones now.

88 pounds to be exact.

My mother’s main of tactics last year always begins with “well I’ve had to deal with my mother, it’s been a rough year”. My grandmother has become some odd way to win an argument or a card you pull out when you don’t want to deal with the day.

I must sound like the world’s worst person and then on the other hand I must sound like countless memoirs discussing family members and aging.

My grandmother is not a nice person. She’s always been nice to us grandchildren but other than that she’s not very nice. She can be very racist and very unforgiving to her own children. Very nasty to them. From spitting out the worst of foul language one can image.I don’t think my own mother understands where this bitterness comes from. My mother doesn’t understand why she can’t just be peaceful.

My grandmother never knew who her father was. Her mother, a true diva at heart, loved money. She was married two men, both in the army and both had no idea. From what I’ve been told my great grandmother wasn’t the nicest person. Then it would be her stepfather down the road, who she would care for, a semi-pro baseball league, who would be murdered and gone from her life. My grandfather, as I’ve been told countless times was an amazing man. Sweet, caring and I don’t remember him. I was a year old when he passed away from asbestosis. I have been told he and I spent a lot of time together my first and his last year.

After my grandfather passed way my grandmother never stepped into a church, she wouldn’t even walk through a chapel.

My grandmother is very angry she’s been moved into an elder care center. Besides the main reasons, dementia, muscle degeneration and macular degeneration. The last straw was my grandmothers “boyfriend” whose been around since I was a little kid. Everyone has always hated him. He’s a dumbs who prays on multiple women and takes their money. Last year was a bit rough going through the court system to get him out of her life, to set her up in an elderly care and to deal with other crazy ass family members. causing scenes and what not.


January 8, 2015

My mother stepped into my room to tell me a nurse called suggesting my grandma be put into hospice care.

My timing is impeccable. I feel so terrible for even wishing.

“More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.”

Truman Capote

I don’t deal with death well. I tend to freeze up and lock myself in my own head. Deaths like the shade of a tree passing with the Sun’s moments. The feeling I get when someone dies is like a stone or a rock. I’m just sitting there watching everything. Nothing is in slow motion.Slow motion is so cheesy and silly. Or saying a moment seem to be fast forward. I think it’s the breathing that makes you feel like that. Your breath, your heart rate either goes fast all at once or you can barely breathe.

I saw my dog get hit by a car when I was in kindergarten

My uncle died in a terrible motorcycle accident. I will always look at Harleys differently. I remember that funnel too. I was in third grade, up north and my grandfather was holding me because the had an open viewing after the service. I saw my parents into the church looking in. I was so terrified of the thought of seeing someone in a coffin that when my grandfather passed away two years later I pretended to be sleepy in case they opened his coffin. I remember that funeral too, a military one, lots of guns shooting off and such a nice green, perfect grass graves. So many flags and so many sad families sitting down in the grass.

In high school when one of my teammates was shot in the head and then his guardian committed suicide that was…weird. I know weird isn’t the correct word, but I ‘m not sure how else to mention the passing feeling I get when I think about my teammates finding out. We were at a tournament too.

Maybe I do believe something happens after to us after we die, maybe that’s why grief to me is a different feeling. No, of course I believe I something happens to us after we die. I just don’t think the images and the countless text I’ve read about, “a heaven” could even possibly be close to what’s after this life.

No, of course, I believe something happens to us after we die. I just don’t think the images and the countless text I’ve read about, “a heaven” could even possibly be close to what’s after this life.

When I think of afterward I think of this wonderful documentary I watched a few months back. “How to Die in Oregon” I recommend it. The ending of the main woman is an example that I believe something happens to us after we die. I know this is for another time and I know everyone doesn’t agree with this docoumatry but its hard to not watch these people and their pain and hate them for wanting a choice.

So this weekend my grandmother may pass away. I’m deeply sad and I’m sure I will cry. And I won’t say like so many people say or write shitty poetry about: “I’m sad, but I’m happy knowing she lived. Yes, my grandmother lived but she was so unhappy and lonely for much of it. She was so angry.

If anything my grandmother gave me a great gift and lesson To remind myself to let go of hate and anger. To be nice and find and keep love in my life.

My grandfather was a great man and I was lucky I knew him for such a short moment in my life. I hope she gets to see him again: That’s always been my wish for my grandmother.