I might not write on my story tonight…maybe a blog will get me going.

I’ve been consistent for a while now, but my head is stuck. And parts of me are lost. I was explaining to Steve, and said, “I don’t know how I know, but it’s like I can tell.” And he’s all, “Maybe because it’s in your head?” *sigh* Yeah. That makes sense. And I know my schedule is off and I feel guilty and so not guilty. So not guilty. I am damn nearly living my dream, writing and working on my own terms, in a state that is about to bloom all around me. And Game of Thrones starts season five next week. Life is fucking amazing, and I refuse to feel bad that I’m happy.

But I feel bad about being so beyond the pale of society, sometimes. I’m a weird one. And that’s cool; I mean, I like me. My friends like me. Still, I feel half like I should apologize, and half like I should be making a challenge to others. Maybe it’s part of growing into real adulthood, which is when you reach 30. Or so I figure. I assume that a party will be thrown for me by all my over-30 friends, giving me the Manual to Life and explaining the punchline that will make the last 28 years and next year and a half hilarious.

I’m loving this man who is…powerful. I don’t know how else to phrase it. I don’t just mean physically (but now that you mention it, holy fuck), but he’s been through some shit. I don’t normally date those people…well, that’s not true. I don’t normally date those men. I date those women. But I’ve found it in a man. He’s the first man I’ve dated that relates to my cutting, in ways that I thought would never happen to me. He’s like witnessing the healthier transformation that was out there for my father. (If my father was just the alcoholic my family likes to claim, and not the child molesting monster he actually was.) Ian is the type of man that I want my brother to meet. He’s the type of person I want in my life. He inspires me.

This week about half my writing is geared towards RAINN, and one quarter towards the book, and only twenty-five percent going to fiction. I’m in my head too much. It’s just so quiet…I keep turning the sound off my computers and laying under a book and listening to my heart beat whisper to the words against my chest. It’s like a Courtney-free version of Mort Rainy, I guess. I keep waking up from short naps with open books and lopsided glasses. And braids. My hair is in braids so often now. I need to cut it, I guess. It’s too heavy to do anything but braids.

I’m angry. I don’t know what’s going on behind the scenes yet, but I am furious, for no good reason. It makes me nervous. I might go running and leave a note for Niki… Part of me might need this anger right now, but I don’t feel a productive reason at the moment.

I always denote anger with failure-like I must not be happy, because I’m angry. I must have let something go amiss, because I’m so mad right now. Clearly, it means I fucked something up.

Right now I’m happy. Like, in my life-I’m very happy, in fact. I haven’t messed anything up yet. I missed plans with New Nathan today, but we already rescheduled.

I wonder if it’s old anger. It does kinda suck to sit in The Land of Rape Memories (worst Land of the Lost spin-off ever) and stew about who allowed what to happen to me as a kid, and why, and how I feel, and blah blah blah. It’s important, valid, and totally matters. But I’m tired. Sometimes I hear all those voices from anti-allies, telling me it’s taking me forever and asking why I haven’t “gotten over it yet,” and I agree. Why can’t I just get the fuck over it? I’m safe now. I love my life. Can’t I just shut the fuck up already?

I think I’m annoyed at Darina. Darina would be the Queen in this fantasy, GoT-type, not-quite-fanfic, slightly-porn-based story I’m writing lately. Writing daily. And really, it’s less porn and more romance, but I feel gross about writing romance, so let’s call it porn and everyone will feel more comfortable. Well, I’ll feel more comfortable, and that will make everyone else feel better too, I’m sure.

Darina is mourning her parents, and she’s a pain in my ass. I am not relating to my male lead, because he’s all defensive of Darina, who is being a total idiot. This is the first time I’ve written a story without a plan, and that may also be the problem.

Ok, that’s not true. This is the first time I’ve written a story I didn’t plan outside of a workshop class. Way too frequently I had no idea what I was writing in those classes. And so far the plot is finding itself, and my audience is happy, but it sticks in my head. I think, “What am I writing? Why? Who cares? What’s the point? What’s my larger message?” And then writing about the way sun shines on a strawberry patch is overwhelming, when maybe before it could’ve just been pretty.

I’m going to recharge my cards for the first time since I started doing tarot. The blood moon is soon (on Ma-Ma’s birthday), and lunar eclipses have been a thing for me in Denver. Also, I met a witch recently.

I want to find deeper peace sometimes, and I remember the calm breath of God I felt at Living Hope. Then I remember the sacrifice I offered that understanding of God, and I love my cold realistic view. It may not be as soft, but my body is stronger than it’s ever been. I wear no armor; I like to move freely. The belt of truth beat me bloody, and the shield of faith tried to sever my brainstem. The sword was unfamiliar to most soldiers, who frequently fled at first blood. Some exceptions exist, and I see Annie, shining in His armor, and I know it wasn’t time wasted. But it is time past, and I’m not that girl. I might have been God’s girl, but I’m my own woman.

Tomorrow night is my date night with Matt. We don’t talk much during the week, and our dynamic is evolving. It’s odd when things get settled, and it’s less about making it work and more about lounging in the moments. Fewer moments might be a factor. And Niki is asleep in my bed right now. I get Ian again on Monday night, and my week will start again. My days are measured by whose lips I kiss upon waking. I win.

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