Truth. Not That!

So I took my disconsolate and melancholic self to an AA meeting and shared how I felt; 1) that my attitude sucked, 2) that I didn’t care whether I lived or died, and 3) sobriety isn’t about the elimination of difficulties.

It resonated. People shared about the tough parts of their lives in sobriety, like the deaths of their children. At the end, one of my friends gave me a cross he had crafted from an exotic wood, spalted hackberry. I was more than a little touched.

I’ve been over indulging on the guava bars, so they went to the meeting with me and were consumed by my fellow pastry fiends at the meeting,

J and I went to lunch at Cracker Barrel. Today is the sixth anniversary of her Dad’s passing. I felt good just remembering such a virtuous man. He liked Cracker Barrel and I can hear him ordering iced tea as I write this, (emphasis on the“iced” part.)

Spalted Hackberry Wood Cross

I’m just plain tired. I realize. J is beating herself up for her shortcomings as a wife. I told her to cut it out. “Wife” is not a job, in my opinion.

So I need to rest. Minimize the stimuli and rest. Then re-start the other parts of self-care. I felt profound empathy for every one who has ever felt marginalized today.

“Come unto me all ye who travail and are heavy laden and I will refresh you.” St. Matthew 11:28-30.

When Jesus said that, he didn’t put qualifiers on when he would start refreshing. He just said come, with your burdens. That was an epiphany for me in this season of The Epiphany.

Empty And Haunted

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I woke up a little before Two. The bedroom is too hot. That happens because of where the air handler and strip heat are positioned in the heat pump configuration.

But I was having sexual thoughts. Hence the feelings of emptiness and of being haunted by the past. Memories of the passion the dead ex-wife and I shared early on unsettled me. It grew to be a horrendous relationship. And I blame myself.

I will be 69 years old in twelve days. Time to move on to other things. But no. Sex, tied up as it is with human loving, doesn’t work that way. This tension of being loved, but not in the way my soul and emotions need grinds me down.

Maybe I can fall back asleep in a little bit.

The Budding Author

Well, I started my Christmas story last night. I have my characters, my plot, my various embellishments to the story, a theme. Simple enough. Now all I have to do is write it. This is where it gets hard, as I try not to overthink, overembellish, and fill the story with unnecessary details.

Guava Bars

Publix has this confection called Guave Bars, a very sweet cake with a guava paste filling. Caution: This product is highly addictive.

How addictive? Better than sex addictive.

How addictive? If you are diabetic, you would risk amputation for one of these. (Not quite, but almost.)

How addictive? Find out for yourself.

Cross Section

Post Office

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NSFW. Fantasy. 18+

For my muse in Savannah

It was a nice thick mailing envelope, perfect for this purpose. She waited patiently on line, behind the elderly woman with a parcel for Bettendorf, or so the label said. She fancied the woman was sending something to her grandchildren or even great-grandchildren. Certainly possible these days.

The woman put the parcel on the counter, answered the clerk’s questions, paid the clerk with a card of some sort.

Now it was her turn.

“Are you sending any flammable liquids?”

No.

“Firearms or ammunition?”

No.

“Drugs?”

No,

He quoted the price. “Insurance?”

No.

Was the clerk looking too intently at her? Did he notice her nipples hard and pointed beneath her tee shirt, whose graphic was that lewd Rolling Stones tongue. Pokies, the English called them, randy sods that they can be.

She paid. In cash. He took the mailer envelope.

She walked back to her car. As she walked, she felt the rub of the seam in her jeans against her, well you know, cunt.

But she did it. Obeyed Him. Mailed her panties to Him. She made sure they were nice. Date Night Panties. Smooth silk with lace on the edges, a seam down the back, defining the globes of her ass, that ass she thought was too big, but the ass He loved. She could even feel the memory of a swat He would give it, just because He could.

And she drove home. Went straight to the bedroom, took off the jeans, and that tee shirt, lay down on the bed. And masturbated.

Expectations. The Update

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I watched a video about a mobile home for sale on a lot somewhere in Alabama or Mississippi or some other el primo mobile home state. For almost an hour I tbought about buying a mobile home. An hour. Almost. It would mean I (we) would have to move out to the country, out there in an area where tornadoes go prowling for innocent trailers. Forget that. Maybe I could write lyrics for country music songs if I lived in one.

I did not swim.

I did take a nap.

I fixed my Waldorf chicken salad for J’s lunch tomorrow.

I did two loads of laundry.

So I feel better. I did stuff that needed to be done that wasn’t particularly grandiose. There is hope.

In an unrelated observation, England’s Ben Stokes is a great batsman.

Today’s Topic: Expectations

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AA at noon had “Expectations” for a topic. My whole life is about unmet expectations I place upon my marriage and, most acutely and painfully, the expectations I set for myself. There are things I say I should do and then don’t do, from praying The Rosary to swimming every day, starting that story I have in my head to doing Weight Watchers again.

Reaffirming the tapes of self-hatred I have in my head and keeping my sense of grandiosity inflated seem to be constants in my life. Self-care is hard for me, even after 25 years of sobriety. Those of us who have alcohol and addiction issues learn quickly about low self-esteem and the steps we take to hide it.

I will go swimming today.

I will take a nap.

I will not eat the cookies I bought for J.

Little affirmations. It is the best I can do most days.

Thank you all who read and like and comment on my blog. It means a lot.