Ties That Bind

My mom is kind of a bitch. This blog is filled with the emotional turmoil I have endured, being her daughter. Last weekend, out of guilt for my dad, I offered to meet them for dinner. I have not had a lot of contact with them, as I needed some space while my own life was in transition. I had my girls with me, my youngest proudly boasting the exact same haircut as her dad. When I was her age, I wasn’t allowed to cut my hair. It grew down past my knees and I would beg my mother to chop it off.

When my mom walked in, she made a snarky remark about my daughter being a boy. My mama bear instincts wanted to knock her teeth out. But instead, I very calmly said, “She cut her hair, mom. She didn’t grow a penis. We don’t call your favorite nephew a girl, and his hair is longer than mine.”

Unfortunately for the waitress, FOX news was playing on the television in the background, so she had to listen to all of my Dad’s opinions on illegal immigrants and whatever else he was bitching about. I apologized to the waitress, and she laughed…asking if those were my parents.

Yeah. They are.

She waived me off, saying that she is used to it. She waits on them all the time. They know her by name. Sometimes, family ties can feel a lot like a noose.

My mom started to discuss the drama of their neighbors, and our long-time family friends. Apparently, the widow next door was moving out because her son who lives down the road got married and she didn’t approve. I sat quietly as my mom went on and on about how that guy is an adult and should be able to get married if he wants to. She had nothing nice to say about his mother, her sweet neighbor, who I have always liked.

I found it difficult not to point out that I too, am an adult. I too, am capable of making my own adult decisions. For example, when I quit my day job to pursue my chosen profession of massage therapy, and my mom didn’t speak to me for a month. She never bothered to ask me my plans. She just went around to the entire family, soaking up attention and talking shit about how ‘stupid’ I am to leave my desk job.

When I pointed out the fact that she was projecting her own cuntiness on to the neighbor lady, she got nasty. She demanded to know what the hell I plan to do for insurance. I told her that I got Obamacare care based on my income. She rolled her eyes at me, “oh, so I have to pay for it.” Again, I pointed out that for the past ten years, she has worked a seasonal job, collecting unemployment from the state for six months out of the year… and technically, I have paid for that. I also pointed out that my brother, the golden saint of our family, would be dead right now, had he not received state benefits for rehabilitation during his seven years of extreme opiate addiction… An addiction that most likely stemmed from the depression caused by being raised by her in the first place. And then I reminded her of how my brother and his wife went about two years with neither one working, while he got clean and she went to nursing school.

“Well, she was trying to better herself,” my mom defended my sister-in-law who has finally earned her way onto the golden pedestal of my mother’s approval… a process that took the patience of Jobe and a decade of abuse.

I snapped back at her, “How the fuck is that any different than what I am doing? I am trying to start my own business and raise two kids by myself.” I probably said more. I am sure my face was blood red from the anger that my mom seems to snake charm out of my guts. She finally ran out of ignorant responses. And after a long, awkward silence, I pointed out the lovely dragonflies on the Tiffany lamp overhead. And then she offered to give me some new shoes that she bought and didn’t like. And then she talked shit about my brother.

I didn’t feed into it. I just quietly remembered an article that I read about narcissistic mothers who pin their children against each other. My brother and I only see each other on holidays, and sometimes I feel like that is far too often.

The next day, she liked my post about my new career and even commented a very supportive stat of projected growth in the massage profession. I can’t help but to wonder why it took two months and a shit ton of drama to extract an ounce of support from her. She’s exhausting.

I’m so fucking thankful that I moved away. I’m thankful for my friends, who have become my family. I’m thankful for my awesome, inspiring daughters… who I’m proud to say are actually cuddling and watching TV together right now. I’m thankful for broken family patterns. And I am thankful that every day, I learn something new about love. Today, I learned that I deserve it. I just keep relearning that over and over.



I love being a massage therapist. I love every fucking thing about it. I love chatting with my clients who like to chat. I love the peace and quiet with my clients who don’t like to chat. I love that I get to actively participate in the very best part of someone’s day.

I love to smoke a little bit of pot and then mix my routine with some chill music. I’m getting comfortable in my routine now, and my clientele is growing. I am very good at what I do. I know this, because my clients come back. And they bring friends. My clients drive from a forty mile radius to experience my massage. I love what I do, and that shows.

Last week, I had my first male client, that I was legitimately attracted to. I’ve massaged men that I’m not interested in before… But this is the first guy that I’ve massaged, who inspired some very unholy thoughts in my mind. I was both concerned that he might be a creep, and also ashamed that I was in fact the creepy one, as I wrapped my fingers around his giant, beautiful, sausage-shaped fingers… nonchalantly searching for a wedding band, which I did not find. I have no shame.

I don’t get a lot of male clients. The retreat center, where I work, is for females only, but we’re blessed with the use of massage rooms for our personal clientele. It’s a perfect set up and I am very thankful for it.

I consciously hold back on advertising, because I don’t want random, creepy guys trying to book massages with me. A chiropractor, where I interviewed a few months ago, had to install panic buttons in all of her massage rooms. I’ve had heavy breathing men call and ask what type of massages I give. In less than one day of launching my Facebook page for my massage business, I had a private message from a stranger, asking how much a happy ending would cost. As much as I despise this fact, massage therapy has been a scapegoat for prostitution, and that reputation has been difficult to discredit. So I am much more comfortable massaging female clients. But I’m not going to turn my back on $60/hour when a legitimate man books a legitimate massage.

Last week, a very legitimate, very tall, very handsome guy booked a massage with me. I noticed his eyes immediately, they were sapphire blue.

I had actually met this man before. He had some good friends in common with my ex boyfriend. I didn’t feel like talking about any of those people though, so I introduced myself and acted as if I had never met him before. I’m not sure if he recognized me or not. I will admit, I put some makeup on and straightened my hair in preparation for this appointment. I do believe he noticed.

The massage went really well, but I kept thinking about how attractive he was. I enjoyed every minute of adventuring around every landmark of his very nice body. He smelled good. He felt good. He looked good. I would never jeopardize my career, but I would be lying if I told you that it didn’t cross my mind.

When I rolled him over, face up, he tipped his head back to look at me while I worked on his shoulders from the top of the table. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smile. He just watched me as I massaged his head, arms, and hands. It was weird to be watched, that doesn’t normally happen. I giggled nervously, not knowing what to do, whenever my eyes would check in with his. I started to get nervous as I focused intently on my task at hand. I could feel his gaze on me, and I’m certain that had I made eye contact with him, he would have made a move. I’m certain that he was waiting for any inkling that I would allow it. I tried not to make eye contact with him. I did not want to be put in the position of having to defend my career, my dream. This job is very important to me. I would never risk losing everything that I have worked for. I would never act on that attraction. I would never throw my dream away, after all the years it took for me to find it. But I sure as hell wanted to lick that guys fingers, and that was very confusing for me. He was thankfully respectful, and I was relieved that I didn’t have to have that conversation with him.

When the session was over, he tipped me well and said that he would definitely be in touch. I am definitely looking forward to it.

The Dreamer and the Realist

On March 29, 2013, I bought a house. I was really proud of that house, and it was the first time in over two years that I had felt like I was starting to stand on my feet again, after the divorce. Finally, I had provided my daughters with a decent home. Finally, I felt like a good mom again.

That night, I also met a man who for the first time, held my interest for a relationship. March 29th, that day was a game changer.
I had followed my shrinks orders to a tee, taking my time to reach out to romance again. I had absolutely no relations at all the first year, taking lots of time to love myself. Check, check, and check, I did everything I was supposed to.
So when he came along, I was ready. And it really did feel like my ship had come in. This guy was the sweetest. After one of our first dates, I remember walking him out to my front porch and making out with him before he got into his truck to go home. As we were kissing, I looked over to notice all three of my neighbors little kids’ faces pressed into the kitchen bay window glass. They were all giggling at the sight of our good bye kiss. It felt like a movie. I felt like the star in my very own romantic comedy. Like a Bridget Jones meets Carrie Bradshaw. This was the part where the broken hearts begin to heal each other.
I was so happy about this guy. I remember thinking that I would love him for who he was and pay no attention to his hideous wardrobe including the faded black shorts with socks and brown dress shoes. What in the actual fuck was he wearing? I used to have standards. I used to have rules. Owning a pair of Chuck Taylor’s was a prerequisite to get into my bed. That was a legitimate deal breaker for me. If you had no Chuck’s, you had no soul, as far as I was concerned. And there I was, falling for socks and sandals. Falling for ugly ass tee shirts and white briefs. The last guy was cute on the outside. This time I wanted cute on the inside. I was so sure that I was going to experience real and healthy love for the first time….Unconditional love, the term he threw around. He was going to teach me what it felt like to experience unconditional love. And it felt really good to know that someone wanted to love every single piece of me. And I was going to give it right back, and love the shit out of him and his horrible fashion choices.
His personality was worth it to me. He was a good listener, he was intelligent, and we just seemed to click. I watched him like a hawk , jumping at any hint of emotional abuse. But he truly seemed to be a genuinely sweet hearted guy.
Over the next couple years, we had a few issues here and there. And we worked them out, just like a healthy couple would. I’m not sure if it was his idea or mine, but we always blamed our issues on my fear of commitment. And I worked really hard to overcome that fear. I was so proud of this relationship. I really thought it was a healthy one, but compared to my marriage, healthy was an abstract idea. Anyone who didn’t bully me seemed to be a hero.
And this hero was a little broken. The first day I met him, he shared the story of how crushed he had been at the end of his marriage. He told me that he was so devastated, that he couldn’t even function and had to take heavy doses of antidepressants.  I couldn’t resist the urge to love him after that story. The codependent in me was practically salivating. His heart was in pieces and I was going to single-handedly put it back together, one sweet little broken piece at a time.
And I knew that I could take full responsibility for his heart.  It is the connection I share with someone that turns me on, so if I am in love, being faithful is easy for me.  I knew I would never hurt him.
In July of 2015, I made the decision to give up my home and move my girls thirty miles north, so that this man could be a part of our family. It was scary, leaving behind my big beautiful home to live in his tiny little house out in the middle of nowhere. But I knew in my heart, that this was the guy for me. Love had come calling, and I wouldn’t turn it down for something as materialistic as a house.
So off we went, to our new life as a blended family. My girls and I made the best of it. We literally moved into a little house on an actual prairie. We painted, we hung curtains, we planted flowers. The stars were amazing out there. The Milky Way had never been so clear. And we never missed the sight of a full moon rising on the prairie. The openness out there was something to be experienced, especially on a windy winter day.

But it was an old house, a cold house, the kind of house that never felt like a home.  And that’s how this relationship turned out.  A like that never really felt like a love.

Within weeks of moving in, I noticed that things were different. I shrugged it off as growing pains, knowing and expecting that our relationship would experience some bumps from the change. But a few months after that, things were even worse. He didn’t even resemble the guy that I had moved in for.

I tried to reconnect with him like a starving newborn angrily rooting for her father’s nipple. I couldn’t latch on. It was empty. He had no interest in feeding me, he was incapable of understanding my hunger.
Looking back, I suppose I overcompensated for the last guy. My ex husband was filled to the brim with passion. When he loved me, he loved hard and it felt good. But when he was angry, his passion pooled in his fists. He would explode with anger. He scared me. And in moving on to this next failed relationship, I chose someone with absolutely no passion. He felt safe to me. But the thing about safe sometimes, is that it lacks magic.
And I couldn’t breathe in this world without magic.

We had quit making love. He had stopped being the sweet, kind hearted guy I fell in love with. He had started being critical and cold hearted. He criticized me constantly. He criticized my kids. He criticized the way I raised my kids. He criticized my parents. He criticized the way my parents raised me.
He had managed to douse any flames of happiness that I had managed to muster up. And then he would criticize me for expecting him to contribute to my joy. And I knew what he was saying. I’m the girl who preaches that happiness is an inside job! I am the pied piper of solitude!  But when you move your whole life for someone who constantly tries to knock the sunshine out of your face, the blame has to spill over to his side too.
He stopped holding my hand in the car, and started holding his tablet. He took it everywhere. He stopped sitting by me on the couch. He stopped showing any interest in me, sexually. But he always made a point to remind me about the very active sex life he had shared with his ex wife. He stopped caring about my life at all. He dismissed the television shows I wanted to watch. He belittled my thoughts and ideas. He twisted my words. He refused to walk with me. He turned his nose up at all the bonfires I had made. He ignored my cravings for closeness.
It wasn’t easy for me to speak up about my needs. I had never had to ask for sex before. It was humiliating, having to ask him to touch me. And I swear he found joy in my crushing vulnerability.

No matter how hard I tried to get him to see our situation, to see what we could be, his eyes were stuck in his own perception.
I couldn’t understand the change in him. I felt like I had gone mad. Was this some sort of codependent neediness flaring up or my fear of commitment? Was this my fault or his? None of his behavior made sense, until his mother had mentioned one day that he had Asperger’s syndrome. I will admit that I knew nothing about this diagnosis. I thought for sure I would have recognized something like that.  He didn’t act like rain man or anything.  How could I have fallen in love with someone who had Aspergers?  I was so careful this time, about choosing someone with empathy, and I couldn’t have fucked it up any more.  I started to research anything that I could find. And I found it. All there in black and white. All of our problems were directly related to the symptoms of Asperger’s. I was his special interest when we were dating. So he really was genuinely interested in me. I could hold his attention for hours while we shared a cooler of beer on my deck. He listened intently to every word I spoke. And when I moved in, he moved his interest to the tablet, or internet games, which is common for Aspies. He was critical and unempathetic, because his brain was wired for logic and not so much emotion. There was no longer a need to make love, because he had no interest in it and  my needs never crossed his mind. When I moved into his house, I was demoted from lover to household business partner. And I understand that every relationship has that mundane side. But while I was asking, begging, and pleading for a connection; he refused to discuss anything but household chores. It felt like that was all I meant to him. That was all I meant to him.  So I stopped doing chores.  I stopped trying to connect.  And my depression had begun to swallow me whole. I had just gambled everything I had on someone who couldn’t care less about me.
We were so different and had such different expectations about the relationship. We were the dreamer and the realist, drawn together in opposition. His low vibration weighed on me like a lead blanket. And my rose colored glasses annoyed him.
I kept searching for balance, but balance was way out of reach.
Still , I wasn’t ready to give up. I fell in love with this guy.  I had moved mountains in order to be with him and I wasn’t going to give up without a fight. After all, there were quite a few Asperger’s traits that I had really admired. Aspie’s are smart, organized, and brutally honest. He was the most intelligent man that I have ever known. I consider myself pretty intelligent. When I have conversations with people, I am rarely shocked with the other party’s ideas. But my conversations with him were electric and out of this world. He would always make a comment that nobody on my level could have ever thought of. He was interesting to me. His mind was a mystery. His completely foreign ideas were fascinating. He challenged me in a good way.  He completely revolutionized my grocery shopping experience with detailed shopping lists and an app that could pinpoint every item’s location in the store. He had a charming quirkiness about him.  He did have a sweet side. And even though I saw it less often, my heart still knew it was there.  I loved him.  So I held on. I followed the advice of the experts online. I started communicating through logic rather than emotions. I was very specific in explaining my needs. But you can’t work on an issue that you refuse to acknowledge. He refused to acknowledge his diagnosis. In fact, he blamed it on me, citing that my daughters and I were probably the one’s who had Asperger’s.  I was so confused about the entire situation, I remember wondering if maybe he was right.  He made me question everything about myself.  There’s nothing scarier than trying to crawl out of the mind-fucking maze of a gas lighting relationship, and having no idea what reality is.  Everything I loved about him had been shattered.  Everything I worked so hard to love about myself was destroyed.

My grip on the relationship was fading fast when he delivered the final blow, the one red flag that really hit me hard. After I had told him my story, over and over, in pieces over the past few years, he knew that the people whom I had loved the most were the people who had hurt me the most.  He watched me choke up and tears roll down my face when I shared my story. And when he started acting the same way towards me, he explained that my abusive past is exactly why he picked me out. He said he knew I could handle him, because I had handled it all before. And that’s what it all came down to, when I chose him, I did so with the intention to heal his broken heart. And he chose me, because he liked the way mine was broken. And when I question myself, as I have over the past six months, trying to figure out whose fault this was…At least I know that my heart was in it for the right reasons.


There are so many things that I built up to be something romantic in my mind, but in reality it was just his robot-like quirks. I think that was the worst part, realizing that my entire relationship was built on a fantasy in my own damn head.  I had lived my entire life in a cloud of delusion. This guy fanned the fog away, forcing my gaze on reality. It was painful to see, like walking out of a dark theater on a bright sunny day.  It burned a little, but the experience was valuable beyond my own understanding.  I did love him.  And I did learn from him.

I have spent the past several months diligently searching for the long and winding road back to myself.  I’m still searching, but getting closer every day.
Looking back on this experience, I now understand that I needed this chapter in my life to learn things about myself that only an evolved mind could show me.

I believe that Asperger’s syndrome is simply the next stage of human evolution.  His brain is designed for the future, where sloppy emotions won’t interfere with logic and progress.  I’m not quite there.  I live in my old-school emotional mind.  I have feelings that spill out of my heart and into the world, sometimes bleeding all over the crisp white sheets of my life.  But I wouldn’t want to live any other way.  Emotions are messy.  I’m a mess.  And that’s where the magic is.