Tag Archives: relationshit

love and imperfection

People will always let you down.
Love is seldom forever.
The hurt will always come.

I don’t want to know one part of those closest to me.

I don’t want to see just one facet, one side of them.  I want to see the ugly parts as well.

The whole picture, that’s what I’m after.  The multi-layered biopsy of the soul.

I can’t be content to hear things like I love you and I would never hurt you anymore.  Too often these sentiments have turned out to be lies.  Maybe they weren’t intended to be lies, but time always tells the ultimate truth.

Perhaps this stems from my childhood.  From never hearing I love you out of my parents, from never feeling at ease in my own home, from living with near-constant chaos and animosity.  Or, perhaps the root of my insecurity can be traced to my failed marriage, or the many lovers who followed in quick succession that promised me the world and gave me shit, or who promised nothing and left me empty.  Maybe – probably – it’s because I just lost something precious that belonged to someone I love dearly.

But, as Kurt Vonnegut once said, we are trapped in the amber of the moment.  And in the amber of the moment, I am insecure.

I find ways into the secret places people where people think they have their privacy.  They assume that just because it’s password protected they have an almost god-given right to absolute secrecy.  So they say whatever they please, with no thought for consequences, and there I begin to piece together the less desirable truth.

I wish there was a way to become more accustomed to betrayal, but it’s like that feeling of vertigo you get when you take a step expecting solid ground and find air: it’s always unexpected; the heart always skips a beat as the body panics and tries to work out a way to minimize the impending damage.

But I don’t mean to say that I can’t see the full scale of the bad and weigh it against the good.

An ounce of goodness is worth a great deal more than an ounce of badness, and so in the end it becomes a calculation of risk.

Recently, I learned that the badness drastically outshines the goodness in one of those people who are supposed to love and care for me unconditionally.

I’ve also begun to piece together a picture of someone I want to love unconditionally.  It’s hard, though, because the initial feeling of euphoric love wants you to believe in fate and synchronicity and meaningfulness, and it’s hard to feel that blind euphoria erode into a clear-sighted but happy contentment.

In the amber of this moment, I am scared.

I know time will reveal what the amber hid from my sight.  Betrayal is almost sure to follow.

Because hurt is inevitable, people will always let you down, and love is seldom forever.

The trick is to find a balance between love and imperfection, to see things for what they are and nothing more, and move forward the best way you can figure.

And hope.  You also need hope.


1/17/12 Was A Bad Day

If I could do today over, I wouldn’t.

Here’s a life lesson for you, so mark this down and take it to heart: never, never, never mess around with a married man. Even if his wife tells him she would rather have aborted their children than be married to him, even if he starts sleeping on the couch, even if he promises that a divorce is well on its way, even if he’s already started moving his things out of the house, even if he’s talking to land lords about moving closer to work, even if he’s really good looking and a total charmer — no bueno. If there’s anything shiny on that left hand, walk away. Better yet, run away.

The thing of it is, people lie. They lie to people they care about, people they hate, people they don’t even know. They lie to themselves. Sometimes they think they’re telling the truth at the time, but in hindsight it was clearly and always a lie.

What I’m trying to say here is, nobody is ever entirely blameless. I shouldn’t have flirted. He shouldn’t have pursued me after I walked away. She shouldn’t treat her husband like a yard dog.

But, it’s whatever. We’re moving on.

I moved in with my mom yesterday. It’s a relief, really, to be around people again. Being alone too much really took its toll on my senses (obviously). My parents are chill about it so far, which is great and a huge relief. I’m back to doing dishes after dinner and holing up in a room by myself most of the day. In a way it feels something like being a teenager again, and I’m completely fine with that at this stage in my life. Maybe it sounds weird, but there’s something innately comforting about opening up the fridge or the cupboard and seeing so much food. If there’s one thing that’s always been true about my mom, it’s that she’s got enough food stored away to feed a legion.

No, you know what? We’re not moving on. We’re backing up.

Let’s get a few things straightened out, hm?

First, I left Spike because he was toxic. There’s only so much negativity, hatred, and anger I can tolerate without becoming the same. My life with him amounted to waiting for the next fight. People said, oh, you should have stuck with counseling. You should have given him a better chance. No. It takes two people to make a marriage work, but it only takes one to decide not to keep trying to breathe life into something that’s been dead for too long.

Furthermore, I love my son. I have him three days a week, and during those three days I am the best mother I can be. The other four days of the week, he’s with his father. That’s part of a divorce: going days without seeing your children. Those other four days, I am me. Completely, utterly, and irrevocably me. That’s my time to live. But on those days when I do have him, I’m a mother. Through and through. My personal life never effects my ability to love my son.

Most of all, I’m not a bad or worthless person. Sure, I make mistakes. Sometimes, especially lately, they end up being big ones. Well-intentioned big ones, sure, but good intentions or no the mess is always there. And sure, there are casualties, innocent bystanders that get caught up in the wake of my blunder. I’m not saying I’m a perfect person, and you’ll never hear me claim to be a saint. But the bad things that I’ve done don’t define who I am. How I handle the mess, what I do with the knowledge I gain from the consequences of my actions, that defines me.

I can be cold. Oh, so very cold. My heart can simply turn to ice.

I can also be hot. Very, very hot. I can make your heart melt in the palm of my hand.

I can go from hot to cold in a moment’s space. That’s a bad thing about me, the one thing about myself I don’t care for.

What do I like about myself? Plenty of things.

I like that I’m confident, I like that I’m a little cocky. I like that I can be a dude about it. I like that I don’t take shit, that I can walk away from an argument without some overblown sense of pride tripping me up as I walk.

Look, I’m 21. I’m still young. Most people my age are spending their Fridays at the bar, or running drugs, or working on degrees, or just now thinking about having a family. I got married a few months after I graduated, moved to California with the Marine Corps, had a baby when I was barely 20. I’ve had a very different walk than most people, and all I’m trying to do is iron out the wrinkles while I’m still young enough to bounce back. That’s it, and that’s all.

in which MC KatieLea spits derogatory rhymes (poorly)

It doesn’t work if you say it out loud. So don’t try.
Written in the style of broken prose left over from my ’06 poetry binge,
and to a soundtrack of masterful rhymes from Lil Wayne.

Reader discretion advised.

I’m laced
eyes are a sedative
can’t get enough of this.

I getcha high
higher and higher


heart thuddin
sternum vibratin
vision tracin

euphoric euphoria
part your lips and sing it out:

and don’t worry about him
he’s just hatin
can’t handle it
my empowerment
he’s fake shit
thought he could run my shit

well run and tell him this

miss Katie Lea’s on the prowl
and there’s no stopping it

so tell that fake bitch
to run and hide her man

oh wait
too late

already got him

too bad for her
and too bad for you
runnin your mouth like I’m a slut

yeah I heard that rumor flew
it ain’t true

sluts fuck, real women make love

and if you don’t believe that, believe this
my love life’s none of your damn business

don’t get me wrong though
I don’t waste my time on
thinkin about little boys with delusions of manhood
who hit women

that fish ain’t swimmin
that bird ain’t flyin

and I ain’t lyin
when I say I’ve got this shit on lock down
done gettin knocked around
through with the drama, sound
of little boys tearin me down
makin me frown

takin the power back
takin my smile back

the love I’m laced with is like a motha fuckin heart attack

so I’ll say it again,
one more time and loud so you can hear it
if you don’t like the sound I’m makin
learn to fear it
cause I’m not leavin
I’m not hushin

the midnight disease cannot be cured
cannot be silenced
I will be heard
no matter how absurd
or how violent

best believe it,
love it or hate,
keep comin back
you’ll get more of the same


Flash Fiction: A Brave Man’s Death


Tonight, she’s sitting naked in a dry bath tub with a glass of wine in one hand that she’s using as an ash tray for the cigarette in her other hand. She’s naked, but not in a skinny, perfectly sculpted way you want to read about. Her skin is pale and imperfect with pink blemishes on her thighs and arms. Her breasts are supple, but they droop prematurely with the wear a child puts on a woman’s body. Below, her stomach is stretch marked and a little saggy from all the weight she’s been losing since she decided that food can’t possibly taste as good as skinny feels. Her hair is a little greasy, and she’s raked it in front of her face because she likes the way her tears soak into the dirty blonde strands. Her mind is taking her to dark places with copious assistance from the pot she smoked and the wine she imbibed because it’s New Years Eve and she’s alone in a bath tub getting plastered while the world outside of the bathroom pulses with sex and hope and new beginnings. She dunks her cigarette in the half empty glass and lets it slip out of her hand over the rim of the tub where it makes a delicate shattering sound on the linoleum. She sinks down the side of the tub, curling herself into a ball around the Sharpie pen and college ruled notebook that put her in this position in the first place. Inside the notebook she’s creating something that she hates but refuses to give up on. She’s created people and settings and conflict and love and hatred and plot and form and voice, and somewhere within those pages she’s seen something of herself she hates, and loves, and resents. Her work was a lover and then a mistress and then an enemy and then a torturer and now a wild, snarling beast that creeps into the dark corners of her mind and gives them power they haven’t had in years. The darkness becomes more complete as she slips away into unconsciousness, and for a while she’s at peace in a drug and al alcohol induced, blessedly dreamless sleep.

She stirs at the sound of broken glass scratching across the floor. A hand cradles the base of her neck, gently lifting her off of the bottom of the tub. Another hand props her knees up enough to cradle her thighs in the crook of an elbow, and she’s lifted up and into a warm embrace, her writing things still clutched in her hand. Her hair falls away from her face and she feels the brush of a short beard against her forehead, the press of lips that warm her heart. He carries her into the bedroom, lays her down, covers her up, and lays her writing things aside.

“Is it finished?”
“Yes. I hate it.”
“You always hate it. I think you hate the process more than the writing.”
“Same thing. Where’s Julian?”
“Still at his friend’s house. He asked me to call him and let him know you’re okay.”
“He knows me too well.”
“He’s lived 16 years with a writer for a mother, he knows you’re a wreck toward the end.”
“That’s the last one. I’m done. This is going to kill me.”
“Probably it will kill you, because this isn’t the last one. But at least you’ll die a brave man’s death.”

She smiles and presses her palm against his cheek, closes her eyes and recalls a similar moment a life time ago in a bed with this man, both of them younger and more stupid and reckless. A time when her life was crashing down around her, disintegrating in the tumult to make the space where they laid the foundation they built their lives on. And there it was again, the synchronicity that plagued her, haunted her, motivated her as one track on a randomized playlist faded out and gave way to their old song, You and I, and she felt as if she were in two moments at once, broken but on the mend with this perfect, wonderful man. She pulls him down to lay with her and wrapped in a feeling of security that only he provided, she curled herself up next to him and fell asleep.

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