the L's

 I see my neighbor SG all the time, but mostly in passing.  I have known him since my divorce. SG has it going on.  Proper fit, works out, good engineering job, and attractive.  He has a mighty big scar from his divorce too. He was always cool to hang out with.   When he walked in the bar where I was with my friends, he got jumped by every attractive blonde barbie in the room.  He saw me and I think when he blew them off to come chat me up, some hearts broke. Poor dears, that does not happen to them everyday, but I know their plastic filled chests will recover fast.    Any whooo, SG and I established our friendship in between relationships and his apartment faced the street and our schedules allowed us to see each other often.  He works night shift, so when he came home from work, I would be on my way to work.  And so it was when we had dates and such, he would be smoking on his balcony when I came home late on his days off and invite me up.  He would cook me food if had been out drinking.  I liked him being on his balcony because I could bow out of inviting someone to my apartment by saying he was my boyfriend and it would be awkward. His presence on the balcony made me feel safe. SG is a super nice guy.

He and I were having a conversation and I asked why I still see him alone.  He said its his schedule mainly and he can meet girls anytime.  He said usually meeting women out, turns him off because he knows people who are out the hours he is awake, are there to either get laid or despreate to fall in love.  What??  FALL IN LOVE???   Really SG?? Really?   He laughed and asked would I turn either down?  That made me blush a little,  I agreed. The fab thing about going out where I grew up, is I am not bound by either of the L's I can go out casually and already know the people who are known to get laid (and I avoid them- there is danger in those waters) and I already know if I love the people I am around.  

I like SG and he was open to letting me set him up on a blind date.  From the looks of the bad bleach haired Barbies that hung on to him like monkeys on a tree, he knows how to handle crazy.  He might even fall in love, but I'll let him tell me when he finds it.

I have not found what it is that I really need.

Freedom

This is an attempt at writing  today. 3WW

Berserk; adjective: (Of a person or animal) out of control with anger or excitement; wild or frenzied; (of a device, system, or activity) operating in a wild or erratic way; fluctuating wildly.

 Duplicate; adjective: Exactly like something else, esp. through having been copied; having two corresponding or identical parts; noun: One of two or more identical things.

 Quibble: noun: A slight objection or criticism; verb: Argue or raise objections about a trivial matter.

  

FREEDOM

The hot air from the pavement took my breath away as I got out of the car.  I slide my sunglasses over my eyes and try not to see the heat gasses rising up all around.  Only two seconds out of the car and I have sweat trickling down the edges of my forehead and down my spine.  Standing still is impossible, so I begin to walk to the nearest shade.  Three years before this step into the desert, walking outside was not easy for me. I was not handicap, I was in a prison.  There were not any bars on the doors and windows, but it was very clear that my life was not my own.  Choices were out of my control.  I stayed for ten years and when the window of opportunity came, I got out.  

I still see the haunting smile of the warden.  The smile is not the even, white, straight toothed smile that everyone else sees.  I see the deformity of his adult teeth never coming in with tiny stubs of baby teeth that hung on with wide gaps in between and gums too wide for his head.  He kept a moustache to hide the deformity from the world.

After years of abuse, I stopped acknowledging pain and could not cry any more tears.  My non reaction to the warden took the enjoyment out of the abuse.  He found a new captive when he knew there was nothing left in me.  There is only so many times abuse is duplicated before the victim becomes numb to it. He let me go, but he warned me he would not be far away.  He stalked me. He made sure I did not tell anyone about the ten years of abuse I suffered. Advances in vanity and cosmetic surgery changed his life.

Those new pearly whites were like a lure to a fish.  Flashy and pretty and good enough to eat with, but deadly to prey once caught.  There was no way to warn his new captive.  The entourage he kept around him were also part of the lure.  He made friends with people she knew and without knowing, the people were all his puppets.  He told them wonderful stories about himself making his life attractive to her.  Within that circle of friends he established himself as normal, making it seemed like he blended in.   Distractions were quick and always handled with that smile, that sinister fake smile. 

I knew him before all the attractive flash.  He had no need to impress me. I saw the shell of the pathetic demon.  He did not hide his true self from me. His actions were direct when he went berserk over  insignificant things.  His rage came from something out of place, meals only minutes late to the table, clothing not neatly pressed, or even mismatched undergarments, or noises like babies crying or dogs barking, would throw him into a rage.  

In an instant, he reacted to things out of his control with violence. He never felt the cold, hard, barrel of a gun on the side of his head.  He never felt burning in his lungs and struggled for breath until he stopped breathing  or had the long, deep, thin, purple bruises around his neck from being choked.  He never was thrown to the ground and hit repeatedly until there was the loud crack of a rib or bone.  Enjoying the fear he put in me, he would laugh and flash those ridiculous teeth.  His hatred was born in him, and the uglliness inside shown in his gapped up baby tooth smile.   He would try compassion for a minute only to charm his way to get what he wanted, then in the next minute he would ridicule his victim for being weak.  I was his personal punching bag he hid away.  I was his captive. Near death is all that kept me alive.  

Freedom is an unsettling thing.  There is no protection.  The vulnerability  feels like the heat of the sun on bare skin.  It feels good to be exposed at first and welcoming to someone enclosed in darkness for a long period, but within a few hours it is almost unbearable.  I do not want to quibble over how something so valuable such as freedom can be unbearable.  Without boundaries an unhealthy person can begin to enclose themselves within other self induced prisons, like alcoholism, drug abuse, anxiety of leaving the house, or interacting with strangers.  This did not happen to me.  I have a public life.  I am an anchor on the evening news.  I am in the desert to do a story.  I know where I am going and what I have to do.  I tell other people’s horrific stories, all the while hiding one of my own.  During my captivity,the feeling of trust that you get when someone smiles, that wonderful feeling was taken away from me.  Whenever I see a set of perfect cosmetic teeth when someone speaks or smiles, I draw back a little; a smile will not ever hold me captive again.     

Block

I have writer's block.  I have tried to write and no words come.  The few words I do jot down, make me consider serious therapy.

I even tried a new muse, and as with all muse's they look shiny and bright for a short while, and they burn out like the tiny remnant of a candle. I'm grasping to gather my thoughts, but can't get a hold of them.
I hate having writer's block.