I could fall in love at a red light

That’s what my friend Al told us in an AA meeting the other day, and I chuckled as I heard him say it because it aptly described me.

Well at least that’s how it feels when I do fall in love.   It happens so fast, so forcefully.   The way “normal” people describe it, they tell their story of how they fell in love….as if they met at some random place and over many many times get to know each other.  Seems normal yanno.

Me, I end up finding my suitor at said random place but then end up telling them my life story in under 5 minutes and then falling completely madly in love in the next 5.

Yeah, I’m so relationship material.

I have such excellent fucking boundaries don’t cha know.

Then two weeks later when the guy cold calls me at 3 am to pick him up and rescue him from some dramatic crazy situation?

You guessed it, I am right there with my fucked up cape on, driving to east overshoe in some contorted Mother Teresa-esque fashion hoping to “save” him from himself.

And this would describe the “good part” of the relationship, if it even gets off the ground.

It usually only gets worse from there….consisting of me taking verbal abuse or worse.

nuff said.


think I need drivers-ed, or maybe a total license suspension to drive on the highway of love.

SIDE BAR:  Mother Teresa is one of the greatest people who ever lived…….an awesome inspiration to me.  A real life modern day heroine.

Fairytales don’t exist

There’s no such thing as love at first sight.

maybe lust at first sight.

infatuation at first sight.

endorphin, adrenaline, oxytocin rush at first sight………

but that other bullshit that the Hallmark greeting card industry perpetuates……

just doesn’t exist.


but I bought into it at such a young age.

from the very first fairy tales I read.

Snow White being awakened by her Prince Charming’s kiss.

Rapunzel being rescued by some valiant knight on a steed at the tower.

and how can we forget Cinderella, suffering at the hands of unspeakable humiliation and abuse awaiting rescue by a wealthy, handsome Prince, who only saw her for what like five minutes at a dance? Pfffftt c’mon.


Yet I fell for it hook line and sinker, like so many other girls do.  And our culture perpetuates it with movies like Pretty Woman, the same storyline, a modern version of Cinderella.  but it’s just not reality is it.

and for those of us who come from neglect and trauma, we are just hoping that we will find that love we so desperately didn’t get in that other.

the love, attention and affection that we were denied as children.

which, is a pretty goddamn normal thing to want…..yet an impossible  expectation to have of another person.

One person can not fill such a gaping void.


how then?  how to learn to give oneself that thing.   I have no fucking clue.

People talk about finding a Higher Power, God,  to fulfil this and intellectually I get it, makes total sense.

but at the end of the day there’s just a total fucking disconnect.

I can’t speak for others, but for me? I really need a God with skin.

1970 something

Going to my elementary school, there were about thirty kids in my class.  Hell, my graduating high school class there were 562 of us.  Recess was always fun.  Our playground was pretty nice because I lived in an affluent suburb.  It had what most nice school playgrounds in suburbia do.  Plenty of swing sets, slides, see-saws. Box-ball and hop-scotch were even painted right on the hot top itself.

I became friends with Jimmy in second grade.  We were in Mrs. Drapeau’s class.  There was a few unforgettable things that happened that year.  Like the time that Henry Altenwen puked and peed his pants at the same time in the front of the class.  The time that Eric Frobert puked all over his reading book.  And the time that Mrs. Drapeau yelled at me in front of everyone for helping a classmate pronounce a word when they were struggling, during oral reading.  Asked me if I thought I should teach the class.  I remember feeling my face felt hot and I felt ashamed. I was only trying to help him, my heart was kind.  It’s amazing the influence that teachers can have in shaping children.

Jimmy and I stood next to the teacher aid at recess you see.  I didn’t get much attention at home, my life there was a living hell that no one would ever find out about.  Jimmy? well he was physically sick.  I didn’t really know with what.  His shoulders were always raised up by his chin because he struggled to breathe.  So we both had different reasons for hanging out with the teacher aid at recess while all the other kids frolicked about on a beautiful sunny day.

Me being the little chatter box, and not really grasping at age 7 that Jimmy was so sick I treated him like anyone else.  I asked him all sorts of questions since he could not run or walk around much.  Why this, why that.  He laughed at my questions.  I told a lot of stories and a lot of jokes.  I asked if he was ever going to get braces.  I asked him all kinds of crazy shit.  (I used to ask my Catholic grandmother if I was reincarnated and maybe I were a rock in another life)

Jimmy and I went to St. Mary’s Church together as well.  So I am sure that I yapped about CCD too.  I liked our time together.  Me, Jimmy, and the teacher aide.

Jimmy had been out from school for a few weeks and one morning I came into school and the Mrs. Drapeau said that Jimmy wouldn’t be coming back.  That he was in heaven.

Her words hung in the air like a garrote, choking the love in my little heart.
Jimmy as I would later learn had Cystic Fibrosis.  I spent a good deal of time in my teens doing the Stair Climb, an annual event during the early 1990’s at the Prudential Center in Boston to raise money for my favorite childhood friend that I lost to death.

Every year my dad would drive me to Boston and I would get people to sponsor me for each floor that I could walk up. I always made it to the top of it’s 52 floors. Course my legs felt like rubber when I got done. I have asthma, and  sometimes it was a struggle and I would get winded.  It would occur to me as I walked, how Jimmy struggled day after day. How winded he must have been.  That I get relief with an inhaler…. that he suffocated.  I cried as I climbed.

Since 1965, the term “65 Roses” has been used by children of all ages to describe their disease because it’s easier to pronounce.

After Jimmy’s funeral, his mother sent me a card.  It read, “Thank you Lexi for being there for my son.  You were his only friend.”  Her words gripped me and I will never forget them. To this day I never realized that all the other kids, were frolicking around, never talked to him, never stopped to get to know him.  Strange, how because of the hell I lived and the horror of what happened in my house, God brought Jimmy and I together.
2 weeks ago, I received a text from my mom which made me ecstatic! It read, “there is a new treatment for Cystic Fibrosis!”  So I ran over and googled it. Sure enough, there is.  It is a brand new FDA approved drug called  “Kalydeco.”

It reminded me of Jimmy and I smiled, then cried.  Some 35 years later, the love for my friend still lives in my heart.

~miss you Jimmy~ xoxox
…. … …

Clowns scare me

The elephants smell bad.  The food makes me sick.  The port-o- potties always lean like the tower of Pisa and I fear they are going to fucking tip and fall whilst I am inside them.

I always end up sitting on that unknown “something sticky” on those bench seats.

‘Aint it ironic though, that lately my life feels like it’s become a three-ring fucking circus.

I’ve got this recovery thing going on in the main ring.  Which includes my shrink and my 12 step peeps.

In ring number two is the old Gypsy woman Maleva, from 1941 film TheWolf Man , who seems to whisper for me to grab her pentagram necklace for protection because my qualifier, “the wolf” is always an imminent threat.       As she yammers her ever so famous line,

“even a man who is pure at heart and says his prayers at night, can become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms and the Autumn moon is  bright.” 

Stupid gypsy, he came over on Valentines day you know.  Unfortunately for me, I wasn’t wearing the necklace and he got me.

Then in a third ring there’s this new crap emerging. A new guy.  We’ll call him B.   New, but not new really. Same old pattern.  addiction, is like that, it progresses and proliferates like a cancer, if untreated.  This this time oddly, I seem to playthe role of the love-avoidant.  Part of me feels smothered by his advances, part of me intoxicated by finally attracting a truly kind and decent man somehow (this truly escapes me as I have NO self-esteem).

BUT EVERYTHING IS WRONG.  The timing is especially wrong.  I need recovery! not someone to rescue me.  I”m not a kitten stuck up a tree somewhere.  (Even if I feel like I am)  My sponsor warns me, that  a 4 attracts a 4.  That if I am still broken, I cannot possibly be attracting a “together”person, however he is presenting.  Veneer is veneer.

Sweet Jesus.  This is scaring me.

My shrink is starting to scare me.  Well not her, but what is going on inside me….She matters to me.   I really like her.   I have gone through shrinks like Grant took Richmond.   Most of them don’t know their ass from their elbow.  This one, is bright, witty, funny as hell and knows her shit.   She is the first to find a way to ground me when I start “drifting”.    That speaks volumes alone about her ability in my mind.  No one of her predecessors even was aware I was drifting.  I am afraid she will leave, maybe her husband will get a job someplace. Maybe she’ll get hit by a bus or some shit.  Yanno, crazy irrational shit goes through my mind at night.  All that transference shit that is supposed to happen is happening.  And that’s a good thing I suppose.  Then I wonder if she likes me back or whether she dreads me coming into her office.  But I actually( amazingly even) told her all this shit.

When I get close to people, or shall I say, when they get too close to my heart I tend to run.  Run from safety.  I tend to sabotage things.  Sometimes unconsciously, sometimes knowingly.   I believe my shrink may be able to help me.  At other more pessimistic times, I feel beyond her help.  Either way I’m scared to death.  She invokes some pretty strong emotions in me, that go back into my childhood.  She has power over me and she doesn’t realise it.  Or maybe she does.   Thus far, people in positions of power have mistreated me.  So the knee-jerk reaction is to run like hell as fast as I can away.

I haven’t been going to 12 step meetings as much probably for the same reason.

I am so very frightened right now.  So I have returned to what is familiar.  Those old circus clowns.  They scare me, sure they can hurt me.  But they are a swamp I know well.  I know every inch of that mother fucking swamp.   But it’s a familiar swamp.   I know how it reacts, and how to react to it.  The type of pain that lays beneath its murky waters.


To seek wellness, wholeness is to embark upon uncharted territory?  It is to walk a tightrope ten-thousand feet up over a chasm with no safety-net below…..

I could have dated Charles Manson

I was watching an old interview with Manson in prison where he was singing.  It was more rare footage.  I have to say that is charismatic, enigmatic, energetic, articulate, intelligent, creative, artistic.    He possesses just about every quality that captivates me.    There is this way he drew me in even watching him on the TV screen.  Hell, I was enjoying watching him how fucked up is that?  He is supposed to be a villain.  A devil.  Evil incarnate….

I can see how a girl of 19 could have been easy prey for him.   Not even 5 minutes into the interview I was so engaged and taken by his charm I had almost forgotten that he was responsible for the murderous rampage of the Sharon Tate and her unborn baby.   Which made me shudder.

But then I ponder….. just as sociopaths find their prey in a crowd, seeking out the weak ones.   Maybe the inverse is true.   Maybe prey seemingly seek out their predators……albeit unconsciously.

It would explain so much of why I’ve ended up with the men I’ve been with in my lifetime.

Nothing happens by chance, especially not when it happens repeatedly.  That is why it is called a pattern of behavior.  It is no coincidence.

Time for a good ole book burning on the village green

Shel Silverstein is hands down one of the best children’s authors ever.  I own just about everything he’s done in print; hard copy.   And I’m fairly certain that when my Zebra cake goggles wear off, the book will remain one of my favorites.

In light of the recent events of my train wreck love-life, I recently re-read “The Giving Tree.”



Can I just say that I HATE that tree.

“Take my apples.”

oh just plunder all my assets and leave me naked in the forest, boy.

“…you may cut off  my branches….”

Take a chain saw to my limbs and watch the sap run down as I bleed in agony….

“Cut down my trunk….”

Fuck me up the ass and leave me nothing but a stump for you to take a shit on…….

but I’ll still love you boy.



and then the tree waits and waits like a good empathic tree with no self-esteem does, and pretends to be happy being a used up stump.  and in the end ” the boy” comes back when he’s done using all the whores and he’s old and can’t fuck anymore and sits on the stump of a tree he’s used.   because she has no self-worth and wasted the best years of her life pining (no pun intended) for a boy who never loved her back.

The classic un-requited love story?

No, the classic romanticized portrayal of an EMPATH MARTYR-COMPLEX FUCKED UP WOMAN, POSING AS A TREE

I dunno, this post could be coming from a distorted perceptual lens  generated by marked glucose spikes from me consuming  a rather largish bag of M&M’s for lunch today and a couple of King-sized candy bars for dinner last night mixed with a Little Debbie Zebra cake.  It’s the Zebra Cake goggles isn’t it.  Or is it just another angry rant about getting conned by a sexual sadist narcissist with sociopathic tendencies.  Or do I just have an axe to grind with trees.

Someone either pass me the kerosene and a match or give me another fucking Zebra cake already.

The doll scares me

Went to my shrink this morning and she told me that it’s my inner child that ‘s the addict.  The broken fractured part of me that’s looking out love.  I nodded in agreement.  She told me she thought one way I could nurture this part of myself and not looking for my ex Dominant who floats in and out of my life between his red-light district activities to fill that need, would be to buy a baby-doll.

My jaw dropped.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

“Well, she went on, “if you could get yourself a baby-doll and hold the doll everyday, and give it some love and nurturing, maybe this would be a concrete way you could nurture the younger part of you….the younger piece of Lexi,  the little girl living in you, who still seeking out love so desperately.  I had another client and this worked for well her.”

I stared blankly trying to hide the huge amount of uncomfortable-ness it was triggering.  I do that…. I don’t know why I still reflexively hide my emotions.

“Oh, like hold this dolly in lieu of……. sitting on Daddy’s lap while he slides his cock up my ass and tells me I’m his good girl, ya mean?”




“I……I……..I……..I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

Of course privately I was thinking FUCK NO!  There’s no fucking way I’m sitting in a room with a fucking doll and calling it my name, and hugging it and shit, that’s totally FUBAR!  That reminds me too much of some Kumbaya,  artsy-craftsy-let’s-all-hold-hands-and-fart-rainbows therapy group they force you to attend, when I got locked up after my first suicide attempt.  It didn’t help then and it’s probably not going to help now.

I have only gone to about ten 12 step meetings, read their book cover to cover over a fortnight, finally “get” that I am a sick cookie and now this?  I’m supposed to sit down with a fucking doll and talk to it like it’s me?  This is wayyyyyyyy too much to take in.   I feel overwhelmed.  I think I’d rather be spanked, flogged, whipped, caned, cropped and pissed on IN THAT ORDER than to sit with a doll and call it my name and hug it and shit.  And that must say something for my level of dis-ease.

Meanwhile back at the ranch, after trying to white-knuckle my way through no contact (NC) with my ex-Dom because he dumped me for NSA sex with anything with a heartbeat, I “slipped” and ended up in his bed again begging him to” love me back” last weekend, which of course made me  feel totally humiliated and degraded.    Last night he ended up screaming at me at the top of his lungs, because I asked a question he didn’t want to answer.  Told me I don’t respect him enough and threatening to never speak to me again if I don’t (fill in whatever action he wants).

When will I hit a bottom?

What if there isn’t a fucking bottom?

What if bottom is death?

The doll scares me.

I scare me.

Not getting well scares me the most.