In order to create worthwhile stories, I told myself I needed the insight that come from chance encounters, longing and love. And I wanted to see my see my transformation in the eyes of another, this new version of myself reflected back at me. So one night, when an older man asked if I’d travel to Barnstaple with him the next day, I said yes.
I think of all the food, time, and money I wasted in the United States. I don't know what I did with all that time, when I didn't have to wash dishes by hand or hang every single little baby sock on the clothesline. And yet it seems to me that I complained a lot more then.
Frustration overwhelms and squeezing my eyes and gritting my teeth aren’t as effective calming devices as they once were. I breath deep. Doesn’t help either. I want to bolt so badly, but I am cemented to the dirty carpet, this moment, this man.
But I miss kissing; I miss hand-holding; I miss sharing my days with someone, feeling the warmth of a loving person next to me at night, and I miss consistent sex accompanied by tenderness. I do not, however, miss indifferent men.
The part of a human that causes them to care, to love, to grieve, to rejoice and to hang on broke somewhere inside a two year old. Twenty-nine years later she is perfectly okay with that. She knows that if is hasn’t come yet then it never will. She isn’t looking for it anymore. She knows she got the better life and that is enough for her.
This is what Jennifer creates: space. Safe, open space. She asks you only to bring your willingness and a journal. Then, she listens. She listens with no agenda and no judgement.
Instead of bristling against loneliness, I would rush into it with abandon and righteousness. I would show myself and my friends and the boys who didn’t have any interest in dating me that I could do anything I wanted, all by myself. But instead of solitude and silence calming my inner noise, they exacerbated my anxiety and transformed my indignant stance into cowering.
I had not been a huge Bowie fan, but I was swept up in the massive worldwide outpouring of grief for a beloved and iconic musician. It quickly became apparent that he had known the end was coming; Blackstar was threaded with references to his own mortality.
Unlike my daughter, I was a basketball player. When my own mother took me to ballet class as a young girl, I lasted the whole of a minute before I died of boredom. The ballet teacher even told my mother “your daughter does not want to be a ballerina.”
I’ve spent so much of my life not living it. Talking about living it, talking about how I’ve lived it, talking about how I wished I’d lived it, how others have lived it, how we should live it
Even with the pussy objectified in this way, it was still difficult to imagine the hold itself. Do you grab around the mons or vulva? Is it like a vice grip with the thumb over the clit and the index finger down the vaginal canal, like a man might claw a six pack?
