vfenrirsv

[vfenrirsv]

You can fit everything you know

In a bottle for you to show

Pick your brain apart and put it in

And build it again with needles and pins

For too long I haven’t been making myself a priority and I have been drowning, badly. I just feel heavy, like I have the weight of this entire relationship on my shoulders, like I am the only one worrying about if we are okay or good or if we’re even getting along. When was the last time we even had a conversation that was more than a hello or goodbye as we pass each other in the living room? I feel like I have to be the happy one, the responsible one, the adult in this partnership. And I am so very, very, tired. You haven’t even noticed, have you? There are so many things that I want to do in this life, and there are no many places that I want to see, new music I want to hear, new food I want to taste. I used to think that you would be right there beside me while I chased my dreams and followed what I feel is best in me and what satisfies my soul; but now, with the comments you make and the things you decide not to do, and the flagrant disregard for things that I consider important, I am not so sure.

Everything you have earned is a ship

With blue waves crashing into it

But nothing can touch your happy thoughts anymore

With your glass ceiling, walls, and floor

I don’t want to live in this state anymore. I don’t even know why I thought that moving out here would be good for me in the long run, but it has swiftly become obvious that I am not interested in anything out here. What is there to explore? The desert stone canyons to the West, far enough away to be Colorado? How about the hot springs to the South East, so far away as to be Arkansas? I need to live in a place that brings me joy by simply being a place where I can get out into nature and breathe a sigh of relief on days when my brain is moving too fast for my body. I want to live in Washington, Oregon, Montana, Nevada, Arizona, or Florida. The Midwest does nothing for me. These farmlands and flat prairies feel open and empty and lonesome. I need the ocean or the desert or the wild woods to soothe my soul. I’m not finding that here, and you don’t seem to care. I do.

Sailing on a ship in a bottle

Anchor all your thoughts to the bottom

Pulling ropes and pulling your head back

To see what is breaking the foremast

I want to pursue a job in my field. I want to be able to gather evidence, test samples, and work with a department lab. I have studied for years to get a job in my field and I am going for it. I have the brains and the drive, why should I say no? If I get offered a job out of state I am going to take it. I am going and you cannot stop me and I don’t even care anymore what you think or want or feel. You say that you are family oriented and want to stay near your parents and brothers and all of your hundreds of extended family members – but I think you’ve forgotten that you are supposed to be my family as well. My familial needs matter. It’s not all about you and I am so tired of you using your family as an excuse as to why you would never consider following me out of state in support of me. Not once when I have brought up moving out of state to find a job in my field have I asked to you abandon or cut your family out of your life; but that is how you act. You act as if moving out of the county we live in is tantamount to you being ripped from your family and being forced into solitude. It’s dramatic and childish and selfish. You’re not the only one with family. It’s not all about what you want.

You set sail alone there is no crew

No one on the deck who can help you

This is all your own battle to win

This is your ship and you are the captain

I don’t want this house. I don’t want these dogs. I don’t want his furniture. I don’t want this stuff. I should have been more firm with you in my expectations and opinions about what I wanted and needed out of this relationship. There are so many things that I have compromised on in order to make you happy and help you achieve your dreams that I have gone ahead and compromised myself into a noose. I am flagrantly unhappy here with all of this clutter and mess and dysfunction that I cannot seem to keep a handle on by myself. I expected you to help me keep everything under control and in order and pleasant; but you’ve made it blatantly obvious that you have no intention of starting any time soon. You don’t keep things clean, you don’t vacuum or treat the carpets, you won’t go thru your belongings in the garage, you won’t hand wash dishes; I could go on and on: you don’t do what you say you’re going to do. And I’m over it. I’m over you.

Oh, captain, let's make a deal

Where we both say the things that we both really feel

I feel scared and I'm starting to sink

And I only sink deeper the deeper I think

Oh, captain, Oh, captain, deal, Oh, captain, deal, Oh woah~

I don’t want to be with someone who won’t be intimate with me. I don’t want to be with someone who spends more time on their phone, or watching telly, or playing video games than they do talking to me about their day, their dreams, their wants or needs. I don’t want to be with someone who won’t explore the world with me. I don’t want to be with someone who refuses to engage in confrontational or uncomfortable conversation about things that matter, things that partners should face and conquer together. I don’t want to be with someone who won’t support me with all of their heart the way I do for them. I don’t want to be with someone who won’t keep their word, doesn’t follow up or follow thru. I don’t want to be with someone who won’t take care of themselves. I don’t want to be with someone who continually says “these things take time” when I talk about building our lives together. We’re in our life. Right now. I shouldn’t have to needlessly wait to build memories, build a home, or build a family with the person I fucking married. I don’t want to be with someone who sees the loneliness and sadness in me and says nothing at all.

There are red spots under your eyes

From when you cry into the sky

Ocean waters rising above your neck, mmm

You feel the glass start to crack

I don’t want to be a prisoner in my own life anymore. I feel trapped in this relationship. I feel guilty about wanting to leave and follow my heart and mind, to go and live my life, because I do love you – I do – but I feel like love just isn’t enough anymore. I am not being fulfilled on any level, so what I thought we were building together is tarnishing. When was the last time you called me your wife? When was the last time you treated me like a new girlfriend? When was the last time you spoke to me like a friend? We are stars passing in the night, roommates who happen to live in a house they bought together, strangers wearing the face of people we thought we loved. I am done not being treated like I matter. I want to go out and have some real friends and actually live my life outside of work, home, grocery store, the gas station, and the occasional coffee shop. I want to go out to bars and grab a drink. I want to dress up and dress down and walk the town and see the lights and I am tired of everything we do being centered on you or your family or your friends or your interests. Why do I have to go and do things on my own? You tell me that you are willing to experience things with me, but don’t go with me when I hike or explore or go into the city.

Sailing on a ship in a bottle

Water's leaking through holes in the bottom

Flying flags of ships that have long since

Sat at the floor of the sea, but in defense

People often say “you have one life to live, so live it to the fullest,” or “in life you have nothing to lose and everything to gain.” This is something I am slowly but surely coming to realize. Often there are times where I question whether something makes me seem like this or like that; if I’m being too bitchy or needy or distant or assertive. I think about what other people will think of me, which is normal because no one inherently wants to portray themselves as something they aren’t. But, ultimately, those opinions and judgments are irrelevant. I can't live my life day by day and question what people will say or do. I am not responsible for how other people interpret their exchanges with me. I am not responsible for their opinion of me based on piecemeal interactions. I have to live my life for myself. I haven’t lived my life for myself in so long I almost don’t even know if I can anymore. I have been so tied up in someone else for so long that I am not even sure how to become myself again without pain, and struggle, and heartbreak. But I’m ready to do it.

You set sail alone there is no crew

No one on the deck who can help you

This is all your own battle to win

This is your ship and you are the captain

I’m ready to love myself, challenge myself, and be a priority for myself; and right now all I feel is like all you’re doing is dragging me down. I come home and you are a thunder-cloud who is satisfied with not living your life. It is not my responsibility to fix your problems, soothe your depression, or enhance your diet and health; and you may think that’s cruel, but all I have done for the past year is try and try and try to make everything clean and functional and okay in our relationship, in our lives, and in our home. I want you to be happy, sure; but I want me to be happy more. I love you, sure; but I love the idea of not loving you more. Now is the time for me to make myself the priority. Now is the time for me to be selfish and ego-centric and self-centered. I need to do what I want, feel how I want, eat and drink what I want, go where I want, and just be who I want to be. I am the captain of my own ship, and now it’s time for me to deal.

Oh, captain, let's make a deal

Where we both say the things that we both really feel

I feel scared and I'm starting to sink

And I only sink deeper the deeper I think

Oh, captain, make up your mind

Before the salt burns your eyes and you run out of time

'Cause you're popping the cork, you get lost in your brain

And you lose touch with all the things that made you feel sane

Oh, captain, Oh, captain, deal, Oh, captain, deal, Oh woah~

------------------------------------

Ship In A Bottle, by Steffan Argus

My Priority: Don’t Drown, by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

[vfenrirsv]

She left her books, her car, her clothes, and a note

But all she wrote was, “Tonight I'm leaving on a train,”

She said she's headed west, to make it right, for one more night

And, well, I don't blame her if she is

They say it isn’t stupid to stay and fight for a relationship, because love is complicated and messy and people are more than just the sum of their quirks and dirty laundry or bad habits. They say it isn’t stupid to put your all into your relationship, to go all in, to open your heart and love with all of it; knowing that you might get hurt as well. They say there is no limit to love, that there is no mountain high enough or river deep enough…but I guess love only truly lives in song and sonnet, because if love were real then wouldn’t you be in as much pain as I am?

Wouldn’t you be suffering under the knowledge that the person you swore to love with all of yourself for the rest of your life didn’t even act like they want you anymore?

But he thinks it's just one more sunset

And after all, it's her fault if she hasn't caught on yet

So why'd you have to go?

Would you even miss me if I were gone? Would you walk the halls and cry for me? Would you stay awake at night and look to the stars, wondering where I was and how things could have gotten so twisted and turned around? Would you even notice that I wasn’t there? Would something in your soul feel missing or dark? Would you run down the drive and look for me the morning after you realized that I wasn’t coming back? Would you scream and demand that the heavens answer your question of why, why, why?

Or would you sit in front of your television or play on your phone, and mutinously stew in your own silence? Would you go to work every day, nary a disturbance to your life of work-grocery-home-shit-shower-sleep-repeat, going on and on like every other day? Would you look around and continue to ‘have nothing to say?’ Would you even look around at all?

Is there something I could say to make you turn around?

Cause nights like these I wish I'd said don't go

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

I’m already gone, even if I’m still here. I battle with myself about how much more to bend or struggle or argue. When we argue I am the one spilling my guts, crying and emoting and being rung dry while you sit in silence with a quick joke or flirty comment. “You’re so pretty.” You say it’s to make me feel better, but all it does is chip away at what little of my feelings I have left. Do you even care? Have you even realized that I’m leaving, that I’m out the door, that I’m disappearing right in front of you? I’m disappearing from this life, this relationship, from the friendship I thought we had, inch by inch by painful fucking inch.

Have you even realized that I’ve stopped arguing with you, stopped asking you to talk to me; have you noticed yet that I’ve simply stopped?

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

If you were fighting for this relationship, if you were determined to stitch it back together; failures and all, would you argue with me more? Would you get overwhelmed and angry and loud? Would you throw things or slam doors? Would you demand answers and dedication and a second, or third, or tenth chance? Would you get desperate and panic, thinking that everything was your fault, like I do? Would you turn your mind over and over, trying to find a solution to problems that you know aren’t even fixable anymore? Would you lose sleep like I do? Would you forget to take care of yourself? Would you get sick to your stomach like I do?

Would you dread the thought that you’ve become a complete and utter failure, like I do?

Try as I might, I just can't handle this

I lost myself inside a drunken kiss, and I

All that I wanted was to walk you home

Save a sad song for the sing-along

Would you even recognize rejection anymore?

When I say “You haven’t kissed me today,” and you kiss me on the cheek, do you even understand how sad that makes me; how utterly low it brings me? Instead of dragging me close and laying claim to my lips and stealing the breath from my lungs, you skim my cheek for a millisecond before pulling away. If my love language were affection, you’d be speaking loud and clear. It doesn’t matter that you follow it up with a peck on the lips. “I’m just not good enough for you anymore, am I?” you ask. Truthfully? No, I don’t think so anymore. I am not going to apologize for outgrowing a relationship or a person who had the option to grow with me but stubbornly refused to.

When I tell you “I need you,” and throw myself at you, change my clothes and my under things and my actions, when I come on to you and give you every opportunity to have me in the way that a man wants a woman; you smile at me, call me cute, and feed me an excuse. Do you know how that makes me feel? To know that the only man I want to crave couldn’t care less for a taste of me? Have you even realized that I’ve stopped propositioning you? Your excuses taste like ash in my mouth and sound like static in my ears.

Do you even know the last time you touched me? No? I do. I am intimately familiar with all of the times you’ve left me wanting.

In sixteen days it will be a year. A fucking year. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. 8,760 hours. 525,600 minutes. 31,536,000 seconds, each an opportunity denied. Do you have any idea how the fuck that makes me feel? Do you even fucking care what you’ve done by doing nothing? Are you even aware of the neglect that I feel? That is YOUR fault. I am livid. I have spent money needlessly on lingerie and waxing and short dresses and makeup and have watched more than my fair share of tasteless x-rated cinema to get ideas on how to fucking please you and for what? FOR WHAT? For. Absolutely. Nothing. A fucking year? Are you fucking serious?!

We’ve been married a year and four months, and it seems like I don’t mean anything to you at all.

Oh excuse me, my bad, I pay my share of the bills – so I guess I’m good for something.

And what she'd give for one more smile

And how she hoped he missed her

'Cause, God, she missed how he would kiss her

You know, I lay awake at night and I wonder; would we have been better if we had waited to get married – would we even be married at all? If we had catered to everyone else’s needs, delayed everything, if I had been witness to all of this earlier, would I have been able to foresee how much you don’t respond to me anymore? If I had slowed down and kept a part of my heart to myself, would I be better off? If I had stayed with my job up north, would things have progressed as they have? If I put my foot down about moving down here, was more vocal against moving into this oversized house, more resistant about sacrificing my preferences and wants; would anything be different?

If I didn’t love you as much as I do, would I be better off? If I didn’t believe that sometimes love isn’t enough, would we be better than we are now? What if, what if, what if…

So why'd you have to go?

Is there something I could say to make you turn around?

'Cause nights like these I wish I'd said don't go

Is there anybody there?

Can anybody help to get me out of here?

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

Who have I even become in this relationship? I can’t stand the person that I have become, and if I don’t love myself anymore how in the world can I expect you to? I’ve stopped taking care of myself, and I’ve stopped taking care of you – but jesuseverlovingchrist it isn’t my responsibility to take care of you. I am not your mother, your maid, or even your mistress. You refuse to take care of yourself? Fine. Then don’t.

And if you won’t love me, then I will just have to love myself instead.

I used to be vivacious, exciting, and adventurous. I would go out to drink and flirt on New Year’s Eve. I’d kiss a stranger, and have fun doing it! I’d dress and make myself up just to turn someone’s head, to catch someone’s eye, to feel coveted. I would pack a bag and go hiking or camping on a whim. I’d get on the back of a stranger’s motorcycle and hold them close and feel the thrill of speed and power beneath me on the highway. I’d swim naked in the sea and sleep in my car on three-day weekends. I’d stay up past midnight to watch the stars disappear and the sun rise over the ocean. I’d make friends of friends, chat up strangers in coffee shops and bookstores. I used to try things for the sake of trying them. There was always the thrill of the unknown.

Now? I stay at home, holed up in a bedroom with paint on the walls and carpet on the floor that I can’t stand. I fucking hatehatehate the color. Who thought that beige-everything was a good idea? I spend all my time reading books and avoiding the world. I can’t even live well in the shadow of my unhappiness. I just eat, and eat, and eat and grow fat and sick of the shade that I cast. I can’t do this anymore.

I’m leaving, and even if you tried to stop me, I don’t know that I’d even believe that you meant it.

'Cause you're walking down a road that I can't go

Yeah, you're walking down a road that I can't go

You're walking down a road that I can't…

Disappearing By Inches, by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

Champagnes For Celebrating, by Mayday Parade

[vfenrirsv]

I moved across the country in the Summer Time

I changed my name thinking that it would change my mind

Since I can remember, my young adult life has been laced with a grand series of get-over-it’s, and move-on's, and move-aways. Some deep seated part of me takes particular pleasure in cutting ties and reinventing myself somewhere else; somewhere new. I thrive in packing up everything I own; selling the non-essentials, and safe-guarding my slowly growing library of books; stuffing what I can into my car and leaving a trail of taillights in my dust. I can turn my emotions off and present a brave face. I can be cold and determined. I can leave a place I’ve worked hard to build with a snap of my fingers. There is chaos in uprooting what little ties I had to a place; and I have perfected the method of that madness. Leaving always felt like the better option when the alternative was fighting a losing battle for dying relationships, failing friendships, and disappointed mothers, brothers, and lovers.

“It’s okay to be true to yourself,” they tell me. But what they whisper behind closed doors is that “it’s not okay to be yourself if all you think of is yourself,” as if that’s somehow my only intention.

I thought that all my problems they would stay behind

I was a stick of dynamite and it was just a matter of time, yeah

When my first fiancé started to shut me out, refusing to spend time with me or let me know that he was okay when I hadn’t heard from him for days; I did my best to be more open and communicative. I changed everything about my behavior. I was more doting and caring, more spontaneous and witty, more flirty and easy-going. I became grade-A wife-material without the commitment. The whiplash of then being told I wasn’t what he wanted would have left me in a coma, had I not already been someone who simply leaves. When he said that I wasn’t mature enough for the relationship, I prided myself on calmly giving him back the $10,000 engagement ring that he had custom made for me and told him that I would “like to stay friends once he figured out what he wanted.” I walked out that same afternoon, and I’ve never seen or spoken to him again.

That was the creation of the version of me that holds the match and watches the bridge burn as I walk away. Like a “Cherry Bomb,” or so I’ve been called. Better to leave quietly and send my emotions to Hell where they apparently belong. Why should I be allowed to emote at all? When will it be okay to not be okay?

All day, all night; now I can't hide

Said I knew myself but I guess I lied

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay…

If you're lost, we’re all a little lost and it's alright

The military helped a great deal with the creation of my horrible relationship coping mechanisms. I could get up and leave a place and blame it on a new assignment. It’s not my fault that I am suddenly bored of being around you. It’s not my fault that – out of nowhere – I can no longer tolerate your horrible jokes or affinity for outdated sexist stereotypes. Heaven forbid my tastes change. I could cut people out of my life and act as if it was the world around me that had changed; instead of myself. If I had grown tired of the parties and the clubbing and the incessant need to showcase myself to be around someone, I’d suddenly disappear. If I found that I was being ignored or not made a priority for the person I was spending time with, I’d vanish. If, after the initial attraction I found that the person didn’t have any drive, or dreams of the future, or had settled for living a life without using any of their potential; it would be as if I had never met them at all. One night stands became grand internal escapades, where I metaphorically added notches to belts across the country and never looked back. My Boots Were Made For Walking. I was the White Buffalo and The One Who Got Away. It made me feel more than okay, but only so long as I didn’t think about it too much.

I wrote a hundred pages but I burned them all

I drive through yellow lights and don't look back at all

I have written long-winded letters and cathartic poems and Shakespearian arguments that will never be read. Once they are on the page I eat them down and gnash them between my teeth and hold back all of the raging tears I wish I could scream. I have shredded notes and cards and correspondence, piled them all into bowls and chimineas and bonfires and set them to burn. I have watched words of love and empty promises go up in smoke. I have observed glittering gifts and nostalgic tokens spark and melt. I have seen declarations of ardent affection and dedications to do better, be better curl and smolder. All of the years that I have opened my heart and bared my soul and tried and tried and tried and tried to be a wonderful, loving, woman who stays has gone up in flames. Staying around tastes like ash. Fighting for something that will ultimately prove to be a lie feels like soot and smoke and black tar. Staying has started to feel less than okay.

All day, all night, now I can't hide

Said I knew what I wanted but I guess I lied

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay…

If you're lost, we’re all a little lost and it's alright

So what do you do? What do you do when the people you love stop trying around you and start taking you for granted? When your efforts are thwarted due to their laziness or blatant disregard? When your affirmative actions are ignored, your dreams and desires aren’t supported in favor of their wants instead? When you are accused of being unsupportive when you talk about the lack of available options to you in your current state? What do you do when daily and weekly and monthly promises are broken or ignored or purposely forgotten? When they lie about sending you a Birthday gift, or don’t take the time to celebrate your Anniversary with you, or have never tried to remember your favorite flower?

Do you staystaystay and continue to try, with the inherent understanding that your expectations will never be met? Do you lower your standards again and again until you have none left? Do you continue to sacrifice pieces of yourself to suit the lack of inspiration and aspiration of your partner? Or do you simply leave? Is it okay to Just Not Be Okay?

It's okay, it's okay, it's okay, it's okay…

If you're lost, we’re all a little lost and that's alright

Oh, it alright to be lost sometimes, yeah

Life has taught me that Sometimes Love Just Isn’t Enough. And they’ll say in a sarcastic and patronizing tone “that’s okay, you’re going to be okay;” as if their words are more than fillers when they have neither the capacity nor the empathy to say something more profound. I’ve learned to stop apologizing for doing what I feel is the best for myself. I shouldn’t have to make amends for deciding to leave a person, friendship, environment, or relationship that I have outgrown. I shouldn’t feel guilty for recognizing and addressing the deficiencies that have arisen in the relationships of which I am a part. I’m not okay, and no one is going to fix this for me but myself.

--------------------------------------------------

“It’s Okay,” by Nightbirde

Not Okay, by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

[vfenrirsv]

Date a girl who writes.

Date a girl who understands both the simplicity and the depth of the written word. Date a girl who lists one of her heroes as a philosopher or poet. Date a girl who writes because she is a born storyteller.

You’ll learn that the only way she knows what she’s thinking or feeling is through writing. She’ll be articulate and poetic, without the slightest ego.

The girl who writes will have a collection of lists at any given time, not only to-do lists, but life lists; a bucket list, a list of her favorite things, a list of quotes that inspire her.

As a writer she will be a natural listener. So tell her stories. You will begin to recognize what’s important to her or what she wonders about through her writing. She finds writing the only way to explore some of life’s greatest mysteries. So talk to her about your thoughts and ideas. She will revel in them.

With this, she will love to read. She is inspired, enlightened and learned by literature. Read her book suggestions and talk about them with her. She feels satisfied and connected when someone enjoys the same literature as her. Read together.

Date the girl whose voice is so moving that you can hear it in her written words. Spend quality time with her to the point where you almost, but not fully, understand her love for words. She will explain it to you: “I love the twist and tangle of words as they enflame human emotions.” Respect her passion. She will write for a living because she will not know how to make a living sans writing. She believes in passion and when she discovers it within you, she will forever believe in you.

The girl who writes will possess a perspective all her own. As a writer she continually explores her own mind, heart and soul—because of this she is self-aware and introspective. She will have spent time and need more time spent in other worlds—metaphorically and physically. Take her on adventures. Her writing will speak to universal truths…show her the world.

Date a girl who writes because the infinite abilities of her vast mind will astonish you day after day. The way she thinks about the world—as if a short trip to the grocery store has the potential to hold as much meaning as a backpacking trip across Asia—is unparalleled. Learn from her. Realize that the simplest tasks—and words—can, and often do, hold the deepest meaning.

By dating a girl who writes you will discover that there are no goodbyes. She will write about you and she will write to you. Her handwritten letters will captivate you and scare you all in one breath. Be happy that she knows how to tell you what she’s feeling and thinking with precision and grace—that is a luxury in most relationships.

Don’t get frustrated with her when she desires to write about everything that happens between you two—it relaxes her. You may feel like you’re losing her to her writing but you must understand that she writes what she knows, encased in imagination. So be thankful when you identify with a character she has created. You are the chief inspiration in her life—and she will always be drawn back to you. She is independent in her mind yet recognizes the necessity and beauty of experience and relationships.

Date a girl who writes because she understands and appreciates her own worth so fully that she can confidently write about why you should date her.

When you are ready, propose to her in a way that challenges her writing. Give her a moment to write about that can only be shown, rather than told, through words. Let her know how you feel in the best arrangement of words you can conjure up. She will be thrilled by your valiant efforts to connect with her.

For your wedding, the girl who writes will carefully craft her own vows. They will leave you speechless—managing to encapsulate your time together thus far into a tightly woven tale of two strangers becoming one.

Marry the girl who writes because she understands that one doesn’t succeed at writing—it is a continual, ever-evolving, growing craft of experience and practice…just like your marriage. And when you’re ready to have children, they will benefit from her gift of writing. They will be well educated (if not for good genes) on the proper usage of grammar and literary devices.

Marry a girl who writes and she’ll teach your children the value of words—the most powerful weapon used by mankind. She will instill in them the same passion that she was born with and that you have come to know as second nature…because with the combined passions of your family, you have the power to change the world.

Before she speaks, her mind inscribes her thoughts into words—lying in the empty space between her eyes and the atmosphere. So know that if you argue—which you will—she’ll be able to keep things sensible, calm and mature. She will read her own works so many times that she will look to you for reassurance of sanity. Reassure her.

The girl who writes knows that the power of the written word can transcend time and space. This is why she will keep a journal of your lives together. And when you are old and gray she will present it to your grandchildren as a way to inspire, encourage and challenge them to live a life so spectacular that it, too, must be documented.

Find a girl who writes because you deserve someone who will motivate you and humble you each and every day. You deserve to learn from the teachings of your own great writer that eloquent words are essential to human life. If her mind bursts into flames with an idea at 3 a.m. on a Saturday morning, let her write…because chances are, you lit the spark. And for her, the only thing that will be better than writing about the love you share is living the love you share.

_______________________

“Date A Girl Who Writes,” by Tanza Loudenback

[vfenrirsv]

Date a girl who eats.

Date a girl who spends her money on fancy cheese instead of clothes, who has problems with refrigerator space because she has so many variations of mustard (and don’t even start with all the hot sauces). Date a girl who keeps a list of faraway restaurants she wants to visit, who has been eating foie gras since she was twelve.

Find a girl who eats. You’ll know that she eats because she will always have a half-eaten bar of artisan fair-trade chocolate in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the produce at the farmers market, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the first morels of the season. You see that weird chick sniffing the leaves of vine-ripened tomatoes at the supermarket? That’s the girl who eats. Of course, she’ll never ever buy that supermarket tomato, but the leaves will remind her of the garden that she’ll plant in the Spring.

She’s the girl eating while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the latte will be cold because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in the scrumptious world of a buttery, flaky croissant. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who eat do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the croissant.

Buy her a pain au chocolat.

Let her know what you really think of umami. See if she got through the first chapter of Escoffier. Understand that if she says she prefers early James Beard, she’s just saying that to test you. Ask her if she loves Alice Waters, or if she would like to be Alice Waters.

It’s easy to date a girl who eats. Give her fine wine for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of terroir, in oddly-marked bottles. Give her Petrus, La Tour, La Tâche, Montrachet. Let her know that you understand that wine is love. Understand that she knows the pros and cons between corks and screwcaps, but by God, she’s going to argue for real cork until the day she dies. She understands the ceremony of cork.

She doesn’t collect antique corkscrews for nothing.

Lie to her about the fact that you picked all the shrimp and sausage from the jambalaya. Since she understands food, she will understand your greedy urge to horde the tastiest morsels for yourself. She will make due with an extra helping of rice, and whatever shrimp and sausage you’ve left behind. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail to leave her the last slice of cake. Because a girl who eats knows that the last slice is the bittersweet slice. Because girls who eat understand that the last piece of cake was probably a little stale anyhow, and that the promise of cutting into a brand new cake is really the best part. And that reminds her — she has a fresh raspberry tart stashed in that closet where you never look. Sucker.

Why be frightened of foods you have never tried? Girls who eat understand that someone, somewhere, had to eat the first oyster. Or the first escargot.

If you find a girl who eats, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a slice of cold pizza and daydreaming, offer her a napkin and hold her. You may lose her for a few minutes but she will always come back to you. She’ll mention that sometimes, cold pizza can taste even better than oven-fresh pizza, because sometimes, it just does.

You will mock vegetarians together. And especially vegans. But never to their pale, delicate faces. Only with sly knowing glances, as you hear them whining to the waiter at the next table over.

Together, you will eat so much that you will wonder why your heart hasn’t already congealed with butterfat and seized up in revolt (don’t worry — it’s the French paradox). You will talk about lunch during breakfast, and dinner during lunch. She will introduce your children to braised pork belly and duck comfit, maybe during the same meal.

Date a girl who eats because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most delicious life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale bread, and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone (and hungry). If you want to taste the world and the world beyond it, date a girl who eats.

Or better yet, date a girl who cooks.

_____________________________

“Date A Girl Who Eats,” by Eating The Globe

[vfenrirsv]

Don't date a girl who travels:

She’s the one with the messy unkempt hair colored by the sun. Her skin is now far from fair like it once was. Not even sun kissed. It’s burnt with multiple tan lines, wounds and bites here and there. But for every flaw on her skin, she has an interesting story to tell.

Don't date a girl who travels. She is hard to please. The usual dinner-movie date at the mall will suck the life out of her. Her soul craves for new experiences and adventures. She will be unimpressed with your new car and your expensive watch. She would rather climb a rock or jump out of an airplane than hear you brag about it.

Don’t date a girl who travels because she will bug you to book a flight every time there’s an airline seat sale. She won’t party at Republiq. And she will never pay over $100 for Avicii because she knows that one weekend of clubbing is equivalent to one week somewhere far more exciting.

Chances are, she can't hold a steady job. Or she’s probably daydreaming about quitting. She doesn’t want to keep working her ass off for someone else’s dream. She has her own and is working towards it. She is a freelancer. She makes money from designing, writing, photography or something that requires creativity and imagination. Don't waste her time complaining about your boring job.

Don't date a girl who travels. She might have wasted her college degree and switched careers entirely. She is now a dive instructor or a yoga teacher. She’s not sure when the next paycheck is coming. But she doesn’t work like a robot all day, she goes out and takes what life has to offer and challenges you to do the same.

Don’t date a girl who travels for she has chosen a life of uncertainty. She doesn’t have a plan or a permanent address. She goes with the flow and follows her heart. She dances to the beat of her own drum. She doesn’t wear a watch. Her days are ruled by the sun and the moon. When the waves are calling, life stops and she will be oblivious to everything else for a moment. But she has learned that the most important thing in life isn’t surfing.

Don’t date a girl who travels as she tends to speak her mind. She will never try to impress your parents or friends. She knows respect, but isn’t afraid to hold a debate about global issues or social responsibility.

She will never need you. She knows how to pitch a tent and screw her own fins without your help. She cooks well and doesn’t need you to pay for her meals. She is too independent and wont care whether you travel with her or not. She will forget to check in with you when she arrives at her destination. She’s busy living in the present. She talks to strangers. She will meet many interesting, like-minded people from around the world who share her passion and dreams. She will be bored with you.

So never date a girl who travels unless you can keep up with her. And if you unintentionally fall in love with one, don’t you dare keep her.

Let her go.

_____________________________

“Don’t Date A Girl Who Travels,” by Love The Search

[vfenrirsv]

Date a girl who reads.

Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

_____________________________

“Date A Girl Who Reads,” by Rosemarie Urquico

[vfenrirsv]

[vfenrirsv]

Dear Husband, Husband, J,

I am exhausted and angry.

I don’t feel like we have a marriage anymore.

I don’t even feel like we have a relationship anymore.

I don’t even feel like I know who you are or what you want anymore.

There are so many little things that set me off now, and I know that the intensity of my anger towards you isn’t fair; but I’ve reached a point where every little thing you do makes me angry in some way. I’ve reached a point where I feel as if nothing I say to you is taken seriously, where nothing I do around the house is appreciated, where I take no joy out of being in our house or living with our dogs and our cat or even find peace in being married to someone that I never interact with. I have become silently resentful. I have become silently hateful. We’ve become strangers, and it’s our own faults.

We’ve been over these topics before, but I feel the need to reiterate, in the event that I have been lax in communicating my feelings or have caused a misunderstanding for not being specific enough or clear enough about why I am angry…so I am going to do my best to explain why I am so angry about so many things.

I’ve typed this out because the last time I tried to talk to you about all of this in person you made a joke of what I was saying so that you could “see me laugh,” in an attempt to make me “feel better;” and I don’t feel like I got everything out that I needed to. Hopefully this can help us figure out how to save what we have, or help us make a tough decision if we can’t figure it out at all. I don’t know. I don’t even know anymore, J.

The House Doesn’t Clean Itself.

I know you know this. So when I bust my behind to ensure that the house is orderly and clean and smells good, I expect it to stay that way for as long as humanly possible. And in order for it to stay that way requires work on both of our parts. Every day.

When you leave food and trash and your stuff on the bedside table, or the side table in the living room, or on the counters in the kitchen for more than just a day; I get angry. You’re undoing all of my hard work!! By leaving your stuff behind you are communicating that you don’t respect all of the hard work that I’ve done. It doesn’t take more than a few moments to throw your trash away, or put your food in the fridge, or put your stuff away so that no one else has to be bothered by it. And yet, you don’t do this. You leave stuff everywhere you go – and then it falls on me to come in behind you and clean up your messes.

I’m not talking about little things like mail or packages or general day-to-day things that are transient. So don’t huff and roll your eyes. How can I be your wife when I’m too busy being your maid?

And I’m not a maid! I expect you to clean up after yourself after you make a mess, and then I won’t have to work so hard to both re-trace your steps and keep the house clean and tidy out of daily necessity. I’m tired of having to clean up after you. You’re not a child or a bachelor. Stop acting like one.

I shouldn’t have to enact a Bill of Congress to get you to do dishes or laundry. We both live here. If the dishwasher is full, empty it. If the laundry is done, swap it out. You’ll notice that I have largely stopped doing both of these things every single day because I am tired of being the only one who does. I know that doesn’t help solve the problem, but I am. Just. So. Done. J, I’m rebelling. Someone else can clean for hours-on-end on their days off and I can be the one to come home to a nice, neat, tidy home and not do anything. At all. Ever.

If you tell me that you are going to do something, I scratch it off my to-do list with the expectation that it will be done. But when you only do half of the job or don’t do it at all (which is virtually the same thing), then you’ve created more work for me to do instead, because – again – I have to come in behind you and do what you said you would.

….. Taking out the trash – to me – means that you go throughout the house and make sure that all of the trash-bins are empty – and then you take all of it out to the garbage can, and then take the garbage can to the curb for the weekly pick-up. You don’t just take out the kitchen trash and call it a day.

Heaven forbid you pile the trash up in the kitchen corner; and then wonder why I want to rip the cabinets off the walls.

….. Doing the laundry – to me – means that you set a timer and rotate the laundry each time that the alarm goes off. You don’t stop until all of the laundry is clean or we run out of laundry detergent. You don’t do a load and then leave it there to sour for me to come in behind you and re-wash and re-do. That’s gross.

….. Doing the dishes – to me – means that you load up the dishwasher, several times if needed, and then unload it and put all of the dishes away. If there are still dishes in the sink, either hand-wash them or set a timer to re-fill the dishwasher. You keep going until the dishes are done or the dishwasher is almost full to be run again later. Don’t just let dishes pile up and up and up over the course of a week and leave all of it for me to clean up when I have a day off.

Do you know how many times I’ve gone in to do the dishes in the sink and they have sat there so long that there is mold and mildew growing in the water? Do you know how bad that smells? That’s why I bought dish gloves, so that I wouldn’t have to touch any of that with my bare hands. Do you know how many times I have nearly thrown up while emptying out the sink?? Too many.

….. Cleaning up after the dogs – to me – means that you pick up their toys after they have strewn them all over the house, you pick up the kibble that they leave on the floor and put it back in their bowls, you wipe out the kennels with disinfectant wipes, vacuum up all of the dog hair, spot treat the carpets where they have made messes (then wet-vac over those same spots after the treatment has set), organize the treat cabinets to make sure that nothing will spill out of them, check the kibble bucket for food levels, bathe them, dry them, brush them out, clean up the shed, clean their ears, clip their nails… You do parts of that, and only then with my help. I do most of it on my own.

I know that you know how to use a vacuum and the wet-vac. Why am I the only one who uses them? Are you incapable of showing any initiative towards cleaning the floors? You’re happy to tell me that the dogs have made a mess, or that you’ve tracked dirt in, or that something has spilled; and you just leave it for me to clean up at my leisure – as if cleaning the house is somehow my favorite thing to do. And if by some miracle you do decide to put in some effort, you don’t empty the vacuum bucket, nor do you clean out the flutes of the wet vac. So that leaves more work for me to do before I can even begin cleaning up something else…

Listen, J, it isn’t the 1920’s. I am not interested in being a house-wife. You’re not a Butter and Egg Man with a fist full of Cabbage. I have a job outside of the home. I have responsibilities outside of “playing house.”

Have you ever even cleaned the stairs before? Or the tubs? Or the kitchen floor? Or the windows? Or the baseboards? Have you dusted? Or swept? There are so many things beyond just vacuuming that have to get done on a weekly basis to prevent the house from being a disaster. Do you think to do any of these things on your own without me asking?

Until you get down on your hands and knees and wipe up all of the dip that “you don’t leave everywhere,” you won’t fully understand how much dip is all over the bathroom. All the time. You don’t clean it up when it spills. I don’t even think you notice when you leave it all over the floor. Why should I have to clean that up? That’s not something I partake of. That is an exclusively You-Mess. A mess you make and never clean up. A mess that you “put a towel down to prevent,” but then hang that same towel on the back of the bathroom door so that your dip falls all over the floor. Oh, but you “shake the towel out in the shower so that there isn’t any on the towel before you hang it up,” you say: but you don’t wash the dip flakes down the drain. And there is always dip behind the bathroom door. Go look. Right now. I’ll bet you $20 there is gross brown powder on the shower baseboard behind the bathroom door.

Now you owe me $20.

I’ve seen my life flash before my eyes several times in the past few weeks: Over the years I constantly ask for you to help me do things…taking out the trash, helping with the dogs, folding your laundry, putting things away… until I can no longer stand to look at you and I die a resentful old hag who doesn’t even know the last time that she spoke to her husband in kindness.

Here’s the thing: You’re not “helping me out.” You’re an adult. My partner. When you do things around the house, you are simply doing your part. That’s why I’ve stopped asking you to “help me,” and now probably sound like a bitch to you when I tell you to do something or ask you why something is left on the floor…or in the sink…or isn’t put away…or isn’t cleaned up…

Asking you to “help me,” diminishes your value.

You are a fully functioning human being. You should not be viewed as my helper or assistant or someone who needs to take direction from me to be useful. You are useful all on your own. If there is something I need you to do that you’re not noticing, I should be able to say it, and you should be able to do it. But it’s Not for Me. It’s because it’s what needs to be done in our busy household. When you asks me to take the dogs out, or cook dinner, or whatever - you don’t mention it being for you, you don’t mention me “helping you”… Because it’s Not for You. I’m not your assistant, and you’re not mine.

Asking you to “help me,” diminishes our partnership.

You are my man. My equal. We might not always do things the same way, but that’s okay because we are not the same person. What’s important is that we work together to accomplish our main goal, which is to have a happy, healthy family (and a house that isn’t covered in dog fur, kitty litter, and old pizza boxes). I don’t want to boss you around. I certainly don’t want you to think that your purpose in this relationship is to “help me out,” because it’s not. Your purpose is to be a husband and a cat and dog-dad. And to kill spiders. And to reach things on the top shelf that I can’t. And to open jars that are screwed too tight.

Asking you to “help me,” puts undue responsibility on me.

I don’t own the responsibility of keeping our house organized and our fur-babies fed or clean or happy. It’s not solely my job. By framing our dynamic in that way, using phrases like “help me out” instead of simply asking you to do something, I’m taking on that ownership. There are lots of things I’d like to own in this life: a fancy house boat in Alaska, an expensive motorcycle with all the bells and whistles, a washing machine and drier that actually work… But 100 percent responsibility for our household and our pets is not one of those things. I only want 50 percent of that.

Sometimes I get so angry with your lack of personal responsibility for the duties within our home that I consider crafting a summoning circle and trading you to the Devil for a party sized bag of classic wavy lays potato chips. Seriously. Salty, golden-fried, crispy, carbohydrates have never let me down.

You Proposed With A Ring You Gave To Me Because I Was “Going Through A ‘Rough Time,’” and Proposed After A Time When I Was So Upset With You That I Had Stopped Wearing The Ring All Together.

I think about this a great deal, lately. Maybe that was a sign. Being so angry with you to the point that I didn’t even want to wear a reminder of how much you cared for me wasn’t so much of a good start to our particular engagement love story. Don’t get me wrong, my promise/wedding/whatever-you-want-to-call-it/ring is great. I’m not complaining, but when you have to joke with your family that you “had to make sure that she had left the ring in the bathroom (because she blatantly refused to wear it anymore since she was so angry at me)…” sours the beginning of that tale. Not very romantic.

Should we have gotten married so soon after? “Our wedding was exactly/mostly/almost/just what we wanted, though it would have been nice if more of our family and friends could have been there with us; and yes, we tend to ignore the blatantly rude and uncomfortable comments from some family members about how quickly it happened or how small the venue was, or who allegedly wasn’t invited…” not a very romantic wedding story either. Would any of this be different if we have waited longer? If I had saved up more money? If we had somehow managed to get each and every one of our family members together for the wedding day? Would anything have changed? Would our relationship be sweeter? More cherished? Easier?

Your step-mother doesn’t even like me anymore, anyways. I know that your opinion is the only one that should matter, but I have craved having a large family for so long that I am truly, deeply, hurt that now I won’t get the opportunity to build a relationship with one set of my in-laws, or my brother-in-laws, sister-in-laws, nieces, and nephews on that side of the family. I’m upset about that. I’m. Fucking. Upset. About. That. Because I love them, and I have fallen out of familial favor simply because I couldn’t afford a bigger venue to accommodate everyone’s demands. I am blamed for that. Not you. You’re still the “favorite son.”

You saw all of your step-mother’s text messages. You know. I bet she doesn’t talk to you that way.

You Have No Follow-Through When You Tell Me You’re Going to Do Something.

You make me all of these promises about yard work or garage work or house work or taking care of yourself or “being better,” and yet you don’t follow through on any of the things that you say you’re going to. You let things go until the “promise” that you made holds no weight. Maybe you forgot? Maybe you don’t care? Maybe you think I’ll forget that you made the promise? Ha! Whatever the reason, you do this so often as to become the norm and then wonder why I don’t believe you when you tell me you’re going to do something.

I get that you’re tired at night. I understand that your job takes a lot out of you. I know that you want to relax on the weekends – me too! Me. Fucking. Too. But if you’re not going to do what you say you’re going to then don’t even bother making me a promise. Because now, as it stands, I believe very little – if anything – of what you say.

You’re going to clean up all of the leaves in the yard before the snow comes? You’re going to tear down the rebar and brush “next weekend?” You’re going to work with me to clean out the garage? You’re going to take the tree you cut down to the curb so that it can be taken away? You’re going to work with your step-father to get the kitchen cabinet fixed? You’re going to fold your laundry? You’re going to clean up the dirt from when you knocked my cactus off the windowsill? You’re going to fix the front door? You’re going to switch out the litter in the litter-box? You’re going to find the dog’s tracker in the yard? You think I’m beautiful? You love me? I’m amazing? I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you? If I can’t believe you when you say one thing, how can I believe you when you say another?

When you say “I love you,” lately, I don’t know that I can believe you. It sounds false. It sounds like you say it only because you feel like it’s the right thing to do. A husband is supposed to tell his wife that he loves her as she leaves for work, right? It seems forced, like it’s the only thing you can say that doesn’t make me angry.

It mostly just makes me sad.

We Aren’t Intimate Anymore.

You’re aware. You told me before our first Christmas living together that you would look into addressing this. You told me since before we even moved out of the apartment that you would look into addressing this. You told me before we got married that you would look into addressing this. You haven’t.

You say that you don’t like going to the doctor and hearing “bad things” about yourself. You need to understand that, as an adult, you have a responsibility to be healthy for yourself and for the people who love you. If you refuse to take care of yourself, then you are telling the people that you love that you aren’t willing to take care of them either. When you continue to refuse to go to the doctor or “address the issue,” you deprive me, as your wife, of a fundamental necessity and pillar of our marriage. I need to be intimate with you. I turn to you for all of my intimate needs and they haven’t been met since July of last year. We are quickly coming up on a year of not being intimate together, and that is unacceptable to me. It makes me so angry, that I don’t even have accurate words at this point.

To you this might just be something that “you don’t have time for,” or that “you’re just too tired to deal with.” Or maybe you think “it’s not that big of a deal,” or “it hasn’t been that long.” Possibly you think “I don’t crave it anymore,” or “My wife doesn’t initiate anymore so she must not want it either.”

So let me shed some light on that subject:

I don’t initiate anymore because I deserve to be wanted and craved and desired by my husband, and I am tired of being the only one who makes any passes. When a person is continually denied, over and over; why would they continue to make a pass at someone who they already know will turn them down?

This lack of intimacy has affected how I feel about myself. I am tired of not feeling sexy around you, even when I buy and wear new lingerie and purposefully make an effort to be sexy. Do I need to lose weight? Do I need to start waxing? Do I need to grow my hair out? Do I need to start getting my nails done, or buy cuter clothes? How do I become prettier? Should I wear make-up more often? How do I become more of the type of woman that my husband actually desires?

You should see the degradation of my Google history. It has become more shallow and desperate over the past few months.

I am a healthy, virile, sex-deprived woman and I need to have sex. With you. The longer you go without addressing the issue, the closer I get to exploding and demanding that we see other people in a blatant fit of anger. What else am I supposed to do, J?! Have an affair? Find a pool-boy to visit with your dubious permission? I won’t settle for that.

I don’t want anyone else. I want you. And I want to build a fucking family of my own one day.

We Don’t Communicate Anymore.

You laugh things off. You make light of topics that I try to talk to you about. Maybe this is your way of diffusing my distress when I bring up uncomfortable topics. Other times you will go quiet and say that you simply “have nothing to say.” Maybe you go quiet because you get defensive and angry in your own right when I demand answers of you. I have tried over and over again to express to you how I am feeling about all of this, and it isn’t working. Maybe we’re past words. Maybe it’s all down to actions at this point.

I told you that if things didn’t get better by July that we would need to have a serious discussion about where our relationship is headed. I don’t think you took me seriously. I meant what I said. We’ve reached terminal velocity, and I don’t know if we can pull up. I’m afraid that we can’t pull up.

I have asked your best friend for advice. I have asked my mother for advice. I have asked my brother for advice. I have Googled and scoured the internet for answers. I have looked up books and gone on counseling websites for direction. I haven’t found any answers that seem to have helped. At all. I’m running out of ideas on how to make things easier for you while taking care of my own responsibilities and emotional needs.

Maybe I shouldn’t make things easy for you? Maybe if you begin to feel the pressure or see the struggle, you will realize that we’ve begun to fall apart?

I don’t vent to you every day because I don’t want to overburden you. I clean every chance I get so that all you have to do is come home and put your feet up. I have work extra overtime with minimal complaints so that I can contribute more financially. It’s running me down and I am running out of energy and desire to continue existing this way. What’s the point of doing all this extra work if we won’t even have a relationship that benefits from it?

The way I see it, you mostly stop loving a person the same way you stop respecting them. It can happen all at once if something enormous and terrible happens, but for the most part, it happens in inches. In a thousand tiny moments of contempt that unravel the image you had of the person you thought you knew. Until, there is just nothing left to love about the other person. That’s when you begin to love the idea of not loving them more. I feel like we’re on that road, and I don’t want to keep going down it.

You ask me what I want you to do: I want you to be true to your word. I want you to see what we had (have?) and work with me to prevent losing it.

We Don’t Spend Any Time Together Anymore.

This is a problem that we both contribute to. We work different shifts on different days. We text each other more than we speak. When we have days off together we don’t actually spend any time together. We sit at home and ignore one another. We play on our phones. We dive into videogames. We live separate lives in separate rooms. We eat separate meals and pass each other by, day in and day out. This is not a marriage. This is less than a friendship. We are barely even roommates at this point. Roommates would see each other more than we do.

I want to fall in love with you again. I want to learn what your new dreams and desires are. I want us to actively seek to spend time with one another. I want us to have a honeymoon. I want us to explore the state we live in together. I want us to travel. I want to spend time with you when you aren’t trying to impress your friends at the expense of my wants, needs, and feelings. I want you to act as if you are still dating me, still vying for my affection and attention, still hoping that I will chose you above anyone else to spend my time with, as if you don’t know if I will say “yes” to your proposal. I want you to seek me and pine for me and vie for me and wish that I could be yours.

Because it feels like now that you’ve got me, you don’t even want me.

But I Love You.

I am so unhappy right now, but I cling to this marriage and I cling to the idea that I can fix all of the problems that we have between us and bring us back to the excited newly-weds that we used to be even before we were married. We were happier before we started seeing each other all the time. Before we moved in together. Before we got married. Before we switched jobs. Before we got another dog. Before moving to Baldwin. Before this house.

But I love you, even to the detriment of myself. I love your eyes when you laugh, they go all warm and chocolate-y and golden. I love how you smile when you know that you’ve pissed me off – but know that you’ll get away with whatever it is because you know I think you’re cute. I love how you give me hugs and let me nuzzle into your chest and how you hold me until I stop crying and shaking from stress. I love how you can make me laugh even when I don’t want to. I do, truly, love you.

But now I’m afraid that love just isn’t enough.

Sometimes it just Isn’t. Fucking. Enough.

I know that marriages take work from both people, and that nothing is ever 50/50. I know that there will be days when I am 30 and you are 70, or you are 20 and I am 80. I know this. I am not asking for you to be perfect, but I am asking that you be present in this relationship enough to recognize that there is a real set of issues here and that we have reached a point where these compounding issues are a threat to what we are trying to build together.

We used to actually enjoy being in each other’s company. Now everything seems strained and awkward and exhausting. I don’t want to get a divorce. As much as I knew it was the right thing to do in my last failed marriage, I hated it. And now – God, now I don’t want a second divorce but I don’t know any other way that this failing marriage will go since we don’t even seem to be on the same page anymore.

I cannot fix all of our issues on my own. I cannot force you to adopt new habits or a new perspective. I cannot force you to go to a doctor. I cannot force you to want me the same way that I want you. All I can do is keep trying to communicate with you, keep trying to explain to you what is going on in my heart and in my head.

All I can do it keep my word, keep cleaning, and keep “scheduling” fights with you so that we can get all of this bullshit out into the open. I want us to succeed. I want us to pull up out of this nose-dive. I want to be your wife.

But God, I am tired, J. I am so fucking tired, and I don’t know what else to do.

So, just read this. And talk to me. Tell me everything in your heart and your brain that pisses you off or makes you angry or drives you crazy, tell me anything and everything so that I can find you again. I’ve lost you. I’ve lost this marriage. I’ve lost myself. And I don’t know where to go from here.

If you won’t work with me to navigate all of this, then I don’t know what else I can do other than Nothing At All.

_________________________

"Dear Husband," by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

[vfenrirsv]

Before the wolves came, I was a guileless.

I was raised in the South, where manners and respect were distilled in the same abundance as Moonshine. Leaving home by way of the military drilled a second dose of Honor, Respect, and Devotion to Duty into my bones. The wolves couldn’t strip that from me even if they tried.

Solitude is an illusion. Alone in the darkness, I was surrounded on all sides. The starlight dripped from the petals, Off cactus flowers, A chorus of insects sang across the dunes. How much abundance the world carries, If every fistful of sand, Is an eternity of mountains. [Qun: Soul Canto]

Before the wolves came, I knew who I was and what I wanted out of life.

My dreams and desires had been simple; but the wolves came. They waited until that wild thing in me believed itself to be safe and secure, then stepped into the light and revealed to me the truth. They’re Persistence hunters. They stalk and track and pursue until, finally, the fatigue overwhelms. It’s sudden, the lesson that it is vain and impossible to resist. “Asit tal-eb,” they howl. “It is to be.”

Existence is a choice. There is no chaos in the world, only complexity. Knowledge of the complex is wisdom. From wisdom of the world comes wisdom of the self. Mastery of the self is mastery of the world. Loss of the self is the source of suffering. Suffering is a choice, and we can refuse it. It is in our own power to create the world, or destroy it. [Qun: Canto 1]

First they took my name from me, stripped it down to bare bones and when there was nothing left; they howled into the ether expecting to hear a response. Next, they took my soul, parceled out the pieces and devoured them, seeking to find in me what they could not find in themselves. Then they started to take my mind; assigning their wraiths to my peripherals – lurking just outside my senses and assaulting my thoughts. I began to question all that was in me. Who was I, anymore? Why was I living in a place that did not bring me joy? Why wasn’t I chasing my creams or my desires? Why was I settling for unhappiness when the only person with the ability to change anything at all was Me?

Emptiness is an illusion. Beneath my feet, Grains of sand beyond counting. Above my head, a sea of stars. Alone, they are small, A faint and flickering light in the darkness, A lost and fallen fragment of earth. Alone, they make the emptiness real. Together, they are the bones of the world. [Qun: Soul Canto]

The wolves opened a cavern in me, hollow enough to echo back that Call of The Void. You can hear it, can’t you? That vibrating pitch, eerie and soothing by the same measure. It sounds down the canyon of my body, breaking my internal silence like a ripple upon the water. Once as still as a sheet of glass, now it shatters like a brittle thing.

The heavens turn overhead, light and dark. The tide rises to devour the earth, and falls back. The sun and the stars fall to the sea one by one in their turn, only to rise again. The tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. Struggle is an illusion. There is nothing to struggle against. [Qun: Soul Canto]

You can hear it, can’t you? The resonating tone at the edge of your wits, almost indistinguishable from the beat of your heart or the sound of your breath. It makes you aware of who you’re supposed to be, highlighting everything you’ve sacrificed and given up and killed within you. Consider, then, how best to freeze, or fly, or fight. Consider: do you even want to? “Asit tal-eb. It is to be.”

Do not fear the dark. The sun and the stars will return to guide you. The purpose of the world renews itself with each season. Each change only marks, A part of the greater whole. The sea and the sky are themselves: Nothing special. Only pieces. [Qun: Soul Canto]

_________________________

“Before The Wolves,” by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa

“Cantos of The Qun,” by David Gaider

[vfenrirsv]

They came from Scandinavia, the land of midnight sun

And crossed the North Atlantic when this century was young

Good Men are often taken from us long before we wish them to be. They say it is because God loves most the best of His creations, and that He gathers them beneath His wing so that they may find peace and comfort in eternal life alongside Him. It’s a poetic and lovely thought, but I would much rather that Good Men stick around a bit longer for those of us left behind.

They'd heard that in America every man was free

To live the way he chose to live and be who he could be

I was raised by a village of Good Men in lieu of my biological father. Since my Mother worked in law enforcement, there was a plethora of upstanding and morally-sound gentlemen to whom I could have gone for the paternal guidance that I craved, but the man whose opinion I held above all others belonged to my Uncle James. The husband of my Mother’s best friend, we were not family by blood, but we were family all the same; and he quickly became a focal point in my life as a patriarchal figurehead. 

Some of them were farmers there and tilled the frozen soil

But all they got was poverty for all their earnest toil

My Uncle James was more than a Good Man, if a bit rough around the edges. (He was more akin to a porcupine on occasion.) He taught me that the best way to show your love for your family and friends was through actions; that while your word is your bond, your deeds are your dynasty. He was a proud and patriotic military man, having been stationed overseas several times. He spoke of his MOS of Intelligence Services quite often, his tours in Germany, and his dedication to learning guitar while off-duty overseas.

One year for Christmas I was gifted a guitar, and my Uncle offered to teach me how to play. Being the child that I was, I probably made some declining passing comment; but if I could go back in time I would have grabbed at the chance to connect further with the wonderful man that I now miss more than I can say.

They say one was a sailor who sailed the wide world round

Made home port, got drunk one night, walked off the pier and drowned

The first time my Mother and I travelled family-style with my Aunt and Uncle to Arizona, I was met with a silent man, passive aggressive at turns, who enjoyed the outdoors and only ever seemed to smile when he found something more than passingly funny. It was my first adolescent flight on an airplane, and I was excited. After pointing out all of the cool planes taxiing up and down the runways for nearly an hour, my stoic Uncle turned to me, and with a completely straight face said “Want to know why you’re seeing so many planes? It’s because you’re at an airport.”

That sarcastic comment was the beginning of what would become a beautiful pseudo-Father-Daughter relationship.

Some left behind the highlands and the heather-covered hills

And came to find America with broad expectant dreams and iron wills

After that trip, my Uncle James seemed to open up to me more than before; and I thrived under the guidance and occasional dotage that I received from him each time we met. There would be times when my Mother and my Aunt would delve into conversation about something, and Uncle James and I would end up reclined in the living room, not really part of the conversation they were having, but not excluded either. I treasured the occasions when I could sit with him as he explained the current NASCAR standings, discuss an interesting weather phenomenon that he had heard about on the news that week, tell me about a wildlife event, or show me a new knife that he had purchased (with all of its cool multi-use features!).  

One of my favorite memories of Uncle James is from a long-distant Summer; I had been helping him clean out their garage, and while taking a water break from the heat, he began to tell me how he had just installed a Sirius Radio system in his pristine white Toyota truck (he babied that vehicle, and was so proud of it!). He was as animated as I had ever seen him as he told me about how he had tuned his new radio to switch over to his favorite Class Rock songs, and how he didn’t even need to change channels – all he had to do was indicate that he liked a sing and it would play it if it was on the radio. I felt like I was part of a secret and exclusive club: Uncle James was expressive and relaxed and happy, and I was lucky to be part of the moment. For a man that very infrequently expressed his emotions to others, he showed me that a Father figure didn't have to be one of blood, and that love can be expressed in so many different ways. We had our own language then.

And the sons become the fathers and their daughters will be wives

As the torch is passed from hand to hand as we struggle through our lives

The death of my Uncle changed me, mostly in ways that I never had the opportunity to express. I allowed myself to cry, but I didn’t have the ability to say a final goodbye. Everything happened so quickly, and before I knew it the funeral had passed, and then a week had passed, and then a month…

_________________________

Uncle James,

I want to thank you for being such an amazing male role-model for me. In you I found the Father figure that I had always yearned for, the senior brother-in-arms that I had hoped to find while on active duty, the patient voice of reason when Boys Just Didn’t Make Sense, and the Good Man that I had one day hoped to introduce to my own children. Every day I strive to take all of the advice and lessons that you taught be and put them to good use.

I miss you and I love you. I regret that I didn’t say it more; but I know that you understood how much you meant to me, and I know that our hugs, and sarcasm, and teasing banter expressed how much we truly cared for one another without it having to be said outright.

When I hear rolling thunder, I’ll think of you watching NASCAR in heaven. When I experience weird or dangerous weather, I’ll know you’re up there marveling at it with me. When I travel and catch a glimpse of the beautiful wildlife abroad, I know you’ll be up there enjoying your own sights. They say the Garden of Eden is quite a stunning location for Paradise. Also, I didn’t forget: I bought and organized my own tool box, and carry a knife on me at all times, like you told me to.

Hey, Uncle James? Want to know why you’re seeing so many angels? It’s because you’re in Heaven.

_________________________

Though the generations wander, the lineage survives

And all of us, from dust to dust, we all become forefathers by and by

_________________________

In Loving Memory of James Stanley Bray 

05 October 1958 - 06 August 2020

_________________________

“For Uncle James” by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa, Author

“Forefathers” by Dan Fogelberg, Lyrics

[vfenrirsv]

When I die, let the wolves enjoy my bones; When I die, let me go…

I couldn’t even begin to tell you when I last felt like I was myself; when I last felt proud of who I am, or where I came from, or of all the obstacles that I’ve had to overcome in order to get to where I am today.

I was born “Vanessa.” A Gemini, an Air sign, a Horse under Chinese astrology. Coyote is my Totem. Wolf is my Sacred Guide. In Greek the meaning of my name is “Butterfly,” also from Phanessa, the mystic goddess of an ancient Greek brotherhood bent on finding Truth. Various accounts offer the ideas that someone named “Vanessa” bears the qualities of beautiful and strong, and most importantly ‘always tough on the inside.’ To the latter, at least, I can attest.

My Mother, in my infancy, called me “‘Nessa” in affection and “Vanessa-Anne” in ire. If my Father ever called me by any name other than “Baby-girl;” I can’t remember. I don’t remember much about my Father before my early tweens, when I was forced by the courts to spend time with him in an attempt to foster some type of relationship with the man that my Mother had divorced.

In elementary school I was simply “Vanessa.” Straight-A student in all but mathematics, budding lover of arts and crafts, and defender of both my own and my Mother’s honor on the playground when kids teased me about acting like a tomboy, or not having a father.

Throughout secondary school I was largely invisible – called a number of racial slurs, though I never considered any of them my name, even when someone took the time to recognize me; to bully me. Being white in a community predominated by African American and Hispanic families didn’t grant me the illusionary honor of being called anything other than “Cracker” or, “Piglet” since my parents worked in law enforcement.

By then, I didn’t want to be “Vanessa.” I didn’t want to have a name at all. Silence and being invisible was better than being called out for all of the things that I had no control of. It wasn’t my fault that I was born white, or born into a broken home, or the product of two law enforcement officers who sought happiness outside of their careers. In a quickly emerging socio-economic climate where all three of those variables were prescribed as being abhorrent or fundamentally wrong, I was cast adrift to navigate those faults as if I had brought them upon myself by my own hand. “Dealt a bad hand,” as they say; but it didn’t matter. “She’s a tough little thing.”

When I die, you can push me out to sea; When I die, set me free…

I was in fifth grade when I thought about suicide for the first time. Those dark thoughts were the result of climbing onto an overly-full bus to go to school; only to find that the only available seat was being used to hold the book-bags for a trio of African American girls who took one look at me and sneered. I sat on the edge of the seat, careful not to disturb their property; but when the bus turned a corner, and one of their bags fell the floor; they immediately grabbed my hair, punched me in the stomach, and began to degrade me with every slur they could think of. I hated myself and my name for no other reason that it wasn’t socially acceptable to be who I was.

When my mother later confronted the counselor of the school, a robust African American woman herself; she was told something to the effect of “to take her whining child and leave.” The "counselor" never said my name, because to them, I was a nobody. I was invisible.

In high-school I was both “Van” and “’Ness,” depending on how close I was with the person calling my name. I fell into Art and Science, and always kept my nose in a book. I avoided most people like the plague. When I joined the marching band I wore long jackets even in the summer and did my best to ignore the jokes about me being shy, but for the first time in a long time I wasn’t invisible and I wasn’t nameless.

I wasn’t “Vanessa” anymore, I wasn’t the bullied and disgusting child of a single-parent officer. I clung to being “Van.” “Van” was the introverted Artist who hand-made t-shirts for several of her fellow marching band members, and who thrived in studying Marine Biology and Criminal Sciences. I cut my hair and dyed it bright colors. I played soccer in short shorts. I free dived the local haunts in brightly colored bathing suits, and learned to connect to my peers. I got piercings up both of my ears and a tattoo on my back. I stopped wearing clothing to hide within. I grew to trust and love a very small group of people that, to this day – even though I’ve hardly spoken to any of them in years – I still consider my family. “Van” was the antithesis to “Vanessa.” Where “Vanessa” was reclusive, anti-social, and forced to grow up fast, “Van” was vivacious, carefree, and youthful.

Just before my 19th Birthday I met M. Tall, dark, handsome, though 10 years my senior; everything a budding idiot of a young woman would look for in a man – minus the obvious red-flags of him being not-so-separated from his soon-to-be-ex-significant-other and going thru a messy divorce. I saw a man, deliciously off limits, and he saw a young woman unclaimed by any other. When we eventually came together he panted into the naked dip between my shoulders, and between his ragged breaths on the precipice of a climax, the name “Vanessa” – for the first time in years – didn’t make me flinch or shy away.

When I joined the military midway through my first year in college, I was only identified by my last name, as it was barked at me for eight weeks in Boot, and then used as the only true thing that I owned without cost, once I was sent to my duty stations. It was tacked onto my MOS and Rank each time I was reassigned or given a new task. It was efficient, neutral, and impersonal. I grew to be the same. My shipmates called me by rank in the office, and “Van” on shore leave.

Years after; after M’s successful divorce, a couple more of my birthdays, and a few new duty stations, I began to better understand who I was as “Van.” I cultivated myself and thought for sure that this is who I was meant to be, and that I was with the person that I was supposed to be with. I soon learned otherwise. M was man with the world at his feet, divorced, with a young virile military girlfriend, he could do anything his heart desired. He ended up desiring all options that were the opposite of my own. So, true to my name, I tempered the steel within me; handed him back the $10,000 engagement ring he had placed on my finger; and told him “I love you, but now I know that love – sometimes – isn’t enough;” and we separated.

When I die, let the sharks come 'round to feed; When I die, set me free…

When I was honorably discharged from the military I was left adrift to deal with my PTSD and clinical depression. No one called me by my last name anymore. I was a civilian now. I did my best to stay “Van” in all the ways that mattered. I clung to my confidence, my intelligence, my MOS skillset; but I was also now blunt, with a dark sense of humor, and didn’t associate well with people my own age. I was standoffish and curt, expecting the same manner of respect and accountability from my new civilian peers as I had grown accustomed to while in the service. I started asking people to simply call me “V.”

“It’s just easier,” I’d tell people with a smile, but the truth was that I didn’t know who I was anymore.

When I met S, I was still “V.” I was mysterious and adventurous. I was a vixen, a one night stand, a pirate queen who left a trail of broken hearts behind her, a woman out to see the world and maybe watch it burn. I was fun and brutal in equal measures. The military made me sharp, and S was more than rough around the edges. We fell for each other faster that might have been wise, took to one another like melodramatic lovers always do. There was carnal passion and dangerous motorcycle rides down highways at 3AM. There were nights when we wouldn’t speak at all, and it didn’t matter that I didn’t want to have a name, or that his name was all that I would whisper or scream for hours. There were risks of getting caught, of getting pregnant, of getting too attached. There were days when all we would do was talk, and yet for all of our words we would talk about nothing at all. There were days when I knew that I had fallen in love, and nights when I had convinced myself that I didn’t deserve a single bit of it.

When you don’t have a name and don’t care who you’re becoming; it doesn’t matter what happens next. So one day, I left. I made the excuse that I had been offered a job somewhere across the country, that I was going on a vacation, that I was interning with a university out in the desert. It didn’t matter what I said. I was already gone. Lying to myself about why I was cutting the strings became easier the further away I got. Years later, S and I ran into one another; and he fervently admitted that he had been in love with me and had been too stupid to say it. I admitted that I had felt much the same, but had been too broken to allow myself to believe it.

When I die, let the flames devour me; When I die, set me free…

I rounded out many of the sharp edges that the military had left me with by moving back home. I had found employment in the civilian sector that matched closely with my MOS in the military, and I had begun to try and make friends on my off days. Mostly, I spent my free-time outside. I’d kayak or free dive the freshwater rivers in my home region, hike the beach trails or brush-land. I’d camp on the beach some nights or lay in a hammock in the dark of the pinewood on others. My time in the isolation of wilderness taught me how to sit still with my own darkness, and I believed that I would be mentally equipped to handle it.

Then, I stopped looking for myself in nature and started dating. I felt that I was ready. Tough girls move forward, right? That’s how I met J: completely by accident. A friend of my brother’s from the same high school – we had crossed paths more than a few times; with him a football star and me Second Chair in marching band. He called me “Van” and it didn’t strike me as odd, knowing that he knew me from before; when being “Van” meant more than being “V.” We connected, and did well for a time. He got a job as a Deputy and I as a Dispatcher. Things seemed like they were beginning to align. I thought my future was in sight. He said my name with pride and affection when he introduced me to his parents. He breathed life back into the part of me that was both “Van” and “’Ness” and “Vanessa” in equal measures, fixing me with slivers of adoration, challenge, pride, hope, adventure, and affection. We had many of the same interests, he never once stopped showering me in affection, and J could make me feel like the most treasured woman in the room with nothing more than a wink.

Moving in together with his brother and brother’s girlfriend is what killed all of the fragile progress that had been made. I came home from a twelve hour shift one afternoon to his brother’s girlfriend screaming obscenities. I didn’t clean enough. I didn’t follow her rules enough. I wasn’t present enough, or friendly enough. I was too young at the time to understand that she was unhappy with more than just herself, that there were things going on in her life that had nothing to do with me; but all I heard was: “Vanessa” wasn’t good enough to be part of “this family” anymore. They didn’t want anything to do with “Van.” I fell apart, and I was too broken to accurately convey to J what her statements had done to me mentally, what his brother’s silence in the face of those blatantly vindictive statement had done to me. I wasn’t able to convey all of the damage that I believed was irrevocably done.

I closed in on myself and became “V” again. If they didn’t want “Van,” or “’Ness,” or “Vanessa” in their picture-perfect ideations of the familial future, then I’d do them all a favor and leave. So I ended it. Moved into my own place. Started over. “V” didn’t care if she left another broken heart to the surf; didn’t care if starting over caused more harm than good. “Van” began to have the same connotations as “Vanessa.” I was running out of nicknames and letters to remove from my name; as if parceling out portions of my appellation would allow me the illusion that I was – somehow – keeping it all together. I gathered what I had left of myself and pushed forward. If nothing else, I was ‘always tough on the inside,’ right?

When I die, throw my ashes to the breeze; When I die, scatter me…

Later, I met my ex-husband D, an Air Force veteran, and each step in our post-military journey together unknowingly brought us closer to our unavoidable divorce. We both had scars that weren’t truly healing over, and we both had been losing ourselves to our own different demons for years before we met. We both wanted a distraction, someone to fall into on the weekends. He didn’t mind that I wasn’t looking for more than a dalliance, and I was secure in the knowledge that I could use him to chase away the solitude while maintaining my independence. By the time we realized that we were mired in one another it was almost a surprise for both of us to find that our demons played well together. Everything seemed fine, until it wasn’t.

We were always on the move. Influenced by work or family or our own personal goals; we would set out to each new place with hope in our hearts and dreams of bright futures in our minds. We’d drag each other along with us; happy to be in the orbit of the other even if it meant more change. Florida, Georgia, Tennessee. Kentucky, Michigan, Colorado…Each move was a fresh start, right? Each move was a learning opportunity, an adventure, a chance to explore instead of putting down deep roots…

I cannot speak on his behalf, but in my reality, each move brought a new job that I needed to train for, understand, and master; with new titles that I needed to be worthy of, and new responsibilities that I needed to fulfill. Each new apartment complex would be a new contract and a new name that someone would call me by; “206B,” “Mrs. Vanessa,” “Miss Van,” or some hybrid combination of both my and his last name.

By Colorado we no longer wanted the same thing. I hated being “Mrs. Vanessa,” or some last name sphinx-crossbreed. “Mrs. Vanessa” had suddenly become a weekend step-mother to two young boys who neither wanted me or needed me in their lives; and was now the wife of a man who didn’t know what he wanted out of a career or a marriage. “Mrs. Vanessa” found herself far from any semblance of a home, in a relationship that was coming undone at the very seams.

D moved back to his childhood home in Michigan, and I stayed in Colorado. Alone. We were separated for several weeks; trying to figure out how to salvage what we had attempted to build together. Demons play well together until, unsurprisingly, they don’t. The time that we spent separated outnumbered the time that we had been factually married. The distance allowed us to say all of the things that we otherwise wouldn’t have said to each other’s faces. Full disclosure and transparency came at the cost of long distance calls and aggravated re-dials. We yelled. We cried. We drew the venom out of the wounds we’d inflicted upon each other and finally relented. We didn’t attempt marriage counseling.

When the years have torn me apart; Just Let me be…

In an attempt to patch the internal damage, I made friends outside of my job. We started game nights, hosted pot-lucks, explored Colorado, and I was able to truly find kinship in one of my new friends. A fellow Gemini, Air sign, military veteran, person who had lost their path but had managed to find their way. I connected with them, trusted them, and turned to them when I knew that the floundering of my marriage was inevitability going to result in failure. I was branching out, I told myself. It was healthy to make friends and not let myself wallow in the fact that I had failed at being a wife. I buckled down and filed for divorce. “Tough on the inside,” I reminded myself. Always. Tough. On. The. Inside.

Failure makes us vulnerable, and vulnerability leads to poor decisions. On New Year’s Eve in Colorado, leaning on the trust of friendship and the influence of alcohol, I was sexually assaulted by the very friend that I had turned to for support during my divorce. He called me “Vanessa.”

God, I hate that name.

I adopted a cat to quell the gathering dejection, violation, betrayal; the over-abundance of feeling everything and nothing at all, and requested an inter-agency job transfer out of state. I landed in Kansas. The divorce was finalized less than four months from the day I married my ex-husband. I was a newly-wed in August and a Divorcee in December. I forced myself forward and turned over a new page in January of that following year. ToughOnTheInsideGodDammit.

All the world is dark, and I've looked as far as I can see…

This time, I did not seek out friends outside of my job. I kept my relationships professional. I was more willing to hang out with someone from the office in a neutral setting, but would stay home elsewise. I stopped responding to the name “Vanessa” entirely.

Loneliness also makes us vulnerable, but in a different way; and that same vulnerability leads us to do one of two things: Cloister ourselves away and never interact with people again, or Muster up enough courage to try new things. I chose Option #2: I joined some dating websites. I met men and women alike, and I began to grow more confident in my skin. I was “Van” again and I liked who I was becoming. I was independent and I wasn’t allowing myself to crumble beneath the weight of everything that I had been through. As my namesake, I was determined to be tough on the inside.

Being strong and independent and courageous led me to J. He didn’t mind that I was imperfect, didn’t balk at my scars or my demons, and didn’t shy away from my past. J had a past of his own, had made mistakes of his own, had a life of lessons learned and adventures had of his own; so it didn’t seem so scary to open myself up again. To be someone more than “V.” He promised the world; a future with deep seated roots, the dream of a home, a family. I believed him. Like an idiot, I believed him. We married. We vowed to cleave to one another alone, to put each other before ourselves, to love each other unconditionally; to battle the world together. We swore to cherish and adore one another, to build a life together and never take each other for granted.

I try. I try so fucking hard. When I feel ignored, I buckle down and swallow it. When I feel stressed I keep it in to prevent stressing him out more than he claims he already is.

He calls me “Beautiful” and “The Best Thing to Ever Happen to Him,” but follows these hollow words with casual indifference and gentle disregard. He doesn’t abuse me, but he doesn’t cherish me either. He speaks of me with pride when he talks to his family; but does not stand up for or defend me when his Step-Mother disparages me and belittles my actions. “Babe,” he calls me “This is just how she is with everyone. You’re Amazing.” I am supposed to be content with that. I am supposed to be content with sitting in silence, hailed as “amazing,” or “beautiful,” or “the best.” Hollow words echo in silence. Distort. Sound false. Do not bear weight in their worthlessness.

I realize that I don’t even know the last time he has called me by name and meant it…Maybe it was the day we got married. Maybe it was the day he proposed. Maybe it was our second date...

I try harder. When I feel neglected I go out of my way to do things for him that would please him; I cook his favorite meals, I wear alluring lingerie, I clean the entire house and make sure that he doesn’t have to lift a finger after work. When all else fails I reach out to his best friend to ask for advice on what I can do to make things easier, better, for my husband. I set aside my own embarrassment at having to ask for insight from someone else, instead of getting the answers from my own husband’s mouth, as to why he doesn’t seem to want me anymore. “It’s not you, Babe,” he says. It’s difficult to stay tough on the inside when “It’s not you,” echoes hollow and sounds more like “I don’t have a reason.”

When we disagree, he calls me by my full name, tacking on his last name at the end, as if in joking-jest; as if calling me anything other than some form of dead endearment will lend seriousness to his statements. “I promise,” he says. “I love you,” he says. I am not angry that his words hold no meaning or value anymore. I am just angry that I can no longer trust anything he says. I am angry that more often than not there are no words at all, just furious silence.

When I die, just let me be…

I am angry that I have allowed myself to become this nameless, hopeless, loveless thing. I am not even “V,” at this point. I don’t even know who I am anymore.

The wife I have become is a meaningless thing. What communication can be had between a wife who tries best to express her feelings and desires to a husband who reacts with anger and frustration when faced with the truth? What future can be had when a husband will not be intimate with his wife? What value do a husband’s words have when each promise is broken, when there is no follow-through on simple tasks of keeping a home, fostering a relationship, or growing a friendship?

“Nessa” and “Vanessa-Anne” in equal measures, had been emotionally bruised by the divorce of her parents; learning early in life that sometimes letting go is the best option. “Vanessa” was poisoned by the realization that your name means nothing to those who take one look at you and refuse to learn who you truly are on the inside. Both “Van” and “’Ness” learned the fragile existence of friendship, and the aching stab of loneliness that comes after you open your heart to a select few only to grow apart from them for no other reason than life gets in the way. “Van” was sullied by the painful growth out of adolescence and the realization that love just isn’t enough. “V” was grown in cynicism, the desperate child of PTSD and depression, and knew the devastation and loss that comes with refusing to make bonds with other human beings.

When I die, let the wolves enjoy my bones; When I die, just let me go…

So who am I now? I’m not even sure the wolves would know.

Daylight is waiting for you…

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“Who Am I?” by Vann Fenrirs Volchitsa, Author

“Wolves” by Down Like Silver, Lyrics