I have this gritty, old bull dyke as a sponsor.  She is a nasty mean bitch but she tells me what I need to hear without pulling any punches (sometimes literally).  At 2 am this morning I was on the verge of losing it, but I called her and woke her up instead.  Her words to me were:

"You ain't getting any sympathy from me, cherie.  Sympathy is for pussies.  All you're going to get from me is a swift kick and a reminder that no matter what your little princess ass is going through, you better get and keep an attitude of gratitude".

From a sobriety/sanity standpoint, she’s right.  I do need to stop obsessing on the black and at least try to see the grey.  My daughters deserve that even if I don’t.  From a human being standpoint, she is going to get her fat ass stomped into the ground the next time I see her.

The problem is that I don’t want to.  I find a kind of a sick comfort wishing I were dead with her.  Wishing that I could throw myself on her funeral pyre.  I mean how demented is it to get some happiness from pressing my face into dirty bed linen because it smells like somebody else? 

Where my head is at right now is self-destructive.  Right now, it’s just wishing, but it can become doing pretty easily.  During the day, I’ve got the girls with me to remind me why I am still here.  It’s now, in the middle of the dark night that I sit alone and think of how it would be to just say fuck it and join her.  Don’t worry, I am much too “dependable and reliable” to physically do anything, but I’m talking more about mental and emotional suicide. 

My Suzy would know what I’m talking about.  She’d have plopped down on my lap, hugged me tight, would have told me how to get past this, then all 4’11” of her would have threatened to stomp my butt for being a “freak’in asshat”.    

Anyways, back to gratitude. 

She once told me that if she were straight she'd be living in Kansas with Lefty McGee because she couldn't help but love somebody who could write poetry like he does.  She would have read this poem to me with tears in her eyes.

Words for Suzy

So do lesbian kisses taste different,
especially when flavored with laughter?
A man and a woman talking
about boy-cooties and girl-cooties

and laughing.
Knowing there is no such thing.
Cooties only come from hate
and hypocrisy.

Sharing a passion for words
and a passion for passion.
But let her be the vocal one, heart on display.
I’ll sit back and smile, the quiet one.

I still hear her voice
Unwavering and firm,
committed to what is right.
Energy bundled bright.

Love-hugs are not blind to desire.
My desire is for her to know that I care.
I’d love to take her into my arms
and whisper “I love you” into her hair.

But I can’t.
Not now.
I can only speak silently in my heart
and hope that she hears.

A few days ago Bill S wrote another poem.  I must have read it a couple of dozen times so far.  I keep going back to it because it "helps".  Thanks Bill.

See You On The Other Side