Guinevere Gets Sober

Recovery news, reviews and stories, by Jennifer Matesa.

Tag: love (page 1 of 3)

Hands, Soul, And The Crack In Everything.

10549239_10152550776686294_6147847402594738341_o

In the front window of Clay Yoga, Pittsburgh.

This is a long post, a good one for Thanksgiving week, so if you walk through it, thank you. Today my friend Jenn, who shares her wisdom about yoga and recovery in my book, has seven years sober. On Facebook she posted a beautiful meditation about what her sobriety means. I hope you read it: click here. She unabashedly talks about her soul, about bringing the life of her soul to bear in the world to help bring about peace. About giving to other people.

I’ve spent so much time in these past 7 years thinking about what I need to do to be fulfilled (whether it’s material or psychological) that at times I have forgotten that I am an integral piece to the universe – that my existence matters greatly. I have a lot to give by just being around. Whether it’s showing up to a meeting just to be there for another addict/alcoholic, giving tzedakah, all of which nourish my soul.

People are scared of the word “soul.” Just writing the word “soul” kind of flips my stomach. What does it mean, “soul”? If we don’t know what it means, maybe it’s threatening. Maybe it’s sentimental, anti-intellectual, reductive, essentialist. Maybe it doesn’t really exist. If it doesn’t exist, and I talk about it and act like it’s real, I’ll look like an idiot. No, I’ll BE an idiot.

But Jenn writes about her soul without fear. (So does Leonard Cohen, see below.)

I want this.

//

The thing is, connections happen that I can’t control. I met Jenn six years ago by chance, at a meeting I’d never been to and to which I’ve never gone since. (“I totally remember that,” Jenn said this morning. “You rode your bike.”) I had a few months, and later I stole a Vicodin and ate it, and Jenn just kept showing up in my life, and there were things about her that were irresistible to me. The beauty of her face, for one. The way something inside her would light up that beauty and shine its brightness into the darkness of—

Yeah, my soul.

It made me want to stop patching up all my cracks with drugs and let the light in.

Jenn and Olliver

Jenn and Cara’s daughter. Just lookit them. (via Instagram @blackcatcara)

She talks about that in her post—what lights her fire. It’s sharing with other people. Jenn has a gabillion friends online and In Real Life because people are just drawn to her openness. She LIKES to talk to people. “I’m good at it,” she once told me. She can cold-call anyone, from famous researchers and politicians to people in halfway houses, where she donates time teaching yoga to give “tzedakah,” the Hebrew word for “charity.”

She knows who she is and she’s not afraid of that. For people like us, that’s what seven years sober brings.

//

Another person that keeps showing up in my life is Sadie. That’s not her real name. Sadie is a self-described pothead who has trouble staying away from weed. A while ago she found my blog and started writing to me. A few months into our on-and-off correspondence, she found the wherewithal to quit her 30-year every-day pot habit for the first time.

She wanted to pay me. She was like, You and your blog helped me quit pot. You should be compensated for this.

I was like, I don’t take money for this blog. This is just me giving back what people who love me gave to me.

A few months after that exchange I found a Facebook message from Sadie with a link to a fancy shoe-shop that I love. For a gift certificate.

Shoes — a gift from Sadie.

Shoes — a gift from Sadie.

I was tempted not to accept it. It activated all the bullshit from my childhood about how I don’t “deserve” generosity, about how “it’s better to give than to receive.” We had money—my dad worked as a research engineer for a Fortune 500 corporation—but my mother held the purse-strings tightly and all of us always felt poor. All three of us kids—we all have trouble accepting other people’s generosity.

Sometimes life isn’t so clear. I went to my sponsor, who hesitated for a moment. Then she said, “Your problem is that you can’t accept goodness in your life. She’s trying to be generous. Why don’t you try accepting this?”

So I wrote Sadie a note of Thanksgiving.

I don’t know what to say, except thank you… And that it’s folks like you, who have the courage to be real and to walk through their fear in order to have honest conversations, who make what I do worthwhile. I guess I’d also like to say that this act of yours is a real challenge to me… I have a way of thinking that what I do isn’t of any real value and that it’s not worthy of material consideration. This is a lesson I need to learn, and I’m glad you’re one of those who are teaching me.

She wrote back that since she’d quit pot she’d gotten two bonuses and a promotion, and had been recruited to the board of a local charity. She wrote,

These are accomplishments a 30+ year pothead never expected.

I bought a couple pairs of shoes and sent Sadie photos and more thank-you notes. Every time I put the shoes on, I thought of her. A few months went by. Then about a month ago she wrote again:

i’ve resumed my shitty habits and am not feeling too bright or proud. I suck at letting anyone help me. Really bad. But I don’t regret trying to crack this open. And I don’t think I’ve given up entirely.

“Crack this open.” Letting the light in.

I wrote back and told her about the people I met online who walked with me, who wrote to me every day, multiple times a day, some of whom I’ve never met in person. Danielle. Tom. Janice. And I told her it has been important for me to heal from trauma in order to stay in recovery.

I knew when I was writing that sentence—heal from trauma—that it was going to grab her. Because this is a woman with a lot of hurt in her history. It makes her feel Permanently Fucked-Up, Defective, Useless.

She wrote back—first when she was stoned; then, after she’d come down, she wrote that she has been smoking weed to build a wall around her permanently fucked-up self.

Sadie has cracks all over the place. She’s working overtime with the pot to patch it all up. It’s exhausting work, and there’s not enough pot in the world to finish it.

//

Jenn wrote this morning:

Before sobriety, I did not believe that I was able to be loved, that I was worth loving. It has only been in sobriety that I’ve been able to tap into these with such a depth of understanding. And the beauty is…we’re still on this journey. Every day is a new day.

Sometimes she loses sight of her commitment to eat nourishing food, to stay physically and mentally fit, to bring up “noble children” to foster the welfare of all life on earth. To lead “a life of understanding, loyalty, unity and companionship not only for ourselves but also for the peace of the universe.”

Fucking HUGE ideas there. Jenn thinks big and I think she knows it. Part of recovery is accepting that these big commitments are good to work toward and also unattainable 24/7. We do our best. And the thing that allows us to accept our limitations is learning we’re lovable.

Let me just reiterate—Jenn wrote this morning: 

Before sobriety, I did not believe I was worth loving.

Sadie wrote this morning:

You continue not to write me off no matter how much I deserve it.

Sadie doesn’t believe she deserves anyone’s care, including her own. Yeah—I was in this place when I met Jenn six years ago, and the love and just pure willingness to connect shone out of her face, and it was irresistible and I began to look for it in other people. And I found it.

I want to tell Sadie that there are people—if she looks for them—who will love her unconditionally, who will look her in the eyes and turn that bright klieg light of love on her face, but I can’t tell her that because she won’t believe me. Hell, I wouldn’t have believed that when I was still using. I was patching up the cracks with drugs, it was very dark inside, I wanted it that way. I Would Not Let The Light In.

Instead I try to put the klieg light into words. I try to shine some of the light Jenn and so many other people have shone into me.

I wrote Sadie this morning:

i mean quitting pot is your decision. i don’t care whether you continue to use pot or not. i have no investment in it. but i do care about whether you’re suffering, and it seems that you continue to suffer, and that pot is a somewhat useful but impermanent and incomplete system of managing that suffering. not that spiritual and physical fitness are permanent. they aren’t—i have to keep working at both of them. but they are complete, or much more far-ranging than drugs (for me), and they never run out. they also let me connect to my fellow human beings, which, as you see from your last two messages, drugs prevent us from doing. addiction isolates me and i’m sick of isolating myself. it’s a kind of self-punishment and i’ve experienced enough real love that i want more of that rather than more drugs.

I can’t be Jenn for Sadie because I can’t see her. I can’t hold her hand. Holding hands is such a powerful act of connection and healing. Do you know how many nerve endings are in our hands?—2,500 nerve receptors per square centimeter. Hands contain some of the body’s densest areas of sensation. When we touch each other’s hands it sets off an electrical and chemical storm of affection, care, protection, safety. Love.

I can’t hold Sadie’s hand. But I can give her what Janice, Danielle, Tom gave me. If I keep writing, she might find someone’s hands In Real Life.

Dogs Smile, And We Smile Back.

Goes to show that homo sapiens and canis lupus familiaris evolved together.

Our bodies respond to them.

Flo loves Jess, and Jess loves Flo back. (Can you guess which one is Jess and which is Flo?)

Flo loves Jess, and Jess loves Flo back. (Can you guess which one is Jess and which is Flo?)

If you knew me, you’d know how odd it is that I own a dog. I always had cats—all my life, since I was a kid, I’ve owned cats. I’ve had some awesome specimens of felix domesticus. My girl Sully was a loyal orange tabby rescued in the countryside, and she lived 19 years.

Sully would sometimes sleep beside me, and she purred—purring is a fantastic feature of felix. 

But for as much as we loved each other, Sully never, ever smiled at me.

[For Jill at A Thousand Shades of Gray, in honor of the season of Puppy Advent.]

Self-Compassion: Hurting The Ones We Love.

Cross-posted with Recovering The Body.

Today I have a guest-post about self-compassion running on Jill Salahub’s very cool site, A Thousand Shades of Gray. I love following Jill everywhere—on Facebook, in her emails that arrive so often. Jill is a sister on the trail of questions we’re asking together. Thanks for including my work in this wonderful group of essays you’re collecting.

//

One lesson I’ve learned this year: hurting people I love is inescapable. Unless I decide not to have relationships.

I really don’t see myself as a hermit.

I’ve hurt a few people I love recently. Earlier this year I committed series of acts that gave another person tremendous feelings of hurt. Just yesterday I found out from one of my best friends that I’ve been saying some things that I had no idea were hurting her.

//

The first hurt is an example of making choices in the service of myself, my own best interests, that just happened to hurt another person. I knew they were going to hurt this person. I avoided taking the actions because I knew it would cause great pain. Day by day, if I were going to stay sober, I had to take the actions, and I was appalled to watch the pain happening, like waves rolling into the shore.

For some weeks I sat at the window watching the waves rolling by, my heart squeezing in empathy and doubt.

I second- (and third-, and fourth-) guessed myself. I didn’t turn back.

//

In the second example, I found out I’d hurt my friend yesterday only because I’d taken the risk of telling her something she’d said just that minute that had hurt me.

Her hurtful speech had occurred in conversation yesterday. But it turned out that, when I rolled over and showed my belly (when I, in Brené Brown’s parlance that Oprah is now making universal, “became vulnerable”), she bared her teeth and let me know I’d been saying things that had hurt her feelings for a while. And then when I yelped in surprise and pain, she rolled over onto her back. And there we were, two puppies on our backs in the dirt, paws waving in the air, yelping our hurt.

After rolling back up onto our feet and talking about it, we were able to chase each other and play again, as our dogs do on our morning walks.

My friend's yellow lab, and my black mutt.

My friend’s yellow lab, and my black mutt.

“I’m being vulnerable here!” I said. “I have to practice what I read about!! I can’t just read it and not DO IT, right?”

(You’re such a loudmouth, my mind says.)

“If we can’t tell each other these things,” she said, “who can we tell?” A space in my chest opened in gratitude for a friend who is willing to engage in honest conflict. Not many are.

Our dogs are good friends.

Still, I walked away yesterday morning with my throat choked up. Interesting that it was my throat. Was my body trying to squeeze the words I’d said back inside me? Trying to keep myself from ever speaking again?

Or was it just that the throat is the locus of the voice, and this is where the hurts had occurred—with our voices?

//

I’m learning that the body and mind are in conversation. They’re one, they’re intertwined somehow, and I’m beginning to think that the way they’re intertwined is through this conversation, a kind of discourse. What kind of discourse is it? How is it conducted? These are some of the questions I’ve been asking lately.

The mind tries to force the body to walk away calmly and get on with the day. The body is able to cooperate only so far before rebelling with some action: butterflies in the stomach; pain in the head; fatigue in the flesh. Choking in the throat.

When the mind ignores these statements by the body and tries to push the body through, the body protests in a louder voice. Nausea, inability to eat; cluster headache, chronic daily headache, migraine; chronic fatigue syndrome. An inability to speak up, a silencing of the body’s voice in critical situations. Such as true relationship.

Craving to drink, smoke, use something.

So the mind and body engage in a struggle for domination.

Dr. Sally Gadow, a Ph.D. nurse and leading scholar in health care ethics and the phenomenology of the body, writes about this struggle in a fascinating paper, “Body and Self: A Dialectic.” This paper itself (my friend pointed out yesterday) is an academic paper, so its expression is in the language of the mind, the intellect, and Gadow herself offers this caveat inside the paper. But I think what Gadow enacts in it is an effort to respect and give voice to the body.

To report from the body, which has long been one of my projects.

The struggle for domination is the second of four levels of development Gadow says have to take place if the body and mind are to transcend their “dualism,” their two-ness, and begin to work together as one to express each other’s interests. In this second level, “the two are not only distinct but opposed—each alternately master and slave.”

The second stage describes addiction.

The transcendence describes sobriety. Freedom from slavery.

Ginny-Flo03

//

Yesterday, driving home with my throat choked up, I thought about self-compassion. My mother trained me early to feel compassion for the pain of others. Hurting someone else without knowing it is one of my worst fears in sobriety. I used to numb this fear, as well as the reality that I’d hurt other people, with drugs.

“How will I know I’ve hurt you if you don’t tell me?” I asked my friend.

“You’re right,” she said.

The question underneath the choking is, Does my friend really love me?

My dog Flo kissing my friend's husband.

My dog Flo kissing my friend’s husband.

Doubt rises up. If you’re going to get her to love you, my mind tells my body, you have to fucking SHUT UP.

(And stop swearing so much!! She said I swear too much.)

But anyone who knows me know my language can be strong, fierce. Is it just who I am?

To make things right, I know I have to change my behavior. But do I need to change myself?

Do I need to change to be loved?—an old, old compulsion.

Blowing Up Midtown.

I wend my way down Third Avenue away from the Lex Ave subway stop (I call them “stops,” not “stations,” because that’s what I’ve trained myself to call them—I learned to ride the Tube in London and native Londoners on the street laugh at me when I ask where the nearest Tube “station” is—It’s a stop, innit? This is how afraid I am of being laughed at: I change my language, change my shorts, change my shirt, change my life, as Tom Waits sings, so that I can avoid even minor disapproval) and toward the midtown offices of this famous treatment center whose headquarters are in my state but which also maintains a location here. I wonder what it looks like.

It’s small. It’s narrow. It’s a little glass door sandwiched between skyscrapers in the tall steelconcrete windtunnel that is Midtown.

Caron, midtown.

Caron, midtown.

The meeting is downstairs. It’s big. Lots of people, it turns out, are “family and friends” of alcoholics and addicts in this town. I arrive five minutes late because the train was running late, I’m not used to building in time for the constant subway delays in this city, actually I’m not used to building in time for any malfunction ever, I always expect myself to be running at top speed in perfect condition, nuts tightened, pump primed, engine lubed and idling, ready to go. That perfectionism, in fact, is one reason I’m here, sitting at the back of this meeting, digging my knitting out of my bag and listening to the speaker give a “qualification.”

This is a meeting whose weekly theme is “intimacy.”

The speaker talks, to my great surprise, about sex.

No one at any meetings in my town talks about sex.

But sex, sober sex, truthful sex, Real Sex, is so important and so critical to this process they call “recovery.” Why doesn’t anyone ever talk about sex? I wonder to myself. The answer is obvious: people are embarrassed to be open about their sexual “issues” in what used, in my parents’ cocktail era, to be called “mixed company.”

But I need to know what sober sex means. Honest sex.

What does it mean? What does it look like?

(My sponsor says: Making love doesn’t always have to mean sex. It can be other things.)

The speaker makes an analogy that sounds crazy and gross but is actually, upon second thought, fairly sane: this person wants a relationship that’s so intimate that it looks the way primates look when they’re grooming each other, weeding through each other’s hair and cleaning each other down.

stock-footage-cu-monkeys-grooming-each-other-at-the-monkey-temple-in-kathmandu-nepal

Total acceptance.

We’re primates, aren’t we? I think. Don’t we have this instinct somewhere in our DNA, this need to be so accepted and cared for not just by ourselves but by someone else as well?

//

I raise my hand. I talk about sex. I cry afterward, unwillingly. I don’t take long to talk, the “spiritual timekeeper” doesn’t even signal me to shut up, but I feel stupid, like a stupid freak as I root my Kleenex out of my bag and blow my nose. I’m the only one crying—at least, I think so.

Stupid freak. This is the language that my mind uses to address myself when I talk about dangerous subjects, the language that is second-nature and feels comfortable, like a threadbare flannel shirt. It’s garbage but it keeps off the draft.

I’ve been thinking about language all day. I’ve spent the day writing for an editor I like, a guy in this city in fact. But I also, paradoxically, found myself going to Mass. I’d gone to another meeting at a church, it happened to be the holiday they call (I used to call) Holy Week, I’d gone inside the cool stone nave to be quiet and “maintain conscious contact,” and suddenly the priest showed up. He said Mass. And I knew all the responses. I spoke the language. It burbled out of some deep well inside me that I thought I’d banged the cover on long ago. I am taken aback by some of the phrases. Particularly:

Lord, I am not worthy to receive you
But only say the word and I shall be healed

I shall be healed. Healed. Had I ever thought about that idea, that this “sacrament” could Heal Me? Not as such; I’d gone to church to please my parents, to look like a Good Girl, to maintain appearances, keep the varnish bright, and to somehow Meet God in “God’s house”—my mother’s term for church. I’d memorized the responses to the Mass the way I memorized my “times tables” in fourth grade; later all this memorization helped me commit calculus to short-term memory, and the Prologue to The Canterbury Tales to long-term memory, in Middle English, with spelling, and accent:

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote
The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote
And bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour …

Aprille. It’s April already. I’m ahead in getting my taxes done but already behind in so many other things. In Work. In Money. In Appearances. In Sex. In Life.

//

After the meeting I thank the speaker. Women and men alike express appreciation for my “share.” A guy tells me not to feel alone, that what I said about sexuality is probably a lot more common than I think. I nod my head and thank him and climb the stairs to the lobby.

I ask the woman behind the desk if Dr. Paul works here.

Paul Hokemeyer, MD, JD, clinical consultant to Caron Treatment Centers, NYC.

Paul Hokemeyer, MD, JD, clinical consultant to Caron Treatment Centers, NYC.

 

She regards me with a patient smile usually reserved for very young children. “He’s not here right now,” she says kindly, checking her watch—it’s 8:30 p.m.—“he’s left for the day.” Of course, I say; I just wondered; I’ve talked with him several times over the phone; I’m a journalist and sober blogger and I’d just wondered if these were his offices. I’m rambling a bit. I’m out of business cards; I don’t take myself seriously enough. I’m looking around at the lobby. People routinely do business over distances these days but something in me likes to place people, place faces, I’ve got quite an earthbound mind, I like to look into people’s eyes, I’m an artist

I paint portraits.

I paint portraits.

but I also wind up defending myself in situations where I needn’t. Why explain myself with the receptionist?

(because i explain defend myself with everyone)

Isn’t it time to open up a bit? to trust? … I think back to the interview I held with the Famous Author the day before. I was showing him my paintings on my new iPad; I felt as though I was not supposed to be showing him art on a fancy expensive consumerist design tool, I could hear the voice of my mother

(goddammit, who the hell do you think you are?)

but I showed him anyway; he said he recognized one of the paintings from my blog.

You read my blog? I asked.

I told you I read your blog,

he said.

I didn’t believe you, I blurted, placing my fingertips on his arm. He regarded me with slight reproach. He’d guessed my age as younger than his, though in fact I’m six or eight years his elder.

I try to live a life of rigorous honesty these days, my friend,

he said.

//

Bloomingdales_flags

Wind whipping Bloomingdale’s flags. Photo by Woody Campbell.

I walk out of the Midtown treatment center offices. The wind through Bloomindale’s flags has built to tornado force. I mechanically scan the sliver of sky for tornadoes, but of course they never experience cyclones here. I’m blowing up Third Avenue in Midtown. I’m steadying myself to keep from pitching over when a hand touches my left shoulder. I turn; it’s a woman from the meeting where they talked about sex. She asks the name of my blog. She has heard me speaking with the receptionist, saying I’m a sober blogger. She plugs the name of my blog into her smartphone and it comes up, smack, right there, in the wind, on the corner of 58th and 3rd, in Midtown.

She smiles and tells me this was her second meeting and she was glad to hear me speak. Both of her parents are addicts. Both of my parents were addicts, too, I say. She says her mother has just gotten out of rehab and her father is on methadone—not “really clean,” but still.

I tell her I’m glad they’re alive.

I touch her hand. People are so alone in this town—in this world—skin rarely touches skin. We’re evolved to receive these electric charges. We need them to power up.

She tells me that she’s been trying to change her attitude and give back to people by being a clown.

A clown? I say.

“I dress up as a clown,” she says, “and I meet people around town.”

Her face is beautiful—round cheeks, full lips, framed by dark curls.

Actually, I remember, all faces hold beauty—experiencing it requires deep looking.

A witness.

Pack Animals.

In the process of getting rid of stuff. Cleaning out drawers, collecting bags of trash. Things I once valued are now discarded. Things I once used, or thought I could use but never did and saved for years in hopes I might one day use them—or simply because they are beautiful—I now give away to people in my life who I think might like them.

I’ve found some journals I thought I’d lost. Not that I’ve inventoried every journal I’ve ever kept. I have journals going back to age 10, 38 years ago. When I teach journal workshops I sometimes haul cartons of them in, to impress upon students the sheer quantity of material a life can produce.

But this one journal, a small Italian-made book bound in fake red leather, I thought was gone forever. It has some important stuff in it. I started it at the beginning of 2000 and wrote till my mother’s birthday on April 19. Then, in grief (she had died less than a year before, at 58), in despair about my craving for painkillers, and in confusion about whether to have another child (I didn’t want to and felt guilty about not wanting to), I stopped journaling in that book.

But a few pages later I began a record of the eccentric utterances of a 3-year old boy, and that of his “cousin-twin,” a little girl just five days younger than he.

“Laura,” I asked my 3-year-old niece at a nighttime bonfire at my brother’s land in the country, “do you see the stars?” The Milky Way spread its veil above us and the mound of orange logs threw sparks into the night air.

“No, Aunt G,” she said, “I see FIRE BEES!”

Fire bees. These are the moments that infuse the language of family and friendship, the poetics of connection. When I look into her 15-year-old face I see traces of myself—dark eyes tilted upward at the outer corners, dark hair, high cheekbones, olive skin, even little dimples on the septums of our noses that no one else in the family has but us two. And she sees herself when she looks at me. It’s comforting: “I look like her.” I put a photo of us on Facebook and people wrote in: “Uncanny.” Physical, emotional, even intellectual and linguistic resemblances make up the net that holds us together. We might find these resemblances and resonances in blood ties, and we might find them in kindred spirits.

“I remember walking up the hill and seeing the light of the fire,” she tells me on the phone today. We call, we text. She sends me photos of herself before and after (“My new hair! xoxo”) cutting eight inches off her long brown locks. I tell her I will send her the scarf I bought for her the last time I was in New York. We hang up, and I leave her with a text:

You look beautiful, darling

It’s in her phone. So she can look at that idea over and over.

//

My son is in Colorado, skiing, but he is also here with me. (It’s a scientific fact that when a woman bears a child, she forever—FOREVER, till she dies, no joke—carries the microscopic vestiges of that child inside her body. Which is to say, cells from the child’s body continue to course throughout her blood and lymph and flesh, even her brain.) My phone buzzes:

We made it safely to Denver

I text back with photos of the dog.

My dog, Flo, 1 year old. She loves me unconditionally and gives me unlimited kisses.

My dog, Flo, 1 year old. She loves me unconditionally. We give each other unlimited kisses.

I run into his friends on the street, shoot a photo of their smiles, text it to him. From the mountains a text threads its way back to me:

Hahaha, fine young gentlemen

I know we’re close. I don’t need journals or texts to remind me. Why, then, do I page through these old conversations? 

Here is a story in the red journal: in 2002, when he was 4, I came home after his bedtime, having spent a late night judging a literary contest. I rarely missed putting him to bed (one of my signature “codependent” guilt-trips: I always needed to be the one who was “on”; Owl Babies was a book I frequently read to myself as much as to him). I crept into his room to kiss him goodnight, and he woke up. I wrote,

He wraps his arms around my neck and kisses my cheek three times, quick.

“You are back,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Can I have a cuddle?”

I bend down next to him.

“I knew you would be back in time,” he says.

“I always come back—and, you see? I always give you a kiss and a cuddle.”

He sighs. “You are so Mama-ish.”

“What does that mean—Mama-ish?”

“You sound like Mama. You smell like Mama,” he says, pressing his nose into my cheek.

We humans are pack animals. We’re driven to get next to each other; there’s something healing in hearing each other’s howls, in rolling in the texture and scent of each other’s skin the way animals do. We need each other. The trick for me is to accept that need, to allow myself to satisfy it, and even to enjoy it, without allowing it to overtake the rest of my life and make me sacrifice myself.

Older posts
Visit Us On FacebookVisit Us On Twitter