latest obsession

I’ve become quite obsessed with a recent case of a missing person by the name of Nick Steward. He disappeared on his way home from work on Friday, September 20th. There’s been absolutely no signs of his car, his cell phone, credit card use, etc since he told both his wife (of three years) and his parents that he was on his way home.

I think that was him saying Good-bye.

I think he’s gone of his own fruition.

Hopefully he didn’t kill himself, but, he’s got a one year old son at home so regardless if he killed himself or just took off, it’s bullshit on his part. Of course if something did happen, if he did meet foul play, if he did end up in some horrid accident, then I feel like an ass… but it was 5:30 in the afternoon on a Friday during rush hour near Chicago. Somebody would’ve seen something if foul play was involved.

I hate my obsession. I check the Facebook page multiple times a day. I found an online forum for folks to discuss missing person cases like this and, again, I check it multiple times a day. When I drive to and from work and Lovie’s school and home, I’m constantly looking for the dude’s car. It’s long gone, but that’s how freaking obsessed I am.

Of course all of this comes about when I’m reading Gone Girl, so that’s not helping my obsession.

But seriously, where the hell is this guy?

Advertisements

the interview

She sank into the depths of her memories and couldn’t stop the tears from raining down her face, her heart pulsating in her chest.

“I’m in the alley,” Marissa says. “On my way to school.”

Her heart starts beating faster and faster.

“I see something. A shadow,” she shrieks. “And now I can feel a pull on my arm!”

Tears start forming gray dots on her orange shirt.

“The grip on my arm gets tighter and tighter and soon I’m hauled into darkness.”

Marissa starts sobbing and trying to catch her breath.

“There’s a pull on my hair. My head is being snapped back.” Marissa moves her right hand to the back of her head atop her short hair. “He won’t let go of holding my hair and pulling my head back!”

She shakes her hand off of her head.

“I’m wearing a Hello Kitty dress. It’s my favorite, and it gets ripped off,” she says, tugging on her orange top. “And then I’m pushed onto the ground. It’s cold and kinda damp. And I feel his knees pin down my legs.”

Marissa jolts her body erect. Her eyes still closed, she places her elbows on her knees, fingers on her forehead as if to drum out a headache. Snot runs from her nose and adds to the discoloration of her orange shirt.

“I start screaming and crying louder and louder but nobody can hear, nobody can see what’s happening.”

Marissa starts rocking back and forth.

“The next thing I know,” she continued, dropping her hands into her lap and opening up her eyes for the first time since Dr. Axelrod started the session. “I’m alone—at least I think I’m alone,” she said to the cement floor. “—in this stinky, clammy darkness. I can feel my eyes trying to open and adjust to the darkness and that’s when I notice the thin yellow line to my right. I crawl toward it, every bit of me aching.”

Marissa grabs her stomach as she continues to rock.

“I realized the light was outside of the darkness. I was in a garage. The light was the alley. I tried lifting the garage door but… I just couldn’t.”

Marissa stops crying. She takes in a deep breath and wipes her face and nose with the tissues in her lap. Then with a deadpan look, she finds Dr. Axelrod’s eyes and says, “I was next door to the house I grew up in. I was nine years old. The fucker who raped me was never found, but I’m pretty sure it was my older brother’s best friend.”

“Did you tell anyone you thought it was the friend?”

“I didn’t know or think it was him until much later,” Marissa said, her lips forming a grin. “His best friend’s name was Stan.”

“Like your husband?”

Marissa smiles for the first time during the interview.

******************************************

always and forever

I stopped staying late at the office after the incident with Andrew. I knew I couldn’t trust myself.

Obviously.

Instead, I put all my energy where it should’ve been—my engagement with Jason. We spent the next several weekends scoping out venues, narrowing down choices, picking a date. But the fact is we still lacked any real physical intimacy and that bothered me. A lot.

What was I going to do? I was living in this tiny fucking apartment with Jason, whom I loved with all my heart, but he wouldn’t touch me.

Why was I just now letting this bother me? Our relationship was never very physical—ever—so why was it bothering me now? The idea of spending the rest of my life with someone who didn’t touch me is why. Hello, Karianne! Physical intimacy is important. It may not be everything, it may not be the end all to living the rainbow life, but it’s important.

I called up my best girlfriend who lived back home, fifteen hundred miles away, and told her what had happened. I told her about sleeping with Andrew, I told her about wanting to do it again, I told her about him being married with kids, I told her I was a slut and a home wrecker. I told her my life was fucked.

“What the hell are you gonna do?” Sharon chimed in when I finally stopped yammering.

“I have no idea.”

“You love Jason, right?”

“Ohmygod yes. Of course.”

“Can you live without sex?”

“I mean…” I pressed my fingers to my head in the hopes that it would prevent my head from pounding further. “Not forever.”

“Well, maybe you need to initiate more?”

“Sharon! I’ve tried. I’ve done so many different things. He’s been like this forever.”

Sharon didn’t say anything.

“Six years we’ve been together, Sharon. Six years.”

“I know. And I know you love him, but if it’s always been like this, what makes you think anything will change?”

 

****************************

 

Picture11-1

Karianne

Most everyone else was long gone when I went into Andrew’s office and just looked at him.

He sat at his desk with his back to the huge windows overlooking the streets 18 floors below. I could see my reflection in the window as well as the reflection of his spreadsheet on the computer screen. I just stood there leaning against the open door until he looked my way.

“What’s up?” Andrew finally said.

My eyes bored into him, telepathically telling him that this was it: I wanted him, he wanted me; he was to take me—right then and there.

It worked.

After a second of looking at me with a raised eyebrow, he stood up. A smirk washed over his face as he looked me up and down and saw that I was barefoot. No shoes, no stockings.

Soon he’d find out there was no panties.

Our eyes locked. I stepped forward, releasing the door so that it closed, but the door had failed to latch.

He moved in closer.

I just stared at him.

This was it. I could turn back. But I didn’t want to…did I?

What about Jason? What about him? What the fuck about him? It had been months since he last wanted sex. Months since he last made a move. And I was damn tired of being rejected. Fuck him because I was a maniac and I was about to fuck Andrew.

Andrew knew it, too. He pierced me with his eyes as he moved closer and closer to me. He put his hand behind my head and moved it closer to his. Our mouths met.

Finally.

I had never in my life kissed someone with such hunger.

There was no turning back.

Within a second, he had me up against the door which smacked shut. His hands were quickly discovering there were no panties to remove as he hoisted me up so that I could wrap my legs around him. He swung around carrying me to his desk, pushing away its contents as he sat me down.

“Take off your fuckin’ pants,” I begged.

***

It was near 10PM when I finally made my way home to the studio apartment on the third floor of a walkup building on the Lower East side of Manhattan that I shared with Jason. I felt so alive, yet so dirty. Sleeping with a boss wasn’t exactly something I had on my bucket list. Especially my married-with-kids boss. Yet, a fantasy was fulfilled by having sex in an office–I couldn’t deny that. And I wanted to do it again.

But I didn’t want to lose Jason.

I loved him so much. I know that sounds crazy because when you love someone as much as I love Jason, you don’t fuck someone else. I get that, but… I would love to fulfill my fantasies with him, but he won’t even take his shirt off unless the lights are out in the apartment. And the lack of sex is weird. And no, I don’t think he’s sleeping around on me the way I am him. I mean, I didn’t intend for tonight to go down the way it did and I haven’t cheated on him before. It wasn’t premeditated. It just happened. (And it felt amazing. And, honestly, if something doesn’t change with Jason, I can see doing it again.)

What the fuck am I doing with my life?

I’m 33 years old. I should’ve been married with kids already! But I’m not. I’m fucking my boss while being engaged to a man who doesn’t even touch me anymore!

Who am I? Who have I become?

*************************************************

Aside

Fall

It’s Friday. The 13th.

Spooky…Creepy.

I used to love Friday the 13ths. Especially when they fell inside of October. And the skies were grey with a crisp breeze allowing the dead, crunchy leaves to dance all about. Friday the 13th playing at the dollar cinema on the busy street in our hood.

I love Fall and Halloween. So I kind of love Friday the 13th.

Okay so today’s Friday the 13th doesn’t exactly fall inside of Fall, but it’s close enough to reminisce. And the weather is nice and cool. So cool, in fact, that we’re all wearing pants and sweaters, maybe even a jacket.

 

rolling hills

 

My goodness do I love this time of year.

Beginning Memoir Writer

Life List… book recs… think of self as character.

Live to Write - Write to Live

A former client, (I’ll call her Jane) recently contacted me, not for coaching, but for some writing advice. She’s been wanting to write down her story (you’ll agree that’s a great idea when you read it) but wasn’t sure where to start. She’s been writing journal entries for years and she’s ready to take her writing to the next level.

Since she wants to write a memoir, I recommended she start by making a Life List. I got the term from Denis Ledoux, the author of Turning Memories Into Memoirs, but I’ve heard other writing teachers recommend a similar technique.

Briefly, I told Jane to think of all the things that happened to her in her life, and make a list. One way to break it down is to think about each decade of your life and start filling in events. I like to write my life list…

View original post 338 more words

Aside

Via

Via, short for Olivia, was an amazing mama. She oozed love, comfort, and grace toward her mini-me, Lanie.

Two peas in a pod Via and Lanie were: they looked alike with their thick dark hair, bangs abruptly cut by the eyebrow line; they were both a little chunky; and they even dressed alike.

Via tended to little Lanie with such grace, always keeping an eye on her when her actual hands weren’t available– which wasn’t that often. When Lanie wanted to slide, Via got up from the small group of adults congregating on the patio and hovered a bit over wobbly Lanie. When Lanie’s mouth seemed dry, Via was right there offering a sippy cup of water.

At one point during the Labor Day barbeque, I noticed Lanie sitting in a chair on the patio with a yellow-frosted cupcake. Some of the cake and lots of the frosting ended up on Lanie’s purple dress. Soon her dad Darren slammed down his beer bottle, found a napkin, and started wiping the front of Lanie’s dress while looking around the yard.

“Oh no, did she spill?” Via sang as she swooped toward her family.

“Uh yeah.”

“Poor thing, it’s okay.”

“Maybe if you were watching her more carefully this wouldn’t have happened,” Darren snapped under his breath, plastic smile on.

“Oh it’s okay,” Via continued to sing to Lanie.

Darren tossed the napkin on the table, clutched the brown beer bottle, and glided back to the group of guys he was talking to before he was horribly interrupted. Via scooped Lanie into her lap and they both finished the cupcake.

 

About a month after the barbeque, Via, neighbor to my sister who hosted the barbeque, was in the hospital. Rumor has it she tried killing herself and Lanie by driving the car they were both in off the side of the highway and straight into a ditch at full speed.

 

Picture11-1

 

 

 

Aside

finally seeing things

“You know who I’m really upset at?” Papa shouts from across the table. “Matty. That’s his mother. He should be ashamed of himself.”

“He’s only thirteen,” I answer. “He’s just following Katie’s lead. The people you really need to be upset with here and in just about any situation are the adults. The parents. Why can’t they ever take some responsibility for their own actions?”

I was on my second drink of the day. It wasn’t even two in the afternoon. We were gathered around a large table at a new German restaurant. We were talking about how my niece Katie had recently set fire to her mother’s wedding gown and posted the video on Facebook.

My dad was upset at the news of all of this. He didn’t see the video as Katie took the video down after her older brother called her out on it on Facebook. But Papa’s still very upset because the wedding gown wasn’t Katie’s to burn, it was my sister’s–Katie’s mother. So my dad, near 80, found it extremely disrespectful. “You don’t do these things with family.”

It’s hard not to agree with that.

But then when he says he’s “most upset” about what Matty allegedly did in the video–laugh and be present to the torching of the gown–because Matty is a child and should have more respect for his parent? That’s where I draw the line. Of course a child should have respect for his parents, but that respect needs to be taught and nurtured before it can be reciprocated.

“That’s like saying Jordan should be the one to talk to Marco when Marco was the one that walked out on Jordan,” I shouted.

Jordan looked at me and smiled. Not a Ha-Ha-Life-is-So-Grand smile but an Aint-that-Some-Shit smile… because his father (my brother Marco) walked out of his life when Jordan was all of 13, and eight years later, Papa thinks Jordan should be the one to contact Marco. Simply because Marco’s the parent. That is Papa’s reasoning. The parent trumps the kid, apparently. No matter the situation.

Fuck that, I say.

The parents are the ones who are the adults. The parents are the ones with the responsibility of setting good examples for their children…their children who are still learning and growing and absorbing oh so much.

 

My eyes are finally opening up to things I haven’t seen my whole life. For years and years I wondered how my siblings could be so self-absorbed to ignore my dad most of our lives. I wondered how I could be so different from them if we all grew up in the same household. But here’s the thing: they’re both very selfish–much like my parents. Seriously. What kind of parent lets their kids see them get arrested? What kind of parent gets wasted in front of their kids over and over again? Mine. But I’ve let it go because–get this–they’re my parents.

Man my eyes are opening up. Finally. At nearly 41, I’m starting to finally see things clearly–and it’s even uglier than I ever imagined it being.

I kind of wish I could go back to being blind to it all.