Another life touching lives

'phfina היקרה,

It's been so long since I last wrote you, so long since I had time to sit and think what I want to say (to you, to myself, to everyone else), and so, so long since I last decided to do something to myself only, made time to stare and wonder, sit and read fanfiction, fail translating a story, whatever.

I'm writing you now because I came across something you wrote that held a lot of meaning to me so I saved it. Something about loving myself, appreciating myself. Remember? You gave me (us) homework- to look in the mirror and tell the reflection how beautiful she is. (have you done your homework lately? If I read your latest post correctly, it seems like you're slacking)

I wanted you to know that I've made a few changes in my life. I decided to give this year. I live in a Commune (not something big and scary with wierd acts involved. Just six girls, of the same age, that decided to volunteer and give together this year. No orgies either ;)), and we work with broken girls, some just a year younger than us, in a closed institution, where they were admitted by court order. We spend all our time with them, talking, laughing, passing their time, trying to help. Giving and getting so much in return. I feel like ?I don't have time to breathe, like I'm drowning, but when I resurface, when I take that breath and pause- I think to myself 'why the hell did I stop?' and dive right in again.

I'm telling you all this because at first, when I started looking at myself in the mirror, I wanted to believe what you told me (us), but now, after two months since I started this work, I can and I do actually believe it. And I just wanted to share that with you.

There are broken girls everywhere you look, it's not only something you read about or see in movies or TV. A lot of people don't realize that, or don't want to, or are scared. But a lot more people don't know about those that try to help, and sometimes even succeed in helping. They are a lot harder to find and believe in, those nutters that want to be a part of some stranger's messed up life, but they are there, and they want to help. I know, I'm one of them (apparently).

I wanted to thank you, for those PMs and posts that for me are more than just plain words from a stranger; for your writing, that touches me. And I wanted to let you know that there are people out there that think that the good news for them is being accepted into the life of a person that might need them more than someone else, and not the oblivious pink-versioned one.

Lupera

reposted with permission

Bad news: you win

May I preface this post? Of course this post is a follow-up, the 'second half,' as it were, of my previous diatribe, and, of course, I have no choice in the matter of writing this. I simply must write this, even though it does no good.

You see, this post, despite my preamble, has nothing to do with me: this post is about you. And, if you think the last one hurt, well, gf, you've got another thing coming, because the last post was all about me. This one? It's all about you, through my eyes.

This is gonna hurt you. A lot.

So, you know: standard caveat. Get the hell out if you want sugary goodness, and don't come crying to me if my words hurt you. There's only one way they can hurt, and that is: if they apply. So bitch and moan to the mirror.

I fucking warned you.

And what good will it do? None, probably. You are you. You are still being you, even after what happened. You are so you, as I see every day when I interact with you. And I love you. And I want the best for you.

And so this post.

I feel so like an angel right now. Do you know angels have no choice in the matter? In eternity, they made their choice: follow God, emptying themselves completely, or follow themselves, and what they think is right, filling themselves with the nothing they actually are without God.

Once that choice was made, Angels are forever fixed. Choice? They've already chosen, they simply must do what they must do.

I feel so like an angel. But angels are eternally happy: they made their choice, and now they choose, eternally to be happy with that choice, so I must write this, yes? But perhaps I can choose to be happy writing this.

So, you, being you, must read this, no matter how painful it is to you. So, you can now choose, too.

"God, this hurts. God, it's so true!"

And what do you choose? To deny this? To hate me, the messenger, forever?

Yes, you can choose this.

Do you choose to read this, and, in reading it, to see what's in there that you can take on for yourself and your life?

You know, people have an advantage over angels (besides being able to enjoy gnocchi): angels cannot change, but people can change.

You can change. You can be yourself, and you can change, and still be yourself. You can, you know: you can.

And I really, really don't know if I'm actually a person. Isn't that insane? But I can cop out and say that I'm a selkie and that once I find my skin, I will return to the sea, and this human life I've been faking and have been so sad living, I'll just forget it all, forget you, forget my loves and my sadnesses and swim away to be home again with my sisters.

I can say that. I can cop out. Just like you can cop out, and say, "But I can't change because of ..." because of whatever millstone you are hanging onto so desperately, calling the millstone your unalterable self, when really it's you being drug down by the millstone, and all you have to do is to let it go.

I am so looking into the mirror right now as I write these words, okay?

So, this post.

So, you've taken on me, unsalvageable me. And you put your heart into it, and you've sacrificed everything, your career, your educational prospects, your art, everything, to save me.

And you've watched me. You've watched me start to pull myself out of it, that pit I'm in, and you’ve been so proud and pleased with the progress you’ve seen in me. You know I’ve been pulling myself out, but, even if you refuse to admit it, even especially to yourself, you know you've had a hand in it, and if you looked at the past year objectively, you know you've had more than a hand in it, that you actually caused this to happen. That, really, if you weren't there, I would have been dead. Several times. By my own hand through suicide directly or through an accidental death from alcohol or drugs or just plain self-absorption as I'm crossing the street and *WHAMMO* truck and no more 'phfina.

How do I know this? Oh, come on, you know this, and I know it, too.

So, but now we're at this point, and I've started to come out of it, and I'm starting to express joy again and starting to write again and starting to relate to the world as the world and not this big scary place that I have to hide from.

And there's just so much to do, right? You have so much in me you see that if I just come out of myself just a little bit more, I can start to breathe again and to enjoy life, not fight it or be afraid of it, and you've got things planned, right? Like going on a hike on a mountain trail, even though I've never been outside, but you know it'll do me good. Or a trip to the mall to buy some mentionable and unmentionable clothes, 'cause you know that clothes make the girl and you know I would just see me in a whole new way if I tried on this kind of dress or, hell, a black pants-suit that you've seen executive vice presidents wear.

And so you're making our morning coffee, just so pleased at how far I've come, and just so excited about what is to come for me, for my life, and for us.

And then I drop the bomb.

I get up, and I look at you, and suddenly the firm foundation you had been laying is gone, because you hear the words I'm saying as I say them.

"We're done. We're through. I can't take this any more. I'm gone."

And that's it. I get up. I leave. I'm gone. Forever.

What the hell just happened?

Shocking, isn't it, when that happens. Totally out of the blue. And WHY?

I mean, like really: why.

Here's some 'why's for you, sweetheart. And I'll ask you to read them, just read them, to survive them, and then hate me. Forever. But see if any of them apply to you (they all do, honey), then see what you are willing to do about them.

Then read the second part. I mean really read it. I mean, like, recover what I've said to you, killing you with my every word, then come back here, and see what's really going on. You might miss it, but I'll ask you not to. I'm asking you to read this next part, take responsibility for it, then read the next part, and ... take responsibility for it (my irresponsibility), as well.

You are either everything here, as you've always been, or you're copping out.

Which one can you live with?

Part one: it's all your fault

So, really, you are as blind as a bat, you know that? Selfish and cruel.

I mean, not seeing this moment coming from a mile away?

What did you think? You think you owned me? We may have signed a piece of paper stating that, but did you really think that you own me?

Yes, you do. You think you're entitled to my heart, soul and body. Sure, you've given up your life for me, so as to save me.

What rights does that confer onto you?

Not a fucking thing. Not one single thing from me can you assume to have or to own.

Listen, sweetie, I'm a human being. I'm not your cat. I'm not your dog. I'm not your human slave.

And, sure, I'm not scrubbing your floors and providing my tongue for whenever your pussy has a tingle that needs tending to ...

... but.

But, look, I can wipe my cheek when I have food there, you don't need to reach across the table to do that. In a fucking public restaurant!

But, look, you don't have to present me in group as 'Well, she has some issues that we're working through, and she can't afford the full payment right now, but we'll find some way to get her into this session because it will really help her with her problems.' (Somebody actually said that. While I was standing right fucking there. As if I didn't exist, or had any feelings about what was being said. Just like what you write to me about me in your PMs.)

But, look, I know what I need to do when I have a headache. I know that ibuprofen exists, I know where the glasses are and how to fill them with water. I know where the bed is and how to turn down the sheets.

But, look, I know what opinions to have about my mother, your mother, that girl over there giving me the more-than-once over, my dad, current political views, what I should be doing for work or for getting my next chapter out, what I shouldn't be doing to get those things done.

But, look, I know what to say about myself and I know what not to say.

Do you know that?

No, you sure don't, not judging from the past year in how you've treated me like a baby, not judging from your PMs where you say, oh:

1. Are you a 40-year-old man who's a sexual deviant?
2. Are you really who you write? ...
... or more insidiously, 'if you're really who you write, then I care about you.'
3. People can't be trusted on the 'net, and oh, by the way, my gf asked me to ask you if you only wear white socks?

And then after all that hate wrapped up in mistrust comes at me from you ...

Look I'm on a roll, but I have to stop right here and let you know one little detail.

You fucking came to me. I didn't know you, any of you, at all! You read me; you felt something for me, then you reached out to me, and you have the gall to write that you don't trust me?

Here's a piece of advice for you. It's free, too. Go back and play with all your other god-damn friends if you don't trust me.

Oh, wait. You don't have any other friends? And I'm not talking acquaintances, I'm talking friends who know you and love you for you, who you actually are?

Wonder why.

Wonder if it's because you don't just mistrust me, you mistrust everybody, and you choose to lash out at me because I'm this weak, little, vulnerable baby girl who puts her heart on the line with every line she writes and you have the gall to say 'well, if you are who you say you are, then ...'

Just get present to that. Just get present to the fact that you came to me, and then you shit all over me with your mistrust and your advice as to how to live my live when I've done that for 22 years already, thank you.

Just get present to what a fucking cunt you are. Really.

Are you present to it?

No.

Because you also come to me on the other side of mistrust.

"Tell me more about you." "There's so much you don't say" "I really wish I knew you." "You don't open up all all."

Oh, really?

Pop quiz.

You know what my favorite food to make is.

What is your mother's favorite food?

You know where I've come from and where I'm now living.

What other fan-fiction author(ess) do you know this about?

You know what job I'm working at. You know how I interact with customers. You know how my day starts and ends.

Who else do you know this about? Do you even know this about your roommates?

You know I go to group. You know my triumphs and tragedies there.

What are the extra-curricular activities of someone you know ITRW? What are their triumphs and tribulations in those activities?

You know the names of the string of my prior girlfriends.

Name the names of the girlfriends of your girlfriends. Name the names of your prior girlfriends. Hard, isn't it, going over those memories. Who have you told? Anybody?

You know that I'm a lesbian, and I'm out to my immediate family, and out to you, but not to my extended family, coworkers (there are some who suspect) and customers.

Who are you out to? Who are your friends out to?

You know, reading my stories, PMs and entries, what I struggle with, every day: me. Me-me-me. And happiness. And joy. And despair. And fear. And self-loathing so great it makes you flinch, right?

What are you struggling with? What is your boss struggling with? What is your mom struggling with? What is that girl you hate so much struggling with?

You know how old I am. You know my family relations, and how I relate to them.

ANY other fan fiction writer, or book writer, or anybody you can say that about?

Bonus question: Why do you say that I withhold, when I've told you more about myself than you've told anybody else in your life? And when I've told you more than you know than from anybody else in your life? Why do you keep needing more from me, after I've given my all ... and more ... what does that say about you, this mistrust coupled with this neediness?

I dare you to ask yourself these questions, and to answer them fully before you get on another kick about needing to know more about me, and I'm not giving it to you (the fucking nerve!) and since I'm not, I'm not trustworthy?!?!

Excuse me, have you read one of my stories, or PMs, or entries?

Thanks for that.

Fuck you, too.

...

I'm gone

So, back on topic. So you're clueless as to why I would say 'I'm gone,' with all that mistrust of me that you've poured all over me.

AND.

And then you go into telling me what I should say or what I shouldn't. Who I should have as a gf and who I shouldn't. Who I can see at a restaurant for dinner and who I shouldn't. What I should do while I'm feeling sick and what I shouldn't. Who I should live with (you) and who I shouldn't, and why, and how you will be so much more awesome than people I picked to be with, that, by the way, honey, includes you.

And, oh, after all these diatribes, why am I not writing anymore, and I must be so unhappy.

Yeah, thanks for that.

So, you really didn't see this coming. You really didn't see me cringe when you wipe my cheek from across the table. You really didn't see me check out when you started into your 'Well, 'phfina, it's nice that your mother ...' or 'Well, 'phfina, I really think you shouldn't ...' that last for, God!, 27 minutes, and please can you just finish, I already said, you're right, so why are you going on about this?

You know why you didn't see this coming?

Because you forgot.

You forgot I'm a human being, not a doormat to walk over or a leaky faucet to fix or a baby that needs her diapers changed and your mommies to suck on for sustenance.

And you had the right. You had the right to me, and to the rest of my life and yours. I'm yours forever, and you've planned your whole life around that: me and you, and you and me, and you forgot to consult me about that future.

Don't believe me? I can fucking send your PMs back to you and highlight the parts where you did this, whether my name's 'phfina, Violet, Melissa, B_ or F_.

You treat me as if the only reason I exist is for your happiness.

And then I go and leave you.

So, wait a minute. Let's review here, and add more salt to the wound.

What are you for? I mean: why do you exist?

Didn't you set out to set me free from my addictions and my self-hatred?

Didn't you see me improve? And I mean 'improve' as is improve so much that I started going back to school, that I started writing again, that I started painting or I got a job that I love and hate but I'm doing and that I'm fulfilled in, that I started texting and calling friends and family again?

Didn't you see this?

And so, when I said, 'we're through' ... well, isn't the appropriate response: YAY! LET'S HAVE A PARTY!

A coming out or a coming back party for me, because I made it, I finally made it?

Isn't that the appropriate response?

Let me tell you your response. You told me it already, haven't you?

Your response?

"This is so unfair! I gave my life/career for you! You can't do this! After all I've done, I deserve a little (like for the rest of my life) gratitude!"

So, instead of us coming to completion, both of us happy that we both did something: we saved a life: mine. Instead of that, you turn cold, or you kick and scream and break plates and grab hold of my ankles as I'm walking out the door.

Or you throw me out of the house.

"Get the hell out of here! I hate you! I never want to see you again! You are a selfish, needy bitch who has no appreciation or has no idea what friendship is, you ungrateful bitch! I'm done with you! Don't you ever come back to me again! You get hooked in your addictions again, and I hope you die! I'll come to your funeral and laugh! No, I won't come to your funeral and you'll be sorry then!"

This is you. This is what it's like to be living with you. And this is what it's like to leave you.

This is you.

"But I'm not domineering! I'm not draconian!" (I've actually been told that.)

Okay, so what are you then? Are you a person who actually loves? who actually listens? who actually hears the words she's saying to me, because she looks, hard, into the mirror as she says them, and know these words are loving and caring and empowering?

Newsflash: if you see yourself that way ... well: you are so fucking blind, okay?

So you have to own this. I left you. Or I never accepted your offer for help. And it's your own damn fault.

And that's the good news.

Do you understand me? If you own that that's the way you are ... and you choose to be that way ... then you can own that you can choose to be any other way that you so choose. "I'm draconian, AND I choose not to shit all over 'phfina in what I say or how I control her, instead I choose to love, to listen, and to let her be her and to stand for her being her is the best, brightest, most beautiful person I will ever know in the whole world."

Do you know how hard I am crying as I write this?

And if you choose to own that, then you can choose to celebrate it when I say, 'You know, what you just said to me is so rude.'

Instead of saying, 'I'm not rude; you're just sensitive ... (and then you whisper to yourself) and (more than a little) imbalanced.' You would say, 'Wow! Wow, yeah: if somebody said what I just said to you, so thoughtlessly, I would just go off on them or hold a pity-party for weeks! I'm sorry, honey, forgive me, okay? You are really X, that's how I see you, and please catch me when I start talking meanly like that.'

AND YES, I'm a sensitive, more than a little imbalanced girl who can't take care of herself. AND you said those things to me how? Thoughtfully? With love? So that I would be empowered?

So, yes, it's hard, for a human being (you) to talk with a human being (me).

And you have, for the past year, so utterly failed in even grasping at trying to see how hard it is. You've just made your pronouncements at me, like I'm a microphone, and nothing else, and expected that there's no other way than your way. What views do I have? Have you asked me?

"Oh, 'phfina, I mistrust you because you're obviously not who you say you are, who could be that brutally honest, so there, and who writes stuff that so drew me to you, and I don't trust myself, nor you, so I have a test for you: do you only wear white socks, and depending on how you answer that will be the measure of my trust for you, so what do you think about me shitting all over you so thoughtlessly?"

Read that. Read that out loud, and hear the utter absurdity in what you're saying.

Now, go back to your PMs and read what you've written to me, your pronouncements about me, about yourself ('I'm not a writer like you' 'My reviews are repetitive and suck' 'I'll never be able to open up about things like you'), about the world, about time, about anything, about your gf, about your gf's bf ... about your ability to help a person in need, about your mother, about how your mother raised you.

Just go back and review what you said to me. Just go back and review what you say to anybody.

And you wonder why I say, after you've coddled, controlled, and criticized me, that 'We're through.'

You are so fucking blind.

Do you know there are people who have never done that: judged me nor mistrusted me? There're really smart, too, just like you, so you can't use the 'I'm smart so I'm critical' excuse that I'm so comfortable using.

They chose just to believe me and to believe in me, and not put me through tests nor demand my trust, not to require things from me but to ask for them and to be okay with my sometimes no?

Newsflash: you didn't get a PM from me saying ... fuck it: I'll tell you them now.

Saga. Julia. massrié.

And then some of you have the temerity to judge Saga, for example, to envy her, to compare yourselves favorably to her, when she's never done to me what you have done, or written those mistrustful, needy words you've written? Or to give up on massrié or to distance yourselves from her? Or to say, 'oh, I so know how to fix you 'cause the last girl I fixed left me and I curse her name forever!'

Nice.

And: look in the fucking mirror.

Now, don't take away from this that you are bad, wrong, less than or not loved.

I love you.

AND you are doing these things that are off-putting and that actually push people away. Me, and your exes.

You choose to continue to do this? Well, you'll keep getting the same results you've been getting.

I know.

So this entry isn't for them, unless they choose to make it be for them. This entry is for you.

This entry is especially for you, and why? Because I love you with my whole heart, and mind, and strength, and spirit, and soul.

Don't you see that?

Don't you see that I love you?

...

So, have you hung in there? Survived this onslaught?

Good, 'cause now it gets much worse.

Brace yourself.

Part II: You absolve yourself from 'it's all my fault'

SO NOW you say, when I'm going:

"Oh, okay, well ... have a nice life."

Okay. Wait a minute. Wait just a fucking minute. Weren't you the one to see that I'm in the shit? And that everything I'm doing is only digging myself deeper into the cesspool?

And I say 'I can't take this anymore'? And you're like, 'Okay'?

Sell out. Wuss.

And haven't I said this, in one way or another, every single day we've been together? 'This is too hard' 'I can't do this' 'You can't do this to me.' 'I hate this.' 'I hate life.' 'I hate myself.' 'I HATE YOU!'

And the whole time, you were like, 'Yes, dear, it's okay, it's gonna be okay,' as you held me through my panic attack or drug withdrawal or whatever.

Don't you remember you? That strong person who could take anything thrown her way from me, from the insurance companies, from the police, from neighbors?

Remember?

No, you don't. Because before, you were like, 'she's just saying that, she's out of control, she doesn't mean that meanly, I'm strong enough to carry her and to carry me through this attack.'

Now, it's personal.

Why?

What shifted?

Honey, nothing did. Not on my side.

I just said, 'We're done. We're through. I can't stand this/you anymore.'

But this time you chose to believe the words I'm saying.

Don't you see these are insane words from an insane person?

Do you know: I've really said this. I mean, haven't you read 'Rosalie and Me'? Remember what I told Julia?

I do.

Like it was yesterday.

I also remember what I was doing when I told her these words.

I was begging.

I was begging silently.

'Please-o-please-o-please-o-please don't believe me. Please don't let me leave you. Please try one more time to break through to me. Please don't try, please actually do stop me at the door. Please.

Please.'

And she let me go out that door, me being so cool, trying to hold it all together until I could get to my little red corola and then where I would bawl my eyes out as I'm driving on the most dangerous highway in the U.S.A. to get home to my mom's?

And you're letting me go because I'm a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch who just said those words?

Newsflash: I've always been a selfish, stuck-up, needy little bitch and you, before, chose to see the good in me that was there. And you brought it out of me.

And you're letting me go back out into the world, knowing I'm those things, knowing I have my addictions that you helped me to recover from, and now with you not in the picture anymore what am I going to go right back to?

But I say I'm cured now and I'm done with you.

And you are so done with me.

You are so done with me, that when I come back, crawling on my hands and knees, or my mother calls you and says I have fallen deeper into depression.

You say, 'Tough cookies' and throw a party with your friends to delight in my misery, and you start scanning the obituary pages, with glee to find my name there.

And you know.

You know that you caused my coming back to myself.

And you know.

You know that you sold out on me, but, more importantly, you sold out on yourself. You know this.

How do I know you know this?

"Oh, 'phfina, I am so over you."

Yeah? Why do I keep coming up in conversations with any and everybody you meet? Why do you keep going over all the things you've done for me? And my ingratitude? Why did you wallow for upwards of a year after I left you, then the rest of your life is spent explaining and justifying why you are in the right and I am just a thoughtless little cunt that you committed to rescuing (hm, you committed to rescuing me because why? Because I'm a cunt? Or because you saw that there was something and somebody to rescue?)

You not only believed me, and were so fucking blind to everything in you that drove me away, no, you took it one step further and then believed that you have no say in the matter, that you did nothing to effect my salvation so my leaving you will hopefully cause me to die so you can throw a party that there's one less bitch in the world you have to deal with, and serves me right.

You've won.

That's the bad news: you sold out on me, and you've sold out on yourself. I'm 'cured' now, and I'm gone, so you get to win.

I'm 'all better now.' And I may or may not be, but you've accomplished what you've set out to do.

Yay. You win.

AND you get to say, 'well, it's not my fault: she's so needy and greedy, she deserves everything coming to her. I hope they have extra gasoline in hell for her reception.'

Yay. It's not your fault. You win.

Isn't the victory so sweet?

Yeah? So keep living like you're living, you'll keep winning like you've been winning. Even if you change jobs, or change gfs, or change people to fix, you'll keep repeating those wonderful results that has you PMing me with what you're going through right now, which is the fallout of what you choose to ignore and choose to refuse to take responsibility for.

That's all I got for you, sweetie. All I got is this.

Bad news: you win.

And the choice was and is totally yours to make.

p.s. I love you.

Nymphs and Shepherds

Published a poem and its response in two parts. It's the standard nymphs and shepherds stuff, you know? Love is a many-splendored thing, and a' that.

en'phfinafied.

So you have met me

... so now you are in trouble.

No, I'm not joking, I am seriously saying: you are so fucked.

Because you've met me.

And I'm not talking me-me, because you're in Ireland or Israel or Indiana but it's obvious that you've met me where you're at, so I'm going to be bold and wrong here and make her me, even though she definitely isn't because you're asking me: 'What do I do?' because I know what it's like to be me ... better than most people, in fact.

And she may have met you, and you are me, so the same applies. So I'm going to be you, even though I'm not.

What the hell am I talking about?

I'm talking about you've met this really smart, strong, sweet, damaged girl, so lost in her (my) addictions, so hurting herself (myself), but you can see beyond all that crap that she's (I'm) salvageable, and so worth it.

Maybe.

And so you want to know what to do.

So I'm going to write her as me, me as her. I'm going to write this in the first person, and I'm going to shock the hell out of your sensibilities, and you are going to crucify me, but you asked, or you're curious about how you might save somebody, so here goes.

Here's what you need to do:

1. run. Say: 'too bad, so sad, I gotta look out for number one, and you aren't taking me down with you. Bye-bye, b!tch and good luck with the rest of your life, which will be, what? ending tonight, right?'

That's exactly what I told myself you should say. I even told you that exactly already, right?

I so know this girl: this me.

So, if you aren't up for brutal honesty, STOP FVCKING READING RIGHT NOW!

Still here? Dummy! (that's what I'm thinking about you, btw, if you don't run)

Okay, so, ... but you're in love with me, obviously, even though you won't admit it to yourself, but I can definitely see it in your PMs, so there's that, and I know it, and I know you know it, even if you won't admit it to yourself, so you're either all in, or your a fvcking pvssy not worth my time (trans: ... no translation, just know the subtext is my self-talk is telling me how bad I am for saying how bad you are).

So, but I have a lot of problems. A lot of problems, right? Like drinking, right? and drugs, right? and other addictions, right? And like you are scared that ... well, you've dealt with people like me before and you know you can't save them and what a drain they are and how they wreck lives and you're scared I'll wreck yours in your attempt to save me.

Bad news: you are right. You are so right.

But you are also so wrong. And what you are wrong about is that you haven't dealt with me. Not at all. And I'm not saying you haven't dealt with me ... no: I'm saying you haven't dealt with me.

No, what you've done is watched me destroy myself from a safe little distance, offering little platitudes about how I shouldn't do this or I should take up that, and then said 'Oh, well,' when I was obstinately determined to destroy myself despite your 'help.'

Your 'help'?

Sell out.

(You haven't left yet? It gets much, much worse! Go. Leave. Now!)

(And don't you fvcking dare lecture or b!tch to me because I fvcking told you to go if you can't handle this.)

Okay, so, you can't run away and save yourself. Oh, well for you, so that means you have to go all in. You have to, AND so do I. And you have to make me agree to that, and that means you HAVE to give up being you.

Give up being you? Yes, you just signed up for saving my life, and that is the full-package deal, so you have to become a person who's not concerned, at all, for her own safety and well-being, you are now strong, and resolved, and powerful, and completely a person who is out to save me and my life, at whatever the cost.

If you don't then you stop short, and you sell out. And I will know the instant you do that, and I will know you know that, too, even if you won't admit it to yourself. So here's what you will do to save me.

2. Save me.

A. Establish the relationship.

That means, ... how do I say this: everything, all of it, is yours.

Why?

Has anything I've done or tried worked? No. I've been working it and fooling myself and getting drunk and getting stoned and copping out, and that works, running away, for a little bit, but then it all comes back in spades. I know it and you know it.

The difference between us is, even though we both know what I need to do, you have the strength to do it. I tell myself I don't.

You own me. All of me.

So tell me: okay, for one week, you are mine, and I'm not going to hurt you (establish a safe word), and everything I do and everything I say is directed to your good, and you can't question it and you can't disobey. One week.

I'll be like: what? And you say: you want kissy-kissy? You want to get your life back, say yes, say yes now.

But, 'phfina, I'm not strong enough to ...

Listen: shut up. You are not you anymore. You are a top, and a top is never tired or unsure or anything. I know. A top is strong, and right, and confident and always knows what's best for her sub.

I may say no. You have to be strong enough to say: okay, no, that means no whining and no angling from you, AND when you reconsider, we can start from there.

DO NOT let me know this is an option ('cause I'll take it and cop out, so say that: 'don't cop out on your life, do this for just one week and then let's see')

Or I'll get sly and try a counter offer, softening the impact. Don't allow this. All in.

Or I'll say yes. Now the work begins.

B. Clean up time.

Every second of every day is now yours, not mine, yours. I don't know that, but you have to, and you have to enforce that.

So, move me in with you. Clean out my appt. Dump all my alcohol down the drain, flush my weed down the toilet. Cold turkey, starting right now. I'll complain of headaches. Tough. Water (not aspirin) helps with that, and recovery's a b!tch, isn't it, 'phfina.

And I'll say I'm not an alcoholic and I'm not a drug addict, and my justifications will be so perfect.

"I haven't had a drink in two days!"

"I only smoke a little bit of weed, I'm totally off meth!"

After all, I am a consummate liar. I lie to myself all the time, and everybody I talk to swallows all the bullsh!t I shovel out all the time without even batting an eyelash.

I know my excuses are bullsh!t, and I know you know they are, too. If you say, 'well, okay ...'

Then I've got you in my addiction, and you've just lost all my respect, and you've just lost all hope of saving me.

All or nothing.

And I may have a roommate and you do, too. So switch roommates. No need to explain, it'll be obvious to everybody, but practice saying: 'she's moving in with me; she's my b!tch now' in front of the mirror and to any stupid face who can't keep their pie-hole closed. That will just shut them up in front of you, and will get them all talking to each other behind your back.

And mark your territory.

It's a lot better if I move in with you, but if that doesn't work, then we should get a new appt, and if that doesn't work, then you have to go through my place with a fine-toothed comb ...

... and mark everything that's mine (that was mine, remember, me, my time, my stuff, my money? All yours now), in front of me, so I know that it's yours.

My time is yours. Every second of every day is yours. That means I don't get a potty break. Why?

Two seconds. Two seconds is all it takes for me to be sitting there, look into my eyes in the mirror and descend into the well deeper than I've even been. If I'm peeing, you're there in the bathroom, or, if in public, you're there in the stall with me.

Does the word "Intervention" ring a bell to anybody now?

My computer is yours. I don't get to use it.

"I have to use it to do my homework!"

Okay, fine, you schedule homework time, and you schedule it precisely. It takes 15 minutes to do the assignment, then I get 15 minutes, not the two hours I say I really need (I am a consummate liar, even to myself). AND you're going to do your homework ... behind me. So that every second you can see my screen.

That's right. The web is off-limits for me.

My time is yours.

My hands are yours, too. And so is my pvssy.

Establish how many times a day I masturbate. Establish when. Then, say: 'sorry, you're not allowed to masturbate this week.'

What?

No, really. Fvcking WHAT?

That's right, baby. You know how I feel when I masturbate? I hate myself. I'm so alone and lonely and it's all my damn fault, and I'm such a fvcking loser AND a sinner and ...

I could almost go on forever about this. And how long has it been since I've had intimacy ... you know, with another person? A soft, warm human being with light and intelligence in her eyes?

Sorry, 'phfina, but those hands are mine now. That pvss is mine, and I am going to be your routine now. To be clear: you are not allowed to cvm unless I'm making you cvm, you are not allowed to touch yourself unless I'm there and I allow it. You are mine.

I may, at this point, after all my liquor's down the drain and all my pot's flushed down the potty and then my kitty is not getting any pats? I may see the extent of this and will desire to balk.

Therefor the time-out corner. "'phfina, it's time-out for you, go sit in your corner for one minute."

And I may really balk. And I may say no.

And that's not our agreement, now is it? and I may say I take it back.

But I'm not me anymore. I'm not mine. I'm yours. I'm your daughter. No, I'm your baby girl. And I just told you no.

Now, okay, you ready for this? I'm not telling you how to raise children. I am telling you how to raise me (you haven't left yet?)

Spank me.

And don't give me those soft little pats you see on spanking vids. No, you're stronger than me (you are the top, you are stronger, even if you aren't. Will is everything), so pull me over your knee, bare my bottom and lean into the spank, with all your might with each smack. Let me know, in no uncertain terms, that rebellion is unacceptable. Keep at it until I really get that message.

And none of this is significant, and none of this is domination. This is love, sweetheart (DO NOT FVCKING B!TCH TO ME!), this is you being strong enough for both of us to save me from destroying myself and dragging you down to hell with me.

I've lost all of you, haven't I?

So, since I've dug my grave, I guess I'll keep going: just talking to myself.

That was the clean up; that was establishing the relationship. That all happened the first day.

3. Now, fvck my brains out.

Yeah, yeah, you say you may not be ready for this level of intimacy, so, what, we're going to play fiddlesticks? Look, I've texted you twenty times if I've texted you once: I want you to fvck me silly, and sure I was so fvcking drunk or wasted, but that doesn't make it any less true, even in jest, so fvcking do that. I mean, I'm NOT going to make the first move. I'm so not. I know where you are in this game, and I know where I am. I take you, it's like ... I don't know, defloration or something, the panthery 'phfina despoiling an innocent girl. You have to make the first move. Really. In every regard.

And I so want you right now. And I so won't ever act on that want. Never. Hurt you? No. Suggest it? Hint at it? Hell ya. But ...

So.

Bed time? Make sure my teeth are brushed and I've taken care of everything, you know? I've cleaned up my messes I've left around (that you haven't let me, as you're with me all the time), and my homework's done, and it's 9 pm or whenever (not much later, ... I stay up late to 'write' or to 'work' or to 'answer PMs' but really just to beat myself up more and I watch p.r.0.n. and masturbate telling myself what a loser I am).

So, we're in bed, get on top, strap on if you want, and fvck me until I'm finished. And 'finished' doesn't mean: 'I've cum once.' Finished means I'm finished, gf. It means I can't go on any more. Even if that's eight cvms; even if that's zero. Finished means my muscles are jelly and I've fainted or my near unconscious, right? Finished means I'm going to be out in the next few seconds.

Then, wrap me in your arms and legs, and DO NOT let me go. If I have to get up to pee, you follow. AND you follow me back to bed after I get a glass of water, then you rewrap me in your arms and legs. When I move in my sleep, I will feel you. When I dream, you'll be in them.

4. And the rest of the week.

Walk me to class. We don't take the same classes, so you walk me to mine, make sure somebody else is in the room before you leave, then hand me my books. That's right, you're carrying my books. Make sure people see that.

"This is my b!tch."

Go to your class, after informing me you'll collect me for my next class.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When school or work is done, it can get tricky, because you'll be tempted to be you and be tempted to let me be me because you don't know what to do with me, with us.

Honey, there's everything to do with us.

Involve me in your life: I've just joined your soccer team. I don't play soccer. Tough. Coach needs help, though, right? I'm not the in-the-stands wife (b!tch), I'm the game/practice recorder. I'm the ball girl. I'm the water girl. I'm the towel girl. I'm the girl, if I'm not in the field as goalie, or whatever, I'm the girl who makes the game possible.

Meaning I'm involved and busy, helping and being helpful. Wow! That's a new feeling for me.

You don't play soccer. Well, you play bowling. Take me to disco duck pins, right? Or ice skating. Or roller skating. Or cross country.

SOME PHYSICAL OUTDOOR ACTIVITY! A brisk, directed walk around campus (for at least an hour, no joke), for goodness sake!

Daily.

Involve me in your life. Enroll me in a photography class. Enroll yourself, too. DO NOT sit next to me. DO NOT tell me how to take a picture. Let the instructor, who's dumber than you, do that. I'll listen to her for learning. I'm your b!tch, yes, and you're the only one who can save me, yes (because, in my life NOBODY else has ever really tried ... did you catch that?), but you need time to push me out there, engage me with other people, let me know there's a world outside of my head and outside of yours. A whole big world.

Involve me in your life. Bring me to AA group. You're not in AA group? Yes, you are. Now you are. And you're bringing me and I have to participate, because you say so. AND SO DO YOU (what, you think you don't have any addictions? good for you. that's what all addicts tell themselves). You aren't going for me. You're going for you. So fully participate, get what you can for you, really open up and be honest. I'll see that, because I'll be watching, and I'll be so, so proud of you.

Involve me in your life. When you take me that first time that first day, ask me if I still need that shirt.

"Huh?" I'll say.

And you'll rip it off my body, and you'll tell me we're going shopping for clothes tomorrow.

So we go shopping. You don't like shopping? Nor do I. I like my jeans. Tough. You're getting me a new wardrobe. Dresses. Pretty dresses for pretty me.

You know why I dress like this: plain? Because that's what I think of myself.

I'm not pretty. I'm just plain. I'm ...

... I'm not loved so I must be ugly. Inside and out. Inside and out.

That kind of thinking is not allowed anymore. From now on, I have to wear dresses.

So, we get the dresses, and you say how pretty I look in the one I wearing. BECAUSE YOU MEAN IT.

(NEVER, EVER give faint or insincere or belittling or half-hearted compliments) (NEVER, EVER criticize me: I'm already doing that to myself all the time, and I'm just looking for somebody else to agree with me to validate my self-talk).

And I blush, and you say how cute that makes me look, and I blush more.

And I start to get that I am pretty, from the look in your eyes and from the love I see in your heart for me.

And you start to save me.

And, well, there's another reason for me to wear dresses, right? You're still in your jeans. You get to wear what you like, because you're the top.

AND you're packing.

We're at sbux. We go to the bathroom. (I'm not allowed to go alone, remember?)

So we're in there, and so just slam up up against the door or bend me over the sink and fvck me senseless. Make it almost impossible for me not to scream. Go crazy. Make me pee standing up and push it right out of my bladder with your dick in my pvssy and your hand pressing down on my bladder. I may just faint, but oh, well.

And yes: your dick. Own it.

Why? You own me, too.

AND I have been driving you crazy with lust in that dress and my big blinking 'you really think I look pretty?' eyes, haven't I?

Everywhere I am, you are. Everywhere I go, you are present. Mark your territory. Mark me.

Brand me. I am yours. Make it so. Reinforce it at every opportunity.

Involve me in your life. Bring me to the soup kitchen you serve at. You don't? Now you do. Find one. Sign us up, and off we go. We'll put on our aprons and we'll ladle soup or pass out plate or sandwiches, and I'll see what it is to be of service for others in need. I'll see what it is to put my self and my concerns for a while. I'll see other people exist in the world. I'll see other people helping, and getting so much out of that for themselves in doing that.

Every second of every day has to be occupied with you and work or you and school. Every evening has to be an activity: you and AA, you and soccer, you and photo class. Every night I have to be in your arms.

Why?

I cannot have one second alone to my thoughts. I cannot sneak out for a quick fix or to down a can of Coors. Not one second.

And that's the first week.

5. And forever.

You said you wanted to save my life. You know how long that takes. It doesn't take a week. It doesn't take a month or a year.

It takes forever.

Forever.

So, at the end of the week, I'll say, politely, 'Thank you, that was nice' and try to get away, and not bother you any more, and aren't you exhausted? And make any excuse I can.

No. Sorry, 'phfina. You're my b!tch.

So the first week is every week. I agreed to a week. Well, this is a week. Every week is a week. Forever.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

AND start planning out our life together exceptionally. Fly me home to your parents. Fly me home to meet mine. ... more than once a year! Make sure I call my mom. Give me the phone to say hi to yours. Have conversations with my dad (he's actually really friendly). Involve me in conversations with yours.

Involve me in your life.

Save me.

Or don't. Just walk away from me, saying: oh, well, nice girl, but ... too many issues.

I'll totally understand. I'll totally understand.

And I'll die, just a little bit more, or maybe just a lot more.

Questions

Okay, piece of cake, right? Go for it.

Or, not so easy. Any questions?

Oh, look! Every hand went up in the room ... the nearly empty room, that is. Thank you for staying, those of you that did. Yes, your question?

"What if I'm not up for this? What if I'm not the one?"

Good news: you aren't.

More good news. Nobody else is. Nobody else has been, and my future is my past: nobody else will be, unless they choose to step up.

So, you aren't the one. Definitely not.

"But I want to be, 'phfina."

No you don't. People don't do what they don't want. You're not stepping up, because you know you don't want to. It's just not safe, and you know it. Go live your safe little life, it works great for you, and it'll work great for me. Read about me in the papers ... you can flip back to the obits and know I died because you didn't step up. Congratulations.

Or you can read about that book I published when a real girl did step up and then you can say to yourself, 'well, I wanted to be the one, and I would've been with 'phfina at all those book signings across the country and then the world.'

J.K. Rowling, anyone? Helen DeWitt? Somebody was the one for them. And they were on a crash course with death or just barely surviving. Until somebody gave them a basement to live in and get their lives back.

Hm.

"So how do I be the one?"

Declare it. That simple. "I declare I am the one. 'phfina is going to live. 'phfina is going to be great. I am going to be there with her in her greatness."

Or like that. Whatever you see.

Declare it, and then do it. Every second of every day. ESPECIALLY when you don't want to. ESPECIALLY when I am a back-biting b!tch, lashing out at you as you are saving my life.

Next question. Yes, you in the corner.

"What if you're not the one for me?"

Good news: I'm not.

Plenty of fish in the sea.

Any like me? Any at all? Any others catch your eye? You want plainer? You want less interesting?

Go live your compromised life.

I'm not the one. I'll NEVER meet your demands or expectations, as reasonable as they are. No, ESPECIALLY your reasonable expectations.

Girl, I'm insane. I am all-out nuts. 'Reasonable'? BLECH! I'm not reasonable! I'm passionate and artistic and demanding and b!tch and I don't have one ounce of reasonableness in me.

I'm SO not the one for you. I don't fit into any mold and if I did, I'd fvcking bang at it until I broke my hands and forehead. DON'T YOU FVCKING put me into your little 'oh, she's gotta be like this for me to love her, for her to be the one' mold.

You're interested and fascinated me because I'm a LIVING BREATHING human being, fighting with all my might to kill myself because I can't stand this bland little colorless life. I want to LIVE and I want to be ALIVE while I'm living and I don't want to fit into any little petty normal reasonable size or shape.

I'm SO not the one. ESPECIALLY if you're not sure about that. GOD! Will I smell that.

I'm not the one. Unless ...

Unless you declare it.

"'phfina, exactly as she is, exactly as she isn't. She's the one for me. Her, and no other. Her. Only her. Not my thoughts of who she is, not my expectations. Just her. Every second. Just like she is. Just what she isn't. Her. 'phfina. She's the one."

If you declare that, and be that, then, isn't it obvious I'm the one? And if you ask, 'what if you're not the one?' isn't it obvious I can't possibly measure up in any way. You'll come up with a test that I will fail. I'm human. Let me be human, please, let me be me, and not be the person who you think I am or who you need me to be.

Next question.

"But ... 'phfina, you make it sound so pat and so easy. It's not."

What's your question.

"Well, a girl I was helping, well, she killed herself."

I am sorry. Yes. I will kill myself.

Do you get it? People will do what people will do, no matter what. You tried. You tried to save me. You failed. But nobody else did. You were my only hope in my whole life, and still I killed myself.

But you tried. No. You did. You did everything you could. For me. Selflessly.

Consolation?

For me? Yes. You were my only friend. The only person who ever reached out to me as I fell off the edge. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough for me, and for you. I'm sorry.

We don't win every time. But you did what you could. Nobody else in the world did. You did.

You did.

Yes?

"Well, okay, so this girl, well, how can I stop her from buying from her dealer and how can I stop her from ..."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. You know what to do. I can't buy stuff if I don't have cash because I don't have my ATM card. It's not my ATM card. It's yours now. I had to surrender that my first day. AND I'm on your allowance with YOUR money, that's in YOUR bank account (in my name). I can't call my dealer with YOUR cell phone that I gave you the first day.

And, well, you're the top, right? Remember what I told you to practice? Bring me with you to the dealer and now say it out loud.

"Excuse me, 'phfina's my b!tch now, so you just have to find another customer."

Etc. You know what to do. You just have to be strong enough to do it.

"But this is like total domination and mind control and just so against societal norms and ..."

Yeah, this is an intervention. I don't have a life now, I'm just destroying it. You're stopping that self-destruction. And, bit by bit, week after week, I get my life back, first, under supervision ("here's my card that you can use to withdraw your allowance") and then, eventually, over time ... still under supervision.

Once an addict, always an addict. You're just recovering, you know? Not 'cured.'

And, but, eventually, I'll get more than my life back, I'll get my self back, and I'll start to create, and to have fun, and to be joyful, and ...

... and you'll be there for all that.

"But you're telling me to spank this girl and fvck her and ..."

Yeah, right, whatevs. She's not me. I get it. So you're not going to do this exactly, maybe not even close. I also get you know already exactly everything what needs to be done, and you just don't have the guts to go all the fvcking way, including taking responsibility for her entire life, with you and with the rest of the world, because you know she hasn't. In every way. In every aspect. You know what you need to do. You know when she talks about her mom she needs to call her, so pick up her fvcking cell (your fvcking cell) dial her mom and hand her the phone. You know when she smells of pot, you know you need to clean it out and clean her up. You know she's not disciplining herself, so you have to. You know it all.

Now, do it. All of it. Set and make a doctor's appointment. Take her to the farmer's market. Keep her out of her head and her eyes focused on you, on life, on living. Go fly a kite with her.

"But it's not easy."

No, it's not, and it never will be.

*shrugs*

No, it's not, and it never will be.

Look, it's going to be hard at the beginning. A lot of work. Really hard, and I'm going to fight you tooth and nail, and I'm going to fight you dirty. "You can't do this!" "This is against the law!" and on and on and on.

And then, later, I'm going to get really mean. I'm going to use everything against you. When I'm weak, I'm going to lash out.

"You're not out to your mother?" I'll ask you a year later. "Why? Don't you respect her?"

"You're not really all that smart, are you?" I'll ask when you say something.

And I'll get metaphysical on your @$$, and I'll dig into your writing, even the ones you had published under an alias, because I'm smart like that, so I'll find your writings on literotica or on Kristen's archives or wherever, and I'll so use your words against you. Kindly. I'll kill you kindly. And meanly. And so, so hurtfully.

And you'll wish you had never opened up to me.

And that.

So, go find your nice, bland, perfect girlfriend with no problems who makes no waves elsewhere and doesn't cause you any pain, trouble or heartache.

Go marry Mr. Right.

*ouch* That just really, really hurt, saying that.

And I will totally, totally be so happy that you made right choice. I will. I really, really will.

And, good news, you won't have to identify me at the coroner's office, like the girl who did end up being stuck with me will have to, and you won't have to clean up the mess I've made with my life, again, and you won't be crying and crying and crying at night, being so tired because you have to be so strong for yourself to be strong enough to carry me through the day, and you won't ...

Like that. You don't need me in your life, so please just go. I've told you that already.

But if you stay, I've got nothing to give you, except heartbreak, and sadness, and fury, and anger, and disappointment.

And you've got nothing to give me, because I know it all already, and I've heard it all from the psychiatrists and psychologists, and I've 'yeah, uh-huh'ed them already, when I was a 'good little girl' and wasn't screaming in their bland, dispassionate, bored, perfectly understanding faces as I cried my heart, life and hope out on these oh-so-professional 'caregivers.'

Am I worth it?

Obvious answer: no. Definitely not. Too much work. A waste of a human life.

Am I worth it?

'Don't, don't go away!' is that what you want to hear me say?

I won't say that. My stupid, stupid pride and hopelessness will never let me say that. You'll never hear me say that. But can't you see it in every fiber of my being?

Am I worth it?

I'm sorry. I'm not. I'm worthless. Don't you see that's how I see myself?

Am I worth it?

Only you, right here, right now, can answer that question for me.

I'm sorry, it's kind of an all or nothing question. That's the breaks when you're dealing with me. I'm sorry.

Why do I apologize so much? That's another entry. But, in brief: you've met me.

You are so fvcked.

Don't believe me? Those of you who've interacted with me for any length of time? Remember that PM? Yeah, that PM, and I so, so hurt you? You know? Personally? Viciously? And why? Because I love you. And I told you that hurtful, hurtful thing, and I'd rather drink arsenic then press send on the PM, but I saw you being me ... and well, I lashed out, and you got hurt. And now you've met me in Idaho or India or Istanbul, and you want to know if I'm worth it?

Haha. Hoho. Hehe.

*sigh*

Well, it was nice meeting you. Enjoy your latte and have a nice day.

'phfina's plastic friendly smile is so smoothly in place, but is there a hint of wistfulness to it? Nah.

Fun and games

"I used to complain about not having shoes until I met a man with no feet."

I'm rather pink right now.

An angry pink.

So, I followed my own advice and went outside yesterday, and got some sun. Fortunately I was wearing a long-sleeve shirt, not a tee on that hot-hot day, or else I wouldn't have been able to sleep at all, as the pain and itchiness would have kept me up all night. My face doesn't hurt ... too much, but the perma-blush is there and it makes me look a little more human and a little less albino. That is, if I could get used to the girl looking at me in the mirror. And the skin is tight on my face. My cheeks are warm.

Sunburn. *sigh*

So, but I went out to a picnic/festival yesterday. Ate a tamale, tried to practice what little Spanish I know, and smiled pleasantly looking perhaps (obviously) lost. But I was out among people, having fun and being pleasant and nice to me, and that was really nice.

So, fun and games.

I called Lisa yesterday.

Yes, be jealous.

Now, I did say you have no advantage if you lived close to me. But actually, you do. Lisa does. I met her in group, and she's a short, sweet little thing, with black hair and blue eyes and pale skin (YES; it's true! *le gasp!*) We really don't look anything alike (Ooh! I love being taller! ... and she has short, curly hair, not long straight hair, and I'm (much) paler) And when we had met, I hated her. I hated her!

She was like: 'Oh, I hate my clients and nobody at work does their work correctly, so I have to do all their work and I have to go to Paris again this week and blah-wah-blah-wah-blah-wah!'

Oh, the troubled lives of executives! ('I have to go to Paris'? Next time, take me!) (not that I could just ask that ... God!) (hm, maybe she needs a ... 'personal assistant'? Do NOT click on that link at work or school! VERY, VERY XxX rated!) Not that I know-know what she does ... we don't talk about work at group, but you get a sense, you know?

But then, one day she got up to share, and I turned to her to listen and she got this huge smile and said, '... and there's Violet, always so excited and cheerful!'

And I was like: huh?

But I listened to her. Really listened. And she said she was going to be a new person from now on, that she was going to be joyful and have fun in her life and she pointed right at me and said, '... and I'm going to ask Violet to catch me when I'm not.'

So I'm like: huh?

(you ever see 'phfina with that clueless look on her face ... it just so cracks everybody else up.)

And so she invites me to her birthday party, and so I was thinking about her yesterday and just, you know, called her up, and we talked and I wished her a happy birthday, and she said, 'You know, I'm really, really glad you called.'

I asked her if she were having fun. She said: 'I'm trying to have fun.'

I snarled at her: 'That's not what you promised. You didn't promise to try to have fun. You promised to have fun!'

And she laughed and laughed and was just so happy, and I laughed with her, so happy that she was happy again, and we said our goodbyes.

And I was like ...

And then at group, I invented a new game. My game is this, and I can play this game anywhere, see? My game is: whomever I encounter, they will be happier because they met me, and I will know that, because they smiled.

So, Darius.

Darius is this big basketball player of a man. Boy. Man. He's easily seven feet tall and muscular and wiry. And shy. And sad. And solemn. Very imposing: a big black man/boy.

A couple of weeks ago in group, Darius shared, and the group leader really dug deep, and asked him why he's never looking anybody in the eye and ...

And she got him to admit that he was afraid that he was making people scared of him, and that he didn't want people to be scared of him, all he wanted was to be loved.

And he started crying and crying as he begged: "love me!" to us over and over again.

Our group leaders can be relentless, you know.

And so I'm volunteering with Darius this weekend, who is also volunteering. And I told him my game after I made him smile and laugh a few times, and he was like, 'Nope, you're not gonna win your game with me, little girl!' And he would try so hard to frown and I say, 'No way!' and would bounce-bounce-bounce and giggle and scamper off, and his laughter would follow me.

And, well, people in group, I'd call them by name and say 'hi!' and they were sullen or thoughtful or sad or angry, but then they would warm up to me and smile.

And so that's my game. I win when you feel better, even a little bit, and I see that in your smile.

And ...

And, well, you know a few days ago I was sad, and perhaps in a few days I'll be sad. And I wrote from my sadness.

And now I'm happy, I'm feeling glad, I've got sunshine in a bag (or she wishes I had her in a bag ... hehehe) (private joke and a private 'hi!'), and so I'm writing from this happiness.

And I'm scared doing it. I'm scared of what you think. 'Oh, she goes on a tear about how bleak everything is and then this? What's with her?' And I'm scared you'll think I'm being hypocritical now or that I'm being hypocritical when I'm sad.

... or you'll think I'm manic-depressive. I'm not. It's just sometimes I'm melancholy, and sometimes I can pull myself up out of that, you know? Look beyond myself to others.

But ...

So I'm scared. Of you. All the time.

But, so what? I was sad before, I wrote about that. I'm happy now (and sunburned, and I went out today, too, so I'm going have an ow-y on my poor face and body AND a headache), and I wrote about that. And whenever I write, I risk something.

So I'm scared. But, so what? I'll be brave now, too, and write this, about being happy, just because, just because I chose to be, and publish it.

And tell you I'm playing a new game, a game where people are happier because we've met.

And you know what? I see their smile, and that makes me happier, too.

Um ... oops!

Just look at the time! I've got to run off to group, but y'all enjoy the rest of your weekend, y'hear?

*'phfina scampers off*

dot-dot-dot.

*'phfina scampers back*

Darius said yesterday, after the supper break: 'There's Violet, my best friend!'

'Said'? Did I say 'said'? He actually bellowed it and laughed through his huge smile.

I have a friend now. I have another friend now.

*'phfina scampers back to group*