The Literary Jersey Girl

Not all Jersey Girls are about hair, nails, and "WTF"

7/24/2020, 10 AM

I haven’t had a nightmare in a very long time. Thank god.
My insomnia, though, has been really bad the last 2 weeks.
When I do finally sleep, I’ve been dreaming much more . Or remembering the dreams I do have. If I were to relay the content of these dreams to an outsider, they sound innocuous enough. Even pleasant.
The human brain fascinates me, and that fascination was one of the reasons I majored in psychology when I entered college, and initially wanted to be a doctor. To this day I read everything about the human brain I can get my hands on. In all the years humans have studied their own minds, no one has come up with a concrete reason why we dream or what exactly causes dreams. There are few theories: hallucinations, and random electrical impulses are two of them.
My personal belief is that dreams can be keys to your subconscious mind. The subconscious mind can be difficult to access during full wakefulness, so it seems logical to me that subconscious thoughts will make their appearance in the dreaming mind.
I don’t like the fact that the subject matter of my recent dreams has permeated my subconscious. As I said, it’s not unpleasant, but it’s not something I want to think about consciously, and I certainly don’t want to dream about it. And without a concrete theory as to how and why the human brain dreams, it seems there is no logical way to eradicate this subject.
Perhaps this idea will run its course, and I can sleep soundly and dreamlessly once again…

5/11/19

Feeling pensive tonight. Brooding, in fact. I thought about eating or drinking my feelings, but I’m getting a little old for that nonsense. At the same time, a glass of wine and some cheap Chinese takeout do lend a sort of authenticity to my current mood.
If you’ve followed me for any length of time, I’ve written more than once about pain. Not so much physical pain, but mental and emotional pain. Not that I consider my writing to be overly depressed; yet pain is a topic that comes up over and over in my ruminations. Why? We’ve all endured emotional anguish. Some of us have found our way through, some have not. I wrote once that pain comes in many varieties. I was speaking of your own pain, caused by something you did directly, or that happened to you directly. What about the pain you feel on behalf of another? That empathic, empty, helpless pain as you watch someone you care about hurt. There’s not a thing you can do to help or assuage their feelings. It’s the helpless part that bothers me the most. Especially if it’s a pain I know, because it is something I went through myself. The helpless feeling comes because we can’t truly feel another’s feelings. Emotional pain should be scaled, like physical pain. My cat died in my arms; that was like an eight for me. For someone else, it might be a six. Because we can’t gauge or truly experience someone else’s pain, we don’t know what might make them feel better. Or at least I don’t. As good as I am with words (and let’s face it, I *can* turn a phrase from time to time), this is where I am often truly speechless. I don’t know what to say, how to say it, should I hug them, should I leave them alone…what?!?! What is the right thing, the best thing, the most comforting thing I can do? I usually find myself saying I’m sorry they are hurting, and then telling them to call me if they need anything. But that seems so weak. What I want to say is something like, “It pains me to see you hurting. I want to make you feel better but I don’t know how, or if you would want me to.” Something along those lines- like, tell me what you need from me so I can be there. Or if you want to be left alone, tell me and I’ll fuck off for a little while. I want to be a good friend when people I care about are hurting, but I don’t know how. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say. And I wonder if my weak offers of condolences and assistance do more harm than good.
I like analogies, and when I come up with a good one, I share it. A favorite is that relationships are like a two-person rowboat. I may have a new favorite now, and that is the idea that watching someone you love endure pain that you yourself have experienced is akin to watching them walk on a bed of hot coals. You can’t walk on the coals for them and take on that pain…yet you’ve been there and you know how fucking hot those coals are. And as you see the pain in your loved one’s eyes, and see them wince, you wince along with them because you were walking on those same coals not long ago. However, you’re helpless. You can’t walk on the coals for them. All you can do is walk along beside them on the cooler ground, encouraging them and holding their hand.

12/27/18

I guess it was about four years ago that I learned October is Domestic Violence Awareness month. It was the same year I became aware of Melissa Dohme, and learned about her escape from a violent relationship. I immediately felt a kinship to this young woman…because she too had survived her partner’s attempt to take her life. Instead of hiding, like I did for more than 20 years, she bravely came forward and told her story, over and over and over again. She stood up in court and spoke at her abuser’s sentencing. She has spoken to groups countless times about her survival, and has become a true advocate for the rest of us. She inspired me to finally speak.
And speak I did. I published my story on this website. Writing about what happened opened the floodgates and allowed me to write about other things, too. Being honest about what I survived allowed me to find solidarity with others who lived through such horrors. I have been thanked for telling my story. I have been told I’m strong for speaking up. I have been privy to stories similar to mine. I wrote not for the accolades and admiration; and not even in the hopes of finding others like me. I wrote because I wanted to heal. I could no longer carry it inside me and hope that the pain would magically pass someday. Getting the story out of my system has been a tremendous help. It’s also shown me who my friends are. Sadly my story has driven a larger wedge between my blood family and I. My family was not a close one, and the fact that they not only didn’t believe me, but didn’t support me drove us farther apart. I have accepted this, but still have to remind myself on a regular basis that my immediate family is harmful. We are mostly estranged by my choice.
So here I am after almost 20 years in a partnership, alone again. It’s a little weird because being alone has brought up triggers I didn’t know still existed. It’s frustrating. Very frustrating. My former partnership was or became unhealthy; even toxic. To remain would have done me more harm than good. Even though I know this in my heart of hearts, that does not make this journey any easier. What’s interesting to me is that recently, all I have wanted to do was go home. And by ‘home,’ I mean the place where I grew up. It is interesting because I vividly recall spending most of the late 80s and 1990 wanting to get OUT of my hometown. Granted, initially getting ‘out’ for me was moving about 30 miles south, but it was far enough. A few years later, I picked up and moved 1200 miles away to a place I’d never even visited before. And the last six months before I returned to New Jersey, I was so homesick I would dream I was back home. The dreams were so vivid that I could smell the bay and hear the ocean waves. And then I finally came home. If you’ve read any of my other writing, you know that my return to New Jersey was anything but peaceful, and I once again left my hometown, eager to get away.
This makes me wonder if I use ‘escaping’ as my way of handling things I cannot face. When I’m upset or angry, my first thought is to run and hide. So in my desire to return ‘home,’ am I once again escaping something I cannot face? Maybe my desire to go home is rooted in the need for familiarity. It’s kind of funny; my hometown has changed so much since I was a resident there; but everything feels familiar when I visit. Or, am I seeking safety? Feeling safe is a priority for me. Physically safe, emotionally safe, mentally safe. Safe to be myself, whether that self is happy and lighthearted, or having a difficult time and in need of support and love. The last several months have been a literal roller coaster of being very happy one moment and then holding back tears the next. I don’t mind showing the world my happiness…but I want to hide when tears threaten to fall. It’s a struggle, and not a pretty one. I still have a hard time asking for help when I need it, and I think it goes back to my need to feel safe. I think that I am afraid to ask for any kind of help and support because I don’t feel safe enough to do so. I also think that because I struggle with asking for help when I need it, I don’t go about it the ‘right’ way. I wish it was easier. It’s hard to admit that you need someone, or you need their support, or perhaps companionship, or even a stupid hug. I mean, it’s hard for me. Is it this hard for everyone else? I question myself on a regular basis, wondering if what I’m feeling and thinking is “normal.” I also wonder if I am looking to the wrong people and in the wrong places for support.

8/5/18

Sometimes you think you are moving forward in life, moving past something, when all of a sudden you’re hit with a sucker punch in the gut. You fall to your metaphorical knees with a “what the FUCK?!” look as all the air is sucked from your lungs. Your heart pounds, your fists clench-you’re in shock. Not just because of the gut punch. You’re shocked at your reaction. You thought you were beyond this. You did your metaphorical ab workout so that a gut punch would be deflected. And maybe you have worked hard to improve…but this time you forgot to flex and protect your core. Hence the sucker punch that leaves you gasping for air, and maybe grasping at straws to understand why you feel this way.

If it isn’t obvious, the above is kind of an analogy. I wanted to say metaphor again, because I do love that word, but I’d already used it twice…anyway…
I learned that someone I knew had information that could have prevented a world of heartache and hurt, but they never acted on it. Never spoke to the appropriate person, or had a difficult conversation in an attempt to solve the issue at hand. It shook me to the core because it was a situation I was intimately involved in. I thought I had moved beyond such feelings-you know, done my metaphorical ‘ab workout,’ ha ha…but apparently not.
I’m upset and a little angry, not just at the situation, but at myself for feeling this way. There is no longer any reason for me to feel hurt or offended or irate over the original issue…so why do I feel these things anyway?? Am I still not removed enough from the original situation to be ‘over it?’ Patience is NOT my strength…so if I’m not yet over it, HOW THE HELL LONG IS THIS GOING TO TAKE?!?!?!??!
I guess my impatience stems from the fact that I clung to an idea-or maybe a cause- much longer than I should have. I knew in my heart that things weren’t ever going to be right, but I hung in there anyway…not sure if that’s due to optimism, eternal hope, or plain old stupidity. So I almost feel as though a large part of getting past any old hurts occurred before I ended the arrangement. To once again feel hurt and angry about an old issue bothers me. And I can’t put a finger on why. That bothers me too.
I’m ready to be over and done and beyond this shit…how long until I truly am??? 😭😩😡

February 5, 2020: Today’s epiphany

Not only am I a work in progress, so are many of the people I encounter. Not everyone, but probably most of them.
If I am a work in progress, and therefore must have patience with myself, shouldn’t I also have patience with almost everyone around me, since they too are likely a work in progress?
Not only should I forgive myself when I stumble and fall on this journey, I should seek to forgive others when their stumbles affect me. I should seek to understand, and not assume that their foible is a direct hit against me.
I was raised to mistrust almost everyone I met. To assume that any misstep was against me, personally. It is taking me a long, long time to undo this ingrained behavior. And to seek instead the good in almost everyone.
Then, does it not stand to reason that there are others out there also trying to undo a lifetime of erroneous beliefs? Trying to better themselves, and stumbling along the way…just like me.
And as I must have patience with myself when I fuck up royally, when I let my temper get the best of me, when I become impatient and react instead of stepping back to think…I should also have patience with the world at large, and with almost everyone in it.
And as I seek to forgive myself my mistakes and stumbles, and work on forgiving others…I can only hope that those I’ve thoughtlessly hurt when I’ve made a mistake can someday forgive me.

Me, A Name I Call Myself (2/24/2020)

I’ve gone by monikers besides my legal name. Nicknames, pet names, variations of my legal name, and so on. I’ve referred to myself as woman, victim, chick, survivor, girl, fighter, bitch, lady, warrior…
Warrior. I like that. It fits. It feels right.
I may not always win, but dammit I always get up. Bruised, bloodied, armor dented, beaten….I still get the fuck up. Shit happens and, like a cat, I twist around so I can land on my feet.
And I remember how I thought of myself when I was younger; probably in my early teens…
Those years were difficult. Home was not a safe haven. I had an abusive parent, and had to protect myself as much as I could. My survival tactic was to visualize myself as the guardian of a fortress. A tall, strong, stone fortress with numerous impenetrable walls. I guarded this fortress dressed head to toe in chain mail. Why chain mail and not actual armor? My understanding was if there was a chink in the chain mail, I could repair just that piece while leaving the rest of myself protected. If a full suit of armor was damaged, I’d have to remove a large piece for repair, leaving me too vulnerable. I don’t know how accurate this thought was-but it made sense to me at the time.
I’m an adult now, free from the abusive parent…but I still visualize myself as that warrior, that guardian of the fortress, dressed in chain mail. Wielding a sword and shield, ready to slay whatever dragon crosses my path.
I am a goddamn warrior. And I will keep getting up.

Some random thoughts, I think…

I don’t promote my blog in any way. I don’t have any advertising, I don’t have business cards with my URL, and I don’t think I talk about it much. Some of my Facebook and Instagram followers have found my website, but I don’t think I have any “organic” followers.

Tonight I gave out my URL to several potential new followers during a group meeting. Funny how it came about. We were discussing things we were proud of ourselves for, and things we’ve promised ourselves. I mentioned that I’ve promised myself to keep up with my writing, my website, and my blog.

Ears and eyes perked up around the room, and I was asked for the URL. I felt my face get hot, and it took most of my willpower not to pull my shirt collar up over my face (which has become my go-to move when I can’t literally “hide”). There was no hiding. There was no way to deflect. These folks genuinely were interested and curious. So, I gave out this site’s address, and wondered just how many people would actually look up the website. A couple people asked what my blog was about, and instead of delving into the details of how and why I started it, I said that it was based on some of my life experiences and things I struggle with.

As I drove home, I realized that the bulk of my writing could be considered negative, or based on negative experiences. If I am trying to grow into a better person, how am I serving my growth and healing by wallowing in the negative experiences of the past? At this point, wouldn’t it serve me better to write about some of the more positive things in my life?

And that’s what this post is about. This is written tonight, 9:30 pm on 11/12/19. This will be published immediately, with little to no editing (spelling and grammar only). Taking a cue from this evening’s meeting, I have an awful lot to be grateful for.

I don’t see them often enough, and they don’t live close enough, but I have a circle of good, true, close friends. I call them my tribe. A core group of folks who are decent people, who I can turn to for advice or a laugh or a chat when needed. Over the past year I ferreted out a couple of bad friends, but it made me appreciate the good ones even more. Some of them are friends from childhood and high school. Some are friends I got to know as an adult. No matter, I am fortunate to have these people in my life.

I have a great job. I don’t make a lot of money, but I can pay my bills. More importantly, I have a true passion for my work and I believe in what I do. I love my job, and I feel very fortunate that I was able to return to school and enter a career I love. Like most lines of work there are negative aspects, but I get to meet and interact with a variety of people. Some of them I even have the privilege of helping.

I look back over some of the things I’ve been through, and DAMN I am a tough chick!! I am resourceful and strong, and no matter what life has thrown at me, I’ve managed to land on my feet. That’s something I’ve tried to keep in the front of my mind over the roller coaster this past year. I am stronger than I think I am, and I’ve handled just about everything the best way I could at the time. Is my life perfect? Depends on how you define perfection, I suppose. I have just enough to work for to keep things challenging, and enough good things to keep me fairly happy most of the time. I’ve created a life on my own that I can be proud of. I make plenty of mistakes-who doesn’t-and I try my best to learn what I can from them.

I have a roof over my head, food in my fridge, decent health, a car to drive, and the use of all five senses. I have books to read, a decent education, and the beach is just a short walk away. I have people who love and care about me, and people to love and care FOR.

Despite the best (??) efforts of bad, negative, and/or toxic people, I am here today. I am alive. I didn’t just survive my past, I surTHRIVED and I continue to do so.

(originally published 9/5/19)

Reading “Life Inside My Mind” edited by Jessica Burkhart. An anthology of 31 writers who share their personal struggles with various mental health issues. And smack in the middle is an essay by Melissa Marr entitled ‘How to Deal With Me…and My PTSD’
Melissa describes her struggles with going into crowds…with being touched by strangers…needing to sit with her back to a wall….nightmares and night terrors…exaggerated startle reflex upon hearing loud noises or raised voices….
And I’m right there with her. Or I was for many years. Way too many years. Melissa talks about the ways she has gotten better; but how she regresses when life gets stressful.

In the midst of my own life stress right now…some of my night terrors have returned. Panic attacks have reared their ugly heads again the last couple weeks (it took me an episode or two to realize what was happening and why I was shaking and crying uncontrollably when I was safe at home-ugh). Touch hasn’t been too much of an issue, thank god. People don’t always react kindly when they touch your arm harmlessly and you flinch and jump. Probably because they don’t understand. One recent day I was highly upset when someone I know well came to see me. They went to hug me and I flinched ever so slightly. I was hoping they didn’t notice…but they did, because they asked if a hug was OK. I felt embarrassed; this is someone who can hug me without asking. This of course set off a whole new set of worries: what if they can’t understand or accept that this may happen from time to time? What if I can’t find a way to overcome everything? What if…what if…what if…

I almost cried in solidarity here at work as I read Melissa’s words. Her reactions and her triggers are so fucking familiar. My god, I really am not alone. I’m not the only one fighting this, struggling along some days, or feeling like I’m wading through mud as I recently told a medical professional.
I’m beginning to accept that I may have had-and still have-PTSD, or the remnants of it. And I wonder if that means anything different for me. No, I have not been formally diagnosed; but medical and mental health professionals have told me in casual settings that it’s very likely. I’m not really willing to be formally diagnosed and have that label in my medical files. I don’t know if a formal diagnosis matters at this point.
What matters to me is that a fellow writer has the same struggles. And has spoken about it. Just like me.
I am not alone.
💜 I am not alone 💜
And neither are you, fellow survivors.

(originally published 10/7/19)

It’s time to get down and dirty again with another peek inside the mind that belongs to everyone’s favorite blogger (that’s me, in case you didn’t know.)
I’ve ripped open my heart, showed you some of the dark recesses of my brain, and shined a light on my not-so-awesome past life. So what’s left? What else can possibly lurk behind this screen and keyboard, as I sit here typing on a mild sunny day?
Fear.
Yes, FEAR.
Some of my loyal followers have called me brave, courageous, even fearless. It’s time to drop the mask. I am not fearless. Not at all.
As the nights get longer and the weather cools, I am more afraid. Of the dark? No, not really. Not technically. Not in the way you might be thinking. It’s the darkness and chill of winter that scares me, not so much the dark itself. Actually, it’s what happens during the dark cold days of winter that frightens me more than winter itself.
As the days shorten and the temperature drops, I feel a change within. No, I am not turning into a werewolf or a vampire, so put your silver bullets and crucifixes away, please. The easiest way to explain, I guess, is a change in my mindset. I’m not sure if it’s a change in body chemistry or hormones, or attitude. I’m not sure if it’s a seasonal disorder. And i don’t know if it’s a combo of the cold and dark coupled with… well, feeling like an outsider during the time of the year most closely associated with spending time with loved ones.
If you’ve delved into my website, you know I am mostly estranged from my family of origin, by my choice. It’s a choice I still wrestle with, usually as the winter holidays rear their heads. It’s difficult to explain this to people I don’t already know. Those who know me, know not to ask. I can usually deflect questions by turning them around and asking the asker about THEIR holiday plans. If that fails, I can usually cry poorhouse and say that traveling to my family of origin is too expensive (it kind of is anymore). Barring that (because there’s always some too-chipper asshole telling me about 99 dollar flights and shit…trust me I have better things to do with 99 bucks…) I can vaguely mention that time off is too difficult to come by (it is, really).
Even though it’s my choice, I think its the combo of all of this that drags me down after Halloween passes. I don’t think people understand just how fucking emotionally tiring it is to be on the defensive all the time; all while trying to slog through the cold and the dark and the yuck that winter is to me.
And what scares me the most as winter approaches (I’m not the only one hearing Ned Stark and Jon Snow in my head intoning, “WINTER IS COMING!” am I??) is how my mind begins to work. The thoughts that creep up on me and all but take over sometimes. It is an almost-constant battle between me and myself, if that makes any sense. The me that has hope, is optimistic, and tries to see the good in things and people. And Dark Me…the one who fucking hates life, who feels worthless and unlovable, lonely and afraid. The one who wants to, sometimes, quite literally, curl up in bed and die.
Last winter was not a good one emotionally or mentally. And at this moment, today, right now…I am afraid of this coming winter.

Playing the Odds, or Where There’s a Will There’s a Way (11/27/18)

(Originally published 11/28/18)

Karma is not always a bitch. Sometimes Karma comes swashbuckling in like a pirate, charms your fears into oblivion, then plunders and pillages at will. Once Karma is done, the Jolly Roger is hoisted and Karma slips away quietly, cruelly, with nary a word or look back.

I contemplated this while sitting across the table from my dear friend T, listening as she talked, tears rolling down her face. 
“What is WRONG with me??” she cried, relaying a recent heartbreak. My own heart ached for her pain. I sat and listened, and handed her tissues from time to time as she told her tale of a summer romance gone sour once fall arrived. 
“I don’t know what came over me,” T said. “I trusted him. I believed all the things he said. I let him behind THE WALL.”

Oh…THE WALL. The wall T put up to shield her heart from further hurt. To keep her from being too vulnerable. This guy had gotten behind THE WALL? Damn… 
I didn’t have the heart to tell T that she jumped into something new too soon. My girl was just out of a relationship with an unaffectionate man who largely ignored her when Mr. Summer Love (SL for short) came along. Maybe SL was a bad guy, maybe he wasn’t. I don’t know him. But the time was wrong for T. She was raw and a little fragile. So of course when SL swooped in with hugs and kisses and intelligent conversation and attention, T was smitten. It certainly didn’t hurt that SL was charming; as well as tall, dark, and handsome, with a killer smile. Like the intelligent gal T is, she told me she held back her feelings. She put them behind THE WALL and kept her cool. And SL pursued her, hard. He complimented her. He called her. Sent texts. Remembered things she mentioned in passing. He did all of the things an attentive boyfriend would do. He even referred to her as ‘significant other,’ called her pet names, and said they were ‘in a relationship.’
“It was thrilling,” she gushed despite her tears. “I never had this happen before. I was sure he was sincere. I could ‘feel’ it, you know? I could see it in his eyes,” I believed her. Or at least I believed that SHE believed that. I’m a skeptic; had it been me, I doubt I’d have fallen for it. But that’s me, and maybe I’m weird. Or impervious to charming, handsome men. Whatever.

T finally opened up to him and confessed that she too was feeling the things he said he was feeling. “He even said he knew the ‘odds’ were against it working. He asked me to promise to remain friends with him no matter what. And so I promised,” T sighed. She decided to play the odds. Maybe any one of us would have if we had been caught off-guard by that smile and the cool logic applied when discussing ‘the odds.’ It was too good to be true.
Then, in the fall, after months of daily calls, sending texts throughout the day, and SL asking to see her every weekend, he abruptly vanished. Stopped calling. Stopped responding to messages. No explanation, nothing. She initially worried about him, because he was going through some personal challenges. But when he didn’t even respond to her request for the return of her belongings, she went from worry to anger and hurt. SL’s final text was a half-ass ‘apology,’ two simple words: “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for WHAT?!” T wailed to me. “What did I do? What did I say? What did I NOT do or say?” I sat helplessly because I had no answer for her. I didn’t know him. T had friends who did though, and all of them told her what a great guy SL was. Genuine, willing to help anyone, decent, the ubiquitous ‘nice,’ and even awesome were some of the adjectives she said were used to describe him by mutual friends.
“If this nice, awesome guy treats me like a worthless piece of shit whore, then it must be me,” T whispered. “It must be me. I must be a worthless piece of shit whore.” T’s shoulders slumped resignedly, tears streaming from her eyes. I told her that she was no such thing, and at the same time, I imagined I would think the same of myself in her shoes. Ghosting is what the kids call it; I call it a clear sign of disrespect and cowardice. Actions speak louder than words, and these actions erased any kind words SL had ever said to her. It made me angry to see my friend in pain. I didn’t understand how an adult, which is what SL supposedly was, could behave this way. Their mutual friends had no explanation and no real comfort for T, firm in their stance that SL was “an awesome guy,” and that T should ‘keep an open mind’ about the whole thing. 
“And I still don’t have my belongings back,” T continued. “And it’s not so much the stuff, it’s the principle. I have half a mind to show up on SL’s doorstep some random evening and demand he return my things immediately.” My logical mind knew she had a legal right to her belongings, my emotional mind understood her need for closure, but my practical mind saw this would play out with T as a nutjob and SL as the nice guy in the middle of a life crisis while some crazy bitch on his doorstep is hysterically crying about ‘her stuff.’ I took T’s hand and looked her in the eyes. 
“I don’t think you’re going to get closure,” I said gently. “I don’t think you’ll be getting your things back, either. And as to the friendship…well who knows. Only time will tell.” I knew T didn’t want to hear this, but she needed to. I think T will have to find closure within herself, which I told her. I also reminded her this was a Classic Rebound…and now it was over. The Rebound was out of the way and finished. I saw T’s face light up a little as she realized this. Perhaps this is the closure she needed.
“Don’t worry,” T said “I’m not planning on showing up at his house. He’d probably call the cops, considering his experience with his psycho ex.”
“He has a psycho ex?” my eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You may have dodged a bullet, T. He needs to get his shit together after dealing with a psycho. SL probably did you a HUGE favor by ghosting you,” I nodded sagely.

This brings me back to Karma. My hurting friend believed that she had done something, somewhere, some time, to warrant such treatment. To deserve this Karma, so to speak. And her description of Mr. Summer Love, the way he swaggered in, buccaneer-like and handsome, charming her defenses down to nothing and scaling THE WALL-sounded less like the bitch Karma is often described as, and more like a pirate (play along with me here, I’m envisioning a modern-day Errol Flynn, charming and masculine…) This man pirated my friend’s happiness and stole her peace, albeit briefly. But was this an act of Karma? Or was this something else? I suppose it depends on whether you believe in Karma, or whether you think SL is a bad person, or you think T is gullible. 
As for me, I believe it was a case of poor timing, mixed together with two lonely, hurting people. Could T have resisted the charms of SL, maybe not jumped into seeing him every weekend, maybe held on to her reserve a little longer? Could SL have been more up front and not dragged Friendship and Promises (caps intentional, because T keeps promises, and true friendship is dear to her) into the whole thing??
Perhaps. But that’s not what happened. 
If nothing else, SL has become the personification of Karma for T, if Karma were a pirate. Cap’n Karma, if you will. And, T got her rebound out of the way.

Mind you, I only know T’s side of the story. Neither she nor I know SL’s/Cap’n Karma’s side. Heck, I don’t even know Cap’n Karma (has a better ring than SL, don’t you think??), so I can’t begin to guess what he might say. An ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ perhaps? Which, by the way, is NOT an explanation or reason in itself. It’s a lazy-ass way of getting OUT of an explanation.
Who knows, maybe Cap’n Karma will contact T and explain. In which case I might be able to publish a second part to this tale. But for now… 
I see my friend’s pain, and I’m providing her with the outlet she doesn’t have, that is all. I’m also providing my followers with some food for thought regarding Karma, and how you sometimes need to take a step back and see a painful situation from a new perspective.

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