your taste in men is weird

Ólafur Darri Ólafsson from the Icelandic TV show, Trapped
Ólafur Darri Ólafsson from the Icelandic TV series, Trapped

Dear Internet,

After several episodes of the Icelandic tv series Trapped, the lead, Ólafur Darri Ólafsson, has my current lustful admiration. When I declared he was my one true love to TheExHusband, he looked at me with a quizzical look — “Your taste in men is weird.”

Which I suppose is true.

If you’ve been hanging around me here or on various other social media spaces, you’ll see me often comment about my future husbands (and wives). This seems to make people uncomfortable with one of the biggest complaints of, “If you’re with $nameoflover, why are you lusting over other people?” Many saw it as some form of disloyalty because obviously I wanted more than what was being given in my current relationship.

This is poppycock.

Rebuttal 1. It’s a fantasy. The likelihood of myself partnering up with any of those people is about as great as winning the Powerball. Anyone who says they don’t fantasize is lying through their teeth.
Rebuttal 2. I can control the fantasy. Simple enough: When I’m day dreaming about  X, I control the what, when, and where (obviously we already have the who).
Rebuttal 3. It’s not so much the actor whom I’m lusting after but their character in a particular movie / tv series / whatever. All of them are gorgeous in their own right but it’s their portrayal in whatever I’ve seen them is what sets my heart aflutter.
Rebuttal 4. Men have been objectifying women since the dawn of time. While men continue to remain the ones in power, I have no qualms on turning the tables on them.
Rebuttal 5. It’s fun.


Here are a couple of examples of my current loves of my lives.


My darling Ólafur plays Andri, the chief of police in a sleepy, remote hamlet in eastern Iceland, in the Icelandic tv series Trapped  (which is currently available on BBC’s iPlayer1). The series is best compared to Fargo (the tv series). Throw in a blizzard, human trafficking, murders, a titch of romance and it’s obvious Ólafur has a lot to do. He’s 6’5 (always a plus), silent, clever, and brooding. (Brooding is always important.) But it’s not so much the tallness or the cleverness that pulls at my heart strings, whether it’s the simmering passion below the surface. The way he is passionate about his work, how he looks at his ex-wife, how he wants to do always do the right thing even if is at the expense of his own safety. There is depth that remains unexplored and ladies and gentlemen, I want to explore that depth.

(I’m not the only whose noticed Ólafur’s allure.)


Shawn Cortese from the TV series, Nothing Trivial
Shawn Cortese from the TV series, Nothing Trivial

I subscribe to Acorn, a streaming service that specilizes in British (and sometimes Australian and New Zealand) tv series with an odd movie here and there.2 Nothing Trivial3 is a series based in Auckland, NZ about a group of misfits who met via a weekly pub trivia quiz. Shawn Cortese, which I’m sure many would argue is hot in his own right as a silver fox, plays Mac, a staid advertising man going through an acrimonious divorce. His love for Katherine, another pub quiz member, is buried beneath their pretense on being friends. As one does, their love ruptures when they’ve been drinking and ends with, “No. No. We can’t do this.” In one particular scene where he and Katherine are in a passionate embrace, he throws her down on the floor and rips her panties off with his teeth which leant me to giggle lasciviously. (Well, he rips her panties off in a lustful manner, which is the same thing.)

At first glance, Cortese’s character is nothing what you would expect me to generate impure thoughts™. He wears button downs and khakis. He’s in advertising. He has a big boy job. He drinks wine for christ’s sake. If I saw him in a bar, I would grant he was attractive but dismiss him almost immediately. But all it took was that one second action that would have me throw myself at him at first opportunity.

I’m such a hussy.


henryrollingsMost of those I meet expect me to woo at men like Henry Rollins. Tattooed. Cranky. Obvious rebel. Creative. Amitous. It makes sense: I’m tattooed. Cranky. Obvious rebel. Creative and ambitious. But there is much more to this world than just obvious physical attraction. The older I get the nuanced my love gets. Primarily, I look for wit and intelligence4. How they treat their families and friends. What they are passionate about and what they are interested in. They need to have spirit and soul. The more intense the better.

There needs to be more than great thighs, big hands, and height.

(And may the gods help me if they look at me like they are going to eat me up.)

(Obviously accents help)

It’s not their physical characteristic that makes me crazy about them, which does help, it’s these characters that burns them into my soul. This is why I love these men with the fire of a 1000 suns.5


Rebuttal 6: Taking control of my sexuality and sensuality.

When you’re a fat girl, the stereotype that continues to perpetuate is no one will love you let alone find you sexy. You will never find a partner who is going to adore you let alone desire you.

When it’s drilled into your head by words, images, and media you will not now nor ever will be seen as the object of someone’s lust, you believe it. The self-loathing is so deep even masturbation is overshadowed by your own self-hatred and touching yourself is taboo. The longer you go without a partner, the more evident it is, to you, all of those fat girl songs are true.

And the adage of, “If you don’t want you, who will?” continues to reverberate through your brain.

The equation is: No one will find you attractive + your self-loathing of your own body = more proof no one will ever want to date you.

It’s a catch-22.

And if they do love you, desire you, lust after you, it’s because you are a fetish and not a person.

No matter my weight, for most of my life I thought this all to be true.

In my early 30s, as I ended a serious relationship and was starting a new chapter in my life, I started to harness the passion that was I knew was simmering below the surface. Everything was sensuous from the food I ate to the perfume I wore to the fabric against my skin. Everything was to be loved and it would love me back.

And it did.

That is when the world opened up in new ways — the more I loved me, the more others loved me. Despite the often crippling social anxiety tossed about with bits of self-loathing, I was not always lousy with others wanting me but this was different. The confidence I was slowly building helped changed me on the approach and reciprocation of relationships, platonic and romantic. The self-loathing was beaten at bay and with that came self-esteem and self-respect.

All of this is tenuous. Fragile. Delicate. That brief period when I not only was in love with the world and myself was short. All that hard work started to slide when I started dating TheEx and by the middle of my marriage a few years later, the idea of someone finding me desirous was laughable.

It took everything I had to hold a shred of self-respect.

Then as I was then, here I was now: No one was ever going to find me desirable let alone love me and all of this came crashing to a head in October 2015.

It takes everything to hold on to a modicum of self-respect.

From a stranger’s glance, you know this is not necessarily true. Within the last couple of years, I have (had) two men declare I was the love of their lives. I have had many tell me, without fetishizing me, how wonderful was my body. Everything about me has been adored in some fashion or another.

I shouldn’t feel unloved or not lusted after and yet here we are.

Self-loathing has packed its bags and decided I was a long term stay Air BnB. Any good that came out of that period when I was in love with myself has long left. When I look in the mirror now, it’s very seldom I see an attractive person in front me. Instead I see myself as fat. Ugly. Not the least bit sexual or sensual.

Much as I felt in my 20s and late 30s.

At the root, logically, I know this not to be true. i know if I can bring out the sexy goddess who lives deep inside of me once, I can do it again. It’s going to be a struggle. It’s going to be hard. It’s not going to be pretty, but I will rescue her now as I had all those years ago and this time she will stay for good

So yes, there will be much lustful conversations about what turns me on. This body, my body, does not contain an unsensual, let alone unsexual, persona. I keep saying logically, but it’s true, logically I know that what I believe is bullshit — it’s the emotional crap that fucks you up and beats you down so bad you’re part of the floor.

You may not find this to be tasteful or have a purpose or part of your mores, but this isn’t your life, it’s my life. It’s time to tell the naysayers and the evil voices who make my life miserable to suck it haters and I’ll bloom like a fucking flower.

xoxo,
Lisa

P.S. And dimples. Can’t forget the dimples. Also someone who can raise their eyebrow to give you a most stern look. No why that particular feat of muscular control drives me to lust but yes, yes it does.


1. I’ve been raving about the show after mainlining all 10 episodes over the last couple of days. If you can find it, I implore you to watch!
2. Acorn was the first service to have Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries long before it was on PBS or Amazon.
3. I’ve also mainlined Nothing Trivial‘s seasons 1 and 2 and am impatiently waiting for season 3 to show up on Acorn. Maybe if I sacrifice something? I’m on pins and needles here.
4. If you believe in such things, the average IQ score of my previous mens hovers in the 150 range.
5. The conversation with regards to my love life can be distilled to the two most important men in my life: TheBassist and TheExHusband. I loved the others as much as they’d let me but they never quite caught my heart as much as TheBassist or TheExHusband, especially TheBassist. The general quip I hear when I have said there will never be anyone else like him is, “Of course not! Those are separate people, etc etc.” To which I respond, “You poor soul. You have no idea do you?” Fuck ’em.

This Day in Lisa-Universe: 2014

broomball

Dear Internet,

If you missed it, the last couple of days I’ve been recording audio of various love poems. I planned on doing one a day until Happy Massacred Heart day, but I’m currently feeling a little eh right now, so WHO KNOWS if I’ll finish the series.


I’m coming up on nearly a month of being smoke free! With what money I have left in my checking, I’m transferring $12 a week (what I paid for two packs of cigarettes) to my savings to get an idea of how much I’ve saved since I quit smoking.

I expect millions.


I start rugby practice Monday.

I know. Rugby. WHO KNEW.

Level of entry is pretty cheap. I stole clothes from TEH (from his skinnier days which equal my fat days) and the only big purchase was my cleats (I wear a size 11 womens or an 8.5 mens. I had to buy a size 9.5 mens for my cleats because the fuckers run small. But hey! Cleats!) and the small purchase of my mouthguard. I’ll also have to get game day socks and shorts1 down the road.

I’ve either played or tried other sports before this; tennis, softball, and basketball to name a few. I either didn’t like them or couldn’t play for shit. Rugby seems to take advantage of my size and aggression and it’s a well known fact I have tree trunks for legs (I’m nice and sturdy) plus I love finding new ways to get my aggression out. If I ever move to a place where I can hang a punching bag, boxing is so going to happen.

Wanting to play rugby has been a long time coming. When I was still married, I tried to get a rugby team started in Grand Rapids, but it fell apart as there were only three of us gung ho about the idea and you need 15 people on the field. I don’t know what sparked me to start looking in L-Ville, but boom! Two seconds searching and I found an active team. Practice starts on Monday!

I have games all over the Ohio Valley region through March and April, so if you’re in Louisville, Nashville, Youngstown, Lexington, Cincinnati, or Dayton, let me know and I’ll give you info about those games for you to come cheer me on! (I’ll post the fall schedule, the second season, if I’m still in L-Ville at that time. Yay tree trunk legs!)


How do we get over heartbreak? No one really knows2 yet everyone seems to think they have the answer.

After reading Girl on the Net’s piece, I started thinking about my recent heartbreak and the process to heal.

Based upon friend’s reactions these last few months, it’s expected I should be discoing my way to someone else. As time marches on, this round of break up many feel I have already said all there is to say about him, the relationship, and the ending. What more could there possibly be? (A lot apparently.)

I spend most days without TheBassist’s presence hovering on the peripheral and then something benign reminds me he hasn’t been thought of and fuck, there he is!

God dammit.

Every couple of therapy sessions there is at least a brief mention of this occurring, how it pisses me off, and how my heart has ghosts of the devastation, which pisses me off even more.

There is no exorcism to dispatch a broken heart.


There is, however, only one thing of his that has remained in my life and that is the hair wraps I made out of one of his workout shirts3. The hair wrap thoughts are along the lines of when I’m getting out of the shower with and “Oh. A t-shirt hair wrap.” rather than some deep rooted creepiness on my part. I will admit, however, during the throes of the early stages of the break-up, I swore to never wash the shirt again as it still smelled of him (I sniffed it a lot. Don’t judge.), to never pack it away so I have a constant reminder of him, and all of this has led to letting those feelings go except with, “I need t-shirt hair wrap. Here is one handy. Cool.” (And yes, they do get washed on a weekly basis.)


I don’t have an exact time frame of when my heart began to heal when he broke it off with me in 2005. I know I dated a rebound guy a few months later, which was good times as rebound guy cried on my shoulder about his ex-fiance and I cried on his shoulder about TheBassist. I can safely guess I was open to the idea of seriously dating someone around the time I started dating TheEx in the fall of 2006. Heart beginning to heal sometime before then? Most likely. I was writing mainly on LiveJournal in those days, I didn’t divulge my soul, and I was not paper journaling so the timing is not terribly clear.


Then we had a few months of long conversations and one weekend together. Now we had a year of conversations and many months of living together. Both crammed with so much stuff in those too short times.


There have been twinges of him, sure, throughout the years. I checked TheBassist’s LiveJournal on occasion in the beginning, my heart hurting when he talked about his beautiful wife and wonderful family. Eventually I stopped torturing myself and let that piece of my heart be put to rest. This time after the great FB unfriending5, within a few weeks I stopped looking at his profile or any other social media we shared. Currently I’ve been navigating around any type of interaction of him within our mutual friends updates. I am the queen of curating Facebook news feeds.


We once agreed it was all or nothing. It is now nothing.


On some days when I’m alone and feeling particularly sad, there tends to be benign event that gets me thinking, and thinking leads to yearning, and yearning leads to heartache.

Those days are few and far between.


What I think about the most is not what has transpired from our time together, but a fear that at some point I will mark him as a memory of when I was high manic and crashed or I did not love him after all. I was delusional then and now about our relationship; fantasies were never meant to be real. I feel despondent when others tell me he was just the rebound guy from the dissolution of my marriage and all the trappings rebounds entail. That I am more upset my ego was bruised rather than the loss of him. That the words whispered in my ear about his predilections and indiscretions before me or hints of all the promises of forever was not for me alone but also repeated to all of his previous loves.

I was not as special as he said I was.


What I also often fear is one day he’ll put all the pieces together and believe he held out for an ideology rather than for reality so he never loved me at all. That everything he said and promised was nothing more than a huge mistake and he rued the day he found me again.


That is the borderline speaking.

I doubt my feelings, my emotions so I can be easily swayed by others opinions of what I should be feeling. I doubt his feelings, his emotions and I believe he too can be easily swayed by opinions, though history dictates this is not true. But the voice inside my head insists that is true and I get out of control.

It is far easier for me to create a world where it was all a huge mistake, and thus less responsibility for our actions, our selves. Nothing was real, whatever that means.

If I want to heal and move forward, it’s not about reconciling the logic and the emotion the relationships is over because that is already being dealt with but it’s about believing in myself and my feelings. Believing in him and his feelings. Stop second guessing every intent and act. A million decisions lead up to then and now. This is what is true.

Something I am having a hard time in believing as I think I can change the past as easy was with a snap of my fingers and the outcome would be much different.


Knowing I did and do love him. From the way he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a knuckle on his right hand to his rapid fire response when he was passionate about a topic to the way his feet felt when I rubbed them after a long gig.

Knowing he did and does love me. From the way I looked at him with my amazing (his words) eyes to my happiness being dependent on coffee and rides around cloverleafs to how I felt in his arms.

This is not about wish fulfillment of futures yet to be revealed; it’s about taking what I experienced and using it to learn to heal. To move forward. To not make the same mistakes again.


The few times I tried to reach out, in the beginning of the breakup in regards to things that needed to be settled, I was ceremoniously rebuffed. I may write here the longing for him, but I do not go begging back to those who act as if they do not want me. This could be the bipolar megalomania speaking but no matter of how low I am, this is a consistent self-respect I have for myself .

I never have gone begging for someone and I never will.

Remember: He left.


At some point I will date again. I am not going to stop living my life because he is gone. And I will need to place faith and trust in someone without reservation. I need to not assume after fights they are going to leave me and I need not question why they like me.

I have no intention of clinging to our life together as the end all be all to the point I am paralyzed by being alone or with someone else – I am not that unrealistic or truth be told, not shying away from taking a future lover. A girl has needs.

I need to put faith in myself to set boundaries, healthy boundaries, and learn how to negotiate a relationship without expecting the world on a string.

I am, however, pretty damned sure while others may come close (and go), there will never be anyone like him.

And I don’t want there to be.

(You could be an asshole and argue how no one is the same; no one is like another. I know that. He hit all the major points, something only one other person has come close to doing, and that will be what my soul will ache but continue to look for and the likelihood of finding someone like that will near impossible. So I’ll take the lovers and the suitors but it will be a goddamned miracle before I get heavily involved again.)

I need to have faith and trust in myself in all relationships, platonic and romantic.

To be happy.


There is no arbitrary time when one person heals from emotional pain. There is no one fits all recipe. We’re assholes when we try to force the thought of, “Well. It’s been x months. Let them go and move the fuck on.” No one can really explain what “moving the fuck on” really entails or means no matter how much they want to. This is my interpretation of healing. This is how I work. This is what I do.

I’ve said it a million times before: If it takes me writing about it, talking with my shrink about it, or just plain thinking about to get to the point I can be freely undistracted (or triggered) by what happened, at my own pace, then that is totally okay. Fuck the haters.

(We are all changed, even a tiny bit, by the people important in our lives. To attempt to eradicate them emotionally and mentally is fucking impossible, unless you are a psychopath but that is not here nor there.)

These are some of the things I need to remember when the time comes to meet and accept someone or I will not have learned a fucking thing.

xoxo,
Lisa

1. No matter what sport I try to play, finding Lisa-sized clothes is always a fucking pain in the ass. The people complain about fat people being lazy assholes but the people won’t provide clothes for the fat people to work out in. I suppose it’s one of life’s mysteries .
2. They also know if you’re in emotional pain, taking acetaminophen can help. No joke.
3. Krazy Kate, whose hair is similiar to mine, convinced me to wash and style my hair with products free of parabens, *cones, and SLS.4 T-shirts are more absorbent for hair than towels, which is why I’m being I’ve kept said t-shirt. If you must know, my hair looks fabulous.
4. Too long of list of products I use but for shampoo / conditioner, I’m totally digging Burt’s Bees.
5. Let us not forget after all he dumped me via Facebook, something I quite right have to bristle about.

This Day in Lisa-Universe:

adventitious

(TW: rape, sexual abuse, sexual harassment)

Dear Internet,

I know! Two daily entries right next to each other. What in the fuck is the world coming to?

This morning on Facebook I said:

In the “2AM Bad Decision Hour” a few nights ago, I enabled my OKCupid account which consists of a few questions and a pic. That’s it. No lengthy intros, outros, what have you. In less than an hour, my profile had been liked over 20 times and I had 5 generic “hey baby” messages in my account. I immediately disabled the account and look forward to ten glorious months of being date-less. So while Hume is on point with inductive reasoning, I can say with the utmost sincerity and respect he’s never been on a dating site where without a shadow of a doubt there will be some twat who thinks sending dick pics is a good introduction idea.

Alright then.

I’ve come to some reasons, with personal introspection natch, why my romantic relationships tend to have my lover dump me rather than the other way around. In fact, of all the adulting relationships I’ve had since I was 19, I’ve only dumped one person — every one else dumped me (and came back with the “You’re the love of my life!” routine). This is not to say I went out with everyone who was interested in me or I was throwing myself into promiscuous behaviour at every chance I got (which goes against the typical hyper sexuality of the bipolar) but I did shoot down those I wasn’t in the mood for and typically cut the dumpers out of my life pretty quick. (Which is why they always come back, right? People typically want what they can’t have. Then I want them to want them just as bad and the cycle repeats itself.)

Between not having a father figure or any positive male role model in my life (my father left when I was 5 months old), traumatic experiences with sex (I’ve been date raped at least twice, attempted gang rape once, and of course the ongoing sexual harassment), I see nearly every man as a threat to my personhood. And I see nearly every man as a thing and not a person — my mother’s mantra was, “Don’t let a man run your life.” Which is WHY when I lose control in the relationship, which pushes the person to dump me (usually), I cut them hard out of my life. Because not all men ™.

My Connecticut therapist noted my sexual behaviour is to be the one in control (I fuck like a stereotyped man — I always make the first moves in relationships or I always initiate sex in those relationships). By being in control, I can direct where it’s going and how it will work without having the conscious effort of someone else being in control or letting them see my vulnerability (which explains why I always need to be the dominate one — which unsurprisingly frightens some of my past lovers. On the flip side, I crave to be dominated by a man and have rarely met one who can dominate me. I have a strong will.).

As long as I can be the best fuck they’ve ever had, they won’t leave. Right? (And my assertive and aggressiveness is why I hear over and over again through the ages I WAS their best fuck. Yay me?)

Literally the moment she said this, a huge weight came off my shoulders and I could enjoy sex without treating it as a means to and end and be my assertive self without the weight of the bullshit. (Women can’t like sex, be aggressive, or want to get fucked 10 ways to Sunday so to like sex was a BAD THING, amirite?)

When I was 15 or 16, my mother pushed me to ask my father as to why he, allegedly, sexually abused me. As one might assume, he was incredulous. For most of my adult life I’ve carried around this thought there was “something” happened but exactly what was never clear. Either something did not happen and my mother merely planted the seed or something did happen with someone and I’ll never know who.

One night, a few years ago, a revelation hit me. Why would my mother push me to ask my father about this particular topic? And if he HAD sexually molested me, and she knew what was going on, why was she continuing to send me to see him every summer? What kind of mother does that to their child? (And if you ever wondered why I’ve divorced my mother four or five years ago, this was the topping on the proverbial cake. )

There’s a lot under the hood in regards to my romantic and sexual life. A lot coming to the surface after years of not discussing it and ignoring it. Thus if I want to have a healthy relationship in the future, discussing it NOW in this place will allow me to forgive what has happened, forgive myself, and finally move the fuck on with my life.

(As an aside: I have no memory of my childhood up until the age of 13. Seriously. I have bits and pieces of “things” like learning how to ride a bike or kissing Jeff what’s his name against a tree when we were 7 but other than that? Not a goddamned thing. This contributes why I loathe people with normalesque families and my desperation to have one of my own verses shunning all blood familia.)

Another behaviour I’m aware of is the tattooing and remaining fat keeps (supposedly) potential suitors at bay as societal norms dictate a fat, tattooed woman cannot find love or sex. A weeding technique for potential future lovers is if your perceived notion of me is I’m a “prison bitch” with all 17 of my tattoos, then I don’t want to date you and I can block you out of my life. If you can see beyond the fat and think I’m beautiful, then you’re someone I want to be with. Being fat and tattooed keeps me safe or so I’ve trained myself to believe. (But obviously it hasn’t or else I wouldn’t be confessing all of this to you.)

This is the antecedent to my reality: I’m called beautiful/pretty/attractive or whatever by scores of different people on a regular basis. Despite the fat, I’m told I have an awesome bod and men want to fuck me, also on a regular basis. THIS is where my arrogance (and also conflicting) behaviour comes in: If I can get dick (as Amy Schumer so succinctly states), then I’m not a typical “fat girl” (yes, I’m fat shaming myself here and others — but it is to make a point), and I can have anyone I want (which tends to also be true). And I’ve been told over and over again my arrogance (or confidence) is what is most attractive about me: If you don’t want me, then fuck you and the horse you rode in on. Someone else will come along who will take your place (as long as I can fuck them into a happy relationship and they never leave says my internal monologue. Joke’s on you Lisa!).

This is cemented with commentary made my ex-lovers and street harassment:

  • “If you lose weight, you could model.”
  • “You’re really pretty – for a fat girl.”
  • “You don’t want to date me? Fuck you fat ugly bitch.”
  • “You should smile more, you’d be a lot prettier.”
  • “Nice rack/body/legs/shoulders (?!?).”
  • “You’re too pretty to wear makeup.”
  • “You don’t wear enough makeup.”

And so on. (See why I have a complicated relationship with my image?)

There is the exterior dialogue (I know why I behave this way), interior dialogue (I hate myself and no one will ever love me), and the reality (I can get dick anytime I want and 95% of the time always come back. They leave again but they always keep coming back). It’s conflicting because all of it is true.

The self-awareness of all of this, something I’m frequently told from therapists and TheExHusband alike, is rare. When you’re judged for what you are (or who people think you are or how you think people see you), bullied, and what have you — you spend a lot of time analyzing why you do the things you do. You look for the patterns. You muse on the whats / hows / and whys. You see how other people handle their own relationships and you model the good stuff (as you see it) into your own. In short, you psycho-analyze yourself into submission because it is ALL YOUR FAULT, you are the only person you have who can tell you the brutal and honest truth (with commentary from the peanut gallery to confirm or dismiss your findings as either quantitative or qualitative or neither. Or both.)

I stumble as I am human, something I keep reiterating for a very long time as I didn’t believe I was. I also think others think this about themselves as well. It bookends my loathing for the term “stable” as no one is ever REALLY stable. We have our stable moments that could last for months or years, but we all fall at one point or another – often more often than we care to.

This is where the forgiveness comes in: This is not a woe is me type of confession, it’s to clarify and map out those patterns that keep repeating themselves so I can break them. An ongoing theme for the last few years here at EPbaB is to break those patterns so future endeavors can begin, maintain, and end in a healthy way. There are things I cannot control (rape, harassment, my mother) and things I can control (how I react, how I present myself to future lovers, how I treat myself). The goal here is stop trying to control the things I cannot or ever will control.

Once I can work past those barriers that seem to plague me, take responsibility for my own actions (that I can control), is when the healing begins.

xoxo,
Lisa

P.S. I forgot to mention my half-year birthday the other day (December 12), so it’s with a small reminder my birthday is in 181 days.

This day in Lisa-Universe: 2014, 2013, 2012, 1999, 1998