Tag Archives: Denver


2 Sep

So, my padre is coming around. I think.

He emailed me just saying he loved me, he had kind of figured it out when I ranted about what love was a month ago. And he doesn’t want to talk about it now, but sometime. Same with mom– she is much more pouty which annnnnnnoys me.

So yes. We will wait and see.


I love my job. It is exhausting, but I love it, I love it. I stayed an hour late to talk to a gal on Friday, just me and her. And there is this beautiful moment when these kids’ guard goes down, and they realize I actually care, and they just begin to SPEAK. Like, just talk to me. Pouring out their feelings and hearts and just wanting someone to listen and acknowledge that yeah they may be 14, but life is not easy for them. This isn’t a prep school, or a magnet school. These are schools where there are uniforms so that the gangs can’t pressure kids to wear their tags, where moms yell at their kids for having their periods because “that must mean you had sex,” where brothers and sisters drop out because they get pregnant as a freshman. These kids have challenges– but that doesn’t mean they aren’t smart, or very VERY aware of the climb they face.

And they want someone to know that they may be 14, but damn it if they were only 14, why the hell should they have to deal with all of this? And they come in, they have hard faces and look tough, and I somehow am able to disarm them and let them just be in this place with me where I ask them to look at what they want, and what they could be capable of wanting, and most of all let them know that they deserve it.

I am so grateful.


Nostalgia, men, women, and hope

12 Aug

I am so prone to nostalgia, and it is a problem.

I cried on the phone to my sister today about how I wanted to come out to my parents, and talk to my mom about my heart-ache, and how unfair and mad I was that my relationships seemed invalid. I know that is awkward for her, because she has been dating her boyfriend for four years. I talked to my friend in Africa, Cassie*, about love and leaving and how tired I am of it. I am worried a bit, and not quite sure what to do. I am only 26, and I feel done. I’m over it. I don’t want to do it anymore, and that scares me. I am just so tired of investing in people and loving them and having them love me, and I feel like I just can’t do it anymore. It makes me feel numb– and back to the scary kinda wishing I just could stop existing type feelings. I don’t know what that means, and I tried to explain it to my sister– which I feel so bad for doing, because what a burden “Um… so I’m feeling like I just am tired and don’t really want to participate in ever baring my soul again/ ever loving anyone” right? She is 22 for goodness sakes.

I have felt this way traveling and experiencing and loving deeply and richly and I come to this conundrum: everything else is okay, in comparison. It works. It’s easier. It doesn’t hurt. But it pales in comparison really living– and thus the catch 22.

I always hate leaving, and I know that. I know it. But there are multiple issues at stake now. One is– I am afraid that in general my “bi-meter” (cute right?) is tipping more towards gals. I mostly am annoyed by men. Which sounds mean to categorize a whole sex as annoying– but men are so… simple. I don’t like being gawked at or hit on by men– and never really have. In fact, that is a super big turn off for me. When a guy has never talked to me in my life, and is suddenly all friendly– I’m like: it’s the boobs, right? It’s my particularly shiny hair. I get weird. The times I have fallen for guys is when they are super nerdy about their weird passions– THAT I like. Or like, when he heard me speak about mine, and then admires that passion. UNFORTUNATELY, I have found that at first, for guys, it is my clothes, hair, body that they like. Again not like in a mannnn I’m gorgeous way, but more like, I can dress this body if I want to. I don’t like it. I think all they want is what this body could do for them, and that makes me resentful. For not *seeing* me. Is that weird? It ISN’T insecurity because to be frank I could care less. It’s more like— disgust I guess that all they want is how I look and that is far from anything I really am. It makes me feel like the encounter is not genuine.

But women…. women want to know who I am. Why I’m here. Who I’ve loved, why, and what I want. So I have had this nibbling uncomfortable realization that I just am more comfortable (at least initially) with women. Which coupled with afore mentioned frustration with not being really known by my family, recent independence due to completing school stuff and finding job, and just the general openness and accepting nature of Denver— has made me reconsider what I want and what I deserve. I never thought I could justify coming out to my family because of how very much I love them, and how very much they would struggle with how I see love and what it can be. There are also just SO many gay/bi women here like EVERYWHERE and a lot of them seem like super strong amazing people who are actually interesting and not boring. I think that’s it… guys just seem boring sometimes. And not “fast processors.”

I thought I was trapped and just would never be able to tell them— but my life is mine, and I beginning to think NOT telling them is more toxic to me than I would have liked to compartmentalize. And then…. going down the road of telling them… it brings up a WHOLE BUNCH of stuff that I kind of thought was off limits and that I would never get to have. And then I get excited, like, maybe I can consider these things and still be me and marry all the parts of my life and maybe my family would still love me. But I feel like those thoughts just torture me more– so I don’t know if they are a good or a bad thing.

And in comparison to that, I suppose my nostalgia and heartache and desperate attempt at apathy are better than hoping for something. But there is this sneaking maybe, which hurts oh it hurts, because even a week later I feel more mine here.

Tired but working on being a social entity

10 Aug

Two people asked me out today. One to an art gallery (oooo fancy) and one to the dog park.

I told you, I don’t want to date anyoneeeee ever again. Nope, nope.

I want friends, well, sort of. I want my own friends who are mine and know me and I them and that is what I would like. I talked to my friend *Kayla yesterday for like 2 hours, and it was wonderful and refreshing, and my friend *Sheila (really? Sheila? no one is named Sheila except 40 year old secretaries but meh bear with me). I don’t want new friends, and I don’t want a new lover, I want my people– but alas they are strewn about the country and world, and I am realizing it is very unlikely we will all be together again.

I get oddly melancholy about this fact because I love them and it is hard sometimes starting over, and it sucks, and I love love love Denver already but I love the people I already have more.

Enough, loving Denver:

I made myself get up and take my super cute dog to the farmer’s market. It is weird seeing so many “young” people who aren’t in college– young being, 20’s and 30’s. I put on my friendly face and like 10 people wanted to know my dog’s name. My name? No. But it’s a start. It was gorgeous, and like the people are intensely gorgeous. They’re running with their little outfits and gear and biking oh my. I, on the other hand, am wearing pearls, a blue dress, and my Birkenstocks. Lottling about. Slowly, and looking at stuff. I crossed the bridge out of lohi, and walked along the river. I got coffee, and the first kid to ask me out asked me where my boyfriend was and why I looked so pretty. Weird. I’m not pretty. Not in a like ohhhh compliment me way, but I’m kind of nasty with chapped lips and my hair is still short. Cute maybe, but it was still nice. He asked what I liked doing, blah blah art gallery. I said thanks and I would think about it, but we both knew it meant no sorry I am still recovering from love and you’re cute but not as cute as the barista with curly hair.

Then decided to go to a meetup, and met a couple who was awesome YEY FRIENDS and actually talked with them for a really long time. They are cool, and the gal invited me to do like intense bootcamp workout with her– and I kinda looked at her weird and so aight. Soooo. Bootcamp it is. First official Denver people I liked.

Then I lingered outside, and aggressive tattoo girl sat down and chatted with me for awhile and was intense about exchanging information. Also not going to happen but it was nice to get out and about.

As a side note, I am on accutane which can have mood effects, suicidal thoughts, blah. I’ve struggled with this in the past– not in like a blah I hate the world kind of way but more like in an “existing right now seems a lot more difficult than just… not existing would be.” It is hard to explain. Yesterday was hard for me, and I may have googled how much of the meds (sleeping pills) do you have to take for it to kill you? And then I though that my apartment was too messy to kill myself, so I signed up for kayaking lessons instead. I mean that sounds dramatic, but like I said– not depressed or like ugh I hate life, or like blood and dark things. More like not existing holds a certain curiosity/peace and I get exhausted thinking about having to live for another 50 years sometimes. I’ll probably talk to my doctor about it, but I don’t really want to talk to my friends/family about it because it sounds concerning or something.

I found a new HOME! And more on body image.

8 Aug

Reading a teenybopper book called “The List.” My new bank is going to get me in trouble because they are giving me a kindle fire where I can buy/read instantly all the books IN MY NEW HOME of Denver, Colorado (LoHi folks, there is an ice cream shoppe (yes “-pe”) that is to DIE for. Coffee Toffee or Salted Oreo. Ahmmmnommmm). Whew that was long.

So, any Denver folk have suggestions on how to be a good integrated person in CO? I already got my plates!

Anyhow, body image. Every woman struggles with it. I literally do not have photographs of myself from 7th grade to like junior year of high school. That portion of my life has been deleted. I would walk around with *Alexa at the high school church retreats, and we would avoid eating as much as possible. Proud that they would marvel on how “we only needed” 1/2 a cup of grapes for dinner or carrots. I knew tricks like, cut food impossibly small and drink a lot of water so your “meal” lasted the whole time. I was never severely anorexic, and but I definitely maintained disordered eating. After talking to a doctor years later, he mentioned he thought I had been bulimic, which surprised me since I never purged. But I did skip breakfast and lunch frequently, “binge” by eating dinner, and was uncomfortable in situations where I was expected to eat large amounts of food. I sat at a weight of 117 as a 5’8” woman– which while not dangerous, was not a natural weight for me (my “healthy happy weight” is around 145). 

Something shifted drastically when I traveled to Africa, and this triggered something in me somewhat like apathy towards my body. I became disconnected from it– it is a thing, a machine, and there are so many other things. Likewise, when I realized I wanted to explore what it meant to have a relationship with women– so little was based on appearance. I had worn a lot of make-up, was very careful to make my hair be how it should, and was terrified of my own body as a sexual entity (refer back– but largely due to body-shaming). I was considered pretty at a young, young age and was also extremely insecure. I vividly remember 30-35 year old men hitting me up, (curvy body and 5’8” since 5th grade, voracious reading habit) and then looking shocked that I was 12 or 13 years old. I didn’t know how to treat it.

Upon exploring relationships with women, and largely in my college years of traveling and being comfortable in my own body– I have had a much more blase attitude towards clothes and make-up. I realized recently I hardly really look at myself– ever. In the mirror. Like meh, it’s just my body. 

I don’t know. I think hopefully there is an in-between. Like, you know, I do like my hair curly. You know, I should take care of my skin. You know, it doesn’t mean you suck and feminism and/or being “queer” if you like to wear blush, and eyeliner, and sometimes shop the sales rack at Anthro. 

I have such a varying style it is bizarre. Some days I’ll spike my hair, wear my big glasses, sport no make-up and a vest over battered jeans and a white t. The next I’ll dress in girly dress and curl my hair (BOMB GIRLS baby, so good!) and wear coral lipstick #omgsoooopertty. I don’t know folks. Thoughts????? WHO ARE WE?!