We secretly celebrated the small victories like when we were finally able to hold surface conversation, albeit without direct eye contact. Our house, although separating, was slowly able to adjust through the coming out process, only this time, it was three people rather than two. By the end of the two weeks, we were managing at our own pace, which would have been fine until I answered a phone call from Zelda.
Dang, I had almost forgotten about her.
She offered absolutely no support for the disruptions in my life. She demanded to know the status of our relationship to which I secretly giggled because I didn’t know she was still holding on. It wasn’t a difficult decision to officially end things with her a few sexual encounters later.
Without the three of them in my life, I sulked more than I cared to admit. My dad helped me move out of the house and tried to be there for me in the best way he knew how. But, after he went back to Ohio, I returned to my lonely, fully furnished condo where depression chained me to my reflection in the mirror. It was clear that the only person who could pull me out of the funk happened to be the person in it. Me.
For a while, I drank myself away. It felt easier to cope with a little help from a bottle.
In sober moments I numbed myself by fixating on mundane objects that I relied on to transcend me into a deadened mindset. The revolving ceiling fan above my bed was self-soothing therapy. The blades rotated on the slowest setting were just enough for my eyes to catch one spin around on its center axis. The fan had the most mesmerizing, catatonia-inducing effect on a girl who only wanted to escape thoughts.
Between drinking and fan watching, I managed to get myself into some really bad situations after leaving Doug and Patty. The ironic part was that I was actually trying to pull myself out of them. Each story makes me shake my head in shame.
In my desire to reconnect to the world, I actually let a girl from Arizona use me for sex and a place to stay while she was on vacation. I honestly didn’t see that train wreck coming.
Bad situation number two was the older married lesbian. Her wife and newborn child were visiting family one weekend, so I went to her place for a fun night of karaoke. Unfortunately, I was nominated to be her evening mistress after endlessly flowing spirits threw her into a wig-ripping tantrum. I slept with her old bald ass because I genuinely felt bad and she was my ride home.
Sticky situation number three met me at a club where she was performing a dare to be butch for the night. She left me in a Long Beach apartment with the worst yeast infection I have ever had in my entire life. The girl’s mentally disabled mother and ninety-something grandmother kept me company because she went to a concert.
Patty paid a visit to my condo somewhere in the middle of all of these disgraceful adventures to engage in a physical altercation armed with accusations of cheating. I managed to get in some punches and slaps during our fight, but, yes, all two hundred and forty pounds of her kicked my one hundred-and-twenty-three-pound ass.
The most shameful and irrational idea that crossed my mind in the months after leaving Doug and Patty was that prostitution was a healthy spin on my promiscuity. Thankfully, that idea never gained momentum, and, in fact, was shut down by rare pulses of lucidity.
Change occurred when those precious waves of conscious stability happened even in the thick of my emotional mayhem. The key was using those waves to create positive whirlwinds. If I didn’t do something constructive to make good mojo happen for myself, it certainly wasn’t going to come and knock on my door. I began to organize budget plans, finish college homework, and add pages to my future book. When I focused on these things, I was happier.
Those constructive motivators were the healing balance to my unsound thinking. My grim experiences definitely shifted my perspective of self-worth. One has to wallow through a mound of manure to come out smelling like roses; it certainly took many months of bathing in shit before adversity bound me to bloom into a better woman.
Dramatics in a tale drive the final point home sometimes, as it did with coming out of the closet. If it seemed like I just dropped the microphone and walked off of the stage before the end of the performance, it was only because I had an ah-ha moment as I stood there with hot glistening tears. One day I had enough and simply released my self-centered desires to tackle my sexuality. It’s such a small part of who I am, anyway. The truth hath set me free and it was sincerely that straightforward. When I finally was honest about who I wanted to fuck, it put that spotlight on more important things that begin with the letter F, reconnecting with friends, forward thinking, and family.
In the future, people who don’t know my history will be curious about vital personality-defining shit, like who I voted for in the presidential election, how many children I have, who does my hair, and what made me want to re-enlist. They don’t need the details of each Pride parade.
I am open with my sexuality now that I understand it and respect it. I also serve proudly in the military and have a deeper sense of purpose: serving with my brothers in arms. No soldier or peer gives a shit about the journey I took to get here. But I embrace my history, even the naughty bits, because confidence and clarity usually come with a heavy price. Inevitably, there was a choice I had to make: I could continue being a twat or become a true woman that always triumphed.
It took a few years until the choice was made to find her, but our hearts pinged each other from across the world. My partner of three years and I currently live in New York. We take great pride in our home improvements and enjoy spending time with our stubborn, but lovable, rescued dog. We hope that children are in our future.
EPILOGUE
Angel is happily married to a wonderful man, and together they run a successful business.
Sunny married her high school sweetheart, and together they have four children.
Robert has one child.
Kay has two children and has since remarried, twice.
Natalia is on her second marriage with three children. She told me to make her sound sexy in this book.
Monica (the Mexican) was in a terrible motorcycle accident, but, by the grace of God, survived. She is currently sober.
Tracy had her legal twenty-first birthday a few years after our breakup, which would have made her seventeen at the time we dated, unbeknownst to me. On a trip to Las Vegas I swear I saw an Oompa Loompa reflection in a shop window. Before I could turn to look, it waddled away.
Lindsey (or “April”) moved to another state and continues to meet green-eyed women online. I wouldn’t be surprised if she still owns the party masks and has a new address book.
Joy lives in Las Vegas and has since established herself in the music industry. She laughed hysterically when she read this book, and we shared a good laugh at the debauchery we used to get ourselves into.
Rayya’s last phone conversation with me included, “Do you remember when you stole that tranny’s purse? I never seen a white girl move that fast! You are one crazy bitch!” I miss you, Rayya.
Zelda continues to search for love in the city and online.
Private Marche works on the railroad. She attributes me with teaching her how to be a stronger woman.
Mandy runs her own business and rides a Harley.
Patty is a teacher who frequently vacations in Hawaii. She lives in the same house and still has some artwork I painted for her on the wall.
Doug is happily remarried with two children.