Taurus

I both love and hate being a Taurus. 

I love the fact that I value deep friendship, that I'm loyal, earthy, sensual, and pragmatic. I love the sense of being grounded that I get when I'm around other Tauruses. 

But. 

I hate how stubborn I am. 

When I'm doing something difficult and I refuse to give up, I appreciate the innate stubbornness many Tauruses have. I revel in my dogged determination. 

But when I refuse to admit I'm wrong, or find it impossible to change my ways, I hate the stubbornness of my nature. 

Don't get me wrong; I've tried to change this part of myself. I've tried wearing a rubber band around my wrist so I can snap myself back into agreeableness when I'm being obstinate. 

I've written letters to myself. I've put notes in my wallet and purse reminding myself that it's okay to give in, that my life will not end if I admit to my mistakes. I've gone to counseling. I've read dozens of books. 

But still, I find myself standing in my own way. Over and over and over. 

When my boss mentions I made a mistake, I will argue with her for hours despite knowing that I am in the wrong. 

When my partner asks me to do something I don't want to do, I will flat out refuse to do it and make up dozens of reasons why I can't. 

When someone comes up with a quicker, better way if doing something, I will determinedly stick to the old, slow way if that's the way I like. 

I know I'm in the wrong. I know I should just give in. I know I'm only harming myself. 

But still, I persist. 

I often think that I'm going to be one if those old people who refuses to die. They'll turn off the machines and leave the room, and I'll still be lying there struggling to breathe. Stubborn to the very end. 

Comfort

The smell emanating from the crockpot after a long day at work. 

The sigh of happiness from a kitty cat as it settles into my lap. 

The creak of my favorite chair as I settle into it. 

Warm clothes straight from the dryer. 

That first sip of hot coffee on a cold morning. 

The sound of my niece laughing. 

The smell of fresh hay on a sunny summer afternoon. 

Our warm soft bed and a thick comforter. 

Comfort. 

My favorite person

My favorite person is sitting across the table, studying her laptop intently. Occasionally she grabs her notebook and quickly scribbles something into it, then takes a sip of coffee and smiles. 

This is how we spend our time together now. When she made the decision to go back to school, I was aware that our lives would change. I didn't realize how drastically different things would be. 

Gone are our leisurely Sunday mornings, where she would make me breakfast in bed and we would sit and talk for hours over coffee. Now our Sundays involve her jumping out of bed and throwing on clothes so that she can get to her second job. After that, I cook and clean while she works on her exit papers and scours the internet looking for job openings. 

She used to make over 60K; now her yearly income is significantly less. I don't make much working at a nonprofit so we live paycheck to precarious paycheck. It strains our tiny budget and has changed a lot of our habits. No more meals out when we are too tired to cook, no more thrift store shopping excursions. Every penny is accounted for and stretched until it can't be stretched any more. 

Our evenings no longer involve going to the movies, trying out new coffee places, or going to a concert. Most of our evenings now are spent with her reading and grading papers while I read and cook dinner. 

On the rare occasion we do go somewhere, it is to the coffee shop where she works part time, so that we can have free sandwiches and coffee, thanks to her generous boss. I never thought I'd tire of the menu there; now I occasionally feel nauseous when I look at their pastry case. 

Sometimes she feels guilty. She knows her research and work take her away and cause her to be grouchy, and she knows she isn't the loving partner she was before she started school. 

Last night she told me, "I know you don't love me the way you used to. I know my crankiness and stress have driven you away". 

I hugged her, smiled and her, and reassured her, "Boo Bear, you're still my favorite person". 

First Love

"Are you a commuter student, or are you just here for the free pizza?"

I turned and looked at the skinny brown boy behind me and smiled. I asked, "What do you think?. He answered, "Probably not. I'm not either but I couldn't handle the dorm food tonight." 

Thus began my friendship with my first love. He lived on the seventh floor; I lived on the ninth. We clicked immediately and spent every waking hour together that first year. We had our own language and habits. On Tuesdays, he would wear my favorite dress all day while I wore a suit around campus. He taught me about feminism and disco and I taught him about small towns and country music. We drank together for the first time. We laughed for hours on end.  We were just friends but everyone assumed we were more. 

That summer, I moved into an apartment with three roommates and he went home. And came back with his high school girlfriend. They got a small apartment together and I rarely saw him. She never gave him my messages and he told me that she didn't like him having females as friends, despite the fact that I had already come out and was crazy about my first girlfriend. 

A year later, he dropped by my apartment for a surprise visit. He sat down on my bed and told me that he would be gone for a few weeks because he was taking Michelle home. I asked how long she was going to be gone, and with tears in his eyes, he explained that she was going to be gone for good. They had broken up. I moved over to comfort him and he hugged me, then told me that he had initiated the breakup. Then he looked in my eyes and said, " I broke up with her because I knew it wouldn't work. I wanted to be with you and she figured it out long before I did. Kerrie, I know you like women and I know that I can't give you everything. I know I can't be your everything....but I need to be your something". 

Two weeks later he returned without her. In that time, I broke things off with my girlfriend. 

It was a beautiful relationship. He was girly and I was butch, and we fit together perfectly. His adoration allowed me to fully express my personality and become a stronger woman.

We were together a little under a year before we both had to admit that it wouldn't work. I was in love with him but I couldn't stop myself from looking at other women. He wanted to be enough for me and I wanted to be content with him. But it wasn't possible. 

 After hours upon hours of talking, we decided to separate. We also decided it would be too painful to be friends. Neither of us could handle the thought if seeing the other one with someone else.

It has been sixteen years since we made that decision.

It has been fifteen years since we last saw one another. 

 I remember everything about him: his middle name, his favorite foods, the way he smelled, his birthday, everything he was allergic to, the way he looked in the morning...everything. I think about him frequently, and wonder if he still thinks of me.

 I love my partner and wouldn't trade her for anything....but he will always be my first love. 

Safety

When I was younger, I was careless with myself. I drank profusely. I did drugs without knowing what they were. I slept around with anyone and everyone. 

Looking back, it's a miracle that worse things didn't happen to me. 

Now at the ripe old age of thirty five, I spend my days lecturing to teenagers and young adults about safety, pleading with them to be safe. I give them condoms. I talk to them about drugs. I discuss alcohol and it's long term effects in the body. And I talk about smoking and how bad it is until I'm blue in the face(while knowing full well that as soon as I get off work I'm going to sit in my car and light one up). 

I sometimes wonder if I'm making a difference. Are they really absorbing what I say, or are they just nodding so they can get out of the room? I know I did at that age. 

As they filter out the door, I hold my big bowl of condoms and tell them to take as many as they want. "Safety first", I tell them as they dutifully take a handful. 

Some days I have to laugh at myself. Despite my lack of safety, I'm still here. 

Stealing

When I was six, I inadvertently stole a candy bar. That candy bar theft haunted me until I was nine. 

I was at the local hardware store with my dad, looking at saws. My dad(who was the 'fun' parent) put two quarters in my hand and whispered in my ear, "Daughter, go pick yourself out a candy bar. Here's fifty cents to pay for it. Don't tell your mother". 

I ran up to the counter and picked out a snickers bar. I had never had a candy bar before and I was super excited about it. I had seen my friends eat them and knew it was supposed to be the best candy bar out there.

As I approached the counter, I froze. The man behind the counter looked so tall and scary. I had never been allowed to buy something by myself and I didn't know what to do. As he turned to speak to someone, I slipped the money in my pocket. I ran back to where my dad was and opened the candy bar and took a bite. It was so good! 

As we left, I realized that I had forgotten to tell my dad that I didn't pay for the candy bar. The man behind the counter didn't seem to notice. 

When we got into the station wagon, I pretended to be looking for something and slipped the two quarters underneath the carpet in the backseat.

As we drove home, I tried to figure out a way to dispose of the two quarters without being found out. We weren't allowed to be in the garage unless we were in the car, and I knew I couldn't move them when my parents were in the car. I was terrified they would find the quarters and know they were supposed to be meant for that candy bar. 

For the next three years, I was nervous every time we rode in that car. 

When my mom put groceries in the backseat every week, I almost made myself sick worrying that she would find the quarters. When we went to Grandma's, I was scared one of my cousins would peek in the car, spot the money, and alert my parents. 

I wasn't allowed to have money or to know anything about it(yes, I was VERY sheltered) so it didn't occur to me that my parents would just assume they had found a misplaced quarter if they found one of them. I was convinced they would know it was me who hid the quarters in the car. 

A few weeks after I turned nine, my mom came home driving a different car. A few days after that, an older couple came and looked at it and took it for a test drive. They handed my dad a handful of bills and he gave them the keys. 

As they drove away, I breathed a silent sigh of relief. At last I was free of those two quarters, and nobody would ever find out I was a thief. 

Cleaning house

I don't remember much about my life between the ages of twenty three and twenty five. 

What I do have, however, are bits and pieces of memories. 

Rolling over in the morning to reach for my pipe. Drinking in the shower to save time. Giving blowjobs to an older guy in my apartment building because he always gave me a quarter sack of weed afterwards. Sneaking shots of vodka at work. Crawling up the stairs to my apartment. Waking up and wondering what I had done the night before. People's faces, but never their names. This game my friends and I played where we would all try to walk down the sidewalk, and the one who made it furthest without falling always drive us to the next bar. Taking handfuls of pills and not knowing what they were. Parties every night, in apartments and houses I didn't know and wouldn't be able to recognize while sober. 

What I also don't remember is my living environment. I had my own tiny apartment, and a landlord(who is the kindest man alive) who would let me go months at a time without paying rent because he didn't want me out on the streets. 

I don't remember much about the apartment but I do have dozens of pictures of the chaos. 

Cups half full of murky liquids on every available surface. My 'fuck pile' where I kept the clothes, lighters, and other assorted crap my numerous one night stands had left behind. Heaping full ashtrays, most of the cigarettes with marks of my favorite maroon lipstick. Pipes everywhere. Dozens of empty takeout boxes from my job. Empty bottles of cheap wine lining the walls. Sticks of incense, burned long ago. Ends of blunts, piled high on my bed stand so that I could empty them into my pipe late at night. 

I was so fucked up so much of the time I didn't realize how bad it was. 

One night, stumbling home after four(or five, I can't remember) of my male coworkers had gotten me really drunk, held me down, and sexually assaulted me, I decided that I was done and that I needed a change. It wasn't the first time something like that had happened, but I knew that night that it would be my last. 

The next day, I called in sick to work. Then I drive to the Dollar General and bought two 20-packs of heavy duty garbage bags. 

I went home, locked the door behind me, and started cleaning house. 

I cleaned for ten hours solid, and that ten hours was the longest amount of time I had been sober in almost two years. 

That night, when my friends called to see why I wasn't at the bar, I told them I couldn't go out because I needed to clean my apartment. 

I spent the next three months cleaning that apartment and figuring out my life. By the time I was done, I had also cleaned dozens of numbers out of my black book, and I never talked to most of those people again.