Dear, Ghost Soldier…Thank you for blowing me off.

Dear Ghost Soldier,


We barely knew each other, practically strangers, but an algorithm I can’t name said we were compatible. We smiled, flirted, talked, and picked a day and time for coffee. You warned me about your busy week, but I said good morning anyway. I tried to give you space, you told me you might not answer immediately (no double texts and constant babbling from this girl). However, silence wasn’t what I was expecting. What you didn’t know, was that for me, silence is loud. Silence is deafening. Unsure of what else to do, I waited and couldn’t stop myself from wondering.


Had I been ghosted or was I overreacting? Had I said something wrong? Did I move too fast? Did I want to take things too slow?  Was there something wrong with me?


Finally, the day before we were supposed to meet, I shot you a short text and prayed you would put me out of the misery that is not knowing.


“Are we still on?”


It took a while, but you answered, with a simple “I’m not sure,” with an explanation about a situation at work. With a deep sigh of disappointment, I tried desperately to suppress jumping to conclusions and taking your uncertainty as a cancellation. Instead, I sent an affirmation of my understanding and a thank you for not leaving me hanging. However, a pessimistic voice in the back of my head kept saying if you wanted to keep a line of communication open, you would have. Logic fought back, you owed me nothing. We hadn’t even met yet, stop acting clingy. Later that night, my inner pessimist was vindicated with your short text.


“Have to cancel-life is too hectic right now”


No asking to re-schedule or apologies, nothing. I was sad and disappointed, but a tiny piece of me (perhaps the little girl that always wants to see the silver lining) was relieved that you told me instead of just standing me up. I hadn’t been ghosted, I’d only been blown off, oh thank heaven! Sadly, I stared down at my phone and spoke my truth as I knew it.


“It’s ok, I figured and I’m pretty sure I know what you mean. Honestly, I’m still very new to dating. All I can do is say be myself and say what I feel, I see that now. I’m naïve and at times awkward. I stumble in the dark and say ‘Good morning’ when I’m not supposed to. There’s no pressure, there never was, just nerves and inexperience. Whatever, you’re looking for, I hope you find it.”


Did I sound like I over thought things? Do you think I’m off the deep end now? Possibly on both counts, but that wasn’t really my concern. Those words were what I needed to say for myself, not necessarily you. No answer was expected; those words would no longer be swirling in my head. A new day came, the silence was over.


Days passed and you were still in my thoughts, you didn’t go ghost, but you haunted me. I don’t imagine boiling rabbits in the kitchen I know I’ll never see, but regardless, our exchanges still played back in my head. Instead of wondering what was wrong with me or my words to being re-typed, something I had said sprang began to pop out to me. Ghost Soldier, you made me realize how, at 28 years old, I was truly inexperienced in the world of men and dating. For everything I confided in you (upon questioning), from my where I saw myself in five years to my submissive tendencies. There was so much else I never told you.


Ghost Soldier, I never confessed that much like you I have a past. Your PTSD came from bullets, mine came from my body being ripped apart. I still believed in fairy tales and knights in shining armor, until three years taught me that not every princess gets rescued. I never quite looked at myself the same way. No, I wasn’t a princess, I was an Aldonza (Man of La Mancha reference).


Those years, and the nightmares and pain that would follow, made me color myself as something far more experienced than what I was.


“I’m no one, I’m nothing. I’m only Aldonza the whore.”


\You made me realize that what I saw myself as, was not really who I was. In fact, there are parts of me that my young life and abusive relationship made me forget. Nothing about who I am at my core has changed, you reminded me that I’m a romantic and a lover. I’m caring and warm, a romantic. In spite of everything, I’m still a Dulcinea.


In the grand scheme of things, I know that we are simply microscopic atoms in what will essentially be the make-up of our lives. None the less, I’m truly grateful for that brief time. You showed me that I’m capable of believing in things that may not necessarily be true, princes and protectors (even if there ghosts). Ghost Soldier, you rescued me when I thought no one would. You set me free. My most sincere hope is that in some way shape or form (for better or for worse) I positively affected you in too, and that one day you find someone who fulfills you and sets you free. So, don’t be so quick to close yourself off, that’s what you taught me.


All the best,





The Submissive Chronicles: “Thank You, Sir”

She stared at her inbox, and text messages now deleted. She had been weak, She had given into her addiction and reached, and the same euphoria rushed through her system. “It was ok! He hadn’t abandoned her!” 

Something was off, and she knew it. Her pain and fear must finally be apparent “What had changed? What had happened, what had she done?! Why didn’t he want her anymore?! Could he finally see it, finally see how she loved him?!”.

She had warned him

“I put my heart into my submission, I’ve tried to be someone who could put their emotions in aa box. I’m sorry, Sir, but I can’t!” She said.

Sir had reassured her, they weren’t a contract. However, she knew the truth now, without telling her…he told her. In a cruel contradiction from the Dom he had been when they were finally able to play again, he told her in the kindest manner possible…she hadn’t been enough. She hadn’t been enough to fulfil him as his submissive. It was the reason he didn’t seem to care for her safety or show her the kindness and affection he once had.

She went out that night and she drank, she came home and finally cried. She cried for herself, a woman who somewhere along the line stopped loving herself. The  woman she had let herself become. The kind of woman who at her lowest point allowed herself to betray a moral she once believed she never would…she had submitted to another woman’s husband.

Then the sun rose, and with the promise of a new day she realized that if she had failed anyone it was herself. In leaving her he had set her free, She would never have to see him again or speak to him again. It didn’t matter anymore if she wasn’t enough for him, he wasn’t enough for her. He was beneath her heart and her submission, and had been all along. He didn’t deserve the term of respect she had given for so long, but if seeing her love for what it was…for setting. Then,using that term one final time before she told him he was a cruel jerk was the least she could do.

She stared at her final words to him, the ones she knew would give her peace, a sense of long forgotten hope flowing through and whispered softly.

“Thank you, Sir”

Early Morning Adventures in Motherhood Told By an Ice Cream Addict.

Nothing is worse than waking up 5 minutes before your alarm clock is supposed to go off. I let out a groan as I roll over to glare at the numbers blinking back at me. It’s like they are saying “Nyah, Nyah, Nuh-Nyah” in a mocking five-year-old’s voice. One of these days I am going to pick it up and toss it across the room, but unfortunately that isn’t an option for now so I hit the off button and let out a deep sigh as I rise but refuse with all my might to shine.


My son will be up in about forty-five minutes, so that gives me about thirty to get his breakfast made and lunch packed (an old ritual my Yia-Yia passed on to me). The cold tiles of my kitchen floor seemed to wake me up with each step. All of the sleep was out of my eyes and the kinks worked out by the time that I reached the refrigerator, a cheese and veggie omelet with toast sounded good for the both of us. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and laugh at what I saw when I opened it though sitting right there in front of me was my pint of crème brulée ice cream.


One of us (most likely me) had put it back in the wrong spot. I looked inside to see if it could be salvaged, and pumped my fist at the fact that it had survived (meaning that the culprit was most likely me). I looked down at the oh-so-familiar top and decided on a victory bite. I cracked a smile as I opened the top and let out a deep sigh, I guess the victory bite was in fact the last bite (the culprit was definitely my son). A kind of dark joke that I would never tell anyone was that he was born with two addictions that I had forced on him, and I thank God every day that he chose Haagen-Dazs.


As I spoon up the last bit of the ice cream with my spoon, I think about the first time I had it, not the opulent Haagen-Dazs ice cream that Yia-Yia favored, actual ice cream. I had walked on this earth all the years of my life and never had it that is until my Yia-Yia saved my life (but that’s another story for another time). I also think it was the first time I was a mom instead of a pregnant kid.


I was fifteen-years-old when I became pregnant with my son, and sixteen when he was born. I know, just a tad bit young, right?  I was also a recovering drug addict; by the time the cops found me I was twenty weeks pregnant and shaking like a leaf. I had tried to taper myself off the stuff as my pregnancy progressed but that didn’t work, I was an addict with a needle and no supervision. I wanted to get clean, and I knew I had to but you would be amazed at how easy it is to justify “just one more ride” when your body is screaming for the drugs so loud that it was pulsing through every pore in my body.

I don’t know how he survived, but he did. My little boy was a fighter, but one of the things that will truly haunt me is the fact that I will someday have to tell him that for as brief a time as it was I chose the drugs over him.


As soon as Yia-Yia took me in she found the best doctors she could get and they put me on a supervised regiment of Opioids that made the pain stop, but my by body still cried out, just this time it was more quietly. It didn’t stop all of the pain of my cravings, or the vomiting and diarrhea. That night it was particularly rough, I remember wanting to scream out in anger and frustration at myself, my mother, her filthy boyfriend, my father, the guy who killed my father, and about ninety-five percent of the human race. In my life, I had known two types of hunger: withdrawals and starvation. Given the choice between the two, I choose starvation, hands down.


That was what I felt that night, the hunger that comes with being pregnant and the pain that comes with being clean and sober for twelve weeks give or take (I measured the time with my sons development). It was insane, like both were fighting for dominance. Part of me was screaming inwardly, “Come on, just as taste…that’s all you need, just a taste. You know where to go, everyone’s asleep right now.” The other part of me was a slightly off kilter a pregnant girl on a mission for something sweet (something I’d never wanted before in my life), I stood in front of Yia-Yia’s subzero refrigerator in my maternity pajamas and opened the doors, searching frantically, for something, anything that could silence the cravings (If I couldn’t have one, I would be damned if I wouldn’t have the other!). Nothing struck my fancy, and my reading still wasn’t very good so I looked until I saw something familiar, a picture of what looked like chocolate and marshmallows, and nuts of some kind or another (Once I became better at reading, I knew it to be the Rocky Road). It had a fancy name and label too, but everything Yia-Yia had was fancy so I didn’t think much of it.


I was scared to touch most everything I hadn’t been given permission to touch. However, tonight the cravings were too strong for me to care; I didn’t even know if I was supposed to cook it first! I just went to the first drawer I saw and grabbed a spoon that was probably worth more than my life and dug in. It was an interesting moment, I felt my son kick (most likely in approval) and I realized something…I realized at that moment that I had done something monumental. I was given a choice: him or me…I chose him. I made a promise to myself that night; I would do something my mother hadn’t: choose him…every time…no matter how much it sucked. It was a promise that made my will stronger than wanting the drugs, stronger than the pain, until one day I didn’t even think about them. Speak of the devil…the little man has risen…well not so little anymore.


I’m flipping an omelet when I hear my son’s footsteps on the stairs. He was already dressed for school, but something was off (it’s a mom thing, don’t ask, just go with it). He didn’t say good morning, he didn’t complain about there not being any bacon like usual, he just sat at the table and looked at his toast. My fifteen year-old son (who also happened to be freakishly large at six foot five) wasn’t eating, he always ate, and I mean ALWAYS ate. I had to fix him food to keep him occupied so I could cook his actual food! With all the red flags perfectly in place, I decided to start things off.


“Morning Buddy,” I said softly as I watch him rest his head on the table before responding.


“Morning, Mama” he groans from where his head rests (by the way another red flag, he hasn’t called me Mama since he was seven).


“Everything ok, Bud? You know you have to be awake to go to school right?” I joke as I get closer to him.


He doesn’t answer me; he just lays there nodding his head as I place a hand on his back. As if the contact woke him from his stupor his head was laying against my sternum and his big arms were wrapped around my waist. I stay quiet as I rest my cheek against the top of his head. This was extremely unusual for my “too cool” son, but I figure I may as well soak it up for all its worth. It’s when I place my hand on his head that I realize my son has a fever. I feel worry mix with disappointment as I watch my chances of having sleep take flight right out of the window. Times like this I remember my promise.


“Come on honey, go back to bed…I’ll go get some ginger ale and soup. Maybe even some popsicles? Okay?” I ask gently as I watch him rise from the chair.


“Ok, mom. Can I just have my omelet for now?” he says in a gravely voice.


Yep, that sounds more like my son…


“Yea, Bud…” I say passing him a plate and glass of OJ before letting him do the forbidden and take it into the living room.


I let out a sigh as I trade my bathrobe for my coat and head for the door as I make a grocery list of sick day essentials in my head with a deep sigh…I’m going to need some more ice cream.

The Submissive Chronicles: “You Let Go First”

She sat in front of the the computer listening to her clothes dry, and with a deep breath stared back at her freshly made bed. Yes, she was determined to be productive today. She would not stare at her phone and wait, she would not stay in her bed and mope. The sting of his marks on her body weren’t going to deter her, she was going to make it.  Today would be the day she stopped wondering how a woman who once believed herself to be quite intelligent could be so naive.

Despite his wedding band she called him, Sir, that was her justification for what happened between them. Her submission filled a need and vice versa, that’s what made it ok. It was a seperate world, a seperate dynamic. A strange, insane, obscene relationship that she couldn’t quite understand yet couldn’t quite let go of. Everyday she would wake up bound and determined not to reach out for her Sir, today would be the day he became a ghost. Her life would be better  without him in it, her phone would ping and, she would be right back where she started. She would be his all over again.Even though she called him her master, and he caller her submissive she knew otherwise. It had finally her.

She wasn’t his Submissive, she was his mistress. She was his whore. Yet, as hard as she tried she couldn’t seem to walk away. He owned her, mind, body and, heart. Sir would never match her feelings, but he would never let her go. He told her as much.She would have to be the one who end it. She had no clue how, he would have to be the one who ended it.  Did he know how much he was killing her? The sad reality for the both of them was, they were addicted to each other. They were addicted to the way they fit together, to eachothers bodies. She freely gave her his trust, loyalty and attention. He gave her the protection and caring she craved. She was fallng into a dark oblivion that she had to keep a secret, her dark secret, that went against everything she thought she believed in. Yet, neither of them knew how to let go.