Rage

There was a very long time in my life when I could not get angry. Even the things that should have made me angry, I shrugged off, ignored, or, most often, let pass deep inside of me, where I stuffed down the feelings, bottled them up, and sealed them inside of what I thought was a vault but, instead, turned out to be a pressure cooker.

There was a time when I saw rage and I fundamentally didn't understand it. I had moments when I felt what I thought was rage, and the first, and only time, I experienced intimate partner violence, my partner hit me and it triggered undiagnosed PTSD and I "redded out." The rage came on so explosively and suddenly that I had no memory of the time from when he hit me to when I came back to myself, sitting on top of him and smashing his face into the floor while crying. That was in 1995.

Since then, I have learned to let myself feel anger. In general, I now am able to get angry, address the source of the anger directly and then let it go. I have never held grudges, and I don't understand people that do. If I am in community with you, and you piss me off, then it is an act of love to confront you about your behavior (or be confronted) and then give or be given the opportunity to make amends and change the source of the behavior that triggered the anger.

It's been a long time since I felt rage. But I have been dealing with it, intensely, traumatically, shamefully and hurtfully for over a month now.

This is how it happened.

I was, I don't know what to call it, in some sort of intense friendship with someone that was fast becoming a relationship. To all outsiders, it looked as if we were in a relationship. On the inside, it felt like a relationship. The love was there, and it was intense. There was also a whole lot of hurt from relationships that we each had that had recently ended. We attempted to put on the brakes in a number of ways, but things still progressed. Certain committments were made, and so I moved forward, knowing that hurt was possible but truly believing that what this other had said was true. Until it wasn't true anymore.

Here is where I made my grand mistake. Instead of simply letting myself feel the anger that was obviously present at our break up that wasn't a break up and setting firm boundaries and excising the anger and hurt in a healthy way, I instead stuffed it down, let sadness take over. I knew better. It would have been healthier, right, and just for him and for him if I had just been honest with my anger and walked away then.

Its what the people around me told me I should do. I didn't listen. I was in love, and I didn't want to lose him. I thought it would be temporary. I still believed the things he had said. And I was believing the things he was still saying after the relationship adjustment. Except he wasn't in a place or space to be honest with himself in any way about where he was at in relationship to me or anything else. I am a smart human being and very little escapes my notice...its a survival technique....I kept in allowing myself to be yo-yo-ed. I was fighting him to want me and every time I had to go to war to get him to admit his feelings...a little more anger built up. Every time an I love you left his mouth and yet he pulled further away, a little more anger built up, and yet I kept sticking around. I kept trying to figure out how to be friends, how to console, how to be supportive yet stick to my own truth.

On Christmas eve all that ended in an explosion of rage. There had been one other rageful "text message" moment previous to this, but on Christmas eve my rage came out, it came hard, and it was directed at him. I set firm boundaries, to which he agreed. For about a week and a half all that worked out.

Until I had to see him again on a regular basis. And then all the angry and hurful things that I wanted to say...all of the things I wanted to verbally scissor into him so he would at least show some emotion and at best feel as hurt, wounded, and shitty as I feel gorged up in my throat every time I saw him. I couldn't sleep again. I had dreams in which I said all that I needed to say, and more than once on more than one occassion I woke up in the middle of the night and wrote out all of those things in a text message only to set it aside and delete it come morning.

I didn't find a way to excise the rage and so it continued to build, until last night, after copious wine and several cocktails I wrote and sent the text messages. Crueler. Meaner. Harsher. And more destructive than any I had written and deleted.

There was truth in them but it was truth meant to hurt as much as possible. It was ugly. It was rude. It was the dark side of the mirror that exists inside of all of us, and it is not who I am. It is not who I want to be. I have been hurt by words. I had been hurt by people I love, with intention, and I have made a committment to never spout that verbal poison out at someone I love.

And I did it. And it is shameful. I don't feel guilty about it. I feel shame about it. Shame is much much much worse.

Did the truth need to be told...yes...but not to him...to me. My rage and my anger are mine to hold and mine to excise. I did last night what I should have done six weeks ago. I deleted his phone number from my phone. I sent an email apologizing for my behavior. I am taking two weeks off of drinking to evaluate what that means and if it is something I need to look more deeply at (it isn't an excuse for my action only an enabler). But I believe in making amends and not just apologizing, so I am going to look at that. And, truth be told, since the break up that was not a break up...I have been using both alcohol and sex as ways to avoid dealing with how I really feel. Unhealthy combinations of both that have kept me off balance, in crisis, away from my feelings, and damaging in all sorts of combinations. That ends now as well.

I have come to a clear understanding that not only can I not have him as a part of my life, I don't want him, anytime soon, to be a part of it...because of the trust lost but also because I can't have him in my life and have it be healthy in anyway right now. I love him enough to not want to hurt him and I love myself enough to let myself be hurt by him anymore. And because there is still rage, I can't trust myself either to make the best choices. Not until the rage is gone. Not until I figure out how to let it go. Not until I learn how to forgive him and not until I learn how to forgive myself.

Working Through It

So, after Friday nights exchange with my teammate, whose name I shall not use as he asked oh so politely that I not do so. And even though I would be completely justified in ignoring a request that was made so lovingly, I will go ahead and respect the request boxed inside the venom.

I have been struggling hard core since Friday night. Today, I finally came to the astounding conclusion that the voice that I keep hearing, in Dolby Digital Stereo Surround Sound repeating that I am a piece of shit isn't my teammate's voice, it's my own.

Frankly, I have no power over the opinion that someone else has of me. I suppose if I lived my life in a cubicle and never made any mistakes, small or fucking huge as I have done, then I suppose, controlling for all that, I could influence someones opinion of me. But change it? Nope...that's not a power I have.

But I can interrupt those tapes inside of me that are determined to keep me kicking my own ass until my motherfuckin' foot falls off or gets wedged somewhere in my colon.

Colostomy, table of one, please.

Now...considering the voice that has declared that I am a piece of shit is, in fact, a part of my own psyche, which means, technically, I do have control over it, one would assume that one could just flip the off switch and away it would go. Unfortunately, to get to the off switch you have to wade hip deep in the Bog of Eternal Stench, with giant leeches the size of Rush Limbaugh's ass trying to suck the life out of you, as you have to do a back hand spring through a mine field covered in old syringes filled with nitroglycerin and all piled on top of a nuclear warhead that goes by the nick name of Bubbles and is on a hair trigger held by a 98 year old man with cerebral palsy and the DTs.

But if you can get through all of that, well, by all means, turn that switch right off...and...while you're at it...cure AIDS, homelessness, and cold fusion.

So, since I am not Mary Lou Retton inside of a cybertronic Voltron-on-steroids intergalactic gymnastics suit, I get to sit with the mother fucking feelings until I can get a handle enough on them to step outside of my front door.

This weekend I did a lot of isolating and a lot of hiding. I didn't go to the gym. I skipped my softball games, and it took a supreme act of will and effort to go to the BBQ and Hummus parties that I attended. It took all of my energy to put on my happy face and go play well adjusted and normal for several hours at a stretch.

But that's just it...I'm not normal. No matter how much I want to be, I am not normal. I am a recovering meth addict that is HIV positive. No matter how much I want those two things to be different. They won't be. Not in this lifetime. No matter how much I want to be just like everyone else (well, ok...even if I were not a positive addict, I am too fuckin' weird to be just like everyone else), but no matter how drunk I get or high I get to permission myself to act like a self-absorbed person just looking for a little human contact without any barriers, I don't get to be that person anymore. This fucking (these fucking) disease have taken that away. And though it is fucked up, foul, wrong, unjust, uncool, and just plain oppressive that people living with HIV are held to a higher, different standard of behavior (ie....if a straight guy and girl fuck without a condom and the girl gets pregnant, no one gets called a piece of shit...if two dudes are on a three day meth binge with needles in every vein but neither of them IS or KNOWS that they are HIV positive...they might get called stupid but they aren't a piece of shit...if two guys get drunk and fuck without a condom...and one is unsure of his status or both are and neither knows for sure...they aren't a piece of shit......get the picture?) but positive folks...that fuck up just like every other sexually active person FUCKS UP does so....we (I) are moral reprobates, intentional bastards, pieces of shit, fucked up, inhuman, demonic (let's pretend this is a MadLib..insert your favorite negative dehumanizing adjective here), etc. ad infinitum.

There is ill intent assigned to what we were doing instead of asking...what....other than a demonic and devilish desire to cause harm...could possibly motivate someone to get drunk and/or high and have unprotected sex even when they know that they are HIV positive, or worse, lie about their status? Hmmmm...asking that question forces people to look to damn closely at their own desperate desire to fit in, be loved, be, dare I say, normal.

I mean, I can't imagine why someone would do such a dastardly thing. I mean....our society loves, values, and in no way stigmatizes HIV positive people, does it? I mean, I have never been in a club and heard folks talking about this or that person that is positive and how they can't believe anyone would sleep with them? I mean, I have never been interested in someone, disclosed my status, and watched their face shut down and despite their insistence that it doesn't really matter, they never call back? I mean, I don't see imagery on TV and in the media about how FAGS deserve AIDS and deserve to die. I mean, I didn't grow up with Fred Phelps telling me that I got what I deserved. I mean, I didn't learn messages that it was ok to have HIV if you got it through a blood transfusion or through a surgical accident (which meant you were to be pitied instead of reviled) but if you got it through consensual, even if stupid, unprotected sex then you got what you deserved. I mean, on top of racism and homophobia, adding being HIV positive to the mix of ones life isn't too fucking much so that sometimes you are willing to do anything and go to any lengths JUST TO FEEL THE WAY THAT EVERYONE ELSE GETS TO FEEL ALL THE TIME...AKA wanted, desired, loved, valued, beautiful, caring, cared for, and cherished----even if all those things are found only in a 30 minute hook up with someone, somewhere...that you never see again....

Silly silly me. Feeling untouched, unwanted, and completely disconnected from everyone around you while walking the streets in a city of almost 9 million people is normal. Right?

But, guess what, I get to change that too. I can't change what I've done. I've said that before. But I can change what I am going to do. I can't change what other people think of me, but I am changing the way that I think and feel about myself.

And I will tell you one damn thing, I am NOT running away. Not this time, not every again. So, I sent an email to my softball team letting them know that I will be showing up this weekend for the games. And I will show up the next week and the week after. It is going to be, for me, awkward as fuck showing up at our meeting spot for this weekend's games. But I am going. Because if I don't go...it isn't my vitriolic teammate that wins, it's the voice in my head telling me that I am a piece of shit that wins.

And that motherfucker has won quite enough thank you. It's MY turn now.

Rough Night

It is 4:25am, and I am sitting at my desk working on not crying and chatting with a friend from junior high and high school on Facebook about the royally screwed up discrimination her daughter is experiencing in her Minneapolis suburb school district.

I believe everything happens for a reason.

For example, I believe that it is not coincidental that La and my good friend and ex Chris were both online dealing with their own emotional issues when I logged in with my own baggage in tow.

Nothing like someone else's life problems to give you some perspective on your own.

I also logged in to Facebook to find that a reader of TheBody.com, recently diagnosed as HIV positive, read my story there and sent me a very kind and caring email. That is exactly why I took the step of writing openly about my life and struggles and celebrations as an HIV positive man, including allowing TheBody.com to post my recent blogs concerning my failure to disclose and the possible outcome of that.

For that express reason, I am writing this blog, tonight, just a couple of hours before the summer sun makes its extremely early morning appearance.

This evening, I was devouring a Domino's pizza around Midnight (don't judge). I had put in the Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and I was having a text war with my partner David. I closed down my computer and settled into bed with David and my gorgeous Jack Russell Mimzy, when I fired up the old cell and was going to entertain myself with a good game of Scrabble. I noticed I had an email from one of my softball teammates. He had left a comment on one of my blogs recapping a recent game. The blog started shitty and ended with "fuck you."

Excusez-moi?

Being who I am, a gay Virgo, I shot him an email and a text message asking him if he had indeed made that comment and, if he did, why. I also explained that if anything in my blog offended him, it was all written with an eye towards humor, and I would gladly remove anything that he found personally offensive that referenced or included him or his loved ones.

He wrote back and told me that he thinks I am a "piece of shit."

Laissez les bontemps rouler!

I don't know this guy. Really. We've played on the same softball team for one full season. He is one of the guys that never goes out with the team afterwards, and he rarely participates (if ever) in our email discussions. So I don't know much about him except that he is a lawyer that works in the public interest. So, when I got his message tonight, I was, needless to say, completely and totally floored.

Now, though I play a blonde in everyday life, I have a genius level IQ, which means I am pretty much stupid and useless most of the time, but my powers of deductive reasoning are generally dead on. I know, for example, that this guy does the AIDS Ride each year. In fact, I pledged $100 towards his ride this fall. I know that I have posted on TheBody.com and on my blog about my recent failure to disclose and some of the emotional fallout from that experience. So, my conclusion was that either he knows the person involved in the story or that he read my blogs and decided that I am, indeed, a piece of shit.

And, of course, being a recovering addict living with PTSD and the survivor of abuse and sexual assault, the negative tapes kicked into high gear, I accepted that I am a piece of shit, and now I am writing a blog at nearly 5am. Hell, the birds just started chirping outside, which means that the sun is about to wake up, and I have not even gone to bed yet. Against all that I know to be true about humanity and myself personally, I still believe that I am shitty human being. I believe that I am worthless because those are the lessons that were beat into me as a child. In group therapy tonight, we talked about this subject. Our counselor asked me and another client why we felt the way that we felt...and I was clear...that which is beaten into you (literally) from age 3-12 and then verbally past that into young adulthood is what you learn to be true about yourself. And no one teaches you, unless you have the resources for psychotherapy that those internal messages aren't true. And, that being ones own (aka my) truth, one does some fucked up and stupid shit.

I am really tired. Not just physically, but spiritually.

Since my failure to disclose and my subsequent confrontation about that and the emotional fallout, I have felt relatively good about my life and how I have taken steps to ensure that I do not repeat the experience in anyway. I have spent 5 and a half hours a week in therapy. I have gotten to a place of acceptance if not comfort of what went down. And then, in one fell swoop, I let one person rip all that down.

And the fun fact is that though I surmise the cause of his emotional aggression, I don't actually know.

I am supposed to play softball in the morning. But I sent a note to my team telling them that I won't be there along with a very frank and very raw explanation of why. Some of them already know the story as they read my blog. Others have/had no idea until they read the email of what has passed recently. But, I learned that when there is bochinche (gossip) potential, it is better to lay it all out there and hope for acceptance than to let someone else spin the story and have to play damage control.

In the end, whether judgment is rendered against me or him or neither or both...I can't say. But, at least now, everything is out in the open to everyone, and, moving forward, I will know if I am wanted or rejected based on the truth rather than a lie. Of course, relying on my team to approve or disapprove of what I have done or the way I have handled the fall out is still part of the problem. I should be able to say, "I've done what I've done. I've tried to heal what I can heal. I have owned what I could own. And each person can live, respond, and react in the way that best represents their feelings without it enhancing or diminishing my spirit."

Unfortunately, I am so not that evolved or there.

That is an apt lesson for life as a whole.

Lessons Learned

The last couple of days are ones which I would never like to repeat. Ever. The great thing is that I can control whether or not I will have to relive this kind of experience. Of course, anytime I believe that I have control over anything, the universe has a direct and sometimes cruel way of dispelling that illusion. This list of lessons is by no means exhaustive, but it is what I have learned so far.

1) There is an ugly price to pay for fear. Much of this could have been avoided. If I had been sober, if I had been honest from the gate, if, after the first incident I had disclosed, if I hadn't lied, if after the second incident I had disclosed, if I had disclosed within the first four days, if I would have disclosed before being directly confronted, all of these would have made this experience less hurtful, less painful, less shameful, and less complicated. Each day that I failed to confront my own fear and shame made matters worse. If I had the mind and spirit to be brave, this would have been a better situation all around. I can control the impact of fear on me, I can be brave, because, frankly, facing my fear from the gate, despite the circumstances, would have been better than anything that has happened thus far.

2) I am only responsible for myself. Over the last couple of days, I have struggled to think my way through my responsibility instead of feeling my way through it. The more that I lost myself in my head, replayed the events, replayed the conversations after being confronted, the less able I was to see, clearly, where I was at fault and where my responsibility ended. The itty bitty shitty committee in my head, and the Great Judge that sits at the head of that committee were trying their best to rip me apart and lay the entire experience on my shoulders. Last night, I stopped thinking and started feeling. I asked my spirit if I thought I had done absolutely everything I could to handle the fall out of this situation up to this point. I have. My head needs to shut the fuck up. I am listening to my spirit from this point forward. The truth is that in the absence of rape or assault the responsibility is split evenly down the middle no matter the substances involved or the fact that I lied about my status after our first encounter. I have to live with the fact that I created a false sense of trust in another person and that person acted on the trust. In the end, the choice to act was taken by both of us. The responsibility falls on both of us.

3) I get to be a a human with flaws. I made a mistake. It was a huge and terrible mistake. It could have far reaching consequences. But there was no maliciousness. There was no intention to do harm. I can and will learn from this. I have learned from this. And I get to be flawed. I will not be held to a higher standard or responsibility because of HIV status than any other person having consensual sex. Every day people make stupid ass mistakes involving sex. People make even more stupid mistakes when drugs and alcohol are involved. Yet, the fact remains that mistakes happen. There are consequences that can come from them. But I am NOT a bad person for making a mistake. I am human. It comes with the fucking package.

4) The outcome is now out of my hands. I have spent hours trying to deal with my emotional baggage from this and the rage and hurt of the other party. The truth is that until the test results come out, there is a limit to the comfort that either of us can receive. I spent an hour at the SGI Buddhist Center last night chanting and asking the Universe to create healing from this and to limit the impact of my mistake and his. As a person of faith, I now have to believe that no matter the outcome, there will be healing to this, though the timeline for that healing may be outside of my control. By being active in my faith, I can send out the healing energy that I hope to get back. I will be returning to pray tonight.

I will not lie and say that I am at peace with what has happened. That would be a huge fucking lie, and I am done with lying out of shame, fear, or as a way to comfort myself. Its a false comfort. There remains active work that I can do to create learning from this. Last night, I was contacted by a health educator in San Francisco that trains youth to be HIV, STI and Sexual Health Advocates. He asked if he could use my last blog as an education/discussion tool for the youth with which he works. I consented. Ultimately, I write about my life experiences in the desperate hope that someone, somewhere will learn from my experience and not repeat my mistakes. I don't believe what I have written about is an act of bravery. It is an act of community preservation. I know that I am not the only person that has had this experience. I know I am not the only person in New York City that is having this exact same experience right now. But we all walk around in a cloud of self-delusion thinking that good people don't make bad choices. We believe that making a bad choice makes us a bad person (that's the difference between guilt and shame...guilt says I made a bad choice, shame says I am a bad choice). We walk around believing that we are the only one going through what we are going through, and so we keep out stories to ourselves. We don't admit our mistakes or our own responsibility when responsibility for mistakes are shared. We don't talk openly about sex and our own bad choices. We, and I include myself in all of these, start with trying to blame/shame/point the finger at everyone but ourselves. We try to demonize, hurt, break down, and otherwise spiritual crush the object of our anger. We also run away from our own responsibility and hope and pray that everything works out for the best when honesty, up front, is the way to guarantee that it will all work out for the best. We take refuge in our own sense of self or sense of shame.

I know my responsibility. I know my culpability. I am no longer willing to feel ashamed. I feel the guilt as a tool to help me remember the possible tragic outcomes and the real emotional toll when I make a mistake. I am human. I am a good person. I make mistakes. I am loved. Thank you to all of you that have been real with me over the last few days, given me love when I have been deep in my own pain and shame, and pointed out that I remain a good person and that my contributions to this world and my community far outnumber the mistakes I've made. Thank you for reminding me that I do have a responsibility here but that doesn't include tearing myself apart nor to allow myself to be torn apart in order to mitigate the pain of anyone else. .

Low Down Dirty Shame

If beating oneself up were an Olympic sport…I would be the undisputed gold medal winner of all time. Not even the greatest guilt mongers amongst the world’s Catholics and Jews would be able to hold a candle to me when I really get into a shame/guilt spiral. I may call the OIC and see if we can work something out for a special Guilt Marathon or a Shame Relay.

Saturday night, David and I went to a party at our friend Brian’s pad. We had had a bit of a loopy day, as David didn’t sleep well…which is not a good thing…and a full moon was fast approaching. By that evening, we had managed to put the lunacy to rest, and we headed down to Chelsea.

It was Brian’s 32nd birthday party, and it was a smash. And then I got smashed. It was fun at first…there was a super hot Asian guy there…that I just knew David would love, so I totally started flirting with him…and then brought him over to meet David. Seems as if they hit it off. David and I were in a queer space, both of us were flirting wildly and sharing that with one another, and we had a great time.

Unfortunately, I don’t always know when to end the party and go home.

As the fiesta wound down, Brian made a suggestion that we head to Mr. Blacks. It was 2am, and David was beat, but I was tipsy and wanted to go out. David gave his blessing, and off I went.

I remember entering the club. I remember meeting the Argentines, and then I remember waking up in the Argentines fantastic apartment off Madison Avenue. I was still drunk, and it was 9am.

I jumped up and sprinted out lookin’ for the train home. Two trains and a half an hour later, I made it in the house. David was still in bed. I told him about the remainder of my night, and then I crashed out.

I woke up to find my man off on a bike ride, and I felt the shame mantle settle in.

If our positions were reversed and David had not come home all night, there would have been bloodshed. David, though, being David was disappointed but there was no drama. I suspected that he realized that I would do enough beating o myself up for the both of us. And I have…for 48 hours, been smashing myself around.

David is the best damn thing that has ever happened to me in this world. And the fact that I caused him obvious disappointment and hurt was a little bit more than I could handle. In the past, I would have laughed it off, swept it under the rug, or gotten defensive. This time, I found myself whirling down into a shame spiral that was pretty much out of control.

I have a very bad habit of waiting until things in my life are going extremely well and then figuring out a way to fuck it up. I started a kick ass new job last week. We are going to see my family in Minnesota this week. And, in general, I am the most happy I have ever been. Figures I would do something really stupid in an attempt to self-sabotage.

David told me yesterday, and again today, that we need to give ourselves the space to be human and make mistakes. I have always been fine when the mistakes end up impacting my life and leaving the people I love untouched. It’s when I do things that impact the people I care for in a way that I never intended that I find myself without the tools to combat the feelings that well up. Also, making a mistake and then throwing a pity party for oneself is not necessarily the path towards personal growth.

I have made drastic and significant changes in my life. In many ways I am allowing myself to feel and experience what I would run away from in the past. Today was the first time in a spell that made me want to run away and hide. But you can’t hide from yourself. You may fool yourself now and again. You may hide the truth from yourself…but you can’t sustain any of that for long…and running away from it means only that you give it power to grow and warp until facing it becomes a Herculean effort instead of the simple task of looking in the mirror and saying, “I forgive you.”

Hamhocks and Witches

Last night I ate a bowl full of hamhocks and blackeyed peas before bed. In addition to having gas from hell...I had a very interesting dream.

The dream began with me as a child...I had spontaneously sprouted magnificent wings, and, a la X-Men, I shaved them off using a giant file to hide my shame and to please my parents. As I grew, I learned to love my wings, and I refused to remove them. I was chased through the night by police that were seeking to force me to cut them off or kill me. They didn't know who I was, and I managed to soar and then dive between two houses in my neighborhood. Quickly landing in my back yard, and ducking into the house.

Later that night I had to attend a black tie fundraiser with my parents. I had grown into quite the strapping young adult. I had bowed to pressure and shaved the wings off one last time. I was to appear in a fashion show that evening, as I also had a budding career as a model.

I got to the black tie event and it turned out that I was actually in a charity fashion show. As I arrived, I felt a familiar itching on my back, and my wings returned bunched under my Armani suit coat. I was distraught.

David was there, and he was directing the show. He quickly removed my jacket, and my white shirt, and with a pair of scissors constructed for me a white outfit that hugged my chest and my package, displaying the best of both. He then cut up a black belt, grommeted it, and then made a nut cup out of each, which he then cinched around my waist and pulled snug up to my crotch. The outfit was fierce. I slipped on black motorcycle boots, and unfurled my wings. All the other models had wings as well, though theirs were fake. David reassured me that I blended in. I walked the runway, and realize that my wings were a mighty gift, and I vowed never to be parted from them again.

When my Mother saw them she grew angry. She was a powerful witch, and I was afraid she was going to attack, so I flew from the end of the stage and out of the theater to thunderous applause.

For a while I escaped, and I lived happily. I was at a party with some friends, when, all of a sudden, a deep gouge appeared on my hand and began bleeding profusely. There was no apparent source of the gouge, and, a moment later, a strip of flesh was peeled from my heel.

I was under attack.

I grabbed a container of Morton's salt and drew a circle around myself. I knew the Witch was attack, and I knew she couldn't reach me through the salt circle. Unfortuantely, the other folks at the party thought I was drunk, and they kept walking into the kitchen and through the salt circle. Each time they did, I sustained an attack and desperately sealed the circle. I shouted at the idiots to keep out of my circle, but they mocked me and kept moving through to get their drinks.

The dream shifted then, and I was hiding out in a beautiful spacious house in Brooklyn. The home was owned by my friend Lynne Serpe. The sun was shining, and a beautiful yard could be seen through the back bedroom. It was fall, and a half bare sycamore tree stood, it's bark grey-green and smooth, just outside of the window.

It was a place that I wanted to live, but I told Lynne I could only do so if we moved it to Manhattan. Common sense...even in a dream.

Suddenly, the room was flooded with a circle of my women friends...all good witches. Another attack was coming from my Mother, the Witch, and they knew it. They laid matts on the floor so that the salt circle would be less easily disturbed. They covered the entire floor in these matts. I then created a large circle around myself of salt that remained inviolate. The circle was closed not a moment too soon as a faint scratch appeared on my arm just as it was sealed. Mom was at it again.

We knew that the evil Witch had to also be sitting in front of a circle that represented the circle in which I sat. But in order to battle her, we had to know where she was positioned outside of the circle.

Another witch, one of my girls, then took the salt and inscribed a symbol outside of the circle...after that she took an egg in her hands and tossed it towards me and the circle in which I sat. The egg arched through the air and landed across from me, outside of the circle. When it hit the matt it begin to sizzle as if it were frying. We'd found the bitch.

A phantom outline of her appeared, her face twisted in anger. She began chanting a new spell trying to break through my circle...I could feel an enormous pressure building, and I knew that she would soon break through...and then...my ass would be grass.

A bright light welled up inside of me and I held up a single hand, with my wings outstretched, I began chanting loudly...By the Power of Light, By the Power of God! By the Power of Light, By the Power of God! I pushed back agains the pressure and my hand began to glow with a golden light that was outlined in red. I shouted a third time...BY THE POWER OF LIGHT, BY THE POWER OF GOD. The pressure gave way suddenly, and I knew I had to bitch slap the hell out of the witch and teach her to mind her business. I gave her three hard smacks.

And then David woke me up yellin' “WHY ARE YOU HITTING ME.”

P.S. David is the hottie in the tootsie roll outfit next to the scary heifer in the picture above. Teeeheeee.