one year

I've got a history of wearing my mind on my sleeve

The heart, on the other hand, tends to stay locked in my chest pumping blood like it's its job, for better or worse. Which is good, cardiovascularly, but not so good emotionally. The depths of the allegorical heart remain a mystery to me intellectually, if not intuvitively.

Conversation has never been an easy thing for me to accomplish. While expressing ones self is one of the basic tenets of human nature, I spent more time as a child with my nose in a book and my mouth firmly shut than I did debating the finer points of Pog technique with my peers. This lack of practice with verbal expression had made even the simplest of sharing points a thing of torture. It's like having one of those rubber seals they put syringe vials covering my mouth. It physically feels like I'm trying to push through something when I think I should divulge some sort of private thought. Sometimes I'm brave enough to be able to force my way through, but afterwards the barrier always seals itself again. None of this "chipping away at the brick wall" nonsense.

One year, two days ago I, the brazen hussy that I am, made the first of a series of moves with a Mister Alex Durbin. I can't say that was The Beginning, but it was definately the start of The Beginning. Hindsight being 20/20 I feel confidant in saying that things have turned out for the best, although it doesn't feel like it's been a year. I think that's good.

L&O, Cathi