Confessions of a Bleeding Heart

Being Careful What I Wish For

It is funny how there is a rare occasion when we get exactly what we have hoped, wished and prayed for. Then we have a hard time believing it has happened and think it might be mere coincidence instead of just being thankful for our good fortune.

I started an experiment last September. I asked God for a boyfriend (though I feel I am too old for that term it was the easiest to use) for Christmas. I know that sounds a bit ridiculous to most people who will read this. It is even ridiculous to me though it was me who prayed diligently and specifically on the off chance that if I was consistent in my thinking each day, what I asked for…would be mine.

What I asked for specifically was for God to bring into my life the man who would be kind to me, good to me, and the man whom I could feel as good about as they would feel about me. I asked God to choose since I am so horribly awful at choosing for myself. And I also took the advice of my crazy lady client and I got back on the internet as she told me too though she said God knew I was afraid to.

I joined a dating site finally in November. I got my courage up after the big freak out I had at the beginning of last year. Yes, I had reason to freak out at my last attempt—my prospects had been unusual and daunting. Including the man who sent me an odd rambling of sorts how he had invested a great deal of time to find me and spoke of his hobby of collecting exotic pets. The pictures on his profile showed him brushing his teeth happily with a squirrel sitting on the edge of the sink and his raccoons walking about on the kitchen counters. (In case anyone is wondering—to me this is wildlife not exotic pets) There were men who outright asked for dirty naked pictures and those who thought it might be flattering to tell me I looked like the kind of woman who was into casual sex. I had real reason to cut out on the whole internet thing. However, I tried again as I felt I should give the whole dating thing another chance.

And again, I had gotten the barrage of odd requests and an abundance of twenty something men to ask if I was a cougar and interested etc. I had one man ask me how curvy I was and when I responded, “As curvy as God made me” he replied, “Cute, but can I have measurements?” I said, “Absolutely not.” He never responded again. Despite all of this idiocy, I didn’t give up. I didn’t let it scare me this time. I held firm to my thoughts and continued to pray, “A boyfriend for Christmas, God… a boyfriend for Christmas…”

 I even was so silly that when people asked me what I wanted for Christmas I said, “I asked God for a boyfriend…” and then would laugh as if I wasn’t quite serious because it sounds loony—yet I was deadly serious and meant every word.

In mid December, a man contacted me and was respectful. He called me and asked me out to dinner two days before Christmas. He was a gentleman that evening and we went out the day after Christmas too. Real dates—dinners, a movie, regular phone calls and texts. Normalcy—something I am not used to. When I returned to work a co-worker asked me what I got for Christmas, and I responded, “It’s a bit surprising but I may have gotten a boyfriend like I asked for. We’ll see.” My client asked me, “Did you get a boyfriend for Christmas?’ and I laughed and told her yes. She crowed loudly, “I told you! I told you! God told me you had to try again.”

I had some misgivings. This man is a nice man, a good guy, a normal person. What could he possibly see in me? However, he mentioned shyly one evening that he had contacted me almost a year ago and I never responded on the dating site that had scared me away.  I remembered, after racking my brain his photo and simple letter and I am not even sure why I didn’t respond. It may have been I simply wasn’t ready for him then. Who knows?

He has met my children and all of the children in and out of my house. He hasn’t run yet. I haven’t really brought anyone into my real life for the fear of that—the running part. Last night he met my parents and family. I know my family was a bit shocked, he is not the typical man I date. He is pretty much the opposite in many ways. He is better. And he seems to still like me despite the utter chaos of my world.  I don’t think he’s nuts in the least bit either which is really nice.

I don’t have any idea what will happen next or how long it will last. I got what I asked for and it’s really nice to have it. I had a New Year’s Eve date too—an added bonus since I have never had one before and I never thought to even ask for that one. I am willing to allow everything to unfold and see what happens next. I don’t have anything to lose and a heck of a lot to gain. We’ll see, we’ll see.

 

Monika m. Basile

 

...counted blessings

This holiday is a difficult one for a variety of reasons.  I feel as if being joyful this day is something I have to dig deeply to experience. Sometimes the sadness of life washes in and erodes my simple joys before I can collect them like seashells on the shoreline. I get glimpses of it, but the tide pulls them back out before I can actually hold any of it in my hands and make it mine. Yet, even sporadic moments of contentment are treasures to me and I have reason to be thankful.

For these things I am most grateful.

My family. My parents are both alive, married and still an ever present source of strength. I am blessed to be your child and to grow up with a wonderful sister and brother in the childhood you two created for us.

 My children. Though one I will visit in the hospital tonight, I will have seen all six of them today. Each has blessed me with their presence and that makes me luckier than many.

My extended Basile family. We never end do we my fellow Basile’s out there? You are all so dear to me and reach out at just the right moments. We are part of each other through blood, marriage, sweat and many tears. No matter how physically far apart we may roam, we are forever connected by chains of love.

My coworkers/friends. You are the dearest to me for being a part of my life. I thank you for worrying and commiserating and thinking of me. I’m glad that I have left the Thanksgiving meal in your capable hands for our client’s (except you Kathy, you have to learn turkey’s are to be roasted not steamed) I know though, you all have made this day special for the extraordinary people we have the privilege to be caretakers to.

My stupid car. It is begrudging thanks because I know it is going to break down again any minute. But I am thankful just the same to have wheels to get to work with, to escape with and to get me where I need to go.

My landlord. He is the only one to take a chance on me and trust me to pay the rent. (You charge me too much but you haven’t kicked me and the loud family out yet.)

The food I have spent this entire day cooking. I am thankful to have it and I am just as thankful that I am an awesome cook and have done every bit of it justice.

This Life. It’s mine and God’s. I have no idea what I am doing most of the time. I am just hoping God knows what’s going on and what He’s doing.

Though lately I seem to need to swim very deep to find it, I thank you my mighty God for each treasure.

Amen

 

Monika M. Basile

the best parts are mine...

There will always be people who try to out do whatever it is that you do or are good at. There will be those that will attempt to replace you when you are gone. There are folks who will be happy to show you up at every turn and the heart of the matter is this—it doesn’t matter. Not a bit.

I live a meager life and I have worked hard for every bit of the junk I have. My riches are not in things. My riches are in people and experiences. I am unable to outdo any neighbor, friend, foe or person with the non abundance of things I have. My life is filled with living this crazy chaotic life. However many people think they would never want to live in it,  there are those who would be jealous of the treasures of people and living I have collected through the years.

I have known the greatest joys and the greatest sorrows and I have felt every damn bit of it. Most people don’t. Most people avoid or ignore the true feeling of their lives. Many people do not allow themselves to feel every part of their grief or every part of their happiness. I absorb it all and it really should kill me sometimes but instead, it has made me stronger and wiser.

I have a way with words. Not everyone has that talent yet many believe they do or wish they did. I have had some folks be overly critical or condescending of my writing. I have had agents tell me they hate my work but they actually took the time to call me up and tell me how much they hated it. Most would find that unlucky but it actually made me happy to make that kind of impression on someone—for someone to waste their time and money telling me how much they hated every character, but then at the end tell me, “You’ve obviously got talent. Send me something else.”  And I have had publishers surprise me and say, “Wow. You actually moved me.” I have known both parts of it and felt each high and low. Yet there are still people who will put me down and ask me, “And how much money are you making at this?” never caring that the important part is—I am being read.

I have the respect of my children in a way that would make some people cringe. They respect me enough to fail in their lives and not hide it. They have the surety of knowing they are loved by their mother anyway. It is me they trust enough to call when things go bad because they know I will answer the phone. The children could be living easier lives, but they choose me and the odd home I created instead. They spend much time playing elaborate pranks on me to “strengthen” my heart. I am flattered for the attention that most mothers don’t receive.

I do not have perfect children. I have real children. I will never write a Christmas brag letter because the things I have to brag about are not what most would typically write or be impressed by. “We are all wonderful and going skiing and Jr. and Princess are at the top of their class…etc.” Instead I would write the truth about them and their struggles and their strengths. I would write about the little triumphs of finally a D plus in math after a year of struggle, kicking a drug habit, going back to school after dropping out, finishing community service and continuing to volunteer, being obsessed with video games and then actually creating them. What most people who are living “the good life" would not understand is that these acts have made me proud. They have built character and made each child stronger. They are courageous and changing their lives into something better.

I do not have “ideal” relationships, but I have been loved. Nothing has ever come easy—but I have loved. 

Go ahead and try to outdo my life—you might be lucky and live.

 

Monika M. Basile

 

 

the issues of issues...

It’s really strange to wonder about the things that twist us into who we are. What screws us up, makes us insecure, and gives us complexes? What are the reasons we carry the baggage we do and why does it haunt us so?

We are not born insecure creatures. We are created into them. We are not slipping out of the womb full of fear and apprehension. We have fears created around us. When we enter this world, I don’t imagine we think we are not good enough, or ugly, or stupid or unworthy.

I think it’s the little and less obvious things that shape so much of our vision of ourselves.  I wonder if sometimes tiny moments and simple hurtful words are truly what make us a well hidden mess to the naked eye. Yet, it takes so many bigger words or actions to heal them. And some things never heal.

Of course there are huge tragedies or troubles to create real fear—I’m not wondering about that. I already know that the reason I am terrified of the wind is because I was in two tornadoes. I know the reason that I fear the dark is because I don’t know what’s in the dark when it is dark.  And I even figured out my hysterical fear of clowns stems from the fear of the unknown, of not knowing what lies behind the makeup and rubber shoes and fake laughter and not knowing who people really are.

But the insecurities or uncomfortable feelings that bother me in the middle of the night are those incidences that just niggle at the edges of my brain and linger there—burrowing deeper until I can’t even quite remember what made me feel this way in the first place. Those are the thoughts that leave a sneaky type of damage. They leave almost invisible scars, but they are also painful like paper cuts rather than stitches. Those feelings make us a bit wary and a bit careful when we handle our hearts in the future.  Though a paper cut will never cause us to bleed to death, they make us jump, and shake our hands and never look at paper quite the same.

Popcorn, I know it’s a silly subject. I have this ridiculous notion of not eating popcorn on a date to the movies. I love popcorn. I mean I really adore it so much that I ask my kids when they are going to the show to bring me their leftovers. But eating it at the show on a date, I have this irrational fear that my date will find me repulsive and the theater has speakers taped to the underside of my chair and all will hear me chomping down. Where did this come from? How in the world did I become a person who cringes when a man asks, “Do you want popcorn?” at the movies? Everyone is eating popcorn unless they hate it. He is eating popcorn. Yet—I panic and say, “No thank you…” though I am just dying to dive into the whole popcorn machine, smother myself with butter and have a popcorn fest.

I realized it came from an odd remark years ago, “Oh God, you are embarrassing me. Do you have to eat that popcorn like that? Everyone is looking.” And yes, it was a just a mean thing to say. No one was looking. I wasn’t eating like a pig, my mother raised me with manners—she insisted we had manners. It was just a way to shake my self confidence, to make me feel like less—and it worked. I never ate popcorn with a man at the show again. How stupid, to give up something I enjoyed tremendously because someone else decided to taint it. The bigger idiocy is that I allowed it however unknowingly.

And what has healed it? Pure silliness.

 “I know you love popcorn, you are always talking about it. We’ll get some.” He says as we approach the concession stand.

“No, I’m fine really.”

He insists.

I agree to a small and he instead gets a large smothered in that heavenly fake butter.  My palms sweat a bit as we find seats. I am feeling ridiculous to be worried about it. We settle in and begin to watch the show. I take one piece at a time (Who eats popcorn like this other than someone with issues?)The movie is funny and we laugh and munch and I notice he has spilled half of his popcorn down the front of his shirt and doesn’t care. And it is not embarrassing to me so I finally trust that I won’t be embarrassing to him either. I begin getting scoops and eating it like a normal person. I drop some down my shirt and then dig it out.

 He looks at me and smiles and then kisses my salt covered lips. The bag of popcorn crushes between us and spills out all over our legs. It doesn’t matter. Nobody notices and nobody cares except for me— who is healed a bit from buttery kisses.

 

Monika M. Basile

Way Over the Rainbow...

Reaching the point of indifference can sometimes be as painful as feeling the sadness of the ending of a relationship.

After loving my ex for over twenty years, I never imagined I would ever have the feeling of nothingness I eventually did.

We rarely see each other. The divorce was bitter on his part and he had a difficult time being civil to me in any way. I distanced myself as much as possible because I didn’t feel I had to take that anymore in my life—the ignorance and disrespect, the rudeness or the mere contempt, were no longer burdens of mine to bear. 

It was Thanksgiving when I realized he was truly no longer a part of my life. Usually, my son would drive himself and his siblings to visit their father. But this day, he came to get them instead. I helped my daughter outside because she was on crutches. He stood outside of the car waiting with the seat folded back to allow her to get in and then shut the door after she did. I looked at him and thought, “Who are you?”

It was the oddest experience. It was so strange to see him and not have my heart leap up into my throat, to stand near him and not want to reach out to touch him, to speak with him and really have nothing more important to say other than “Hello, how are you?”

I felt as if he were simply someone I used to know. And that feeling of indifference, made me actually feel sad. There should have been more. I really thought I should have felt more—at least anger or heartache or some sort of misery or even fear. Instead, I felt empty of everything I ever felt for him.

I think he knew it. He said “good-bye” and got in the car.

I went back inside of my sister’s house. I sat there stunned for a long time. My family thought I was upset because I had to see him. I was upset because he no longer had any impact on my life. I kept wondering how in the world that could have happened.  I somehow felt guilty to have been able to actually stop loving someone. How did everything shift without me even realizing it? I laughed. I was truly free—a bit damaged but not bitter and angry.

When I run into the ex and his girlfriend, they turn their heads and pretend to not see me. They act as if I was the one whom destroyed a marriage and several lives. They are babies. I would prefer to be able to be cordial. It is important to be able to do so for the benefit of the children.

I realize I am the bigger person. Yet it does not make me feel superior in any way. It just reinforces that I belong without him for a variety of reasons. And he belongs with her for the exact same reasons. To each his own.

Monika M. Basile

Before, After and in the Midst of it...

Would I do it again even knowing how it all would end?

Yes.

Our lives are meant to be shaped by the experiences we live and breathe each day. The good ones, the bad ones, the joyous ones and the devastating ones. We are meant to love and to be loved and to wind up a mess because of it. There is no perfection or forever. There is simply now and sometimes now lasts a long time and sometimes it doesn’t. But it is a real time, a real life, and it is happening right now.

There are those who think they have a lifetime to wait to be ready to fall in love, to get married, to have a child, to fall in love again after losing someone, to live a dream, or write that novel they have dancing around in their brain. As I get older, I see we don’t have that much time to actually “take our time”. The world changes on a whim and chances are lost in a heartbeat. I am glad—I didn’t wait to live my life or to love the people that I have and still do. It was worth it. Every minute was worth it.

I have been told my life would make a good movie or a soap opera. And I guess in many ways that is true. I seemed to have lived in a tornado, a world of topsy-turvy. Yet, I have made it through the chaos of my life, just not always in one piece—but I still made it through.

Looking back on my experiences, I realize many people would have avoided them. They would have run from the thought of it. And they would have missed it—the good parts and the moments that add up to being who I am. I did not create my life; my living in it created me—just as it creates each one of us.

There have been many heartaches I have felt, but no more I think, than anyone else has felt. There have been great tragedies; we all have them even if they are different tragedies. There also has been great love, the greatest of love in my life. And I am grateful for it.

Our hearts survive it. Even when we think we will never recover from the loss of someone, the loss of a dream or the loss of the life we imagined we would or should have had. We do more than survive it, we still live in it now. And if we are lucky, we look back on all of it and say, “It was worth it.” These are our shining moments. They are happening now.

 

Monika M. Basile

 

if the Crown Fits...

When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to regale me with stories of how we were descended from royalty. She claimed if we lived in Italy, I would indeed be a princess living in castles with a variety of maids in waiting to do my every bidding. This is the person I always wanted to be, wished to be and imagined I should have been. I really should have been a princess in an exotic kingdom.

This is the person I pretended to be after having a panic attack driving to my first job interview after being out of the work force for fifteen years. I drove down a long stretch of road, directions scattered over the passenger seat and the greatest fear in my heart that I would blow it. I was positive they would never hire someone like me—someone who had never worked any job more important than fast food places and that was years and years before. Why would they want me? I was someone who stayed home raising children for what felt like eons yet I never regretted it. And somehow, I felt like the interviewer would expect me to make excuses for only having been a “housewife”, a “home maker” or a “domestic engineer”.

And then I got lost and drove in circles for awhile and just about talked myself out of going to the interview at all. I had filled out dozens of job applications and this was my only interview out of all of them. What in the world did I think I was doing?

It was at that moment I said to myself, “If only I had been a princess…” and then I had an odd thought cross my mind as many do through the course of a day. “In Italy, I would be a princess. I will be a princess here too, at least for today.”

I’m not very good at being a princess even if it’s only pretending at being one. I fumbled through the interview trying to be calm and collected and emanating self confidence as if it were dripping from me like strands of pearls.  I am not very good at being anyone but me. This was real life. This was my life and even a “maybe” princess could screw it up just as well as the real me could. Or, I could also be the ordinary extraordinary person I try to be and do just fine.

Of course I didn’t do fine—but I got the job.

Maybe our imperfections sometimes draw people to us. Maybe when people see the realness of who we really are—they also can see the potential of what we might be. Or maybe, my interviewer simply took pity on me and gave me a break.

I don’t really care what the reason was.  I don’t think tiaras are suitable anyway for everyday life.

 

Monika M. Basile

 

 

the Finer Things

I am not judging, though obviously I am since I am starting this piece with those words. But I would rather call it an observation, a thought or a “musing” that I have been rolling around inside of my brain. It’s a phrase that has caught my attention or for some, should I say, the phrase has become a way of life.

“Hey at least it’s a fee dinner…”

I could really use that free dinner due to my continuous deteriorating financial standings, however, I can’t accept. Nothing is free.

It’s not that I am against a man taking care of me—I definitely am not. Most women, no matter how much we shout out how we want to be super independent and take care of ourselves—most women are lying. Now that does not mean we want a man to do everything for us, but we want the give and take and the part where you have someone to depend on and someone depends on you. What I am against—is taking advantage of a man’s position in life to better my own.

Sometimes, women can become blinded by what kind of a life a man can offer her and fail then to see the real man at all. Too many women believe “free dinner” is a means to an end. It isn’t. And then we balk at men assuming so many of us are gold diggers or out for what we can get. For all the men out there whom we assume are only after a piece—there are as many women whom are out for a piece of the better life.

There is nothing inherently wrong with wanting a better life or with wanting more. The wrongness comes in the form of using someone else to step on to obtain what you desire most. I seem to be incapable of that. If I were—life would be so much easier in many ways, just not the important ways.

A few years ago, I met Mr. Mobster (and no, I did not know he was mobster when we met), the first man to offer me the world. I was bowled over by his confidence and bravado, the money he flashed at the drop of hat, and everything in my life I never had that he offered. I considered him only for a short while. I didn’t have any real attraction to this man but something about him intrigued me. I liked the attention, the way he pursued me and the life he lived in. After one dinner with him, I realized, I didn’t like him. I didn’t like the man he was.

We went to a quaint Italian restaurant near the beach. The menu I was given didn’t have prices which made me nervous. I had brought money with but now was unsure if I could afford to pay my own way. He ordered for me, which then meant that I had no idea how much I would pay. Mr. Mobster—ordered the wait staff around as he was used to doing in his life. He complained when the special fish he wanted was not available. He was pompous and I was uncomfortable. I noticed the servers were milling about as we ate or meal and I realized no one else was there. He ordered another bottle of wine and I mentioned that maybe we should leave as I thought they were closing.

Mr. Mobster said, “This is what they get paid to do.”

“But what if they have somewhere to be? What if they worked all day and are tired and ready to go home?” I questioned.

“Not my problem. This is what money buys sweetheart…”

And I wanted to smack my own face for only realizing it then—I’m not what money can buy. I don’t ever want to be bought by anyone for any amount of money.

I finally told him I was tired and had to work in the morning. He stepped out to get the car while I said I had to use the washroom. I went to the waitress and gave her my “date night” money and apologized for us staying so late. She said Mr. Mobster did this all the time.

On the way home, he regaled me with the adventures he would take me on, the opera’s we would go to, the fine wine we would drink. I thought to myself—If I am stuck listening to a transistor radio and drinking Kool-Aid in my backyard for the rest of my life I will do so happily rather than spend one minute more with this man.

As I said earlier, nothing is free. What do we, as women, give up when we accept the “free dinners” of life? For me, the price is too dear. The things I can be bought with are kindness, laughter, joy, loyalty, peacefulness—the list is endless of possibilities. Money can’t buy my love—ever.

When God Learned to Sew

We are women and we survive and of course, we rely on each other to get through the heartaches of our lives.

A particular moment in time is forever captured in my memory of something a dear friend did for me as my marriage was ending.

When I first asked my ex-husband to leave our home, I couldn’t sleep in our bed. It smelled of him. It didn’t matter that I washed the sheets or changed the blankets and comforter. His scent lingered in our bed of twenty years. It made me crazy to still feel him there when he wasn’t.

I threw away the sheets, the blanket the comforter.  I bought a single pair of new sheets. I used an old blanket of the kids and borrowed a comforter from my mother. And there, I forced myself to sleep alone without his smell permeating the air of our room. I didn’t like it—but I was able to rest some nights.

Six weeks later, I allowed him to come back home. I gave him the last of the second, third, hundred chances—just to be sure. I did what many women do who want to save their families. I tried again, the last hurrah. I went into it with the hope that twenty years truly meant something and there was a chance to salvage a marriage that I spent my entire adult life on and most of my dreams on.

He was back in my bed and his scent spilled again into every fiber of my bed. Our bed. I was happy for awhile—a very short while but long enough to create again a place where married people slept and made love and whispered in the night. Yet, it was also the place where I learned it was futile. There wasn’t any hope left and the ending had truly started.

It was over. I knew in my heart it was over and for always. I had this panicked feeling inside of me; what will I do? How will I again replace everything in my bed? How will I sleep again when he goes and he will somehow still linger here?”

At the group home I work in, someone brought in an old blanket. I stood there and thought I will just use this. It’s a start. My friend and co-worker, I shall call her Ms. Fix-it, saw me gathering the blanket up.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I was ashamed; embarrassed that I let him in again to hurt me, humiliated to be put in this position again.  “I think it’s really done. I am going to have to let him go and make him leave again. I won’t be able to sleep, I can’t afford to replace…”

“You don’t need that. When you took him back I started making you a quilt. I figured it wouldn’t work and I also figured you needed to find that out on your own. I’m almost done. I’ll hurry.”

I went outside then, overcome, and Ms. Fix-it followed me. I cried while she stood there looking uncomfortable. I told her about my shame, my hurt and my anger at God for allowing it all. Right then, at that moment while I was looking up at the sky and shaking my fist at God, a beautiful regal hawk flew over our heads, “…and then God somehow helps in a simple way…he sends someone to make me a quilt and somehow fix a bit of it and…and.. sends me a hawk to show me he’s still around here in it all.” We both started laughing.

We go on, however broken we become, as women—we go on. And when we feel we can’t, its other women whom tend to pull us through it by being there, by noticing what happens in our lives, by listening to every word we may never actually say. Our true friends step in when they are watching us fall. They don’t stop us from falling—they can't. They just catch us in soft quilts.

 

Monika M. Basile

Mr. Big Shot, Mr. Big Not

The man I didn’t kiss is the one who told.

My former love, told his best friend, Mr. Big Shot, everything about us. This—in itself—I didn’t mind. Everyone needs someone in their lives to trust with their secrets. Unfortunately, sometimes we are better off saying nothing than trusting those with loose lips when they drink, or spiteful hearts in their everyday lives.

Mr. Big Shot is my former love’s best friend, his almost brother, the man he trusted with everything including his own life. But sad to say, Mr. Big Shot decided to almost destroy my life with one fell swoop of lies and gross exaggerations.

This is hard to explain, but I shall try my best. Mr. Big Shot is related to my best friend who passed away. Her daughters are dear to my heart. Her youngest daughter lived with me the year it took her mother to die. Both girls are more than my best friend’s children—they are somehow mine. The youngest daughter is my oldest daughter’s dearest friend. They grew up together. My former love is Mr. Big Shot’s closest friend. Mr. Big Shot is also the son-in-law of the Aunt who is now guardian of the youngest daughter.

I know men will tell stories and over do them and women are guilty of the same. Mr. Big Shot felt the need to tell my personal life to the Aunt and everyone connected. He also felt the need to paint a vivid picture in their minds of what a horrible woman I am. The Aunt already had issue with me because the girls are closer to me than their family. They should be closer to me, I am the one who was there all of their lives.  She was very happy to find out I was unacceptable as a human being.  It gave her reason to not allow me any part of the youngest girl’s life until she turns eighteen which is not for another two years.

And his reasoning for telling tales out of school? "Hey, what can I say? I was drunk."

Mr. Big Shot had a beautiful beach house that I spent a lot of time at with my former love. I never behaved inappropriately there. I never drank more than a drink; the only man whom had my attention was my former love. I never behaved in any way other than as a lady. I am not a saint and I am not perfect, but I also try very hard not to shame myself in public. Mr. Big Shot knew much about me. There is so much truth he could have told but instead chose to tell lies.

Yet, I never told any of Mr. Big Shots secrets that I knew—and I knew plenty. My former love told me many of his secrets and I kept those to myself as lovers should keep pillow talk on the pillows. And now out of revenge, I would like to share them—but I won’t. What would it help? What would it matter? And will it undo any of the damage he did to my reputation, to my dear girl, to my heart or to my soul?

It won’t.

Nothing we put out into the world can be taken back. Words cannot be unspoken or unheard. They are forever engraved somewhere inside someone and there is nothing to ever erase them or the destruction they may cause.

Monika M. Basile