Self Reflection: Mending a Broken Heart

Today I came to the conclusion that my broken heart will never heal. Not completely. It’s no longer just a minor ailment, it’s now a condition. It has been abused too many times for it to ever fully recover. All I can hope to do is take better care of it and continue to live with the pain that never quite goes away. Each new painful experience only adds to the scar tissue that has built up over the years. Family, friends, boyfriends, and lovers have all had a hand in the damage. But the scars do nothing to protect against further hurt. However there are days when the scars numb the pain, and I feel nothing. Like all other things I feel intensely, that emptiness runs deep. Those days when I don’t care about anything can be worse than the days when I feel too much.

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People will try to tell you that time heals all wounds. Liars. Time simply allows us to burrow into our foxholes to rest, regroup, and prepare for the next onslaught. Because, if you are brave enough to try to trust people, love them after you’ve been hurt, you are going to get hurt again. That’s what people do. They come into our lives and change us for better or worse, and from the ashes of failed relationships, we grow.

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My heart is damaged and so is my psyche, but still I remain open to meeting new people, growing closer to the people I know and love, and always remaining hopeful that someday I will meet someone who wants to stay and grow with me. Build a life together that allows each of us to pursue the things we loved to do before we met, without the fear of that person leaving. Someone who will not only recognize my value and appreciate me as a whole person — good, bad, and ugly — but also, someone who will choose to be with me without conditions or the need to be with other people. Someone who understands that I am enough. Someone who understands that I don’t need to be rescued, but rather loved and supported. Someone who shares my interests, but is different enough to teach me new things about the world and myself. Someone who understands that what I am hoping for isn’t too much to ask.

I have been on a journey of self-improvement for several years and each day I get a little closer to being my best self. For me. But, there is no final version of me. I will always be working toward being better, because that is how I learn and grow and experience more of the world. My desire to be healthier, stronger, and more accomplished at my chosen art drive me each day. Of course there are setbacks, stumbling blocks, and the demons of bad habits that try to regain control time and again.

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Although my heart will never completely heal from the damage it has sustained, I am still working on healing myself — mind, body, and soul. I will continue to read, write, daydream, exercise, eat good food, listen to music, dance, spend time with friends who energize and inspire me, make love to those who desire me, travel when time and money allow me to do so, and experience art that brings me joy and reminds me of the inescapable mortality we all face.

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Despite my broken heart, I still have a lot of love to give.

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Happy Birthday to Me: Self-Reflection and Self-Love

still-alive45 years ago today, I was born during a snow storm to a single mom who had every reason to be afraid of her new role. She was about to get divorced from her abusive husband, my birth father, and she was a young white woman living in rural Pennsylvania who just gave birth to a bi-racial baby. The doctor, believing that she was a threat to herself given her choice in sexual partners, gave her a tubal ligation so she couldn’t have any more children. I’m sure he believed he was doing the right thing, but he never bothered to ask her what she wanted. In fact, her parents gave the doctor permission to perform the procedure, “for her own good.” That’s how I came into this world. Born on Valentine’s Day 1972 in a blizzard to a woman who was subjected to physical and emotional abuse, sexism, and racism.

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Despite our rough start as mother and child, we’ve both survived and have many interesting stories to tell. She wasn’t always prepared for her role as my mother, and I don’t hold that against her because I struggle as a mom, too. Being a mom isn’t easy, but it’s especially difficult when you do it without any help from a partner. My mom was a single parent until I turned five, when she remarried. She worked full-time, but lived at home with her parents who not only condemned her choices in men, but also treated her like a child until I turned four and we moved out. So, for the most part my grandmother raised me. I don’t doubt that she loved me, but she was often misguided in how she showed her love. For instance, one of her first nicknames for me was “my little nigger.” Shocking, right? Well, here’s why I think it’s shocking. She genuinely believed that since people were obviously going to call me “nigger,” if she used that word as term of endearment my feelings would never be hurt. I’m just going to stop right there and let you soak that in.

Why am I dredging up these painful stories on my birthday? Well, because birthdays should be about taking a look back at the previous year or years of your life to get a sense of where you’ve been and where you might be going. Birthdays should have a certain level of self-reflection, so that we gain a better understanding of who we were, who we are, and who we hope to become. And, if like me, your birthday is on Valentine’s Day, you can spend a lot of the day wondering why you’re still single.

People often tell me how much they appreciate my dark sense of humor. Here’s a little secret, without my dark sense of humor, I never would have made it this far in life. Laughing at the things that make me and other people uncomfortable and finding beauty in darkness and the things that dwell there have been a part of my survival toolkit for as long as I can remember.

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I have suffered from depression since I was a child, but it was never officially diagnosed until I was in college. I’ve been in and out of therapy ever since then and plan to stay in therapy, because I don’t think there will ever be a time in my life when I don’t need it. It is only recently that I have begun to look closely at the events in my childhood that shaped me into the person I have become. A sensitive woman plagued by self-doubt who constantly fights to keep the shackles of low self-esteem from pulling her down into the depths of a depression she cannot claw her way out of even if she wanted to. My past experiences and relationships with family, friends, lovers and strangers have made me strong and taught me lots of valuable life lessons. I use my wit and creativity to interact with a world I often want to hide away from. I am an introvert with a desire to meet new and interesting people. I have MAJOR trust issues, so if I allow you to enter the wall I’ve built to keep pain at bay, don’t take that lightly, because I have a supply of bricks to shut you out at a moment’s notice. I am a loyal friend, a generous lover, and my love extends to ALL of humanity. I’m often disgusted by the behavior of my fellow humans, but my understanding of the darkness that dwells in our hearts has given me a solid appreciation of monsters and how they sometimes behave better than we do. We shouldn’t fear monsters; we should fear what creates them.

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A few days ago, I had a tarot reading done by a friend who envisions me as being trapped in a circle or cycle that is preventing my next stage of growth. But she reminded me that all I need is a small crack in that circle to let the light of creativity and hope into my life. She told me to try some different ways of approaching my writing, which I’ve been struggling to do lately. She told me to remember to breathe, and take time to take deeper breaths so that my brain and body can function properly. She also reminded me that I am strong and have faced many obstacles and overcome disappointment and heartache many times. I already have the tools I need to figure out what happens next. She told me to use the following mantra and imagine myself opening up to the endless possibilities that life and the Universe have to offer:

I am a powerful creator. I manifest with ease.

I’ve been saying this to myself regularly over the last few days and I’m beginning to feel better. I’ve been trying to reconnect with my power source, and pay closer attention to how I’m feeling and why I’m feeling that way. She also reminded me that I can choose what I give power to – people, situations, objects – I can decide how to feel about whatever is happening to me. She recommended that I sit down and list my intentions, the things I want most to happen in my life and the kind of people I want to attract and spend my valuable time with this year and for years to come.

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I haven’t started writing that list, but I’ve been thinking about it. I’m going to spend some more time drafting and editing that list over the next few weeks and months. This is a time of healing and growth for me. I know I need to schedule time alone and do the things that comfort me and make me happy. I need to give some serious thought to how people make me feel. If they are a constant source of stress or anxiety, and take more than they give, they can no longer be part of my life. I’m cleaning house – my heart, my mind, my body, my soul.

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While those early experiences, and other horrible experiences I don’t feel like mentioning right now, had a hand in shaping the person I have become, I am choosing to move forward. I want to leave as much of that negative bullshit behind me as I can. It has no place in my future. I don’t want to be a prisoner of my past. I have too many important things to do with my life. I have stories to write. I have adventures to plan. I have new friends and lovers to meet. And right now, I want to channel my energy to healing my heart, to writing and publishing, and finding a career that matches my passion and doesn’t simply pay the bills. I want to be open to receiving the love I want and deserve. I want to travel and discover new stories to tell. And, I want to show myself the same amount of love I give to others. I’m going to keep believing in true love – even if my true love turns out to be me. Actually, I’m hoping my true love is Tom Hiddleston, or Michael Fassbender, or David Tennent, or Tom Ellis, or at the very least someone with a sexy accent. But honestly, I’d prefer one of the fictional characters they portray. Just kidding. Sort of.

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So, on the first day of this forty-fifth year of my life, I am ready to live the life I crave. A life I have the power to create for myself.

Fear Is the Mind-Killer: Barriers to Love

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“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” — Rumi

I stumbled across this quote attributed to Rumi this morning, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just a coincidence. Last night I had a moment of clarity while lying in bed waiting for the chorus of “what if” to quiet down. I realized that I had never given 100% of myself in any of my romantic relationships. There are pieces of myself I keep hidden, because my fear of rejection usually outweighs my desire and willingness to give someone my love. I have given some people – the anointed few – a peek behind the curtain. Most of those people know who they are, because they have bared their souls to me too. These glorious and often unholy alliances mean more to me than all the professions of love from people who have fallen out of my heart and been buried in the graveyard where I hold imaginary funerals in a dark corner of my mind. People who have hurt me beyond the point of redemption and still hoped to keep me on a shelf for emergency purposes. However, I’m not an object or a “someday” placeholder. I’m a living, breathing human being full of passion, dark humor, rage, intelligence, curiosity, fear, hope, aspirations, goals, childhood dreams, nightmarish memories, and yes, love.

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Regardless of what you may think of me, if you know me at all, I am full of love. My close friends, people who have touched me in some meaningful way, and my family will tell you that. I believe some people are able to see that the moment they meet me. I’ve actually had people tell me that I glow. And sometimes, I see it reflected back to me. But in several of my romantic relationships, people have seen that as a sign of weakness and exploited it until they broke me. The ability to love after be broken time and time again is not weakness. Each time I have fought my way back out of a deep depression to resurface as a reconstructed version of myself, I have learned to love my stitched-together parts a little bit more.

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Typically, when people have broken my heart or been so unspeakably shitty to me in a relationship I choose to end, I make a point of never speaking to them again. Of course, there are exceptions, but those relationships are still tainted in some way. When I was younger and naïve enough to believe that if you keep showing people kindness they’ll treat you the same way, I attempted to remain in the lives of my exes. And, almost 100% of the time, all that did for me was keep a wound open for continual doses of pain and grief. Yet, I am ever hopeful that someday I will be able to maintain a friendship with someone even after I have handed them my heart and they decided to keep the receipt in order to return it. Time will tell, but my ability to confront my fears is the key.

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.” ― Frank Herbert, Dune

Right now, I’m more concerned about the realization that I have never felt safe enough to give myself completely to someone. Maybe we’re not really meant to do that. Maybe the fear of losing myself, not just simply of being rejected, keeps me from opening myself up to being loved as a whole and wonderfully flawed person. Intellectually, I know that fear should never be stronger than love, but nothing is ever that simple. Like physical injuries, emotional and psychological scars teach us to fear being hurt again. Today I wrote the following words in my journal:

I want to meet someone who allows me to feel safe enough to give 100% or more.

I’m not sure that person exists, and each year I doubt it more and more. But, even if that person does exist, it’s up to me to trust them enough, to trust myself, to give them all of myself. Or at least, all that is left of me after years of being disappointed and broken. Whatever I have to give that I’m not giving to my son. My friends know and love me enough that they’re often willing to spare a little of the love I give them to share with the new people who come into my life. I try to do the same for them. I’d like to think that love is a renewable resource that we can all accept and give without end. I hope that’s true.

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Whether or not I meet someone worthy of all my love, and give them an all-access pass to my soul, I still have to work on what is preventing me from being open to that possibility. I need to gain a better understanding of my fears. Heal the wounds left by the people who weren’t worthy. Love is a fire burning inside me, and like a phoenix, I will rise from the ashes.

Ghosts of Valentine’s Days Past

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I’ve been nursing a slight case of melancholy for the last few weeks brought on by a recent heartbreak. I say mild case because I seem to be pulling myself together much faster than I did the last time I found myself in this state of mind – this state of being characterized by self-doubt and a deep sense of hopelessness. Of course, the last time I found myself here, I was not only suffering from the grief associated with the loss of a romantic relationship, but also the after effects of being manipulated by a mind-fucking, lying, narcissist. If I can survive what my therapist called “a mild case of Stockholm Syndrome,” then I can pretty much get through anything, right? Right.

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February has always been a bit of a turbulent month for me. Primarily because it is my birth month. I was born on February 14. Valentine’s Day. A day characterized by grotesque gestures of forced affection and inflated expectations of being showered with insincere overtures of love and romantic gifts like heart-shaped boxes of candy and grocery-store-bought bundles of roses.

Having your birthday land on a holiday is a pain in the ass for most people. I feel sorry for the folks who were born on Christmas who often get cheated on the gift front, but since my birthday falls on Valentine’s Day, I can only express so much sympathy.

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If I had a dollar for each time a romantic relationship ended on or near my birthday, I’d have…well…$5.00. I seem to be perpetually single on my birthday. Some years have been worse than others. Some years I wished I was single, because the relationship I was in at the time was absolutely miserable. Watching someone you used to care about scramble to impress you with gifts and acts of kindness to prove their affection for you on Valentine’s Day is like watching firemen pull charred corpses out of a burning car crash. You hate to look, but morbid curiosity gets the better of you.

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I once dated a guy, a vegetarian, who cooked me a whole duck for my birthday. Before you get all weepy and think’ “how romantic,” this guy was a vegetarian because he hated animals and refused to “eat their dead corpses.” I had two cats at the time that he barely tolerated and constantly threatened to kill. He put a lot of time and effort into preparing that meal, but each time he did something nice for me, whether it was my birthday or not, there always seemed to be an undertone of resentment. Even though he was a good gift giver, the gesture was always spoiled by his nearly psychotic need for gratitude. The duck was delicious, but his expectation for me to give him my undying appreciation made it a bit hard to swallow. You see, we dated for nearly five years. Lived together for three. And each time someone asked him when he was going to pop the question, he’d say “I do all the time, when are you going to clean the cat box.” He cracked himself up every time he said it. Yeah, he was a real keeper.

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I should have left him after the first year we were together, because in hindsight, he was a textbook abuser of the emotional and psychological variety. His specialties were back-handed compliments, comparing me to other women in his life, and making me feel like my goals were pipe-dreams. But he had no problem taking credit for all the thankless support he claimed to provide when I reached those goals time and again. Goals I reached despite his constant stream of bullshit geared toward making my self-esteem non-existent.

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What was the final straw that broke the camel’s back? Seeing him, a 41-year-old man, throw a temper tantrum because he couldn’t get his Oomp Loompa Halloween costume together fast enough. Watching a grown man cry over a Halloween costume kind of cuts off the last shred of desire for him you might be clinging to. FYI, temper tantrums are a HUGE turn off. And just for the record, so are Oompa Loompa costumes. Everyone knows Willy Wonka is the sexy one.

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Perhaps the fact that I am single most years on my birthday, or wished I was, is one of the Universe’s cruel little jokes at my expense. Or perhaps the Universe has been trying to show me a different path that doesn’t involve romantic relationships. At least, not until I am stronger, more confident, and completely in love with the person I am becoming – or perhaps always was. I was just too busy fighting against men who were trying to steal my strength to make up for a lack of their own.

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This time feels different. I’m not nearly as angry as I used to be when a romantic relationship came to an end. I don’t feel completely alone and helpless. Maybe that’s because the relationship itself was good. You would think that when a good thing comes to an end you’d be more upset about it than when a terrible thing comes to an end, but no. It’s weird, I feel more hopeful about what happens next whether I have a significant other in my life or not. I’m trying to learn that I am enough on my own. I still hope to find someone who wants to stay in my life to share and grow, and build something together. But before that can happen, and be a real thing, I know I have to be ready to welcome that person into my life. I’m getting closer to that, but I’m not quite there. I still have a lot of personal demons to confront, but rather than condemning myself for having those demons, I’m going to embrace them and try to figure out how to turn them into positive aspects of my life.

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My birthday is 11 days away. This year I want to use this time for reflection and planning. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ve been living my life on too small of a scale. There are much bigger goals I’ve had in mind since I was a child and before I allowed people to do their best to crush my dreams. I want to see more of the world. I want to reconnect with my old friends who live in other parts of the country and in Europe. I want to write more. I want to push myself to become the healthiest version of myself ever. I want to make new friends and build stronger relationships with the ones who are already close to me, the ones who are always there for me no matter what.

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And, while I’m doing these things and making more plans, I’ll continue to work through the events in my past that have left deep, shadowy scars on my psyche by seeing my therapist and writing about my life, my fears, and my dreams.

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I’m sad that I lost my lover, but I’m going to be okay. I always manage to pick myself back up and move forward. I fully expect to have days where I cry unexpectedly because the melancholy that took roost in my heart and mind when I was a child demands to be heard.

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But I’m not going to allow that melancholy to be my compass. I want my goals and aspirations to be my guides, with the hope that the successes that follow will keep leading me toward the person I want to be. The person I believe to be my true self. My happier self. My whole self.

10 Things I’ve Learned While Walking Life’s Path Alone

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Next month, (in 19 days to be exact), I will turn 45. In my mid-40’s, my identity is as malleable as it is fixed, and transformation is not only a process, but also a goal. My identity is also complex and for the first time in my adult life I am beginning to truly appreciate that complexity, because that complexity is what makes me uniquely me. 2017 is still in its infancy, but a lot has happened since the beginning of the year. Not only in the world, but in my personal life as well. As I ease into this new year – still walking this path by myself – I’ve taken some time for self-reflection rather than burdening myself with resolutions I may not be able to keep. I mean, seriously, why create additional heartache for yourself when there are plenty of opportunities for it to find you out in the world?

Pain is a symptom of transformation, and pain is a fact of life if you’re actively living it. Like it or not, pain teaches us how to become better people if we are willing to learn its lessons. I don’t claim to be an expert, but I’ve lived through my fair share of pain. And, because I am a sensitive person, a loving person, and willing to accept others into my life, sometimes things get messy. I’ve had lots of different kinds of relationships and this variety of relationships has taught me a lot about humanity and more importantly, myself.

I am a divorced, middle-aged, three-time college-educated, feminist, left-wing oriented with a heavy dose of secular humanism, single woman of color writer raising a young boy alone. These identifiers are only a small cross section of the other aspects of my life that make me who I am. People are always telling me how strong, interesting, and amazing I am, but despite all of my wonderful and complex attributes, I am still single. I continue to walk my life path alone. Am I happy about that? No. But, I’m beginning to understand that this is my life and if I don’t accept it, embrace the reality that I will most likely be walking this path alone for quite some time, I will never be happy with myself. So, in the nearly 45 years of my life, I have learned some things that I’d like to share with you, if like me, you find yourself walking your path alone.

Be kind to yourself. Self-care is important because it allows us to be healthy enough to deal with whatever is coming our way. Taking steps to maintain your best level of health enables us to not only do the daily things that are expected of us and take care of the people we love in our lives, but it also helps us build a reserve of strength in order to manage our lives better in times of crisis and loss.

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Be kind to others. Everyone experiences pain. Their pain might not be the same as your pain, but they are still learning how to navigate the unexpected disappointments and hurts that life throws our way. It isn’t necessarily your responsibility to help people get through their pain, but a kind word, a smile, or a thoughtful gesture may be all they need to get through the rest of the day, or in some cases, through the next moment. You can’t solve everyone’s problems or rescue them from whatever it is that is hurting them or blocking their progress, but you can treat them the way you wish to be treated. Kindness is free (unless you allow people to abuse it). And here’s the really confusing part that has taken me my whole life to appreciate – and I’m still working through learning this lesson – even the people who hurt you deserve kindness on some level. That’s sometimes a hard pill to swallow, and it may require a lot of bourbon to choke it down. It will definitely take time for some of us, depending on the level of hurt we’ve experienced, to even be willing to pick up that pill before putting it in our mouth.

Do not settle for less than you deserve. When you go through a break up, lose a job, or experience any kind of significant loss, your closest friends will usually tell you that you deserve better. Guess what? They’re right. Your friends, if they are true friends, should know you pretty well and have an appreciation for all that you have to offer. Sometimes they know us better than we know ourselves. They are the people who, even on your worst days, will always be there to tell you that things are going to be okay. They will hold your hand, give you a hug, pour liquor down your throat, find voodoo spells for you, and talk smack about the person or situation that hurt you. You should probably reciprocate whenever possible. Knowing what you want in life is important, but knowing your own value will help you gain a better understanding of why settling for less isn’t good enough. At least, it shouldn’t be.

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Crying is not a sign of weakness. Crying is a natural reaction to the physical and emotional pain in our lives. Healthy humans cry when they experience loss or what feels like unmanageable stress. Crying allows us to heal and is actually a sign of strength, not weakness. Regardless of what The Cure says, boys do and should cry, because crying as a reaction to pain is never gender specific.

Friends are more important than lovers. As I mentioned, I have a widely-diverse and rich network of friends who have either known me for a long time (more than 30 years) or who are still getting to know me, and vice versa. Having a lover or lovers can be wonderful, and if you’re lucky enough to find one (or more) who wants to stay in your life long term, even better. When our physical needs along with our emotional are being met, that can be a really sweet time. For most of us, those sweet times don’t last forever. When someone we have been emotionally and physically intimate with decides to end that relationship, it can sometimes feel like the world is ending. Or maybe, in some cases, we might wish that the world would end in order to avoid the pain we’re feeling. When we become not only emotionally and mentally, but also physically attached to certain people it might feel like part of us is dying when they choose a path that no longer connects to ours. If we’re really lucky and choose lovers who are emotionally stable and genuinely caring people, we may be able to maintain a different kind of relationship with them given enough time to heal and process our hurt emotions. In my experience, friendships have always lasted longer than love affairs or long-term romantic relationships. I mean, duh, I’m still single, right? But, many of my friendships have stood the test of time, some lasting through childhood into adulthood. I am a healthier person because of those relationships. And knowing my friends as well as I think I do, many of them would tell you that being a close friend of mine is a good thing. They love me, flaws and all. And, I feel the same way about them. Lovers come and go, but my close friends are usually around long enough to be considered family.

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People who are meant to be in your life will stay. I’m not just talking about lovers and significant others here. Lots of people will come and go in your life. Family, friends, lovers, acquaintances, and a whole host of other major and minor personal interactions that make up the map of relationships in your life. I am fortunate enough to be blessed with many friends. I am proud to say that I have been able to maintain and nurture some of my friendships, regardless of distance and life situations, for more than 30 years. My marriage didn’t last 30 years. It barely lasted 4. My husband was not my friend. I never should have married him. Fear and unmet desires forced me into that situation, and it took me a long time to dig my way out. Sometimes though, no matter how much we care about a person, the best thing they can do for us is to walk away.

Maintaining friendships with past lovers or boyfriends is rare for me. It happens sometimes, but typically it has taken me years to regain the trust that was lost when those relationships ended. The few people who fit into that category who are still choosing to be in my life, even at a distance through social media, are probably going to stick around for the long haul. Relationships, like everything else in our lives, go through periods of transformation. Having faith in the fact that someone you care about deeply, even though they have hurt you in some way, can still be welcomed into your life not only says something about your willingness to forgive, but also that they are worth the effort. Sometimes that transformation will take time and effort on behalf of both parties to make it work. But, if you both care enough, value, and respect each other, it should work out. Patience and understanding are key ingredients, as well as the ability to give people the space they need to shift from one role to another in your life.

You are a whole person without a life partner or significant other. I’m not going to lie; this is something I still struggle with on an almost daily basis. As a single parent who receives zero support from my ex-husband to raise our child, all responsibility to raise my child rests on my shoulders. For those of you who are in the same situation and do not have the benefit of co-parenting/shared custody, you know how hard this can be some days. It can get seriously fucking lonely. Raising a child with two adults in the house is difficult enough, especially if the responsibility isn’t shared equally. Many women and men find themselves in a situation where they may be the only responsible adult in the house. Sometimes, it is better to take on the responsibility of child-rearing alone than be stuck in a relationship with someone who prevents your growth, or worse, your child’s. Yes, it is hard. Miserable even. But, with the right amount of support (sometimes support is simply kind words from friends and strangers) you can do it. Having a partner doesn’t make you a better person. Surviving and thriving without one makes you stronger, albeit a little crazier in the process.

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Time does not heal all wounds. There’s an old saying about time healing all wounds. Bullshit. The wounds that cause emotional and psychological damage usually stay with us forever. The pain will lessen with time, but the wounds never quite heal. Recent research into psychological trauma has shown that in some cases, the trauma experienced by our relatives is passed to us genetically. Studies of Holocaust survivors and their offspring, as well as the ancestors of slaves in America have shown that extreme trauma can be passed down through DNA. Some physiological and psychological scars go as deep as the molecular level, and these painful experiences get coded into our DNA. So, if it feels like it’s taking you a long time to get over something painful in your life, take the time you need, because sometimes pain lasts through multiple lifetimes.

Believe in your ability to heal. Even though we now know that we not only carry the wounds we incur within our own lives, but also carry the pain of our ancestors in our blood, we still have the power to heal. Given time and the right tools, we can still go through painful experiences and come out on the other side with a new sense of who we are and what we can do. Friends, family, therapists, hippie herbalists, voodoo priestesses, and bartenders can help you through the rough times, but ultimately you must be the one to heal yourself. And, if you’re willing to face the pain head on and do the work to heal yourself, you will be stronger for it.

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Be willing to admit that the path you are walking may not be the right one. Change, while scary and often painful, can be good for us. Change allows us to grow and evolve into the people we are meant to be. I truly believe that. In fact, in my opinion, when our lives remain on the same path for too long without change, we become stagnant. Change is not always a negative thing. Change opens new doorways to opportunity and experience. Don’t be afraid to take risks and go on a few adventures. And, be willing to leave behind the things that are preventing your growth.

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Transformation: My First Tattoo

This weekend I got my first tattoo. This was no impulse body-modification trip to the tattoo shop after too many drinks. I made plans ahead of time with my friend, Dan, to go get tattoos together. Not only did we schedule our sessions a few weeks in advance, but we were both getting tattoos we had contemplated for nearly two decades.

Like myself, Dan is experiencing a time of growth and transition. I won’t go into the details of Dan’s journey, because it isn’t my place to do so. But I will say that his current path has allowed me to gain a treasured friend who is a constant source of strength and inspiration. He insists on showing me a good time when we’re together, and in many ways has gently nudged me to become an even better version of myself. This includes transforming my body through exercise, healthier eating, and now ink.

Dan lives in Pittsburgh, and had gotten his first tattoo from the same artist at Armature Tattoo Co.. First of all, it’s a beautiful shop with lots of interesting artwork on the walls (there’s a mixed media portrait of H. H. Holmes) and on the skin of the four tattoo artists – two men and two women. The shop is well lit, clean, and full of positive energy. I felt comfortable and welcome right away.

Originally, Dan was supposed to get tattooed on Friday night and I was supposed to get tattooed on Saturday night. But when we arrived, the tattoo artist, Jessi, talked to Dan about the fact that his tattoo would need a bit more time for layout and she wanted to suggest some changes to the original design. That meant I was going first. In hindsight, I’m glad things worked out that way, because I didn’t have time to build up any extra fears about getting tattooed. For years, people have been trying to explain what it feels like, but the only way you’re ever going to know is to get one yourself.

Did it hurt? Well, sure. But nothing like I anticipated. I’ve heard people compare getting tattooed to giving birth. Of course, these people have been men who have zero fucking clue what it feels like to have a period, much less the pain associated with labor. I don’t know what that feels like either, because I had a C-section when my son was born. However, I do know what an epidural feels like and the tattoo needle is nowhere near as large a gauge as an epidural needle that gets inserted into the base of your spine.

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To be honest, it was less painful than some of the dental work I’ve had done, and I chose a fleshy part of my body for my first tattoo. There’s quite a bit of blackwork, which was more painful than the line work, but in the hands of a skilled tattoo artist who also has a knack for interesting conversation, the experience was actually pleasant. What really surprised me was the fact that there were certain areas of my skin that felt pleasure in the midst of the pain. My emotional response wavered between joy and catharsis. And, even though the pain wasn’t overly taxing and my session only lasted about 45 minutes, I felt slightly fatigued. I wondered if it was a chemical reaction to continuous pain, regardless of how low-level it was. I mean, was adrenaline being released into my bloodstream in small doses? According to an article on tophealthnews.net, “This Is What Happens To Your Body When You Get A Tattoo!,” I was:

When needles penetrate your body, this is a form of trauma and your body responds in kind. Your Sympathetic Nervous System kicks your fight-or-flight response into gear in response to the pain. The result is a rush of adrenaline.

And, that weird emotional feeling I experienced was probably caused by the release of endorphins.

Endorphins, your body’s natural pain relievers, are also released. These chemicals come directly from the brain, flooding your body. When those endorphins are released, it’s a heady feeling that is sort of intense yet relaxing at the same time.

While fascinating, I wanted to talk less about the science of body chemistry in relation to getting tattooed, and more about why I decided to do it at this point in my life. And, why I chose the image that now decorates my skin.

Like I said, I am not Dan’s publicist, so if you want to know the story behind his tattoo(s), you’ll have to ask him. But, I can show you his before and after pictures from Saturday evening.

You’re probably thinking, “That’s a big fucking tattoo.” And, you’d be right. This first stage of Dan’s tattoo, an artistic spin on Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, took just over 3 hours, and two snacks from the coffee shop up the street, to complete. He has at least one more session to add details to this back piece, but possibly more sessions depending on how detailed he wants the final version to be.

During his 3-hour session, we made jokes about Francis Dolarhyde, the fictional serial killer from Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon, since the character has an enormous back piece taken from William Blake’s The Great Red Dragon Paintings. We debated about watching Red Dragon, but settled for the first few episodes of season 1 of “Hannibal”.

So, now that you’re super impressed, and potentially creeped out about Dan’s tattoo, let’s talk about mine.

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I first saw the image in a book of essays that deconstruct the various versions of the Little Red Riding Hood fairy tale, aptly titled The Trials and Tribulations of Little Red Riding Hood, edited by Jack Zipes. The book is dedicated to the late Angela Carter, one of my writing heroes who happened to write one of my favorite stories about werewolves, “The Company of Wolves.” If you haven’t read it, I strongly suggest that you do. She is famous for her versions of fairy tales, rewritten with an adult audience in mind. If you’re looking for something new to read, and think you might enjoy some erotic literary fairy tales, I’d suggest stopping by your local library and picking up a copy of her collection of short stories, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories.

I found Zipes’ book in the library at Hull University. I was studying abroad through an exchange program during my junior year of college, and lived in Hull, England for a year. While I was there, I started becoming more interested in myths, legends, fairy tales and folktales. About the same time I found Zipes book, I also was introduced to The Morphology of the Folktale, by V. Propp. The next thing I knew I was writing all these papers about rape narratives, and cannibalism, and other sexual taboos in fairy tales. That was nearly 25 years ago.

In that time, the meaning of the image has changed for me. When I first saw the drawing in Zipes’ book, I simply saw a woman being held by a werewolf. Sexy, right? I mean, vampires have their sex appeal, but there’s something deliciously primal about werewolves. Not only is the woman being embraced, rather than ravished in the image, but she appears to be happy about it. In fact, it looked as if she had found peace in his arms.

The original artwork was done by Catherine Orenstein (1990), who later wrote Little Red Riding Hood Uncloaked: Sex, Morality, and the Evolution of a Fairy Tale. If you’ve ever read any of my other blog posts, you know that I have a special place in my heart for monsters. In fact, monsters can be extremely sexy. Werewolves embody the aspect of the psyche where our signals sometimes get crossed — fighting, fucking and eating all seem to serve the same purpose in the mind of the werewolf — pleasure-seeking at any cost. And the cost may be your life. But in Orenstein’s image, there’s something different happening. The woman isn’t just being held by the werewolf, she’s accepting it in all of its monstrous glory. If she is in fact accepting the werewolf, that also looks a lot like a shadow or darkness itself, brings to mind the idea of making peace with the darker parts of ourselves. Making peace with our demons.

This isn’t my first attempt at transformation in my life. I’ve been trying to reshape myself since I was 12 years old. Weight gain, loss, and regain has been a constant pattern in my life. A few years ago after I gave birth to my son, I lost 70 pounds on Weight Watchers. During one of my meetings I described myself as having a beast that lives inside me that wants to eat all the time. And, sometimes it gets out and loses control. Not unlike a werewolf. It was at this point that I searched for Orenstein’s drawing, because it had a new meaning. I considered getting it tattooed on my body then, but for some reason never went through with it. That was almost ten years ago.

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Back in April I rejoined WW, and since then I have lost 30 pounds. I’m proud of myself for doing that. And, I have made a commitment to myself to continue my journey. I am learning to accept myself — fat, wrinkles, white hair, and all. And, I am relearning what my body is capable of doing. I started running using the C25K app on my phone. I forgive myself when the scale goes in the opposite direction and shows a gain rather than a loss. I am not perfect. I never will be. And, I’m beginning to understand why that’s so fucking amazing. I love my demons. I embrace them. Make peace with them. And by doing so, I am learning to love myself. Now, when I look at the drawing, I see a woman accepting herself. And now is a perfect time for my skin, the skin I am becoming more comfortable in each day, to tell that story. This tattoo is a reminder of my strength. The progress I’ve made. And the journey yet to come. Of course, there will be days when I still do battle with my darkness, but now I’m going to own it and show it some love.

Self-Reflection: 2016’s Shit Show

Remember how last week I was all like “I’m gonna blog every day in December and bullshit, bullshit, bullshit…”? Well, it is December 9 and I haven’t written a new post since last week. To be honest, I feel a bit hung-over. Not only do I feel like a zombie as I slog through my day job, maintain my household as a single parent, recover from NaNoWriMo, and gear up for the holidays, but 2016 has been a confusing and soul-sucking year so far. Over the past few years, I have had some monumentally shitty things happen to me, but in the grand scale, I feel like I’m on par with most people. Shitty things happen to people all the time. I don’t think I’m any worse off than others, and I certainly don’t view myself as a special snowflake that deserves extra attention or sympathy. At the end of 2014 and 2015, I invited both years to fuck off to make way for the coming year. I feel like I owe 2014 and 2015 a heart-felt apology, because despite all the improvements I experienced in my personal life – better health habits, better self-care, more creative projects completed, and better friendships cultivated – 2016 was a colossal shit show. Or, the year that was a dumpster fire.

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At the beginning of 2016, I was doing really well. I felt better about myself and the world in general. I was feeling stronger. More confident. I decided to take better care of myself and took action to lay the groundwork to do so. I was beginning to appreciate my own company after months of grieving, perhaps ironically, the loss of a toxic relationship. And then, 2016 said, “I think you’re feeling too good about yourself. What can I do to fuck that up royally, and maintain a consistent flow of complete fuckery to keep things interesting?”

What makes 2016 a shit show? Here’s my Calendar of 2016’s Dick Moves that kept me emotionally unbalanced from beginning to end.

January – November 2016

January 10: David Bowie Dies

January 14: Severus Snape Dies

April 21: Prince Dies

June 24: Britain Votes to Leave EU

July 7: Huffington Post Reports 194 Black People Killed by Police

August 28: Willy Wonka Dies

November 7: Leonard Cohen Dies

November 8: Donald Trump Wins the 2016 US Election

November 18: Sharon Jones Dies

And here we are, almost two weeks from Christmas Eve. The holidays are quickly approaching and it’s time for some self-reflection before 2017 shows up. I’m not going to get into New Year’s resolutions just yet, but I do want to take a closer look at some of the things that did go right this year that don’t require additional grieving. Happiness is totally still a thing and within your reach.

Self-love became a priority.

After several years of feeling like I had almost no control over where my life was headed, and feeling like a prisoner in my own mind and body, I made a decision to take my life back. I had been making strides in the right direction since 2012 and 2013, but then I got sidetracked by things that weren’t good for me. Namely, a 15-month toxic relationship that made my self-esteem drop to an all-time low. After 3 months of therapy, I found the courage to walk away from that relationship in June of 2015. It took several months of slowly weaning myself away from that emotionally destructive situation, but after 21 months of therapy and a lot of personal growth, I feel like a new person. Not quite my old self, but perhaps a better version of her.

Through therapy and LOTS of self-reflection, I made some decisions to change my life for the better. One of the first things I did was disable my OKCupid and FetLife accounts. There was too much noise coming from both of those accounts, and because of the nature of the relationship I was in, I was attracting a lot of people I didn’t really want to meet. And, even if I wanted to meet them, I wasn’t in any emotionally safe state to put myself out there and open myself up to new wounds. Second, I started spending a lot of time by myself. On purpose. And then I listened to my inner voice until it started saying nice things about me. Third, I rejoined Weight Watchers for like, I don’t know, the millionth time in my life. The difference this time was that I was only doing it for me. I didn’t have a special occasion or person that I was working toward. I wanted to lost weight and become healthier to impress myself. Crazy idea, right? So, in April I joined Weight Watchers, made a commitment to attend meetings, or at least weigh-in every week, which I have, and I’ve lost 30 lbs. In the process of making better choices and evaluating my habits, I started getting up at 5:00 AM and going for walks at least 3 times a week. A few weeks back, I decided to ramp up my walking and began using the Couch to 5K program to increase my activity and try running. I’m not pushing myself or condemning myself when I can’t keep up with the program. I simply tell myself, “Hey, maybe you can’t run as far as you’d like right now, but you’re making progress and you’re out here in the dark and the cold making an effort to improve your life.” Positive self-talk actually works. Who knew?

So, aside from feeling better and losing 30 lbs., I also made a decision that I would start trusting people again. When people I didn’t know very well showed an interest in getting to know me better, rather than building a wall around myself, I opened myself up and let them in. Was it scary? Fuck yeah! Is it still scary? A lot of the time, yes. But allowing those people into my life has taught me some things or reminded me of some things I forgot about myself. Good things. And now, I have a few more really cool friends who care about what happens to me and look forward to spending time with me. Without imposing any weird or destructive expectations. They’re genuinely good people. Genuinely good people I love.

I cleaned my bedroom and clothes closet.

This may not seem like a big deal, but my bedroom had become a constant source of stress for me, because it was a dumping ground for everything that I didn’t feel like getting rid of or putting away. Between donating clothing and throwing away items that were no longer of use to me, I purged 13 garbage bags worth of burden out of my life. And, since I was steadily losing weight, I got rid of a lot of my plus-sized clothing. Last year at this time I was wearing a women’s 2XL winter coat. This year I’m wearing a women’s large. It’s not a plus-sized coat. It buttons without being tight. I’m calling that a win. I found boxes of smaller-sized clothing that I hadn’t worn since the last time I lost a lot of weight. I’m glad I kept them, because I have great taste in clothing. Jeans, sweaters, dresses, shirts, and of course, coats.

Writing became a priority (again).

This year I have written more than 250 haiku poems. Three of which were selected from publication in a new feminist literary magazine. Hopefully, I’ll have more concrete details soon. I wrote nearly 42,000 words during NaNoWriMo last month and have gotten close to completing my second full-length novel. And, I’m working on a short story for an anthology set in a RPG world. So, I’ve been keeping busy with creative projects. But, as always, I feel like I should be doing more.

My child made me a prouder parent.

My son has a full plate this year with Kung Fu, basketball, STEM club at school, and he’s learning to play the viola. His grades are great, he’s reading above his grade level, and he’s becoming an interesting individual with quirky personality traits that I love and hate simultaneously. We don’t always get along, but it’s just the two of us. As a single parent, I understand that sometimes I have to carry the burden of misplaced animosity and negative feelings that might not actually have anything to do with me. It’s just one of the many services I provide as a responsible adult.

I’m sure there are other things I could talk about, like how much fun I’ve been having lately visiting with friends and trying new things, but maybe I’ll save that for another post…that may or may not get written this month.

Okay, so maybe 2016 hasn’t been a complete shit show, but hey, it ain’t over yet.

While you’re thinking about your own year in review and planning your New Year’s resolutions while getting ready for the holidays, you can make this lovely dumpster fire ornament for your Christmas tree or Hanukah bush.

5 Things I Learned Writing a Novel During NaNoWriMo 2016

Today is the last day of November 2016. It is day 30 of National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). This year I decided to participate in NaNoWriMo with the intent of “winning” – writing 50,000 words within 30 days. SPOILER ALERT: I didn’t accomplish my writing goal. I was 8,905 words short of reaching that goal. But, I did manage to write 41,095 words in one month.

This wasn’t the first time I attempted to participate in the annual writing challenge, but this was the first time I nearly reached my goal. During the 30-day writing extravaganza, I learned a few things about myself, my writing process, and how I work under a strict deadline. I don’t know if what I learned will help you, but the lessons I gained this year will help me “win” NaNoWriMo 2017.

  1. You Have to Write Every Day. It doesn’t matter how many words you write each day, but you need to put words on the page so that you can update your word count daily. Whether you write 50 words, 1,667 words (the recommended number of words prescribed by NaNoWriMo to achieve the 50,000-word goal), or 6,000 words, you need to update your word count EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. How do I know this? Because I didn’t write every day, and I believe that is one of the main reasons why I didn’t reach my 50,000-word goal.
  2. Perfection Cannot Be Your Goal. The goal is to write 50,000 words in a month. In order to do so, you have to be willing to turn off your inner editor. Just get words on paper. It doesn’t matter how shitty those words are, because once you’re done writing them at the end of November, you’ll need to go back and edit those words. In the immortal words of Chuck Wendig, “Writing is when we make the words. Editing is when we make the words less shitty.” I’m not going to lie, I wrote my share of shitty words. In January I plan to edit and revise and write the missing pieces and edit some more.
  3. Connect with a Writing Community. Belonging to a community of writers can not only provide the support and encouragement you need to keep writing, but it can also make you a better writer. If you belong to a writing community and are lucky enough to have other writer friends participating in NaNoWriMo, you can support each other and cheer each other’s successes each day of the process. And, if you want to get competitive, you can give each other writing challenges in order to reach your daily, weekly, and eventually monthly goal. Writing is typically a solitary pursuit, but that doesn’t mean you have quarantine yourself during the month of November in order to reach your goal. Join a NaNoWriMo writing group and get the support and encouragement you need to keep going.
  4. Make Time to Write. If you don’t already have a time of day scheduled for writing, you should figure out when you are most productive and make an effort to write at the same time every day. Life can be busy. I’m a single mom who works full-time, and I also make an effort to have a satisfying social life. I’m no June Cleaver when it comes to housework, but I try to make my house clean enough to avoid a visit from Children and Youth Services. I often struggle to find time to write. My days start early and end late, and as you can imagine, there’s a lot that has to get done between 5:00 AM when my alarm goes off and 10:00 PM (if I’m lucky) when I turn off the lights and travel to Dream Land. If I am not selfish about making time for myself to write, guess what? I don’t write. And, unfortunately that happens a lot in my life. Take my advice. Be a dick if you have to, and make time for your writing.
  5. Be Kind to Yourself. Sometimes when we set big goals for ourselves, we fail. Failing after trying to reach a goal is still better than never trying in the first place. Am I disappointed that I didn’t reach my 50,000-word goal? Well, sure. But I wrote 41,095 words in a month. That’s nothing to sneeze at, and now I know that I can write more than 40,000 words in a month. In fact, now that I know why I didn’t reach my goal, I’m pretty sure I can also reach 50,000 words in a month, which I plan to do next year when I participate in NaNoWriMo 2017.

Wait, can I add this blog post to my final word count?

Fictional Characters I Would Totally Fuck: Magneto

Over the weekend I went to see X-men: Apocalypse. I enjoyed the movie. In fact, as I usually do when watching Marvel movies, I experienced some catharsis. Marvel’s heroes and villains have always had a powerful effect on my psyche, and more often than not, when I see a movie featuring these amazing characters I cry. Laugh if you need to, but Marvel characters tend to experience some heavy-duty tragedy in their fictional lives, which makes them interesting, believable, and deserving of our empathy. Like regular old people such as you and me, they react to this tragedy in a multitude of ways. Some of them channel those negative feelings into helping others, while some take their pain and channel it into seeking revenge.

I don’t condone the choice to take revenge for the pain and suffering that people (fictitious or real) have experienced in their lives, but that doesn’t mean I don’t understand the desire to do so. Revenge always seems like it’s going to be satisfying and it tempts us into believing that making our enemies pay for the hurt they’ve caused will somehow heal us. Unfortunately, for most people, revenge only causes more pain and turns people into the villains they hate so much.

A Heartbreaking Villain: Magneto

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Erik Lehnsherr is a tragic character. His story line is riddled with black moments. Born Jewish in Germany, he survived the Holocaust, but his family didn’t. In the comics, we are told that he not only survived, but also was later made to work in the death camp at Auschwitz to remove the dead bodies of his fellow Jews who were murdered in the gas chambers. The Nazis persecuted him for being a Jew, and then because of his mutant ability, he was hunted and threatened by people who feared him, which put other people he loved in danger. His daughter Anya died at the hands of an angry mob after people witnessed his mutant power. His wife, pregnant with twins, left him because she was devastated by the loss of their daughter and frightened by his power. To say that Erik is emotionally damaged by the terrible things that happened to him and his loved ones would be an understatement.

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When I was first introduced to Magneto as a kid, I didn’t understand why he was viewed as a villain. In fact, Stan Lee has been quoted to say that he never intended for Magneto to be seen as a villain. Inspired by the leaders of the Civil Rights movement, he envisioned Magneto as the Malcolm X to Professor X’s Martin Luther King Jr. – two men fighting for the same cause, but with different ideologies. Each man wishes to protect mutants from persecution and violence, but Magneto prefers to be proactive and confront the enemies of mutantkind BEFORE they can hurt his brothers and sisters. Charles Xavier has chosen to walk a more peaceful path, and never gives up hope that mutants and humans can live peacefully together. However, he also understands that the path he’s chosen is dangerous and trains his students so that they are ready to fight when the war against mutants ends up on their doorstep. He’s hopeful, but not an idiot.

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Our tax dollars at work.

The common struggle that initially unites these two men is compromised by their opposing views on how to deal with the threat of humanity. Magneto has witnessed the evil of humankind time and time again. His trust for humans will only extend so far, because he is always waiting for them to disappoint him. If we were to diagnose Erik with a psychological disorder, I think it would be safe to say that he suffers from PTSD after the atrocities he witnessed in Nazi Germany, which has contributed to his trust issues and difficulty maintaining relationships, romantic or otherwise. Intimacy can be a real challenge when you ultimately trust no one.

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They need more on-screen smooch time.

Because, even the people Erik has loved and attempted to trust have either abandoned him, or given him a reason to turn on them. Or his paranoia leads him to betray them before they can betray him. His agenda, to punish those who threaten him and his mutant brethren, has destroyed more relationships than healed them. His pursuit of revenge alienates him from friends and family, potentially making him one of the loneliest villains in the Marvel universe.

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What? That there should be scenes of both of you naked? That’s totally what I was thinking.

There’s a lot of ground to cover with Magneto seeing as how he appeared in the first X-men comic in 1963. Since there’s so much material to pull from, I’m going to cheat a little and only focus on the films that he’s appeared in. Yes, I’m fully aware that these films deviate from the original storylines that appeared in the comics, but since amazing actors have portrayed him on screen, I’m going to focus on them for the purposes of this blog post. I’m sticking to the films mainly because while Magneto has always been an inspiring character in print, it’s Michael Fassbender’s portrayal of him that stirs my heart (and loins) the most.

Magneto, played by Ian McKellen, first appeared on film in X-men (2000). McKellen did an amazing job of conveying the complexity of the character, as well as his cleverness, his power, his skills at manipulation, and his single-minded determination to stop all threats to mutant life. No matter what. McKellen reprised the role several times, including his appearance in X-men: Days of Future Past in which he plays the older Magneto and Michael Fassbender the younger Magneto.

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The sassier side of Magneto.

When we were given an in-depth peek into Magneto’s origin story in X-men: First Class (2011), Michael Fassbender had the unique opportunity to convey the raw emotional turmoil and rage-inspired violence that labeled this misunderstood character a villain. Not to mention the fact that he also brought Magneto to a level of sexiness that pairs well with James McAvoy’s equally sexy Charles Xavier. Maybe it’s the costuming from the 1960’s that reminded me of some of my favorite spies played by gorgeous British actors, or maybe it’s just the fact that Michael Fassbender is simply one of the sexiest men alive. At any rate, I have no complaints about the casting.

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Speaking of fantastic casting choices, when I saw X-men: Days of Future Past, my head nearly exploded when Evan Peters took on the role of Quicksilver, Magneto’s son. He was amazing, and his scenes were by far some of my favorites in both Days of Future Past and Apocalypse. Evan Peters stole my heart in the American Horror Story series, and he’s definitely on that list of actors who portray monsters in such a way to make me lust after them. I’m not one of those women who considers marrying serial killers on death row, but I do fantasize about fictional characters who commit similar acts of horror.

I think anyone would find it difficult to argue against Magneto’s complexity, or the fact that he is a damaged soul. And, even though he makes a lot of terrible decisions, I often find myself cheering him on. Humans do terrible things to each other, but those horrific acts become even worse when targeted at people who don’t look like them or share their cultural beliefs. You’d have to be an idiot not to grasp that the battle between humans and mutants is an allegory for racism. The fact that Erik is a Jew who survived the Holocaust allows me to overlook some of his methods for dealing with his enemies.

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In fact, I applauded his mission to track down and kill former Nazis who associated with the man who exploited his power and turned him into a monster. However, his belief that mutants are superior to humans sounds an awful lot like the ideology of the Nazis. That’s not a coincidence. Ironic, yes. Coincidence, no. It’s one of the personality quirks that make him such an interesting character. His psyche was so damaged by his tormentors that he uses their ideas and methods to smite his enemies.

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A friend of mine who also saw X-men: Apocalypse over the weekend was unable to accept Magneto’s actions in the film as redeemable. He’s right. A lot of people died because of his choices and the actions of the people he teamed up with to essentially destroy the world. Again, we were reminded that his pain and rage are his two biggest motivators. Does that excuse his actions? No. Do I still feel a kinship with him because of his pain and because he’s one of my favorite fictional characters? Of course I do. Is it true that each time I see Michael Fassbender in that role I want to help Magneto heal his pain any way I possibly can? Absolutely.

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Seriously. Look at this guy. You know you want to hug him. Kiss him. Handcuff him to a bed frame. Whatever it takes to distract him from making any more mistakes.

I’m not going to lie. A character with a backstory like his in the hands of a gorgeous actor like Fassbender is going to win my heart every single time. He is powerful, emotionally damaged, fighting for a cause I can get behind, and smoking hot. And he fucks up constantly and continually drives a wedge between himself and the people who care about him the most. In his efforts to protect mutants, he ultimately destroys all hope of uniting them on a common front. He becomes worse than the enemy he’s fighting. And, my heart breaks for him. There isn’t enough love in this world to heal Magneto, because he refuses to be healed. He isn’t redeemable because he doesn’t wish to be redeemed.

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Let Magneto’s major flaw be a lesson for us all. You can’t heal your own pain by causing pain in others. But, that doesn’t make him any less deserving of our empathy and love. Magneto will always have a special place in my heart, in that dark corner I reserve for the justifiable villains, antiheroes and monsters. Always.

Fictional Characters I Would Totally Fuck: Lawrence Talbot

Human behavior is often weird and scary. And, unless real monsters actually walked the Earth in days of old, all monster myths are most likely inspired by some truly terrifying things people did to their fellow humans. Rape, torture, murder, cannibalism and trophy collecting are not just products of the imaginations of horror writers. People have been brutally killing each other since the dawn of time. Violence is part of the natural world, no matter what the new age hippies try to tell you. Humans are animals, and no matter how many civilizations we erect, how many Starbucks we build, or how many PTA meetings we attend, the truth is humans are the scariest things on the planet. Humans like to kill things and each other, and whenever possible, they like to blame these icky feelings on someone else. Scapegoating is a national pastime in many cultures around the globe and it has been that way since before the Romans started nailing Christians to crosses.

On October 31, 1589, Peter Stumpp, the Werewolf of Bedburg, was executed for killing and cannibalizing 18 people. Stumpp’s trial and execution is one the most famous cases of reported lycanthropy in European history, and it has fed the imaginations of writers ever since. Werewolf trials occurred simultaneously with witch trials, but the sheer volume of executed witches places these atrocities at the forefront of our dark past, and often overshadows the werewolf hunts that also took place in Europe and colonial America. Peter Stumpp was caught, sentenced to death, brutally tortured and executed after he confessed to killing 14 children, two pregnant women and their fetuses, which he later described as “dainty morsels.”

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He admitted to killing and eating parts of his victims, but claimed that he only did these terrible things while wearing a magical belt given to him by the Devil. When he wore the cursed object he transformed into a wolf-like creature with sharp teeth and super-human strength. When he removed the belt he would revert to his normal human form. This type of werewolf, one changed through the use of a magical belt, is called a Boxenwolf, and doesn’t require the bite of another werewolf to achieve transformation, but it does require a pact with the Devil.

Stumpp was a cannibal and claiming to be a werewolf may have made it easier for him to deal with his own insanity. Blaming the Devil makes it easier to sleep at night I suppose. Stumpp also had sex with his daughter and a female cousin, and claimed that he had sexual relations with a succubus, which was another gift from the Devil. Is it just me, or was Peter Stumpp batshit crazy?

Clinical lycanthropy is a rare form of mental illness in which the patient believes himself to be transforming into something animal-like, and is classified as a form of schizophrenia due to how it manifests, with the first criteria being delusions.

I have a special place in my heart for the mentally ill. My father was a therapist, but before he earned his master’s degree in counseling, he started at the bottom of the crazy ladder by “driving the van of retards” (his words…and my mother’s), then he lived in a group home, then he worked nights at the hospital doing crisis intervention, and then he worked on the psych ward, and then he became a licensed therapist with a specialty in hypnotherapy. No shit. My dad was a hypnotherapist. Guess who was one of his early test subjects. Yep, me. In grade school. I was a great test subject, because I suffered from night terrors, and he used hypnosis and basic relaxation techniques/meditation to help me fall asleep at night. My nightmares were so bad that I was afraid to go to sleep, and had panic attacks when confronted with bedtime.

Because I was taught to respect as opposed to fear mental illness, and view it as a medical condition that can be treated with medication and/or therapies, I gained an appreciation and a simultaneous fascination with madness. I grew up in a small town where everyone knows everyone’s business. And, the town crazies, at least the ones with a diagnosis, were very familiar to me because of what my dad did for a living. They liked my dad, so they would talk to him when they saw him in public. They liked me too. Sometimes a little too much.

When I was about 13 or 14, a man who I knew to be a schizophrenic, and who preferred to medicate himself with booze as opposed to taking his prescribed medication, followed me home from school one day. I’m not sure what his plans were, but he would always try to engage me in conversation when we would see him around town. I liked him. And, I had done some reading about schizophrenia in the school library and knew it was something he couldn’t control. Like I said, I have a special place in my heart for the mentally ill. Anyway, once I was safely inside the house with all the doors locked, I called my dad. He called the police, but made sure to get there before they did. While I watched from inside, my dad tried to talk to the man and explained the situation to the police. He never followed me home again.

Although I was genuinely afraid that afternoon while that man stood outside the house pacing back and forth, as if arguing with himself about what to do next, there was a part of me that still felt compassion for him. His illness had taken control. An illness without a cure. Would he have hurt me? I don’t know. I’m also glad I had the sense not to find out.

Sigmund Freud, the father of psychoanalysis, theorized the existence of libido, “an energy with which mental processes and structures are invested and which generates erotic attachments, and a death drive, the source of repetition, hate, aggression and neurotic guilt.” Lawrence Talbot is Freud’s wet dream. A truly tragic character, he is a textbook example of how repressed memories and emotional abandonment in childhood can lead to mental instability that manifests itself in inappropriate behaviors in adulthood.

What could be more inappropriate than allowing your rage to transform your id into a monster that rampages through the countryside (and London) ripping, tearing, murdering, and eating everyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in your path? If you had the ability to control this transformation and continued to kill people, that would make you a true monster. But, if like Lawrence Talbot, you were cursed with this terrible illness and not only despised your own actions, but sought to put an end to the curse, would you still be considered a monster? Not in my opinion, but I’ve been called crazy a few times, too.

Crazy is the New Black: The Wolfman

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There are several versions of Lawrence Talbot’s story. The first time I encountered Lawrence (Larry) was in the 1941 Universal film, The Wolf Man starring Lon Chaney Jr. I loved this movie when I was a kid. A Gypsy curse, fortune telling, lycanthropy, Claude Rains, Bela Lugosi, pentagrams, and a werewolf transformation involving nothing but makeup and lap-dissolves. What’s not to love? I mean, seriously this film set the standard for 20th century werewolf tales and inspired writers, filmmakers, and TV producers to take the legends of old and turn them into the iconic monsters we love so much.

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Modern audiences would most likely find this version kind of cheesy and not very scary. To be honest, I enjoy watching The Wolf Man now because of its canonical importance, nostalgic value, and the fact that it makes me laugh hysterically. Besides, CLAUDE RAINS and BELA LUGOSI. We’re talking Universal monster movie gold here.

Here’s the basic premise (I stole from IMDb):

When his brother dies, Larry Talbot (Lon Chaney Jr.) returns to Wales and reconciles with his father (Claude Rains). While there, he visits an antique shop and, hoping to impress Gwen (Evelyn Ankers), the attractive shopkeeper, buys a silver walking cane. That same night he kills a wolf with it, only to later learn that he actually killed a man (Bela Lugosi). A gypsy (Maria Ouspenskaya) explains that it was her son, a werewolf, that he killed, and that Larry is now one himself.

While we feel sorry for Larry for finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time…although the fortune teller might say otherwise, Lon Chaney Jr.’s Talbot doesn’t inspire a whole lot of empathy. I mean, sure I feel bad for the guy, but the level of tragedy he experiences pales in comparison to the 2010 Universal film, The Wolfman, starring Benicio Del Toro.

Here’s another basic premise (I stole from IMDb):

Though absent from his ancestral home of Blackmoor for many years, aristocrat Lawrence Talbot (Benicio Del Toro) returns to find his missing brother at the request of the latter’s fiancee, Gwen (Emily Blunt). He learns that a creature has links to an ancient curse turning people into werewolves when the moon is full. To save the village and protect Gwen, he must slay the bloodthirsty beast, but he contends with a horrifying family legacy.

Sounds a bit more compelling, doesn’t it?

In this version, which takes place near the tail end of the Victorian Era (post Jack the Ripper), Lawrence Talbot is a celebrated actor who has lived in America since childhood. When we first meet Lawrence he is performing Hamlet on the stage, which we later find is part of a London tour, conveniently placing him near his ancestral home, Talbot Hall in Blackmoor, Northumberland.

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Why do I never see men who look like this when I ride the train?

After receiving an unexpected visit from his brother Ben’s fiancée, Gwen Conliffe, he returns home. Lawrence learns of Ben’s disappearance soon after he goes missing, but by the time he makes the train ride from London to Blackmoor, his brother’s corpse has been found in a ditch near Talbot Hall. He arrives too late to save his brother, and memories of his dark past are stirred up when he must face his father for the first time since childhood.

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Victorian werewolves are un-fucking-believably cool.

Like most people confronted with the mysterious and violent death of a loved one, Lawrence wants answers. But that’s not all he seeks. He is also desperate for the love and acceptance of his father, an emotionally crippled man full of dark secrets and brimming with alpha male testosterone. Lawrence never fully recovered from his mother’s death. When he meets Gwen, who not only looks remarkably like his mother, but also seems to embody many of her rare feminine qualities, he finds himself almost immediately attracted to her. Ben and Lawrence are emotionally and sexually attracted to a woman who reminds them of their mother. While Lawrence has repressed the exact details of his mother’s death, he still blames his father and hates him for sending him away at the age of nine.

Poor young Lawrence witnessed something so terrible that he had a mental collapse. He was sent to an asylum, presumably after he recounted what he saw the night his mother died. Due to the fantastic nature of his story, he was believed to be insane and treated as such until he accepted the story that was fed to him over and over: His mother committed suicide. She did not die at the hands of his father, who killed her because he is a monster. Once Lawrence was “healed,” he was shipped off to live with his aunt in America. Much like our dear friend Oedipus, Lawrence desires to be back in the arms of his loving mother and wishes his father were dead in her place.

Soon after Lawrence arrives in Blackmoor, he begins his investigation into his brother’s death. Against his father’s wishes, he examines the body, which is so terribly ravaged that…well, it’s worth watching the film just to see the look on Benicio Del Toro’s face. It’s one of those moments in horror where you know something really awful has happened, but instead of reacting the same way the character does, your brain interprets the horror as something inappropriately comical and despite how gruesome the situation might be, you laugh out loud.

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Get ready to laugh in 3…2…1.

After the shock of seeing his brother’s mangled corpse, Lawrence seeks refreshment in the local pub, which immediately made me think of The Slaughtered Lamb in An American Werewolf in London (1981).

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That’s Rik Mayall in the turtleneck if you never noticed before.

Apparently, pubs in the UK are a great place to learn about werewolf lore. And the locals will most likely interpret your lack of knowledge as a sign that you’re going to be the werewolf’s next victim.

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Maybe it’s just my hormonal pre-teen self talking, but David Naughton was a totally fuckable werewolf, and he was the first werewolf I ever lusted after.

Despite the intentional humor of American Werewolf, there are still some pretty chilling scenes that bore deep into my subconscious mind, where fear and sexuality meet up in some very weird ways.

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I had a lot of dreams about this monster. Not all of them were scary.

ANYWAY. Lawrence hears the local bumpkins talking about werewolves, their hatred of Gypsies, distrust of Sir John Talbot, and their belief that Lawrence’s mother was not only a Gypsy, but a whore to boot. You know, pointing fingers and making wild accusations. Scapegoating. But, in this case, they aren’t too far off the mark. Except for their beliefs about Gypsies. Oh and, the rumor about the late Mrs. Talbot having questionable morals. Because, as everyone knows all of Victorian (and our current) societal problems can be directly linked back to foreigners (and anyone who isn’t White) and overt female sexuality.

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Nothing upsets these dudes more than Blacks and vaginas.

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And, apparently the same things upset these dudes.

Truly, nothing warms the heart or makes you feel more at home than when you overhear some local jackass talking shit about your dead mother as you mentally prepare for your brother’s funeral.

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Remember that moment when you first realized that Victorian funerary garb is totally a fetish? No? Me neither.

After the funeral, and again, against his father’s explicit instructions to stay in the house, Lawrence continues his investigation into Ben’s death by visiting the nearby Gypsy camp. Shortly after he arrives at the camp, so do some of the local bullies. They threaten the Gypsies and blame Ben’s horrific death on an elderly trained bear. Lawrence isn’t an idiot. He doesn’t think the bear hurt anyone, but he’s sure that something is up and the Gypsies might have some insight. As he begins questioning people in the camp, some major carnage happens. Did I mention there’s a full moon?

Unlike the men from the village, Lawrence grabs a weapon, protects women and children, and chases whatever has been slashing its way through the camp with a shotgun. He’s a pretty good shot, but the creature is too fast. He stalks the beast to a misty stone circle where he quickly loses his bearings due a complete lack of visibility. This is a really intense scene that keeps you on the edge of your seat. You feel Lawrence’s fear and adrenaline mounting as he tries to find the creature he’s been chasing. When the beast attacks Lawrence, you anticipate it with your nerve endings, but you don’t see it coming until it’s too late. Just like Lawrence.

Almost mortally wounded, Lawrence receives battlefield surgery Gypsy style in a scene that always sends chills through me. Watching someone getting stitches is one thing, but watching them get stitches in a bacteria-ridden Gypsy vardo with a hooked needle to essentially reattach their head to their neck and shoulder takes you to completely new levels of body horror, Mysophobia, and trypanophobia. Realistically, even if he survived the injury, the ensuing infection would have probably killed him. But that wouldn’t be a very satisfying end to this story, would it?

Lawrence not only survives the attack, but over the course of a month he has a complete recovery that raises some questions for his doctor and an Inspector from Scotland Yard, Aberline, who comes to Blackmoor from London to follow up on Ben’s murder. Aberline is aware that Lawrence spent time in an asylum as a child and insinuates that his ability to portray so many characters on the stage may stem from a deep-seated mental illness like schizophrenia or multiple personality disorder. Without coming right out and saying it, he suggests that Lawrence may have had a hand in the carnage at the Gypsy encampment. Again, Lawrence is no dummy. He knows what Aberline is getting at and asks him to leave.

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Hugo Weaving in a psychological pissing contest with Benicio Del Toro? Is it getting hot in here?

After Lawrence’s miraculous recovery, he and Gwen get to know each other a little better.

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Fig. 1 – Victorian Flirting 101: Devise clever excuses to press your body against a lady’s.

So, I mentioned that the doctor is a little more than concerned about the fact that Lawrence not only healed quicker than medical science could explain, but also, he doesn’t seem to have any scarring, disfigurement, or signs of an injury that should have permanently crippled if not killed him. Those darn Supernatural Forces laugh in the face of Science. Which apparently, the villagers don’t find funny. They show up to a) prove that he is a werewolf, and b) kill him once they have their proof.

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Fucking nosy neighbors.

When the lynch mob shows up outside Talbot Hall demanding blood, Sir John Talbot comes to his son’s rescue and threatens to kill anyone who trespasses on their land again. Before Sir John comes outside, the villagers grab Lawrence (it takes three to subdue him), and in the struggle he sustains a minor injury. A cut on the lip that sends Gwen into nurture mode.

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Fig. 2 – Victorian Flirting 101: When seeking a man’s affection, dab blood from his sensually open mouth with a pristine, white handkerchief to metaphorically suggest that you’d like him to violently shove the candles off that table and deflower you in the most face-flushing, bodice-ripping way he knows how.

Clearly, there is mounting sexual tension between these two characters. But, since there is a lot of taboo wrapped up in their feelings, and this story is set in Victorian England, they dance around each other as if they are made of glass. Psychologically, that may not be far from the truth. Especially for Lawrence. His brother’s death has forced him to return to his childhood home that he has avoided his entire adult life. His chosen profession is as an actor, a career in which he literally pretends to be someone he is not. The ghosts of his past still haunt Talbot Hall. He’s attracted to Gwen, but he must be experiencing some level of guilt for having lustful thoughts about his brother’s fiancee. And, he is aware of the physical changes in his body. He is freaked out about the fact that all signs of his injury are gone. When Gwen administers first aid and they are only inches away from each other, he recognizes that his appetites have become heightened. His yearning to touch her is palpable, but he’s afraid he might do something to hurt her.

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Does she really want me to tear off her clothes and fuck her on this table, or are the voices just messing with me?

Lawrence’s fears continue to mount. He knows something terrible is going to happen. He’s experiencing an increase in what Freud referred to as libido. He’s had sexual relationships with other women, so he isn’t afraid of touching Gwen. What has him concerned is the weird connection his brain is making between fucking, fighting, killing and eating. As the full moon rapidly approaches, Lawrence’s sense of propriety is quickly eroding away. The werewolf is about to emerge, and it terrifies him. Fortunately for Gwen, Lawrence truly cares for her well-being and sends her away before he or anyone else has the chance to harm her.

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I’m sorry, but I can’t stop thinking about tearing open your throat to gulp down hot, coppery mouthfuls of your blood, and it’s making me insanely horny. Seriously, pack your shit and go.

Soon after, Lawrence goes through his first transformation. He basks in the light of the full moon in all his skin-flaying, tendon-ripping, face-biting werewolf glory. I mean, he tears the shit out of all those nosy neighbors and leaves a trail of carnage through the forest and onto the property of Talbot Hall. When he awakens with a murderous rage hangover, he has no memory of the atrocities he’s committed, but fortunately his father is there to get him up to speed and let him know that he’s done “terrible things.”

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Maybe some coffee and a long hot shower will help…

Next stop, the asylum.

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Hydrotherapy: the waterboarding of the 19th century.

If this film were a history of mental illness in European cultures, it would fit perfectly with Freud’s theories of mental illness. However, it’s a horror film and we’re talking about literal monsters. In the world of The Wolfman, werewolves are real and when left to their own devices, they kill anyone who happens to be in their path of destruction. It doesn’t matter if you believe in them or not. They are a fact and a very real threat to modern living in 19th century England.

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This is not a manifestation of a disturbed mind. This is a fucking werewolf.

Several characters refuse to accept the truth that werewolves exist, even when they are witnessing their manifestation. Unlike Peter Stumpp’s neighbors who wanted to believe that the Devil was at work, and supernatural forces made him kill and eat 14 children, science and logic are at the core of the accepted belief system in Victorian England. The doctors and staff at the asylum and Inspector Aberline refuse to believe that werewolves can exist in their world. That’s pure nonsense, crazy talk, tales of superstition shared among backward cultures. These men only believe in what they can see and quantify.

One of my favorite scenes in the film takes place in the asylum, when Lawrence is able to exact revenge on the people who tortured him. After Sir John Talbot visits Lawrence and finally tells him the truth about the night his mother died. The repressed memories are unleashed, and Lawrence relives that night in his mind. Everything he believed was true. Sometimes, having your beliefs confirmed isn’t a good thing. Lawrence’s father is much worse than he ever imagined. Not only is he the monster that killed Lawrence’s mother and brother, he’s also responsible for turning Lawrence into a werewolf.

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Men of Science.

Lawrence is so overwhelmed by this information that his mind shuts down and he falls into a deep sleep. When he awakes, he finds himself strapped in a wheelchair by the orderlies of the asylum and prepped for a demonstration prepared for his doctor’s colleagues, the police, members of the press, and other community leaders to prove that werewolves don’t exist. He insists that Lawrence suffers from a mental illness, delusions that are related to the trauma he experienced as a child.

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Caring more about the plight of his fellow humans than the asylum staff, Lawrence attempts to warn them that they are in danger. The moon is full and he will transform at any moment. When the doctor and Inspector Aberline finally see Lawrence’s transformation they are unable to completely process the facts before them, and they are momentarily crippled by their mind’s desire to shut down. The doctor meets a well-deserved violent end at the hands of the creature he refused to believe in.

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Told you so.

Aberline is made of stronger mettle, because he forces himself into action to deal with the reality of a werewolf running amok on the streets of London. And I suppose you could consider him a hero of sorts in this tale, but I was too busy rooting for Lawrence to care.

After Lawrence kills most of the asylum staff and escapes from the mental institution, he whoops it up and kills a whole lot of people in London. Aberline is committed to stopping him, but soon realizes traditional methods won’t work.

The next morning when Lawrence wakes up hungover again, he has a better sense of his Fate. He knows he has to put an end to the curse. He has to return to Talbot Hall to avenge the deaths of his mother, his brother, and ultimately himself. But, before he resigns himself to an untimely death, he goes to the one place he knows he can hide, regroup, and find a little human compassion.

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Holy shit, finally!

Yes, it’s true. I am a monster sympathizer. Judge me if you must, but Lawrence Talbot is an excellent example of a monster we feel sorry for and wish we could help. Fate has dealt him a terrible hand, and no matter what he does, his story will have a tragic end. Traumatized as a child, he witnessed the murder of his mother at the hands of his father, the true villain of this tale.

As an adult he seeks the love stolen from him when his mother died, but doesn’t find it until he meets Gwen. Even if Benicio Del Toro didn’t play Lawrence Talbot, I would still feel sorry for this character. However, I’m a sucker for a handsome man in Victorian garb, especially if he transforms into a tragic monster of myth and legends.

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Seriously, werewolves are hot.

If by the end of this tale you don’t feel sorry for Lawrence Talbot, there is seriously something wrong with you. Yes, he’s a monster, but he did not choose his fate. And, all he ever wanted was to be loved and accepted. Who can’t relate to that? A life of hurt, betrayal, and tragedy is bound to end badly. Lawrence never had any hope of a happy ending.

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Hot and tragic.

I waffled over talking about yet another version of Lawrence Talbot. I’m not going to talk about him extensively, but I think I should at least mention him in this post. For those of you who haven’t seen a single episode of the Showtime masterpiece, Penny Dreadful, SPOILER ALERT.

One of the main characters has a secret that we don’t find out about until the final episode of the first season. In hindsight, there were plenty of clues, but when all the pieces fell into place, it was a glorious revelation. Prior to this wonderful surprise, this character has a lot of other personality quirks that make him incredibly interesting, mysterious, but totally likable. If he chooses to befriend you, you have a reliable friend and ally. Unless you betray him.

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Victorian clothing should totally make a come back.

Like I said, I’m not going to talk about him too extensively because I will probably write about him in another post. I’ve considered dedicating an entire post to the cast of Penny Dreadful. What I will say is this, when we’re first introduced to this character he’s working as a sharp shooter in traveling wild west show like Buffalo Bill Cody’s. I thought that was pretty cool considering that Penny Dreadful is like porn for people obsessed with Victorian literature and culture. And monsters. First and foremost, Victorian monsters.

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Fuck yeah, werewolves!

Anyway, we are led to believe his name is Ethan Chandler all through season one and two. It’s not until near the end of the second season that we learn his true name. When I heard it spoken, I literally raised my hands over my mouth in a gesture of mock surprise with my mouth forming a perfect O. I felt pure delight. Actual giddiness. The revelation that the mysterious Victorian werewolf character, who I already adored, is actually one of my favorite werewolves was like an extra special treat. Think what you will, but stories about werewolves in Victorian England make me happy. And Lawrence Talbot’s story is one of my favorites. Penny Dreadful‘s take on the story is fascinating and fresh. And I love the fact that when Ethan/Lawrence is in his human form, there is no doubt that he is one of the good guys. His relationship with Vanessa is a complicated one, and their sexual tension is maddening.

Outwardly, they seem like a great couple. They trust each other, care deeply for one another, accept each other’s flaws, and let me tell you, their flaws aren’t things you could easily ignore. But hey, he’s a werewolf, and he’s trying to deal with the guilt of killing a whole bunch of people and yeah, eating them. And she is a witch coming into her true powers and, oh yeah, Lucifer wants to make her his bride. A relationship would be difficult at best, and sometimes when Vanessa has sex it brings out the demon in her. Literally. Like I said, the sexual tension between them is pretty intense. So much so that sometimes Ethan has to channel his energies elsewhere.

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Chopping down trees keeps your mind off having sex with witches possessed by the Devil.

Afterward

For those of you who have been following along with my series, “Fictional Characters I Would Totally Fuck,” this is the first installment of my now monthly blog series. If you haven’t been following along, back in February I challenged myself to write a blog post a day about some of my favorite fictional characters and why I think they are totally fuckable. That was no small task. Out of 29 days in February, I managed to write 21 posts. Still not too shabby if you ask me. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this post and have a chance to read others. I’m having a great time writing them and look forward to your feedback.