I haven’t written since October 2018. That same month, my daughter was struck by a car. Those two things are most definitely connected.
While I was home writing a blog post, Beard Man was picking the kids up. He called me and I heard sirens in the background, but noticed them second only to the wailing of my 7-year-old. The SUV tire had sheared gouges into her right knee and ankle, and the tire stopped between her knees, inches from her pelvis.
She’s ok. Nothing broke. Her backpack prevented any head injury. She even crosses the same street with ease these days. I’m still pretty fucked up though. Waves of what-ifs and could-haves still punch me in the throat when I just want to get on with it. I’ve felt a little sick anytime I logged on to write. The topic of better sex through weed, even as a vehicle of therapeutic healing, became offensive to me. How could I spend a moment on anything other than my children’s well-being? Their tomorrow is not guaranteed. I’ve tottered close to panic for months with this thought.
Logically, I know the dangers to my children haven’t changed much. Our family carries scars that bolster our risk-assessment skills for the future. We’re stronger, but I don’t often feel strong, yet.
I want to publicly promise myself I’ll get back to writing scintillating details of my sexual self-discovery, but my focus has widened. Awakening to my own pleasure is a mid-ground element in the landscape at the moment, not the sumptuous pollen-laden Georgia O’Keefe of the past couple years.
Cheers to my baby blog that empowered me to tell the world (perhaps even dozens of people!) how I am working through a childhood of shame and how I am using cannabis in my personal sexual revolution. I won’t stop talking about the bedroom, weed, or the scourge of fundamentalism, but there’s a whole lot more to be blunt about.
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