Mama Bear

Love and protect.

These are, for me, the two most basic instincts when it comes to family and friends. For many people, the intensity with which I do both is…misunderstood, at best. But for those who experience it first hand, it is a completely different story.

Love.

Family and friends experience my love in a variety of ways and on just as many, if not more, levels of intensity. My immediate family and closest friends are very much the same to me, as you can see from the previous post; my friends are my family. So from here the ripples spread, becoming wider and broader than those tight inner ones.

For starters, I am a very affectionate person. People seem to sense this even if they have met me only moments before. I say this because I have spent years of my life watching those around me and how they interact with one another, how they interact with me and, perhaps most importantly, how these interactions differ. My observations have led to this conclusion: people – men, women, young and old – are more likely to invade my personal space by touching me in some way (usually my butt or my hair) than they are to do so to nearly anyone else in my vicinity. Even the most reserved, seemingly untouchable people will do so to both my and others’ astonishment. But let me return to my main point in this side of my argument. If I like you, I touch you. I hug you. I hold your hand. I touch your arm. I play with your hair. I cuddle you. I kiss you. Male or female. Young or old.

It is a compulsion I cannot control and, for that matter, don’t want to. I have an innate need and desire to show you how I feel about you. It is these subtle (or sometimes not so subtle) gestures that give me away. Most of the time I do not even know that I do it; it just comes to me naturally and so, before my mind realizes my brain or heart’s intentions, I have already in some small or large way invaded your personal space.

This is just one of many ways I show my love and affection to those I care about the most. The others are, for the most part, non-verbal although I’m not shy about telling you I love you I feel it.

Closely following this love is the deeply instinctive need to…

Protect.

From danger. From pain. From others, yourself, and sometimes even…me. I will protect you.

This is the aspect of my personality which is most misunderstood. I am perceived as being bossy, bitchy or a straight up battleax. All these may be true but, in this sense, you can bet your bottom dollar that those more, let’s say, edgy aspects of my personality will only come out of a place of love, care and concern. You will never find someone else who will protect or defend you with such ferocity.

It is this point which is the whole purpose for this post.

When I see you – someone I’ve grown to love and, therefore, protect in my own way – backed into a corner, I will fight for you. I will fight to give you the space you deserve. I will fight to bring you peace. And the good Lord better look out for the poor pathetic schmuck who thought they could bully or manipulate you.

It is these people who have experienced the edge of my personality and been cut by the words I use to slice them into tiny, diced pieces. It is these people who if you met them on the street and asked what they thought of me would say, “She’s a *#@&*?!* #%!&*.” You catch my drift.

It is this small but elite group who have earned some sharp words, much embarrassment, and (after I’ve finished) a satisfying sense of shame. Some of them have been people I once loved. Although, this love was more out of a sense of obligation, more love by association or familial status than anything else. However, when someone such as these routinely hurts, bullies, manipulates or cuts down someone, whom I truly and deeply love out of no sense of obligation whatsoever regardless of association or familial status, the love and respect I had for them initially begins to diminish.

I may give this person or group a one-time free pass given that everyone has bad days. But after the first time becomes a second time and a third and so on, I begin to document in my mind every tear I’ve watched fall, every conversation I’ve had, every reassurance I’ve given to lift my loved one up again. I do this like a hunter stockpiling ammunition for the day he goes looking for prey, except my prey isn’t a perfectly random and innocent deer. I know exactly who I am looking for and why, exactly where to find them and when to strike. The love and respect I may or may not have had for this person at a previous time has no place here. It does not emotionally cripple me or impart a sympathy card to be played on this person’s behalf. I become a primitive being, a predator with a simple purpose – the kill.

Now, I don’t mean a literal kill. There is no loaded shot gun hidden in my trunk. I am not some crazy running around half-cocked with bloody vengeance on my mind. I am a primitive creature with a sophisticated mind. I know my purpose. I know my prey. I know my method and moment and place of attack. I go for the jugular. In the moment this manipulative bully thinks they’ve won once again, I strike. Quick, but not painless. No, there will be enough witnesses present so when that satisfying sense of shame sets in it is seen by others. Verbally. No amount of physical blows could hit as hard or last as long as the verbal blows I can throw. I do this with a certain amount of care and precision as I don’t want to say something I will later regret. I do so, so that my words will have that much more impact because they’ll know I mean every single syllable.

Love and protect.

These two basic instincts are intricately intertwined within me. They are shown in very different ways but come from the same place, my heart. I love and I protect so fiercely that I can only describe it as going “all Mama Bear” on someone.

For those of you who’ve been on the receiving end of my love and protection, odds are it is still flowing and will stay that way forever. I love you and always will.

For those who’ve been my prey…you probably should’ve known better or paid attention to my body language when you came around. Mama Bear will always find you and will always win.

Home Away from Home

The sounds of Otis Redding and Frank Sinatra in the background of candlelit, homemade dinners. Of Passion Pit and Vampire Weekend on a snow day filled with very little homework and a whole lot of conversation. Of Lil Wayne and Burlesque while drinking various alcoholic concoctions getting ready for a night out. 

This is the soundtrack of my first home away from home, apartment 210H. I call this place home because from the moment I set foot in this apartment I felt comfortable, at ease and…excited. This feeling was foreign to me as I watched my family drive away and left me to my fate which was always before not too kind. This felt different. It was different. I was different.

The random roommates I was to be living with for the better part of a year, little known to me, would become some of my very best friends, my confidantes, and my family.

These three wonderful women welcomed me into their lives in a way that was more natural and comfortable than anything I’ve ever experienced before when meeting new people – or rather new friends. From the very start, there was an ease to our relationship which quickly grew and bloomed into a beautiful friendship. They took me out. They introduced me to their friends – who were just as quickly mine as well. They talked to me and listened to me. They helped me grow and get back to the Kaylin I’ve been missing for a very long time. They encouraged me and supported me when it mattered most.

But (and this is a big but)… the things I remember fondly and cherish the most are not the “big” moments of high drama that filled the apartment - and believe me there were quite a few, many of which were mine, oopsy 0:-).No, the things I remember are the more mundane everyday moments spanning over the nine months we lived together.

(Now here is my verbal movie montage of those moments.)

The day I saw GSB on the balcony and found out my roommates knew him. “Family” dinners. Seven Deadly Sins with Tyler and our Halloween party where Meghan came up and “whispered” to me that GSB had just walked through our door. When we made Christmas stockings. Snow days and prank wars. Many, many Penny Pitchers on Wednesday nights. The time Nicki couldn’t stop farting or the time we caught her looking at wedding dresses online. The time Meghan, in a mask, scared the crap out of Mo who had just gotten out of the shower and almost dropped her towel. Countless sex talks. All the mornings/afternoons we looked at pictures and swapped stories about the night before. The parade of men in our lives (well, Nicki and I’s lives ha-ha). The amount of times we said “my dick” or “something is something about…” Monday nights when we watched The Bachelor and complained about Brad and psycho Michelle. Our Royal Wedding breakfast party.

These are the moments that spring to mind at a second’s worth of thought. Yet, it’s the moments I could never begin to describe and give due credit to that means the most to me. It’s the moments that made us laugh till we cried, of coming home with a story knowing there was someone there to listen, bitch with or to tell me to get my head out of my ass – someone who just gets it. It’s the moments where no words were spoken, arms were open and held me as the tears fell fast and hard.

These, these are the moments that play like a film reel in my mind when someone mentions “roommates”, “my apartment”, “best friends”, “home” and “family”. 210H is one fabulous apartment but what made it so special were the three women who lived there with me because well…they were always there, especially when it mattered.

Otis Redding and Frank Sinatra, Passion Pit and Vampire Weekend, Lil Wayne and Burlesque – a motley crew of a soundtrack but nonetheless the perfect combination to capture the unique qualities of each woman of 210H. Random, hilarious, passionate, sexy, fun, crazy, wild, conservative, weird. Whatever adjective you would label it as when you walked through the door of 210H it will always be the first place outside my childhood home that I called home. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

<3 KMEN

Give Me A Parade of Men

Give me a parade of men,

I’ll pick out only the bad apples.

I think I’ve learned my lesson.

Give me a parade of men,

I’ll only pick out the heartbreakers.

I learned my lesson, didn’t I?

Give me a parade of men,

And I’ll pick out some good ones

But they won’t stay that way for long.

Did I learn somethin here?

Give me a parade of men,

I’ll fine em with only one thing on their mind.

What was I to learn?

Give me a parade of men,

Of all shapes and sizes.

Have I learned anything from those gone by?

Hell, bring on the parade!

***

I thought of this as I pushed myself – sweating, strategically breathing – past the point of comfort into an increasing level of pain. There’s a metaphor here that could be made in regards to my love life. I was going to leave it up to you to figure out. Then, I rethought this and so I’ll lay it out for you nice and easy. In short: My love life thus far has been a parade of the worst guys within my reach. Perhaps a better metaphor would be a train wreck. And there you have it.

Anyway.

I’m running, a time I typically spend thinking deep thoughts and expelling physical energy as intense as my thoughts. Many times these deeply intense thoughts revolve around men. Mildly embarrassing but, nonetheless, true.

So. I’m running. I’m home in Decatur. This is a fact and a place that never fails to prompt me to take a trip down memory lane, a lane filled with the parade of boys and men who make up the history of my love life. 

Hindsight is 20/20, right?

Ooooh yeah!

Yes, looking back I can see just how stupid and/or naïve I was when I

1)      Picked the men I did,

2)      Believed the myriad of lines and lies that came out of their mouths,

3)      Continued to date/ like/“love” them long after I figured out that they probably weren’t the right/greatest/nicest guy for me.

And yet, I wonder…

Have I really learned anything at all?

After all the heartaches, the tears, the all-night bitch-fests with the girls, the name calling, the disappointment and the acceptance that yet another man in my life has joined the ranks of those labeled “Not the One,” have I really gained any more knowledge than when I started dating/liking/“loving” these men?

The answer…is yes, and it’s no.

Yes, because I can look back and see where I went wrong, where I should have ended things, where I stupidly ignored good advice and/or my own screaming instincts.

Yes, because I have vowed and – for the most part – followed through by not making the same mistakes again.

Yes, because I’ve been able to impart my hard-earned wisdom on those younger or more naïve or less seasoned than me. These lessons should be good for someone other than me, right? Please, learn from my mistakes!

No, because I inevitably make excuses for why this situation is different from a previous one which is – looking back, of course – exactly the same but with a fresh twist on one or two minor details just for a little added pizzazz.

No, because I naturally focus on those one or two new twists between the last jerk and the new one. I do this and convince myself that it’s those one or two things that will make all the difference and this one will be the frog that turns into the prince.

No, because I fall for the same lines, same pet names, lies, compliments and false intimacies that the guy before this one told me. The only difference between Male 1 and Male 2 is the way they say them and how well they can pull it off. The real smooth ones do this without me realizing I’ve heard something like this somewhere before, that is, until it’s over and hindsight backhands me right across the face. 

The answer is yes and it’s no, because being the hopeless romantic I am I never stop hoping that the parade will end with the end-all man of my dreams. The Prince Charming to my Cinderella. The Frog that turns into the Prince at the touch of my lips. The man who will come sweep me off my beautiful feet and make up for all the jerks and morons before him. The Santa Clause at the end of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade (You know? The grand finale of the parade you wait the whole time to see?).

The answer is yes, and it’s no, because the parade is still moving along with no end in sight and I never stop hoping it will be cut short with a surprisingly abrupt but fantastic finale.

Until that happens… 

Hell, bring on the parade!