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i made it through another sunday. since i couldn't go sailing i kept myself busy enough not to think. went to Sam's with steve and bought enough food to feed the camp kids lunches (hopefully) through the rest of the summer, and then brought it all to the office. i also bought a desk that is small enough to fit in the living area of the boat. steve put it together for me....thanks! i had been sitting either at the galley table or on the floor with a breakfast tray. this is so much more comfortable.
4:00 went past me and i didn't even notice. that seems to be the hardest time. i am certain that is the time Chris had given me to get to his house before pulling the trigger, so it is a time that is most difficult for me....sundays in general, but especially at 4:00. last year at this time i had never been happier. it is strange though how things start to fade. i was thinking last night about a special dinner we had....the night he collared me. i can't remember what he wore, or what he ordered. i remember what i wore because it was the black chico's dress that i lost when his brothers cleaned out his house. these little things start to fade over time and i am just not sure if i want them to or not. there are still some things that are strong.... the leather boots he often wore when we went out. his brothers gave those to me. i am not sure why they were tossed into a basket of Chris' sex life, before and after me, and passed on to me like some dirty secret. but i remember for weeks after his death, i would lie on the floor with my cheek against the toe, as if they were still filled with him, and i would kiss my surrender on his feet. that was a cold basket though, and a blow after his death. it was as if they had taken everything in his house related to sex and thrown it in his laundry basket. all i had left of my life with him were toys and collars and gags (his favorite) and things i had never seen before. all i wanted was the comforter we slept under, the big pillow we spent sunday mornings dreaming upon and his favorite pajamas that i lounged around in on lazy mornings sharing coffee and plans for the day. i did get the comforter and the pillow, but it looked like they had thrown his sex life on the bed and then pulled it all from the bed into the basket. i had no desire to have the things from his sex life before me. i threw them away.
i didn't get the pajamas because he was wearing them. i think i am still angry with his family. they wouldn't let me back into the house. i don't know exactly why. i didn't ask. but they did tell me the police advised them to only let family in. he wasn't close to his brothers, didn't even like one of them. they had never been in his house before either, yet they took care of everything as if they had been close brothers. it was difficult for me, at the service, to finally get one of them alone and tell them i needed to get some things out of the house before the rest of the family went in, thinking mainly of his mother and the things that were all left out from the night before. it never mattered, only the brothers came to town. they are in the porn industry, so it wasn't as difficult as it could have been. i still have a BDSM video in a box under my bed in which Chris played a part. i haven't watched it yet.
anyway, these things fade. some days i struggle to remember them, others i beg to forget them. but i always, always want him back.
i don't believe in communications from the dead. the dead are gone, at least, in my belief, after about 49 days, they are gone, gone. but i wish they could communicate. i wish he could help me. i know, in my mind, that he would want me to let go and live. i truly don't believe he could be selfish enough to want me to spend the rest of my grieving like a captain's widow on the shore. but i wish he could tell me so. there is no closure in suicide. it wasn't a terminal illness with which one can prepare. it wasn't an accident with which you can lay blame some place more reasonable. and i am certain that he was upset enough with me that his last act....his last thought....was to hurt me. yet, i am certain he had no understanding of just how much.

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don't fear death
melissamuse
melissa muses (or maia, you choose)

Roma

wandering does not make you a "gypsy."
why would you call yourself
after those who have no home?
long skirts and hoop earrings
do not make you a "gypsy."
why do you call yourself after
those who have no clothes?

"gypsy" is pejorative. please don't perpetuate the stereotype. educate yourself on what it really means to be a "gypsy" in this world.

Who are the Roma?

Decade of Roma Inclusion

Dženo Association

European Roma Rights Centre

Roma Balkans

Roma National Congress

Romani World

Rombase

Rroma

Rroma Media Network

Soros Roma Initiatives

Studii Romani

The European Union and Roma

The Patrin Webjournal: Romani Culture and History

Voice of Roma
World Bank Roma Initiatives

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