This may look like a cartoon, but this is no joke. I mean business. I'm sick of people out in the world thinking they can abuse bloggers and THINK they can get away with it. Read on....and see that your "mouse" is gonna be trapped starting NOW.

Dear Ethers, 

My good friend Wildernesschic has a brilliant blog that I enjoy reading tremendously.  I like it because it’s written from the heart.  You never feel like she has a thesaurus sitting on her lap while she’s writing, her stories never cease to fascinate, and she writes with humor and wit that are honest and organic.  She’s also extremely supportive of other bloggers, never failing to visit sites leaving well thought out comments and taking an interest in the world of the blogosphere.   She’s a reliable source, in my opinion, on blogging.  

A few days ago she posted an entry called “What Is A Blog?”  It fascinated me.  Again, she wrote straight from the soul and really begged the question about what we bloggers are doing every time we hit that very scary publish button.  She mentions that her blog is her “…own Hyde Park Corner.  Where I can express my freedom of speech.”  I agree completely.  She, unlike myself, is NOT an anonymous blogger.  Every single time she puts out a post she is risking her neck.  Her friends and family read everything she writes—her name is completely exposed to the public. 

Recently, she received a barrage of E-mails that were abusive and hurtful about her writing.  Obviously I don’t know the intimate details, but I do know that she has taken down a certain post that she feels might have hurt someone’s feelings and feels more guarded with her special part of her “Hyde Park Corner.”  I think this is completely unacceptable.  I too have received hurtful E-mails and comments from people about my blog.  I’m not going to indulge these abusers by telling you the details, but they attack below the belt and use ones own words to be vicious and malicious.  I have since blocked them from access to my website, but I wonder, why do people feel the need to be so angry with a blogger when all we are doing is expressing our experience and our memories?  I can understand disagreeing with a point of view, but I cannot understand abuse.  If you have an issue, it is perfectly acceptable to leave a comment asking questions about the post and, indeed disagreeing with the bloggers point of view.  But to hurl abuse and to ensue fear into someone’s life is abhorrent. 

I don’t see the blogosphere’s manners as any different than the normal manners of society.  Just as you cannot harass someone or verbally abuse them or stalk them on the streets, you cannot do so on their blog.  There are ways of finding out who you are, for those of you who DO take advantage of the vulnerability of bloggers.  You are easy to track and it is illegal to leave a torrent of insults.  You can be arrested.  You are no different than a stalker.  You have to remember there is a huge difference between freedom of speech and threatening people.  Tread carefully.  Is it really worth it?  At the end of the day we are just people who take the time to write about our lives, our interests and our views.  If you disagree or have any gripes—-either leave a calm mannered comment that will allow a fair debate or walk away if you don’t think you can control yourself.  Think of it as hitting someone.  You wouldn’t just beat someone up if they said the wrong thing would you?  You’d take a deep breath and either walk or talk. Well, at least one would hope. 

I will be seeking anyone out who hurls abuse at me, WILL trace you through your internet provider and WILL call the authorities.  I have spoken to the police and they have said that this IS a crime and people HAVE been arrested.  I will not be censored or threatened.  I will write what I want without fear.  And so should every blogger.  I warn you again, tread lightly, because you will be caught and you’ll be eating YOUR words hopefully without ever hurting anyone else again.   

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

I feel utter despair. This post is ironic. I start out lighthearted, but as I write and I begin to spill my guts, I end distraught.

Dear Ethers, 

***The beginning part about “Fashion Fridays” was written before I began delving into my somewhat stream-of-consciousness “rant” about the state of English gent and I…therefore it starts very lightheartedly.  I apologize for it turning into something far less amusing.

Shock! Gasp! “Fashion Fridays” is not going to happen today!!!!!!!!! I know, I know.  Grab the tissues, I’ll wait for you to stop tearing your hair out.  Done?  Okay, I’ll explain.  My photographer is ill and my replacements are A: serving jury duty B: on vacation.  So, since there is no one to snap the photo, the shoot cannot be.  But, that means there is one extra outfit in the wardrobe waiting for you next week that will be very special and I promise I’ll make it ultra-fab to make up for this terrible loss.  Are we cool?  Thanks for understanding Ethers. 

So, I suppose I should update you on what’s going on with English gent and myself…yes, the saga does continue.  He’s fading fast guys.  He’s truly miserable.  He sleeps for hours and drinks tons of coffee and energy drinks to keep his depressed eyes open to even do any work.  He’s proclaimed that he doesn’t even know if he’s in love with me anymore and that he thinks I might have ruined his life.  He doesn’t believe in Dr. W anymore and won’t attend sessions.  He and I are monosyllabic at best and don’t find anything that either of us do of interest any longer.  He does not sleep in the same bed as me—he has taken over the spare room/office and made it his.  I hate to get graphic, but we haven’t been sexual for months.  And I mean, we haven’t even grazed fingertips or lips either.  He is very angry towards me and I am very resentful towards him.  

Ok. 

I know what you’re going to say. 

It’s time to move on. 

It’s not that easy. 

English gent and I sent in visa paperwork which detains him in the USA for 6 months.  Yes, he can leave, but this would cost $2,000 and destroy his application.  

Who cares, you say?  He doesn’t want to be there anyway. 

Well, we don’t know after 8 years if this is just a rough patch because of our life situation or if we are DONE.  You have to remember it wasn’t very long ago that we were madly in love and living together in bliss in London strong as ever.  I used to look at him and thank my lucky stars.  I was always terrified that the States was going to ruin that.  That maybe there was something magical about us in England.  But that taking him out of context and putting him in America where he had to depend on me would kill us.  I was right.  

I feel bad for him.  I feel sorry for myself.  I know the right thing to do would be to rip off the plaster and send him away.  He’s be in agony, as would I, but probably in the end we’d both find our feet…….slowly……..and have better lives for it.  Ethers, he is a Londoner through and through.  He is a fish out of water here and he is never going to learn to swim.  The problem is neither of us know what to do.  It’s like we are Siamese twins.  We’ve been attached for so long that even though the option of separation would be best, it’s too scary to think about cutting us apart.  I really can’t imagine my life without him in it.  

Right now I’m scared.  Terrified.  This is the guy who I thought I’d be with forever.  I thought I got lucky young.  And now, on the brink of 30, my whole world is upside down.  When he told me that he didn’t know that he was in love with me anymore—the truth is—the world didn’t freeze—it sort of thawed.  He was on to something. 

But you know what happens if we aren’t lovers…..he’s gone forever.

He’ll never speak to me or see me again.  8 years and he’ll never speak my name again.  And I have never really dated.  Will I, after one horrible date after the other, dream of him and what a fool I was to let him fly away?  Will I spend the rest of my life running after him?  Will I become the ultimate bolter?  

I’ve never experienced anyone dying, or had major surgery.  But I think this is the most painful thing that has ever happened to me.  I live with the ghost of English gent—his body and face are the same.  His clothes are familiar.  But his eyes are slightly different and his soul has completely morphed.  He probably thinks the same of me.  

I know I still love him because while I’m writing this my heart doesn’t hurt for me, but for him.  For everything he might lose.  For his pain.  If you don’t love someone, those feelings don’t exist.  

Once he goes back to England—my life in England is singed at the tips.  I’ll have nothing left but some photos and an expired Oyster card.  He was supposed to be my London.  My own piece of my fantasy that I loved for 8 years.  And when he leaves, all I’ll have are faded memories.  I can’t help but feel this is all my fault.  If I could have just wanted for nothing and been quiet and content.  What does one do with a really broken heart shattering with every beat in ones chest?  I feel like a 50 year old woman who is in the middle of a divorce.  But I’m only 29.  And he’s only 27.  I feel like screaming at the top of my lungs HELP. But I can’t because it is a dirty secret he and I have to keep from our families.  We have no one.  We really only had each other and now we are each other’s worst enemy.  

I can’t write anymore.  Wow…and this started off as a lighthearted post.  And I am so sorry to be repetitive.  You have all given me your best and most thought out advice.  I know we should break up.  I know. I know. I know.  But can you see it from my point of view Ethers?  Please?  Try and remember when you were in relationship binds.  It isn’t so cut and dry.  You don’t need to bother leaving me a comment.  Thanks for letting me vent.  Whoever you are out there reading this—-thank you for listening.  If I had 1 wish it would be to do it all over again.  I really fucked up my life.  How do you live with that?  I guess you do….I’m still breathing……but all I want to do is just go to sleep. 

Dedicatedly yours, 

—One of 365

How lucky. How very lucky. This is how an aged couple should feel after years of marriage. But many are bitter. Many haven't embraced in forever. Hands have become claws that scratch at one another---they are no longer for holding.

Dear Ethers, 

My grandparents met when they were 15 and 17 years old.  They are now 93 and 95.  Imagine.  That’s a long time to be with someone.  My grandfather was extraordinarily handsome.  My grandmother, though not as pretty in the face, was extremely attractive.  They dressed beautifully, went out with the chic crowd, and enjoyed a good martini.  My grandmother was a singer and was given a brilliant offer to go to Broadway.  My grandfather, a cartoonist, was asked to go to Hollywood to work for Disney.  Both had to give up their dreams to stay with each other because they felt it was unfair to make the other choose.  Foolish if you ask me, but those were the days of gallantry I suppose. 

My grandfather opened an advertising agency where he always drew his campaigns (it kept him artsy enough)and my grandmother had 3 sons—and she never stopped humming a tune.  If you asked them in their 30’s, 40’s, 50’s and 60’s if they were happy with their choice of not being rich or possibly famous, they would be smitten and say yes.  But now wizened and bitter, they have hated each other for at least 30 years.  

I have never known my grandmother to have ever slept in the same room as my grandfather and my grandmother dutifully cooks and cleans, but barely utters a word to him and leaves to play bridge with her girlfriends.  They constantly bring up old memories and argue and blame one another for their downfalls.  

My grandfather took to drawing celebrities (he is an amazing artist) and getting them autographed.  He has JFK, Babe Ruth, one of the Pope’s—you name it, he’s got it.  He’s worked years to make that collection.  When my grandmother is mad she tells him to “Go downstairs and trace something.”  And when he gets mad at her, he tells her that she’s never done a damned thing with her life.  I think he forgets that she ran his business (was his accountant) and raised his 3 boys.  

The irony is they look 20 years younger than they are and are (knock wood) in perfect health.  They drive, they live in their same house (no assisted living)—my grandfather plays rounds of golf on the weekends.    It’s like they are trying as hard as they can to beat the other one out from dying. Do you know how many widows would kill to have their husbands back from the dead and to be able to live their very last day with their partner?  Nope.  These two are so ungrateful.

When I asked my grandmother why she never divorced him, she said she felt it was too late.  Too late to leave and she felt too sorry for him.  He wouldn’t survive without her.   But I think she wouldn’t survive without him.  I don’t think she CAN remember life without him in it. 

They have never been warm and fuzzy people.  They’ve always been sharp, smart, kind but not empathetic.  I know they love me, but they are critical, never gave me gifts and when I stayed with them, were always trying to “improve” me.  I love them with all of my heart, but they always scare me.  They remind me of what could happen when love goes wrong.  When you stay with the wrong person and it becomes “too late.”  I think you become hardened, angry, critical, and your body can’t accept a hug because it hasn’t felt one in so long it’s forgotten the motion. 

I don’t know how much time I have left with them.  They live in Massachusetts and I see them maybe twice a year.  I smile when my grandmother tells me she loves “Sex and the City” or when my grandfather tells me he enjoys playing on the internet.  Can you imagine what these people have seen in their lifetime?  But, I’m afraid they can’t appreciate any of it.  All they can see is red.  Red for stealing each other’s lives.  They really are old dog’s that can’t be taught new tricks.  All that’s on their minds is what could have been. 

I look at English gent.  He has a beautiful face.  So did my grandfather.  I met him when he was a teenager.  So did my grandmother.  We gave up a lot to be together.  So did they.  And we aren’t even 60 and we already are seeing red.  I don’t want to see my hands, like my grandmother’s, filled with hose like veins sticking up from her flesh, clenching her fists while her diamond wedding ring glints in the light, furious. I don’t want to live with a man who is my roommate but also my gatekeeper from any other life. But, just like my grandmother, I can’t imagine life without him.  

Sometimes I see them, arms linked, walking down the street.   They have the same gait.  She’s speaking into his ear and he’s nodding.  And I know that they’d be dead long ago without each other.  Maybe it is the competitive fight that keeps them alive—but there is a lot of love and history too.  I wonder what my grandmother would have looked like on Broadway?  Her stage name was “Ethel Evans.”  And my grandfather?  What wonderful drawings he might have made with those talented hands.  But, then I wouldn’t be here to tell this tale.  For me, it worked out.  But for them—sometimes I wish they had parted ways and had their chance in the limelight instead of sitting in the dark grinding their teeth with anger.  I wonder who will go first—and whoever does, I know the other will, somewhere in their heart (as devastated as they will be) feel that once again, their show was stolen from them except this time they’ll have no one to be angry at any longer.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365

This is Freud's room recreated in his home on Hampstead, North London. You can clearly see the famous couch many heads perched on during sessions. Though I do not lie on a couch when I go to therapy, the couch represents the center of the room. The most important piece of furniture. It is where the patient collects their thoughts, discusses and learns. I have always held my sessions as a special place for me to escape. A womb-like arena (not as beautiful as Freud's) that allows me to be open and honest without any judgement. On Thursday, my womb will be invaded by English gent. My name will be spoken many times. But I shall not be there. I have many mixed emotions--loss of trust, fear, anger--even hope. And I know that this womb is not just mine---many bodies enter it. But, none of them have ever spoken my name without me being present. I wonder how many "Freudian Slips" will occur on Thursday?

Dear Ether,

English gent has stolen Dr. W. Yep, it is official.  MY therapist and MY partner have now booted me out of the loop. Okay.  I’ll tell you the whole story, but here’s the irony. YOU GUYS are now my only source of therapy for the moment (well, at least until next Tuesday) and what’s even worse:  I’M footing the bill!!!!  

English gent and I have been going to therapy together for about 6 sessions now because our relationship has been in a really terrible rut of late.  He blames me for bringing him to Los Angeles and to this concrete grave of misery and I am angry at him for so many reasons, all you have to do is hit the sidebar under “English gent” or “Love” and you can read why.  It was my idea we start therapy because I felt that we needed a mediator–someone who could be in the middle and help us through our discussions (which normally end  in him walking out of a room needing a cigarette or me diving under the duvet crying and dreaming of the life I thought I should have had).  Dr. W took to the English gent (and to be fair, the old therapist has a soft spot for me too) and really wanted to help us.  So one session turned into many and we started to really open up.  But English gent was getting angry.  He felt that it was well and good that we spoke about our feelings in our sessions, but that nothing happened outside the 45 minutes that changed anything in reality.  He said today was his LAST session with Dr. W.  Now of course I was infuriated.  I felt really trapped and frustrated.  If English gent stopped going to see Dr. W, then what?  I mean, we obviously couldn’t handle this relationship problem on our own and we don’t have any other confidants, so what were we going to do?  

I slept until 2pm today, that’s how gutted I was.

3pm rolls around and with my face sullen and sombre we take our seats on the couch in Dr. W’s office.  English gent talks about how angry he is with me.  That I don’t act as a woman should when I expect him to act as a man should (this might be a good point—but his version of acting like a “woman should” is doing laundry, cooking, cleaning….you get my drift…..and as long as he has known me…..that just IS NOT me…….so I was really fucked off…….and my idea of what a “MAN” should be is having money to support himself, having good enough credit to have a fucking credit card for Christ’s sake, being able to drive and not have me chauffeur him around, buy me a thing or two every so often…….but no…….he is  a stinking baby who still calls his mother “Mumma” in Russian.  Kill me).  Then he goes on to say that I’m unsupportive of his work.  Ethers, he sits in the office all day doing work for his business abroad as a freelancer and makes it very clear he doesn’t want to be disturbed.  He is on English time so he drinks Red Bull’s 5 times a day (which are like $2 a pop, chugs coffee after coffee like it’s water and smokes at least a pack a day…have I mentioned he is up until 5am most nights?)  We never go anywhere together because I can’t pay for both of us.  We are stuck in this house and are ironically so far apart is is pathetic.  I’ll leave it up to your imagination to wonder what our sex life is like (he is 27–you’d think he’d be rearing to go—and truthfully, I haven’t been less interested since before puberty, anyway).  It’s dire straits.  It’s always a threat of, “I have a return ticket back to England, why don’t I just go?” Or I say, “This isn’t working anymore, but I don’t know what to do because I don’t want to lose you in my life and I know if we end like this and you fly back to London, I’ll never see you again.”  Ethers, am I bound to grow old with a man who I bicker with?  Where we’re just angry companions, but stuck together because we care for each other from memories and a feeling of family?  And if he goes, I know I will always wonder if I lost the great love of my life because we went through a bad patch and maybe couldn’t work through it.  I mean, no one is gonna be happy in their late 20’s living with parents with no money, no license, no visa, no job (the list can go on).  And me!  You guys know I am dying for that golden ticket.  And soon, that will fade and stop shining and I’ll just be and ugly old hag that no one will want—then that will be the final nail in my coffin.  

So why do we stay together?  Why is the question he and I have been asking for almost a decade.  And we come up with so many pros and so many cons.  Our great times and our hideous times toughing it out.  No one knows either of us better than we know each other.  We are too afraid to let go.  I know many of you would say it’s like a plaster/Band-Aid.  Rip it off fast and it hurts less.  No. No.  I can’t even imagine the idea of unveiling the wound that the bandage shows underneath.  The last look in his eyes before he boarded the plane with no return ticket.  The last time I’d smell his neck.  The smell of his body on the sheets when I returned home from that agonizing drive.  The few gifts he gave me.  The albums full of memories.  8 YEARS OF MY LIFE SHARED WITH HIM.  Every reference of my 20’s with HIM.  Help me Ethers.  But please, don’t tell me yet to leave him.  Please?  Can you try to be constructive?  Can we go into salvation mode 1st?  I beg you out of desperation.

I’ve lost track of where I was.  Right. So. I cannot make it to our twice weekly session the second time being this Thursday, because I have a meeting and then an event to cover.  So what did Dr. W suggest?  That English get come sans me.  I was shocked.  He is MY therapist. The guy I pay.  The man I introduced English gent to.  And now THEY are going to have a pow-wow about ME behind my back?  Yes, yes, yes.  I know.  This will be all fine and dandy.  He’ll get to say his piece and Dr. W might coach him and this is only to help.  But I feel so vulnerable.  As I chauffeur him to that session, I wonder, how many times will my name be mentioned and what will be said?  And the truth is I have NO right to ask.

I wish I was free.  That I could be 21, just out of school and fresh.  I wish this was the beginning.  That I had more time.  That I hadn’t made so many mistakes and hadn’t given into love so fast and hard.  Some of us do it easier than others.  I’m a sucker.  I’ll keep you updated, as you guys are now my clearest and cleanest form of therapy.  Thank you for listening.  I just wish I wasn’t sitting here with my face full of tears and the tops of my hand wet with the drippings of the falling droplets all over them.  What a mess—in so many way—what a giant mess.

Dedicatedly yours,

—One of 365