On a very base level, I’m craving fried pickles.
But deeper than that, I crave silence.
You know that feeling when you pull the car into the garage and turn it off, but before you go inside? The silence of being alone for just a moment surrounds you like a thick presence in the air. It hums with nothingness.
Some might find it suffocating, but I love it. That silence gives me a thrill I can’t explain. It feels like a secret.
I feel perfectly myself, in control of my energy, with no demands.
It’s the same silence I feel when I take my dog for her last walk of the night. No one is out on our street but us. The trees move in the breeze, and doors may open and close nearby, but nothing is stressing out my tired mind by demanding I look or listen.
On the other hand, I crave belonging.
I was in a wedding last weekend and the newlyweds and wedding party were all queer except a small few. Many of us were also disabled and neurodivergent. And the feeling of community, of belonging, that happened in that space was half the reason I was weeping in my pew.
To be surrounded by people who understand you immediately is a blessing. To not have to explain yourself or your needs brings the ultimate sense of relief.
I want that for everyone who craves belonging and understanding.
I crave luscious, intimate relationship with paint, music, and my body.
I miss taking the killer nudes I took when I was hooking up with Tinder matches. I crave midday sex and surprise kisses and staying up ridiculously late on a Friday night, drunk on desire.
I crave movement. I want to move my body joyfully in flowing stretches, in steps around the block, in bad dance moves. And I fear movement – worrying it will take me back to a place when I was moving to control rather than connect, to punish rather than regulate.
I crave being able to be absolutely messy and fucked up, and to still be loved, seen, and celebrated.
I want to break things.
I crave it all. I want it all.
I want to be known and seen in my most vulnerable moments and held softly.
I want a world where we can all be passionate in whatever ways that lights us up.
I want to witness deep, holy shit kind of love.
I crave the ability to scream all of my pain out. To confront those who have hurt me, to be able to show them some kind of physical metaphor of my bloodied body that makes them realize that their words and actions hurt me as deeply as those wounds.
I want my parents to apologize.
I crave those words untainted by a “but.” But they did their best. But they always loved me. But I had a roof over my head. But it’s in the past.
I want a world where we don’t have to heal from our pasts.
I crave long afternoons living inside a book.
I crave whimsy.
I want to be surrounded by art, to spin poetry from nothing, to find inspiration in the mundane, and to be so fucking weird without worrying what others think.
I crave sexy, fat art. I want to see fat bodies luxuriating in empowerment and delight. I want a world where no one is embarrassed by belly rolls.
Desperately needing to know myself, saved my life.
And I crave the ability to just talk about that without always second guessing it and making sure the corners are tucked in tight around my story so it’s the most presentable and palatable.
I want to acknowledge what I’ve been through without a side of “but someone else has it worse” and that’s a gift that only I can give myself.
I was abused. As a child. As a wife. As an employee.
And I’m not abused anymore.
And I’ll never fit into anyone’s little fucking boxes again.
I crave rough edges and rawness, I crave people who speak their mind and can’t help but crack a joke, I crave the trust extended in hard conversations about pain.
What do you crave?
PS. I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I’m letting myself get weird and loud. Get on my email list at bit.ly/CaitNotes.