A Good Friday Style Easter

This Easter was a hard one for me so far. On Friday, I saw a headline out of the corner of my eye, “When Easter feels like Good Friday.” I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

As I crawled through lent this year, my refrain was, Easter is almost here, Easter is almost here. Now that it was here it was almost harder in some ways. I felt like everything was supposed to be happy, we are supposed to be feasting, but I think I was in tears for half of this Easter week. I was exhausted from trying to reach the Resurrection and feeling like it’s so far away.

I repeated over and over “I believe,” because I choose to believe in the Resurrection and hope, but I heard myself in my head being like Martha, “I know we will rise, at the Resurrection of us all,” and then I crumble in fear for all of our struggles here. Jesus rose Lazarus after weeping with Martha when she said those words. I kept asking Him to understand where my fear is coming from and to be with me, and help me.

It feels arrogant though sometimes to ask for help when my worst problems are nothing compared to the horrors going on in the world. Every day there’s a new tragedy. Over 200 people died on Easter. How can we feast when the entire world is crying out in fear and pain? So I feel guilty for my joyful days, but then when I am caught up in my own misery I feel guilty for thinking my problems are anything in the grand scheme of things.

This Easter in particular was a weird one. How do you reconcile the birthday of Hitler/20th anniversary/national pot day with each other, let alone with Easter the next day? How do you reconcile incomparable world ending joy with unimaginable evil?

I think there was something happening this year. Something we couldn’t see. This lent it seemed like everyone was dying. Everytime I got on Facebook there was a new notification of someone dying. And these were not just any normal expected deaths, many of these were out of nowhere terrifying horrible things happening. The fire in Notre Dame was like a symbol for everything happening.

Yet there have been little moments when I have seen hope in the world. One night when the world seemed so heavy, and so many terrifying deaths had been announced, I fell to my knees(and I hate kneeling) and I just begged for mercy. The next day was the most beautiful day outside, the sun was shining and everyone was happy. So many people were talking about how the world felt so much lighter. I know that my prayers were not the only ones going up that night, but that time I felt prayer work.

I didn’t realize during lent that it was the 20th anniversary of Columbine. I found out on Holy Saturday, and it seemed only fitting. Something about the gravity of this year made sense with that being the case. I had hoped that on Easter there would be some great turn around and this year would turn into everyone’s most amazing year ever. I know that’s a little crazy, but I’ve always been known to have high expectations. I can’t help being an idealist.

Well, there wasn’t a huge immediate turn around, but I’m starting to see little changes in people and even bigger changes in me, so I don’t know, maybe it’s a battle we have to fight the long way, maybe we have to feel like we have earned it or we won’t appreciate it, or maybe it’s just too big of a battle for one moment to win, but whatever the case, I am working on fighting every little battle that is given to me, and I believe that one day we will see the battles we have won.

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The Silence

For the last few weeks, I’ve barely posted on here. I felt guilty and I insulted myself for it, but it wasn’t until tonight that I realized what I was doing.

I have a bad habit of getting too caught up in what everyone else thinks about me. We have all heard that one, I guess, but for me it’s true. I am such a people pleaser that I have almost literally served myself to death at times. It takes a superhuman amount of strength for me to pull myself out of the shame spirals that result from this, because no matter how hard any person tries, you cannot please everyone every time. Which means that if you try you will just end up in a tornado of failed attempts.

Well, I got into my drafts this week, and I got to see concrete evidence of me letting my people pleasing kill my creativity. There was post after post that I remembered being so excited about posting, but then I felt awkward or embarrassed, or afraid. I doubted myself, and I let it keep me from posting and from writing.

I have fought this battle before and I will fight it again, but today it’s time for me to pick back up the pen, (figuratively, I don’t write with a stylus on here. 😉 )

My Worst Nightmare

I had every writers worst nightmare happen to me today. I got a good look at everything I don’t have. I don’t have writing credits, I don’t have many connections, I don’t have time, I don’t have so many things it hurts. I posted my own rec post, but I don’t know that it’s really meant for people like me. The other writers all seem to have something more than me, confidence, support, experience, again, time.

It’s an age-old problem for artists. I know this. Ive been trying to tell myself that all day today. This is the curse of being an artist, feeling like you have nothing to offer, and offering it anyway, and sometimes even acting like you have the world to offer, and sometimes thinking you do.

I read some entries for contests I was going to enter last night too, which didn’t help. On some level, I knew I was not at the same level as these people. I’m not a genius with dialogue, I don’t write character studies-yet. I’m not the perfect seasoned writer. But I did think my movies were worth seeing. Now I don’t know.

Today, I don’t know why I even bother. Today, I wonder if screenwriting was just a fantasy I made up in my head because being a kid was too hard. Maybe my parents and everyone who told me not to dream were right. Maybe what I have to say really doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m supposed to give it up. But I don’t want to. It is in my blood. It was my hope and my dream my entire life, and it never leaves me. No matter how hard I try to shut it up, or pretend I don’t want it, I breathe this.

It is what gives me hope while the entire world seems to be falling down around me. It is what gave me shelter when the whole world seemed too bleak to survive. I prayed, yes, and prayer matters, but deep down amidst the despair I need my voice to be heard, I need to do what I’m meant to do, and I do believe I’m meant to do this. God knows me, and He knows my heart, and He knows I have this in me. Even if I sound like a complete idiot to everyone around me.

I am terrified that I have this need and desire for no reason, that it’s some sort of joke from my own stupid psychosis and a God that doesn’t care. There have been times when my entire life is defined by this fear. I want to believe that God gives us our desires for a reason, and that He will fulfill them. On this, I place my hope, and I pray everyday that I’m not wrong.

For David and Karly <3

She did not look like anyone I had seen before. There was a red shape on her face that terrified me. I thought then that it was because I thought she was ugly, and I was so ashamed that I never talked to her. I think now, that it was because it scared me. I didn’t know what could cause something like that and I was selfishly afraid it could happen to me too if it happened to her. I think I was also afraid of what caused it. I was afraid she had gone through something really painful. I was afraid of the possibility that kids may have made fun of her. I was afraid to make it worse, and to be a part of her pain that was unimaginable to me. So I never talked to her.

Still, she was a sun-kissed beauty, radiant with love and affection. I will never forget the image of her laughing sweetly on the handlebars of David’s bike. Her hair was iconically hers, the shape of it was completely unique to her. It was blonde and brown at the same time, and the humidity frizzed it, but just enough to make it come alive. Her head tilted to her left shoulder as she balanced on the hard metal beam, clutching the handlebars so hard that her shoulders rose inwards and up to her chin. Her 50’s style skirt billowed around them, and yet remained perfectly tucked around her legs. It was khaki, and the fashion police inside of me couldn’t stand that, but they were happy.

He was just beside and behind her, as he always was. His olive skin was covered by a brown beard and shaggy haircut. He looked like an underdone college professor, if they grew like trees looking like themselves from the very beginning, complete with rimless glasses. At the same time, he glowed with the glee of a twelve year old boy, effusive with Karly’s presence. She was everything he needed, and everyone could see it.

I never talked to them, but I watched their sweet romance unfold with awe. They were so simply beautiful and happy, in a way that I had never been, and really could not understand. She was blissful when he picked her up with a rose from class. The night they became engaged their fingers intertwined and the twist of their hands around each other pushed their shoulders awkwardly into each other, but it did not matter. They were joy and romance incarnate.

Whenever I see scenes from Roman Holiday I think of them, but there was an innocence to them that surpassed even Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. There was this classic ordinary-ness that made their love real, but I never knew any of the flaws or silly arguments that everyone has, so they were still perfect. I still don’t fully understand my own fear of them.

Many years later, I found out that David had gotten sick. What seemed like no time at all later, I found out Karly was too. I was so upset, but I ignored it, and I went on with my life. Occasionally, I saw their posts, and everytime I saw them, I would want to cry for what they were going through, but I would close the page, so that I couldn’t see. I told myself I was protecting myself, which I was, but I was denying myself the power of praying for them, of hearing their beautiful story, of watching their beautiful life.

They have four kids now, who are all so beautiful and perfect. They have been joyful through so much suffering I cannot even fathom how they are doing it, if not for some miracle from heaven. This week, David died.

I am so angry for them.

I am so angry that Karly has lost him.

I remember the pain when I lost Emma. The moment when I felt a pain in my heart so intense that I thought I would stop breathing, or worse that I somehow would cease to exist. What was even worse was the pain of being alive with that pain in my heart, existing while my heart exploded out of my body in an ache that choked my lungs.

I know what it feels like to lose someone. I can’t stand that they are going through this.

This morning, I was doing dishes and making pancakes, and my body started to slam pots and pans, throw things roughly into the trash, and it wanted to scream and break every piece of glass in the house. I thought I was angry because my husband is struggling with biology, and I’m living with my parents, and I don’t have a car, and I’m going through a lot. So I went outside. I exploded out the door with fury, as if going outside would somehow free me from the anger igniting inside of me, fully expecting to rage to God about what’s going on in my own life. Instead, my rage was for them.

I started muttering underneath my breath, trying to appear sane, because I do not live in the middle of nowhere anymore, and there are people everywhere. Thankfully, none outside, so I could somewhat pretend to be alone, but anyone could have been watching, and that’s embarrassing, but oh well.

“I cannot believe you would do this to her…
She did nothing but follow you!
Why did he die?
Why him?
They did nothing wrong!
They were so beautiful!
They were so kind!
They never hurt anyone!
How could you do this to them?
Haven’t they suffered enough?
I can’t believe we live in a world that they could suffer so much.
What kind of a world have you created?
What kind of monster creates people just to torture them for their entire lives?
Why would you create us just to watch us burn?
How could you do this to her?
She has 4 kids.
She needs him.
They love each other.”

It didn’t stop there. I raged through falling snow and sobbed for them. I hid behind the pool house, and let my own heart bleed for her, and I prayed. I prayed that everything I am suffering right now would heal her heart so she would never feel what I felt when Emma died. I begged God to take that pain from her. I screamed at Him about letting that pain exist. I cried for her, I cried for me, I cried for my children, my parents, my husband, my friends, my neighbors, my people, acquaintances I have read about on Facebook that are just trying to get ahead.

“What the Hell, God?”

Then, like a flash in my head, I remembered writing about Shonda Rhimes using Grey’s Anatomy to comfort people, and I knew my purpose.

See, when I was a kid, I would grieve like this for others, but I slowly closed myself off. I told myself that I could not survive with everyone else’s pain and my own. I had to shut off everyone else’s so I could just feel mine. Closing off emotions doesn’t mean they aren’t there though, so everything that happened to me hurt worse than it would have because it was a symbol of all the pain I was ignoring. I became bitter and angry, and I didn’t help people anymore. It hurt too much. I felt stupid for bawling at funerals of people I barely knew, so I controlled my emotions.

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” Ezekiel 36:26

My heart of stone is broken. I worked so hard to create it, to hide who I really am, to pretend I am not meant to be there for others, to pretend it wasn’t my whole purpose in existing. It wasn’t my fault. I was a kid, and that’s what I thought I was supposed to do. My writing was given to me for a reason. My writing was given to me so that with every word I could take away a little bit of someone’s pain. It was given to me, as a gift, for the body of Christ, which is everyone on earth. Every. Single. Person. No. Matter. What.

If I could, I would go back in time and I would touch young Adolf Hitler. I would hold him, and tell him everything is going to be okay one day.

If I could, I would hold every single one of you who have ever thought about suicide, and I would tell you to wait. I would tell you to stay here, don’t leave us, you don’t know who is out there right now crying for you.

If I could, I would hold you as you cried, and I would tell you that God does love us, and there is goodness in this world. Sometimes, even I don’t believe it, but I can hold you until we can see it again.

We are all struggling. “We are all in this together,” High School Musical lyrics in the face of evil, screaming back against the night. We will not let it overtake us.

I am here for you. I do not have much to offer, everytime I try to do something for someone it falls apart, but I will sit here with you in your pain, and I will pray, and I will offer my tears for you, and I will touch your heart however I can. I will fail, and I will miss what you need me to say, and I will say the wrong thing, but let every word I say be a comfort to you anyway. It’s not enough, but please accept my presence with you, my love for you. You are not alone.

Karly, I am praying for you now, and I always will. My entire life I will remember you and David as the beautiful couple who suffered unimaginable pain and did the best they possibly could with every day they were given. I will think of you for years to come, and I will pray for you, and I will offer my struggles for you. I would move heaven and earth for you if I could take away the pain you are feeling right now, but I can’t, so let me offer you this. You are not alone, and you will never be alone.

Fiction: Prologue

You guys, I just wrote this, and I am so proud of it. I’m going to be working it into a book, and I am really really excited for it.

A few months after my first miscarriage, I started having a burning desire to have a threesome. My husband and I were struggling with intimacy because sexuality represented unanswered prayers. It represented the little person who was missing from our lives. It represented the loss of all our hopes and dreams of what our family was going to be. It represented unity, but in despair.

For months and months I struggled with this, I prayed about it over and over and over. Finally, in prayer I believed I felt God telling me, “This is a decision you need to make. If it is a mistake, you need to make it.” I’m a huge perfectionist, and I have struggled with scrupulously my entire life, and I have had the joy of many things destroyed because of how religion was taught to me. This time, I believed God was telling me it was ok to be human for a second.

We had a friend of mine over. She was beautiful and free. She represented everything we weren’t. But we loved her. She had been our best friend forever, and she had ended up closed out of the friendship because of our marriage. I think a part of me thought this was how it always supposed to be. We had done a trial run of just me and her and it had been exhilarating and free, but I had felt sad afterwards, because my husband was not there. When it was her and the two of us, it was the whole world in one room. We were hot and heavy and compassionate and sensitive, we were caring and loving and sexy and passionate. We were tangled together and gazing at each other. We were everything.

We did it again and again and again.

I would like to say that we were evil for doing it, that it was misguided and a mistake, and that it was sinful. It would be so much easier. It may have been sinful, but even now writing it, my entire body feels full and alive. My blood runs warmer through my veins. I think of unity with all of mankind and what that would feel like. I think of the promise of community in heaven, and I long for a unity that feels that profound. I long for complete union and passion with every single human being in existence.

I used to joke in college about how I believed that heaven could be an even deeper unity with all of mankind, like sex, but even deeper. What I didn’t say was that I meant it. I believe that Communion is like sex. I believe that the Eucharist is actually God, and because I believe that I believe that He wanted to be literally a part of us. He wanted to LITERALLY be inside of us. Every Sunday, I go to communion and I believe in Him as my bridegroom. I have fights with Him throughout the week about how He handled things, I complain to Him when my feelings are hurt, I ask Him to hold me at night when I’m sad, and when I am at Church on Sundays, I believe that He is creating complete intimacy with me.

Someone said once that sex is the closest we can get to heavenly ecstasy in this life. Insofar as sex is the same kind of unity as Communion, I believe that. I believe that when we truly love someone there is a moment when we cannot get close enough to them, when we cannot get them close enough in to us. I believe that union is the answer.

I should clarify before I am denounced as a monstrous heretic and declared a false prophet that I am not advocating polygamy on earth. Personally, I believe that on earth there are far too many risks and complications to that kind of relationship. However, I have a very secret fantasy that in heaven there will be some sort of heavenly unity or act, either sex or something like it, that will bring about a kind of ecstasy like nothing we have ever known. I have been so carried away in sex before that I begged my husband to stop, so I wouldn’t die from the heart-pounding, breathless exhilaration. I like to think that heaven will be that, but without the fear.

Lea Michele: What I wanted to say to you back then

Lea Michele,

I haven’t forgotten you. For years I have had the image of you plastered in my mind from the tabloids after you found out Cory Monteith had died. My heart bled for you. There was one that talked about what he said to you in his last voicemail. It struck me as cruel to report about such a sacred moment in your life. It still does. I have this image of you clutching the phone, crying, and maybe smiling, with paparazzi and flashing cameras all around you. I cannot imagine how hard it must have been to go through losing him.

Who knows, though? I don’t know you, maybe you were always fighting, and you wanted out of the relationship. Maybe he was abusive and you couldn’t stand him. Maybe you never really loved him at all and it was all just for publicity. Or maybe you loved him as deeply as I love my husband or any of the people I’ve lost, and maybe your entire world fell apart when he was gone.

The truth is, I don’t know, but I do know, that whatever the case, you deserved alone time to deal with the loss. You deserved the space to process all the stages of grief without every moment being reported. You deserved time to mourn however you needed.

I want you to know that I pray for you still. I don’t do it everyday, I’m not a stalker, but every once in a while you come to my mind. I think of what a hard time that must have been, and I hope that you have found peace and happiness now. I hope that sometimes you forget it even happened. I hope that it doesn’t hurt too much when it crosses your mind. I hope that you have healed as much as time can heal. I don’t believe time heals all wounds, but I believe it softens even the worst of them.

You may think I’m crazy for writing this letter, honestly, even I do, but I am learning to be true to myself and I write this to honor who I was when I wanted to cry for you, but I felt too silly. I wanted to honor the compassion that I was filled with back when everyone got angry with me for being obsessed with celebrities. I want to let the light I had shine, because I don’t know you, but I love you. I wish the best for you, no matter where or who you are now.

Love,

Me

Thank you, Jussie Smollett: Sending love

 

The first thing I saw when I searched for news of your attack was,

He “turned down extra security before the event.”

My mind started spinning with conspiracy theories from every TV show I have ever watched. If this was the CW, you would have perfectly orchestrated the attack for some money-related reason, or some politician would have done the same, but so that they would get the vote. I caught myself, and I couldn’t believe that was where my mind went. Then, I felt myself question, what if he did make it up, what if I end up feeling stupid?

On the other hand, my heart broke for you, and I was so angry that someone would be so petty. What if you were in a meeting and they told you that they could provide you a second bodyguard, or third, or you could buy more time with one of them? I can honestly say, I don’t think I would have chosen extra security either. How could you have known that you would need it?

Then, I caught myself again while reading the accounts, “Oh, the rope around his neck was a thin one, how convenient,” and I recoiled at myself in shock. I don’t know when I became so un-trusting, that I would look for the smallest detail and use it as an excuse to believe the worst in someone. I used to believe that everyone was good. When I was a kid, I would have prayed for you every day, though I would also have been terrified for my life because my empathy couldn’t understand that I was not the victim of any and everything I witnessed. (Note: I am not exaggerating about this, I once had a dream the KKK tried to burn my house down, and I have never fully recovered.) Some people in my life scared me, though, and now I guess I have hardened my heart to keep from being embarrassed.

The truth is, though, Jussie, is that I am so upset that you would be hurt. You are such a beautiful light to the world, and I am so grateful for you. Your performance as Jamal in Empire inspires me, every time I watch it. Kindness, compassion, and empathy radiates from you through the screen. Your every word, your every song, echoes throughout my life, a butterfly effect of hope. I want to thank you for everything you do.

I saw your family on The Chew a while back, and each of you inspired me with stories of surviving financial struggles as kids. Your mother was your world, and I relished those stories, as I lay pregnant and sick on the couch with my first baby playing on the floor. I admired the joy you and your family brought to discussions of food and family, and I aspire to create a family with that kind of spirit.

Amidst the fear, anger, skepticism, empathy, and sorrow, I happened across articles about the support for you from your Empire family and twitter feeds, and then articles about what you do for people. I already admired your courage for playing a character that would make so many people feel so much that it would emerge as anger, hatred, or worse, but now I discovered that you live the values you perform. I admire your work for LGBTQ, and AIDS. In my own life, sometimes, I don’t know how to feel about the religious and political war of gender equality vs. the traditions with which I was raised, but you have always advocated KINDNESS, and anyone can get behind that.

Thank you for being that kind voice in the world. Thank you for having the courage to perform a role that would make others feel powerful emotions. Thank you for being the kind of person who would deny extra security, because you don’t live with all of your walls up. I am so grateful for who you are as a person, and I hope you know that the whole world is not made of these people, who are willing to hurt others. There is good in the world, and there is gratitude for your place in it.

Thank you.

Please Accept Me

That was an overshare once again,

If I was poised enough I would have made a joke about it.

Sorry I didn’t mean to get too serious again,

I’m really not that funny.

I promise I’m not obsessed with myself,

Or am I? No one likes being around me.

Why do I always seem to be the wrong person?

I’m working on it, but I also want to be me.

I’m haunted by a comment a friend made about someone I knew.

He just wants to be accepted too much.

It echoes in my brain every time I’m lonely.

I just want to be liked so much that I’m weird,

An amalgamation of longing and genuineness that nauseates passers by.

Not to mention the bleeding heart in my chest that no one wants to look at.

Let’s be honest neither do I.

What the New York Abortion Bill Means to Me

When I found out I was pregnant with Emma, my husband walked away from me, went upstairs and blared slipknot. I trembled downstairs in fear.

When I was pregnant with Emma, my husband and I fought every single day. These were not little, meaningless spats. They were screaming arguments, “How are we going to pay for that? How are we going to take care of her? What are we going to do?” We would scream at each other for hours and break down into the kind of sobs that take over your whole body, and your guts come out through your eyes.

It never stopped. Every single day we erupted in terror at the only person we could talk to about it.

We were Catholic. There were no options. We were stuck, and we were screwed. We had no insurance because we couldn’t afford it, but because we were paying rent we couldn’t get Medicaid. We didn’t have our own house. We were living in a tiny bedroom, sleeping together in a twin bed as I grew enormous in a matter of weeks. My mom has always said that using NFP meant that you didn’t really trust God, and I had had virtually no sex education so it didn’t occur to me how quickly you could get pregnant, if you were married(obviously you get pregnant if you even think about having sex if you aren’t married.)

Our marriage was ruined, we had no idea how we would survive, or how she would. I was terrified of hospitals, and we couldn’t afford one anyway.

I had fleeting thoughts of wishing I would miscarry, but I could feel her. She was present in me and I knew her, but I couldn’t stand the pain of knowing that she would always be afraid because we couldn’t provide for her.

It got so bad that I considered abortion. Not fully, not seriously, but for a second, I thought about it. It is almost impossible for me to admit that as a Catholic.

Later, I don’t even know how it happened, but one day I realized I was reading a how-to on committing a natural abortion. I think I may have been searching for vitamin safety during pregnancy, and then saw this article and was so shocked it even existed. I had been taking a ton of vitamins that weren’t safe to stay healthy while I was so run down, and again, for a split second, I thought, “What if I just kept doing it?”

It couldn’t be a sin right? It’s just taking a vitamin, for my health. It’d be an accident. I’d like to think I didn’t mean it, but I was so scared.

We lost her a week later.

In the most horrifying, tragic moment of my life, I miscarried our honeymoon baby.

I don’t know if it was the vitamins I was taking unknowingly, the lack of sleep, the exhausting work I was doing, the stress, or just my body’s inability to form the baby correctly, but whatever it was she was gone. She IS gone.

There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel some repercussion of losing her. She is my butterfly effect proof. She is everywhere. She was all over my periods every time I questioned whether they were miscarriages or not. She was there every step of my pregnancy with my rainbow, and my double rainbow. She is there when I check my babies breathing at night. She is there when I hear stories of women losing their children. She is in me still, even though she’s not for anyone else.

I cannot believe now that there were moments I did not want her. Now, I would give anything to take those moments back, to have her back. I was so scared, and I try not to blame myself, but losing a child, whether it is your fault or not, is the worst thing that can happen to a woman. It is the greatest pain that you can imagine, and it isn’t healed by time. The thought fades, thankfully, but the grief never does.

In the face of the New York bill, what I want to say to you, is that you do not know what these women are feeling. A woman who is losing her child, has lost her child, or could lose her child, is in a kind of pain that you cannot imagine if you have not been there. There are women who are pro-life who have held their own children lifeless in their arms, and they cannot stand the idea of another child being lost. There are women who are pro-choice who have faced the worst nightmares and had to ask “what do I do?” No matter who you are, you do not know what is in the hearts of who you are against. You do not know what drives them.

So? You ask. What do I do with that information? Find out. Learn from the pain of others how to address problems in a way that helps everyone. Ask the mom who is contemplating abortion what she needs, and help her find it. Start a fund for women who are struggling. Be compassionate. If you are pro-choice, ask the pro-life women what are they worried about, what is wrong with the bill? What do they want?

More than anything, tell your story, tell it as loud as you possibly can, until you are heard. Stop telling everyone else what’s wrong with them, and speak your truth.

Ecstasy

Have you ever felt so much pleasure that you thought your entire body might explode?

Have you ever stopped being intimate because you were afraid you might not be able to handle what was coming?

Have you ever submitted completely only to be racked by a painful pleasure that just won’t stop?

If you haven’t, you haven’t experienced all that the orgasm has to offer.

If you haven’t, you can’t understand Teresa’s expression in the statue called Ecstasy.

If you haven’t, then you haven’t yet had the best sex of your life.

I know, because I told an older married woman that I didn’t like sex, and I didn’t believe her when she told me:

“It gets better.”