poeticdesires

Category: Doc

  • Wednesday

    It was cold enough that I slept with a hat on, my comforter draped over my face.

    When I woke up, it was still chilly.  I let myself snooze under my covers for a spell.

    But then I remembered the book.

    I’m reading an erotic novel for a book review to be published on this blog in one week.  I won’t give anything away just yet.  But what I will say is this: though I was worried I wouldn’t be able to finish reading it before the review was due, I was soon calmed.  The pages are flying by.

    ~

    “A friend sent me a package in the mail.  It’s a piece a leather I’m dying for him.”
    “That sounds nice.  Where does he live?”

    There’s a reason why that was the first question she asked me.

    I recognize it.  Shit, I’ve talked to Doc about it.

    I’m really good at keeping people at arm’s length.  At closing off myself.  Part of my latest session with Doc centered around my caution to open up, my reluctance at letting people take care of me.

    It’s easier in the short term to incite and nurture long distance relationships.  If I don’t open up to someone, if I only give love but never expect it in return, my head thinks my heart is less likely to get to hurt.

    But, over time, I’m left with an emptiness, a longing for a deeper connection than the long distant ones I find myself drawn towards currently.

    As always, I’m working on it.

    ~

    “I swear, if you get your exam back and it’s another 100, I’m gonna slap you right across your face.”

    It’s happening again.

    I’m taking a biology class as well as a chemistry class.  Chem is at 5pm; Bio is at 6:30.

    My chemistry class is a no credit refresher course for people who haven’t taken the subject in quite some time or are at a loss in general with chemistry.

    I’m smart.  I know I’m smart.  My chemistry class at times is challenging, but not really.  I read the material.  I take notes, both from the book and in class.  I study and do all the homework.  I’m doing well.

    My biology class is harder.  It’s actually worth four credits.

    I participate in a study group.  Often my study buddies ask me questions in class or lab; I’m usually able to answer them.  Even though it’s more challenging, I’m getting a 100% in biology currently.

    We just had our first lab exam today.  It was harder than I thought it would be.  I know I stumbled on a few questions, but I anticipate I earned at least a B.

    When I left the lab, I kept telling myself I’d be okay if I just got a B.  I voiced this concern to my study buddies, who themselves were nervous about the test.  And then one of them said that.

    It’s not the first time someone has been almost hostile towards my intelligence.

    I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, but it does.  I know he meant it jokingly, but it’s stuck with me for the past four hours.

    Moments like that are why I’m hesitant to tell people how I did on a test.  Why I don’t brag about my accomplishments.  I feel like I need to lessen myself to make them feel comfortable.

    But fuck that shit.  Fuck him for saying it.  Fuck anyone for being pissed that I did well.  I put in the work, motherfuckers.  I put in the work.

    In just over two months, I won’t see any of them again.  I’ll move on to the next science class, a new group of classmates.

    How many of them will despise my intelligence?  How many of them are gonna be dicks because I keep getting A’s?  How many times am I going to have to deal with this shit?

    I’ve got, at minimum, six more years of school.  I guess now is as good a time as any to get used to the bullshit.

  • Ironies

    I got the phone call, knew what was going to happen soon.  Knew that there would come a day in my near future where I would live in a world where my father was dead.

    I put my mug down, my phone down, opened up the door to the Sun Room, closed the door, and collapsed onto the floor.  I wailed into the carpet.  My throat hurt more than I thought it ever could, and so quickly.  My breathing was hurried, barely any air.

    I stopped myself.  I needed to breathe.  Realized if I continued to cry, continued to blast out my emotions, my hyperventilating would cause me to pass out.

    What will make me feel better?  What do I want right now?

    I texted Gray.  I drove to the city.  Saw my best friend.  Spoke to my mentor on the phone.  And, before I drove back home, I gave my mother a hug.

    As I rose from my cry, it occurred to me: my position there on the floor.  As I began the process of grief, before the ultimate moment had even come, my legs bent and tucked under my chest, my head on the floor, my arms in front; I was in child’s pose.

    ~

    The hospital my father died in, the one I visited thrice before he passed, with it’s marble walls and soft couches and inviting faces.  I’d been there before he slipped, thirty years earlier.

    The hospital where I was born was the hospital in which my father died.

    ~

    I found it while looking in the mirror and brushing my teeth.  It was not too long ago when I made the discovery, just a bit before my current emotional rollercoaster began.  I only found one, about two inches long.  A gray hair.

    When I visited him, saw him in the hospital bed, his face vacant, his limbs looking less than, I noticed his hair.  Someone had pulled it back into a bun sitting atop his head.  His salt and pepper hair, a mess.

    ~

    As I drove to work on Saturday, waiting to pull out onto the main thoroughfare, I paused to wait for a funeral line to pass.  About two dozen cars slowly drove through the intersection, flashing lights and hanging signs marking their grief.

    That night, while at work, I got a call from my brother.  Dad had taken a turn.

    ~

    As I drove my younger brother up to the hospital, I didn’t want him to talk.  But he’s my brother, so he did.

    He’d had a dream about Dad, before all this had started.  He dreamed about Dad not being well.

    “Isn’t that something?”

    “Whatever, dude.”  I muttered it.  I dismissed him.

    Because, in my last session with Doc, I uttered words I could never take back.  We spoke about how my father was old and if I wanted to repair the relationship with him I needed to take the initiative and be understanding about his life, all he’s gone through.  After all, being that he was 83 yrs. old, at best he had maximum ten years left.

    “Yes, my father is not long for this world.”

    I didn’t realize how right I, or brother, was.

    ~

    Television is too pretty when it comes to death.

    I love Netflix, have been catching up on new episodes of my favorite shows, and I saw one tonight where a character was on life support, in a coma.  They looked too pretty.  No slack jaw.  No eyes rolled up into their head.  No blood or crud on their teeth.  Too pretty; too clean.

    The nurses told us we should leave the room when they took the breathing tube out.  Most of us did; my older brother didn’t.  I’m glad I didn’t have to see that.  In the show, it was simple and clean.  Real life is much messier.

    Ella, when they took her off, just passed.  My Dad last several hours, from around 1:30pm til around 8:30pm.

    It’s hard for television to express that, to accurately show what it’s like to wait for someone you love to die.  It’s not a straight line of misery.  There are moments when you almost smile, when you take yourself away from the sadness.  Looking at something stupid on YouTube.  Stories about this or that.  Leaving the room for food or to go walk outside.  It seems to me a person can only take misery in doses.

    My Dad is dead.  I still haven’t cried.  I’m hoping the Labyrinth at camp will help.  Or possibly the funeral.  Or when I talk to Doc.  Because, right now, every time I come close, I lock it down.

    I was going to write a blog post about two weeks ago titled Breaking the Box.  I put my feelings about my Dad in a box and locked them away for a weekend.  I wanted to have fun instead of focusing on conflicted emotions with him.  This was before he got sick.

    My last session was all about me talking about said emotions with Doc.  I opened the box for an hour.  I had hoped, over time, to learn to break the box, to accept my Dad for who he is and find a place where I could just love him despite the pain my life dealt me.

    Now I don’t know now if I’ll ever break the box.

  • EMDR

    We started with a memory, a strong memory that incited a negative emotion.  I described the memory to Doc.  He had me close my eyes.  Travel back to that moment, back to those emotions, sit in those feelings.  The tears easily came.

    “How do you feel?”
    “Forgotten.  Not thought of.  Alone.”
    “On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being perfectly fine and 10 being horrible, how do you feel?”
    “Um, it’s an eight.”
    “Okay.  Open your eyes.  Follow my fingers.”

    His hand dashed back and forth in my field of vision.  I tried to not concentrate too hard on his hands, just allowing my eyes to move.  When the time came, he brought his hand to center, raised and lowered it.  I closed my eyes again.

    I was relaxed.  I could feel myself sink into my seat.  I let my mind be, tried to allow whatever memories to come forth.

    I was at Hershey Park with my family.  It was the time I got lost in the middle of the crowd.  I was crying and frightened.  Alone.  Helpless.  Powerless.

    “Okay, let’s go with those emotions.”

    I opened my eyes.  His fingers moved in front of my sight.  My gaze followed.  Then came the gesture and I closed my eyes again.

    Now I saw my mother coming for me, finding me at the lost child station.  Riding on little kids rides even though I wasn’t a little kid.  And realizing I could remember nothing else from that day except getting lost and being found.  Feeling safe again.

    “Okay, feeling safe.”

    We repeated the pattern.

    The next time I closed my eyes, I saw a beach.  Hidden.  Deserted.  Three people.  Two guys and a girl and a hidden beach.  And the guys sleep with the girl, and I think that meant they cheated on their girlfriends.  But I couldn’t remember the name of the movie.

    “Y Tu Mama Tambien.”

    I giggled at that.

    Doc and I repeated the cycle over and over again for about twenty minutes.  Many random memories and images floated to the top of my mind.

    There was how I felt physically when I was sad: tense face, clenched teeth, the muscles in my shoulders.

    Safe in my bed at night with Tessie, my night light on, and snuggled under my comforter.

    Realizing how much the therapy felt like my erotic hypnosis with Gray.  Different stories of others erotic hypnosis.

    Back stroking through clouds.

    Intricate woodwork.  The back of the chair hanging on my wall.

    Aunties, Uncles, and Ella.  Me and them and Mom as a family, together.  And then each of the three of them dying, one by one.

    The insurance check after Ella passed.  Ella being gone, but somehow still helping me.

    Doc had me end on that imagine, those emotions.  He asked me to think back on my initial memory, travel back to the place where we started, back to those emotions.  And he asked me again, on a scale of 1 to 10, how I felt.  I was a four.

    Doc asked me to come back, opening my eyes when I was ready.  I gave myself the time and space to return, opening my lids, my gaze lowered, and gradually bringing my sight and consciousness up.

    Doc thought the therapy went well.  He felt it was great progress that I’d gone from an 8 to a 4 in only twenty minutes of work.  I acknowledged it was good, but he could see resistence in me.

    “Why do you think it worked?” he asked.
    “Well, you got me so relaxed, my body couldn’t tense up like it usually does when I tap into those emotions.  No physical reaction, so less emotional draw.”
    “I think your partially right, but it’s more than that.  Your emotions around the moment aren’t as strong currently, so you physically don’t feel it like before.”

    Doc gave me post therapy info about possible issues to come up.  I might remember random memories.  I might be overly emotional.  Though the memory is lessened now, that may not last.  He advised me to shower once I got home since toxins were released from my body.  And he encouraged me to attend another session, sooner than our normal turn around, for more EMDR.  I see him tomorrow.

    In the week since our session, the inciting memory has not come back with the same force.  I didn’t have any of the possible post therapy issues.  I did have a moment of the emotions behind the memory occur in a similar situation, but I dealt with my feelings just fine.

    I can’t deny that EMDR changed something in that moment.  Whether or not it continues only time can tell.

    If you’re interested in the science behind what we’re trying, here’s a link to the Wikipedia article.  The short version is it helps to develop the amigdula, which handles emotional processing.  The therapy has been used for soldiers in combat and post combat.

  • Big R

    “How many of you are in a D/s relationship?”

    I watched as the people around the circle raised their hands.  Rough’s gaze ran counterclockwise until his stare landed on me.  My hand was halfway up.

    “Well, it depends.  What is your definition of a D/s relationship?”
    “That’s a good question, poetic.  We’ll start with you.  What’s your definition of a D/s relationship?”

    I was suddenly a bit flustered.

    “A D/s relationship is when one person consensually gives up control to another, and the other person consensually receives said control.  But there are big R relationships and little r relationships, and I’m kind of in a medium R relationship.  Gray is my Teacher, my Sempai, and I’m his student, his kohai.  I’m submissive to him, but he’s not in charge of me.  There is no veto power.  We play with whoever we want.  We’re friends and we fuck and play, but he said he didn’t want to do an LDR, so we’re something.”

    I took a sip of my water, trying to hide for a breath.

    As I did, I looked left and saw two people coming up the walk.  Life has a way of having perfect timing.

    Gray, accompanied by MissAmyRed, who was in service to him for Rope Camp, made their way up the lane and towards the class.  The two of them sat down and Rough, thankfully, moved on to the next person in the circle.

    Where Gray and Amy were positioned, I had only to wait for two people to describe their D/s before Gray gave his answer.

    Gray, without hesitation, stated he was in a D/s relationship with me as his student and that Amy was on loan, as it were, to him for the event.

    Hearing Gray’s answer made my heart both sink and soar.  He had just given acknowledgement of our dynamic in front of a few of our friends and had called it a relationship.

    Looking at our pre-existing situation, there are places where Gray had already acknowledged what we have.  There was the status on Fetlife.  There were the times we’d spent together, both at events and not.  He’d spoken about me as his student before both among friends and at the Grue Pitt.

    Yet, I had been hesitant to call what we have a relationship in deference to what I viewed as his preference to our interactions.  I had previously brought up the idea of an LDR, which he did not want.  I had mentioned the thought of moving closer to him, which he discouraged.  In my mind, I didn’t want to give too much weight to what we have believing the sentiment was not shared.  But it was Gray who called our dynamic a relationship.

    I ended up having a lengthy conversation with Doc about this moment.  The conclusion we ended at revolved around my self worth issues.  It is much easier for me to remember the negative.  I took the decline from Gray for both an LDR and the move as indicators that our dynamic was not worthy of the label of relationship.  Instead of noting all the positive aspects of what we’ve shared, instead of using our past emotional and kink interactions as a basis for my answer to Rough’s question, I went with the less-than-pleasant-ness I remembered, the things I didn’t want to hear but had still resounded like church bells.

    After class, I felt the need to tell Gray my response to the question.  Many thanks to Doc for the lessons in being emotionally honest.  I also asked Gray for an explanation of his answer.  He explained, when given the choice between big R and little r, a relationship or none whatsoever, of course we were a big R.  We were not just friends.

    As our Rope Camp continued, our interactions did not seem effected by our discussion.  And, as we spent another day with each other after the event, we were as we were before.

    Now, with time between that class and some life lived, I have had the chance to tell people over and over again that Gray is my Teacher, my mentor, my Sempai.  That I am in a D/s dynamic with him.  Each time I’ve said it, there was a smile on my face and less worry passing over my lips.

    Whether we are Big R or medium R, we are something.  And that’s enough for me.

  • The Mask

    “Stop.”
    “Dammit.”
    “Feel that. Whatever you are feeling right now. Just sit with that emotion.”

    I didn’t want to. I was reading my homework for Doc. A few pages typed into my netbook. Very honest words to myself. My pace was measured. I tried to put on my writer-ly voice.

    But then I got to two lines. Two deep lines. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. He did.

    “Close your eyes. Imagine the emotion. How do you see it? Perceive it? What does it feel like? What does it look like? Try not to qualify it as good or bad. Just be curious about it. And just sit for five minutes with it.”
     
    I felt it in my face. Tense. Constrictive. From my eyes down to my lips. Curving almost under my chin. Pressure. Pain.

    It was a mask. Shiny and red. Beautiful, if I didn’t know where it came from. It was angular, asymmetrical, with ridges and valleys that gave it depth. Drew in your eye. It was a primary red, but not one color. It melded into darker shades, but always came back to the true blood hue.

    It pushed down on my top lip. Constricted my breathing. Covered my nose. Palmed my cheeks. Squeezed my face tight. Swirled around an eye. Rested where my third eye would be.

    It reminded me of a dark masquerade adornment. Like something I would wear with layers of black and spiked heels. Or with no layers at all.

    I didn’t want to stay with the mask. But this was Doc. So I trusted that I needed to feel this. I kept repeating the lines over and over again. I kept myself in that place, mostly. Tears streamed silently down my face.

    Doc gave me space to come back. Open my eyes when I was ready. I described the mask to him. Noted how it was probably symbolic of something. He put that thought aside.

    Instead he noticed my change in demeanor. My voice was lower. Distant. I wasn’t vibrant any longer. I’d wiped away my tears already. Blown my nose. Tensed up my shoulders. Hunched over.

    I was protecting myself. Pushing that feeling away. Like I always do. Whenever I really feel it. Whenever I delve into hurt or pain or anguish or grief. When I stop the tears, I shut away the emotion. I was trying to protect myself from myself.

    I was compartmentalizing. I’m really good at that.

    Doc handed me a piece of paper. It was a long list separated by three categories. Doc asked me to read the list and pick which statement fit me most. I read.

    Maybe.

    Kind of.

    A little bit. 

    “Huh,” I scoffed.

    I couldn’t even remember the other possible statements. The one I read, the last one I read, was so perfect.

    “I can’t get what I want.”

  • Yearn

    Attention and affection; two simple concepts, yet it has taken me time and thoughtful introspection to realize they are the two major necessities I need in a relationship.

    I want a partner who will spend time with me. Not around me, but with me. I need simple attention: a meal where we bitch about our respective jobs; watching a movie on NetFlix; going for a jog with me in the neighborhood; testing our duel trivia knowledges via Jeopardy! It doesn’t need to be fancy, but give me the time.

    I also want someone who shows affection towards me. Hugs and kisses, yes. But also holding hands. Back rubs. Gentle caresses. Playing with my hair (bonus points!). Cuddles. Snuggles.

    Without attention and affection, I cannot be happy in a relationship.

    There was a moment a week and a half ago. It was the Sunday after the Grue Pitt. Everyone was tired, exhausted really, winding down from the event. Gray, TwistedView, K2, and myself gathered in the living room to watch random action movies.

    At one point, TwistedView and K2 snuggled on the LoveSac while Gray and I did the same on the couch. Gray lightly rubbed my back, my arm. We were watching either From Dusk Til Dawn or Game of Thrones. It was nothing big; just some down time to relax our brains and bodies.

    And then, in a flash, it hit me: This is awesome. I want this. I should find someone for this back home.

    Ding ding ding.

    Because that’s the thing: I live here and he lives there. Our lives are separated by hundreds of miles. When we are together, it’s great, amazing really, but our lives make it so our time together is fleeting. Thems be the breaks.

    I wanted to kick myself when the obvious hit me upside my head.

    It was exactly what Doc has been talking about. Love, real love, isn’t a series of highs and lows. It’s steady. A baseline that’s always there. Yes, it will have its moments, but the foundation lies in daily consistent care.

    I yearn for attention and affection from someone regularly in my life. I want snuggles on the couch and cuddles in bed each night. I want someone to lean on, and to take care of, not just on special days, but every day.

    I don’t like that, when thinking about any as yet partner, thoughts veer towards my Ex. I don’t like remembering snuggling with him on the couch or sleeping with him at night. I don’t like that he is still a small part of my life (the occasional run in at work).

    It is so tempting to go backwards, to try again. Not tempting enough, though, for me to do it. There were far too many things wrong with our relationship for me to go back to him. But tempting still.

    It hurts, my current situation. Because I know I did have that bond with someone before. I know it’s possible, making the not having it that much worse.

    I do have attention and affection now, occasionally, on special days. When I get it, I feel this sense of ease. Of excitement, of course, but also of stillness. A knowing that yes, this is right. This is what I want, what I need. A gladness for my life in those days.

    But I yearn for more than my special days, as cherished as they are to me. I yearn for constant love, daily care, dependable attention and affection.

    As you might have guessed, since the Grue Pitt, I edited my OKC profile again. I’m trying to find a poly munch. I’m keeping my eyes and heart open. And I’m hoping.

    Slowly, surely.

  • Three to the Third

    I may never forget his birthday.

    I love numbers, always have, and as soon as he told me his birthday, I smiled and said, “Oh, cool; three to the third.” He smiled at the nerdy way my brain had branded the date into my memory.

    Now, having not seen or spoken to him in months, it dawned on me about a week or two ago that his birthday was soon approaching.

    I’ve kept myself from contacting him. No texts. No calls. Every day I think about it, either in a passing moment or in the struggle of an addict trying not to get just one more fix. But now, the irony of a text to him on his special day just seems fitting.

    I don’t know if I’ll do it. Something in me wants to if for no other reason than it is the perfect excuse. No other day of the year lends itself to my self-destructive tendency to keep this man in my life. And considering how shitty my special day was, why the fuck not inject a thought into his brain?

    But the logical side of me, the part of me that wants to protect myself from myself, is resistant, realizing the harm it could bring, the further damage I could inflict upon myself.

    What would I get out of such a message? Opening the Pandora’s box of contacting him. Placing myself back on his hook. Splaying my wants and needs out again, knowing most likely he will not fulfill them.

    Something in my brain sees this as how it should be. The constant unknowing, hoping for what can never be, what he will never want or allow. Something in my brain nudges me to act in ways I know will not be in my self interest, ways that will do more harm than good. Because my brain believes he will change. My brain believes it can be different, he can be different.

    My brain believes things I know, more likely than not, will never be true.

    So I try to tell my brain to shut up, which Doc insists is not the way to tame my urges.

    Then I try to listen to the voice behind my thoughts, which Doc encourages. I listen to her, the little girl who just wants to be loved. The little girl who believes if she just does this or says that he will want her, he will change for her. The little girl who wants the attention, the approval, the care he never gave.

    I hold her. I caress her hair. And I tell her everything will be alright. I tell her I love her, no matter what.

    So whether or not I send that text on the 27th, whether or not I open up Pandora’s box again, I try to continue to love myself despite myself, whatever consequences my swirly brain’s decisions elicit.

  • Why?

    I’ve been asking myself that question a lot lately, mostly because of a friend’s influence, although Doc has been encouraging it as well.

    In regards to my theatrical career, there is one person who I believe owes most of the credit for my current circumstance: Mr. David Kriebs. He was the Production Manager for the Performing Arts Center at my college, and, on the first day of my first college Theatre Tech class, he uttered a sentence I will never forget: “We eat.”

    It was his pithy explanation of being a techie. We get jobs. We don’t wait for callbacks. We don’t hem and haw over whether or not the casting director liked us. We work.

    And, for the first time, I thought about theatre as a viable career. Nevermind that I loved to act, would later learn I had a knack for directing, and had been writing since age seven. With Kriebs’ one line, a seed had been planted. I could work as a techie for a living.

    It doesn’t really matter that I didn’t drop my Math major for another year. I was already heading down the path, already set in the life I would live.

      “The question to ask, before you chuck it all to go raise horses in the desert or climb trees for a living, is: why? Take a look at where you are, because on some level there was something about being there that you wanted. Some quality about it reflects some desire within yourself, and that’s why you made things the way they are…

    It’s important to know what parts of our lives are subsidized by the habits and environments we cultivate. Because change is gonna happen regardless; it’s probably a good idea to only help it along when you’re sure it’s worth the risk.” – Gray, from The Danger of Desire, Love.Life.Practice.

    The problem, though, is that I sat up a false narrative in my mind with David’s sage words. Techie equals job, pay, making a living. Acting equals maybe job, maybe pay, hard living.

    I never gave myself the chance to be an actor, never gave myself the chance to explore that desire I had to be on stage, in the limelight, baring my soul for the world. Funny enough, my fears about relationships mirror my fears about being an actor: letting people in, letting people see me, raw, unfiltered, and their judgement that was sure to come.

    Now, being a freelance tech, there are many reasons why I have kept this job. A big allure is the freedom. I’m never stuck at a desk, never bound by a steady nine to five life. FOMO, fear of missing out, haunts me at times. This job makes it less a likelihood. I won’t lose my job no matter how much time I take off.

    But now, thinking about a life I am pursuing where I know I will be sacrificing so much freedom, so many events I would normally attend, doesn’t scare me. What scares me now is the thought of what I could’ve been if I had tried a little harder, made different decisions.

    When it comes to medicine, there was something more insidious in my aversion of that path. It was my family, their influence, that pushed me astray. Two prominent female figures in my life, my mother and my cousin Ella, led me away from that dream.

    I was in my early teens when once Ella asked me, point blank, “How would you feel if someone died on your table?” I didn’t have an answer to her question. In my mind, that meant I was not capable of being a doctor, because surely others had thought of this and knew how they would react, knew that they could handle it. I didn’t know how I would react, if I could take it, if it would break me. I still don’t.

    But then there was the subtle nudge of my mother. Her example of being less than. Once, when I was young, mentioning wanting to be a doctor, thinking about following in my father’s footsteps, and her asking me to not say that. Somehow insinuating it wasn’t “right”, whatever that is. I don’t know if my mother was ashamed of her life, of her role that she played as the loving mistress, but I suspect whatever reservations she had she unknowingly tried to pass onto me.

    And now I’m here, in a job that pays my bills but I do not love, knowing I could be more.

    Now I am starting a journey of trying to be something else, something closer to what I imagined when I was younger, something closer to what I hope will be better for those around me and the world as a whole. Because soon I’ll be 30. And then 40. And then 50. And in the precious time I have on this earth, I want to be doing something I love rather than something I’m good at or something that is just safe.

  • The Un-Boyfriend

    I stopped looking. I stopped trying. 

    I have barely touched my OKCupid profile, answered messages, or tried to hookup with anyone since meeting OKC boy.

    It came to me last night, as I snuggled up in bed, reading a blog before my eyelids shut for the evening: OKC boy is the perfect un-boyfriend.

    We have had three “dates”. The first was our initial meeting at a nearby Starbucks. I realized a few things from that two hours of chatting. 1- He’s hot. 2- He’s geektastic. 3- He has an avoidant attachment style, just like me.

    Our second “date” involved him visiting my house. He was late (minus five points), but then set out to explain his tardiness as we sat and drank in my living room. His excuse seemed plausible enough.

    And then we fucked for three hours. That part was rather pleasant. Oh, who am I kidding. It was awesome. Turns out (shocker) my sexual appetite is greater than his. I wanted to keep fucking after round number four, but he was spent and had other plans for his evening.

    Our third “date” actually involved leaving my house. We ate pancakes at a local diner and chatted… before coming back to my home to fuck for a few hours. Once again, the sex was great. And then he left.

    I have created the perfect and worst possible situation for myself. I am, on occasion, screwing an incredibly intelligent, attractive, goal oriented guy… who is not interested in a relationship right now.

    “Let’s see where things go” in answer to my “I’d like us to be more than friends” was a gentle way of him letting me know all I could expect was sex and laughs. I’m grateful for his half-assed answer.

    But now I find myself in the very situation I don’t want to be in, and yet am drawn towards.

    I’ve learned from my time with Doc that what is happening, what I’m doing, is hitting all of my anxious avoidant buttons. I was so very nervous when I slipped in my hope as we chatted, naked on a futon bed in the basement. When I heard his answer, I got the hint. Later, when he casually mentioned how focused he was on his career and that he used OKC just for hooking up, I really got the hint.

    Since then I’ve barely thought about him other than when are we going to fuck again.  But I also haven’t worked towards finding anyone else.  I’ve switched from being anxious about what could be with him to being avoidant to the issue at hand: this is not a real relationship.

    I’ve put myself in a place I don’t want, again. My emotional energy is going towards someone who is not going to give it back. In a not-at-all-surprising way, I have recreated the situation I saw as love in my house, a mostly absent male figure occasionally dropping in for moments and then leaving.

    Why does this keep happening?

    Well…

    1- I’m drawn to distant male figures, either emotionally distant, physically distant, or both.

    2- My parents’ example taught me that that was what loves was, longing for the person who isn’t there, taking in the bits of them that they allow you to have, and believing that is okay. (Hint: IT IS NOT OKAY!)

    3- Even though it is what I rage against, sometimes I think it’s what I want. Not really want, but what I know. What I’m used to. It’s hard for me to change unless a situation gets to be unbearable. And here I find myself with a hot intelligent not-an-asshole boy ready to fuck me about once every few weeks.

    But this is not what I want from a relationship. However, it is what I know, where I’m comfortable, how I’ve lived much of my adult sexual life. Everything in me wants to change this, wants more than just fucking (though I still want the fucking).

    I want the chest feelings with the pants feelings. I want a warm body in my bed at night to snuggle me to sleep, and a pillow to nudge my head against when I wake up in the morning. I want a partner to open up to about how scared I am for my mother, how nervous I am about going back to school, how much stuff I want to do with my writing and presenting. I want someone on my side rather than just in between my legs.

    I don’t want to be alone anymore. I don’t want an un-boyfriend. I want a boyfriend.

    But how will I ever get what I want when it’s so easy (even when it’s hard) to just stay here.

    (Cue tears…)

    …

    …

    /end crying

  • Opening the Box

    Everyone is a good liar from one hundred feet away.

    It wasn’t a big lie. In fact, it was a tiny one I’m sure everyone has told some time, if not quite often, over the course of their lives. A friend, who happened to spot me standing, looking about at the gathered folks at the event, mimed “You okay?” to me. I gave a head nod. Yes, I was okay.

    Except, really, I wasn’t. I didn’t want to admit this to my friend or to myself, but I wasn’t.

    Everyday I actively forget I will die. I actively forget the people in my life will die.

    Someday, my friends will be dead. Someday, my family will be dead. At that moment, only a few hours til the end of my event, I was trying to not remember that one day my mother will be dead.

    My Mom is sick.

    I got the call Friday afternoon, after I’d checked into the hotel, put away all my clothes, lined up my shoes, and rested naked on my bed contemplating my weekend. I was taking a shower when my Mom initially phoned. I called her back, towel around my middle, thinking this would be just a check in.

    And then I learned she was in the hospital. She had been suffering chest pains and shortness of breath. They admitted her, but didn’t know yet what the problem was.

    Thank whatever creator there is my mother was on the phone talking with me because when I heard chest pain and shortness of breath my mind jumped to heart attack and other no-good-very-bad thoughts.

    And I was in DC. And my car was not. And my Winter Fire had just started.

    I told her where I was (“at an event in DC”), and she told me it was okay. She told me to stay. She had had visitors, family and friends by to see her. She told me not to worry, something that was of course impossible.

    I asked her to text me that night before she went to sleep, and every night til I could see her. She did. I talked to her the next day, and she texted me again that evening.

    My Mom’s diagnosis is a blood clot, which had originated in her leg, but had traveled to her lungs. She’s now on blood thinners, and may well be on them for the rest of her life. She has a history of a clot in her past, caused by birth control and a sedentary job as well as lifestyle. But they do not know why she got this clot.

    The icing on the shitty cake came Sunday night. My Mom is also now a diabetic.

    For almost the entirety of my weekend, I pushed my emotions aside. I created a box, shoved all the feelings into that box, and scooted it to the edge of my periphery. Each time I thought the feelings might jump out in front, friends were there to distract me. I had amazing scenes and awesome friends time with so many people at the event. But my friends didn’t realize they were doing this for me.

    Even as I am working with Doc, it is still so hard for me to talk about my emotions. I have this idea that revealing my not-fun feelings places undue burden on those I care about. I have to be the rock, the one others lean on for comfort and care, to the detriment of my own emotional health.

    When I learned my mother was now diabetic (in her before bed text message Sunday night), I made my way back to my room, hoping it would be empty. It was not. My event roommate was there.

    I could not hold the box at bay anymore. I cried. My roommate rubbed my back and comforted me.

    I ended up going back downstairs, not knowing how I would spend my last few hours of my event. I walked around. I watched pinches of scenes here and there. And then my friend mimed their question.

    And, almost as soon as I answered it, I realized I was lying. I took my ass to bed, knowing that I needed to take care of me. I didn’t need to suck every last once out of my kinky time. I needed to cuddle up with my stuffed turtle and sleep.

    Today’s therapy session was obviously centered around this new development and my emotional wall to the world. While waiting for the session to start, I came to the realization that I needed to at least tell my roommates what was going on. Doc concurred, saying it would be good for me as both an exercise and an emotional release.

    After therapy I saw my mother. She looked like she always does, minus her makeup. Aside from the IV in her arm, you wouldn’t know anything was wrong. I stayed with her for about four hours. We talked, first about what the doctors had told her, and then about nothing important, as you do when someone is in the hospital.

    I walked away this evening feeling less scared. But all during my kinky fun, just outside my periphery, I was terrified. That she would die. That I wouldn’t be there. That I was a horrible person for staying. That I was making a mistake. That I needed to rush to be at her side. That I was a horrible daughter. None of which is true.

    When I arrived home tonight, the house was empty. I flipped through NetFlix, trying to find something funny, my self-prescribed medicine whenever life brings me down. As my roommates filtered in for the evening, I told them each about my mother’s current state. Everyone was comforting, and the world did not end.

    I have to keep reminding myself of Doc’s lessons. I am baby stepping my way to being a more emotionally open and secure person. Each time I’ve let people in has been a good experience, even though I predicted it would not be so. Baby steps.