poeticdesires

Category: Emotional

  • Fuck You Knowledge

    I get sad.

    It’s not for any real medical reason, but every time the seasons change I go into a funk. My general mood drops to bleh, and I find myself not wanting to do anything but plant my ass on the couch, alternating between watching NetFlix and sleep.

    I know the things I should be doing to combat this (exercise, writing, actually getting normal sleep each night), but the life I have set up for myself combats my needs. I work, at times, insane hours making it difficult for me to create a regular sleep pattern. Being tired makes it hard (very hard) to write, and with so little time I prioritize sleep over a run. Plus I once tried to run when I was super tired. I just ended up walking for more than half of it, and not even at a fast pace. Basically my body yelled at me, saying WhatTheFuck, GoToBed! I’ve listened ever since.

    When it goes from Summer to Fall or, in my current circumstance, from Winter to Spring, I am reminded of the passage of time. I am reminded that half a year has gone by. Another six months of my life lived. And, no matter how amazing the days were, another six months I will never have again.

    I am afraid of death. I am afraid to die. [Yes, this is another heavy blog. Deal.]

    So, spoiler alert:

    There is this part at the end of The Green Mile where the main character is narrating over the images on screen, and he’s talking about how he knows he will someday die, but it will be a long time for him to wait, because if the Michael Clark Duncan character can make a mouse live however many years, how long does that mean he, a grown man, will last.

    I get what the guy is saying; I understand the scariness of seeing your friends and family die around you. I understand his existence will be depressing… for him.

    But I can see the flip side of that, too. I can see the years of watching the changes in the world. I can see the possibilities for innovation, evolution, change. I can only imagine all the things I will miss out when I am gone, because some day I will not be here.

    I don’t believe in heaven or hell. I believe, when you die, that’s it. Like going to sleep, but never waking up. You rest.

    Maybe, possibly, my brain will fire a neuron that will flow through my glia, but my consciousness will experience it as an ever lasting memory. Hopefully, if this is what they mean by heaven or hell, it is joyful or comforting. Even for the worst of us, I hope that.

    If not, give me rest.

    I understand the appeal of vampires, staying young and living forever. At a sacrifice, yes, but is the alternative a blessing or the ultimate curse? No one knows, until you know.

    I read a quote recently, and I know I am about to butcher it, but it said roughly this: Humans are the only animal that tells time, and yet a dog does not need a watch to know when it is time to eat or go outside. Humans are blessed with knowledge, yet it is their curse, for since they are the only animal who knows time, they are also the only ones who are keenly aware that it is running out.

    In 4.5 billion years, the Earth will be gobbled up by the Sun when it becomes a red giant star. 4.5 billion years left on this planet. Granted, we will probably kill ourselves out by then, but… 4.5 billion years.

    And I get 80+, if I’m lucky.

    Fuck you knowledge.

  • 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

  • My Brother Is A Douche

    I don’t want to write this blog. But, because it’s me, I kind of have to.

    Yesterday I spent some quality time with my younger half-brother and my father.

    As always, it was awkward.

    My father is emotionally closed off, and my brother and I have learned much the same habit. Often during our dinner, eaten at my father’s house with my (it feels odd to even write this) step mother as cook, there were long stretches of silence saved only by the television on in the background.

    My (this still feels weird to type) step mother finished her meal before we arrived and did not join us for our supper.

    During our entire time in my father’s home, the three of us didn’t talk much, though I had plenty to divulge. My mother’s recent stint in the hospital. (She’s home now and adjusting to her new life as a diabetic.) My plans for my future. (More on that in the next blog.) I brought up those topics briefly, but never did they hold the attention of my eighty-three year old father for long.

    None of this was new. I’ve come to accept the limited relationship I have with him, and I endeavor each day to be better than his example.

    No, the shitty came in the car ride home.

    I love my brother. He is my blood. But, I’m afraid, my brother is also a douche. It pains me to write that, but it’s true.

    We spent the first two thirds of the car ride with him spouting on about how he needs to put himself out there more in order to find a relationship. However, he would then admit that he doesn’t really care about finding a relationship, but he feels like he should care. Also, he owns up to being emotionally closed off and not willing to put in real effort into developing anything if it should even occur. In his mind, it should just be easy, no effort at all to have a relationship.

    I realize my brother is a twenty-five year old guy with unrealistic expectations when it comes to relationships in general and interactions with women in particular. Thankfully he knew this to be true as well.

    I, being the somewhat wiser older sister, have suggested therapy to my brother to deal with his emotional issues. I tried to not get angry when he again brushed my suggestion aside, stating he didn’t trust psychologists, how he knew himself better than they ever would, and how he felt he could fix his own problems without help.

    When I pointed out that he had had roughly six years of unsuccessful dating experiences, not to mention a family history he is not dealing with, he still insisted he could do it on his own. I accepted his decision and hoped that would be the end of it.

    But he kept talking.

    He tangented to another thought: he needs to seek out older women. Why? Because they are more aggressive, being that their biological clock is ticking.

    Yes, my brother said that. Yup, it gets worse.

    I pointed out to him that an aggressive woman is so because of her personality, not some imaginary biological clock we all have ticking in our brains. I informed him that I found his statement offensive.

    And my brother, my twenty-five year old stoner of a brother, didn’t agree. In fact, he protested my argument.

    I told him his statement upset me.

    And then I pivoted to an incident that happened at my job on Sunday. Everyone had just come back from lunch. One of the guys casually remarked to the group how he had gone to “the titty bar” to have lunch. The food was meh. The drinks were meh. And why would he waste money on a dancer he won’t ever have when he already had a girlfriend at home who puts out for him.

    There were eight people on that crew. I was one of two women. The other woman was not nearby when this conversation happened. I felt… angry and yuck and what-the-fuck.

    When I relayed this incident to my brother, he couldn’t understand why I was upset. I explained (yes, I had to explain) to him that the conversation was inappropriate. I was at work. My fellow coworkers should talk about work, not their lunch break at the titty bar.

    He still didn’t get it. He said if I was upset, I should’ve said something. Trying not to raise my voice, I insisted that I shouldn’t have to say anything at all. My coworker should know that talking about strip clubs was not appropriate for work.

    And then my brother made me really and truly angry. He had had some experience working with crews while in college. He spoke about how, when you get a group of techs together, especially ones that know each other, it gets really vulgar. Why should I be shocked or upset when I knew this would happen? It wasn’t like I worked in an office or anything.

    I was very happy he was about to get out of my car. My brother couldn’t understand how misogynistic he comments were, couldn’t understand why I was upset, couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just accept the conversation from my coworkers as normal.

    My brother is swimming in privilege. I wanted to bash his head up against my car window. Instead I rose my voice, saying it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay that my coworker talked about strippers at work or in that way, belittling those women so. It wasn’t okay that I should just expect “boys to be boys”. And, worst of all, it wasn’t okay that he, my brother, was saying this to me.

    I love my brother and want nothing but the best for him. But my brother is an asshole. My brother is a misogynist. And I don’t know if he will ever change.

    Before my brother got out of my car, I explained his comments, his thinking, his shittiness was an example of why there is a NOW, why there are sexual harassment statues, and is part of the reason why I am a feminist.

    And yeah, it’s also part of the reason why I made an important decision for my life recently.

  • 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.

  • Drop the Apparently

    “So, what does that tell you?” – Doc
    “That apparently people value my thoughts and opinions more than I do.” – me
    “Drop the apparently.”

     


    ~

     
    In regards to the PS, we’re going to get a little snooty here.

    I’ve worked shows before, especially lighting. There’s some good people there. There’s some smart people there. But they are not, on the whole, a terribly challenging group intellectually. There is the occasional individual – such as yourself – who is the exception. But I’m pretty sure that in any group you’re around at work, you’re the most intelligent person there.

    That’s a comfortable place to be. You don’t have to worry about being pushed out of your comfort zone, you don’t have to worry about not being the smartest.

    You also don’t learn much in that environment. You know how to learn to play chess, right? You don’t play people who are worse than you and always win. You play people who are better than you and lose and lose and lose until eventually you don’t lose quite so much.

    But you still lose, and you grow, because people are smarter than you.

    I’ve noticed, at events, you seek out the bright stars. The philosophers, the people who seem to have something to say. You find them and you have a great time with them and usually you do it in some of the most beautiful service and submissive ways I’ve ever seen. I think you think you’re lucky to be able to hang with them.

    I think you’re wrong. I think it’s the other way around.

    I watched those people in that room as you were on TV. People who were veteran kinksters, who dealt with the public on a regular basis, whose investment in kink was their whole lives and tens if not hundreds of thousands of dollars.

    When you spoke, there were quiet nods. There were murmurs of approval and admiration, and more than one “She is good,” as you answered with grace, eloquence, and intelligence some of the hardest questions that a kinkster could be asked.

    They weren’t just saying “Wow, she did that well.” They were saying “Wow, she did that better than I could have.” I know you’re going to try and snicker a defense mechanism and assume I’m delusional or being complimentary or something about that. S’fine, we all have our barriers and our Broken Mirrors. I know what I saw, though. You don’t belong in the entourage or at the side of some person or cause. You are a leader, a visionary, someone who knows and thinks and has the god-given ability to express it. You have this amazing machine inside your head capable of doing so much.

    And you choose to do lighting. You tell me: am I wrong? Does that actually challenge you? Are you using that lambourghini you were gifted with to drive to the store and back every day, because that way you won’t have an accident?

    Maybe I’m way off base with this. Maybe I’m totally wrong and you are growing mentally and spiritually with the work you do, and using your talents to make the world a better place. If so, I apologize for my arrogance.

    But it looks to me like you’re treading water because it’s easier than swimming. And that’s both sad and maddening, because it’s a beautiful ocean and there are others in it, drowning, who need your brains.

    Here endeth the lesson. Gotta catch a plane.

    Have a nice day! 🙂

    ~

    Two different people in my life made the exact same point at almost the exact same time.

    In my latest session with Doc, we talked about a few things, but the one topic that has stuck with me most was the above quote.

    There was a moment, during our session, when I just stopped. The very next line of that exchange was me saying to myself, “People value me more than I do.” I let that statement sit in my brain, let myself sit with that realization, living with this new truth for a moment.

    Again, my immediate reaction to any compliment, to almost any praise, kicked in. Oh, they’re just being nice. Oh, yes I did well, but they could have done just as well or better. Oh, they’re sweet for saying that.

    Doc asked why I thought that, why my immediate brushing away of their compliments happened. It was obvious, after the work we’ve done, that it goes back to my issues with my father. Not having him as a constant figure in my life growing up gave me self worth issues, namely believing I was not worthy of his love or affection, therefore not worthy of others love and affection, therefore any affection sent my way was never wholly true.

    Sometimes it sucks, knowing the root of a problem and yet the issue still lingering.

    When I said that line to myself, I stopped and just thought about all the subtext in that truth. I was close to tears, but I held them back. Doc questioned me, what I was thinking in that moment, and I admitted to wanting to cry. He then called me on the wanting, asking me why I didn’t just cry. More excuses came; more work to do.

    And then, very shortly after my session with Doc, I got that email from a friend. I didn’t post the entire message to be cocky or pretentious, but instead, just like they wrote, it’s hard for me to believe.

    The message was completely unprompted and a great shock to me. In fact, I find myself reading it about once a day (if not more) because it is still hard for me to believe this person I respect so much would say those things about me.

    We all have stories we tell ourselves about our lives. But whether you are living through a comedy, tragedy, drama, thriller-action-awesomeness, it’s still just a story. The way others perceive you, though. That is who you are to the world, which can often be opposite of who you believe you are in your head.

    I’m still trying to wrap my head around this notion, of the respect of so many people I admire, and what to do with this new information. More on that to come…

  • Bubble

    So… this is the blog I didn’t post on Friday. The feelings-rich not-fun bad things blog.

    This is a rant. This is not sexy or funny. This post is going to touch on some horrible shit that’s been happening in our country lately. I give this warning in case you don’t want to read something like this today, or from me, or ever. 

    [Trigger Warning]

    I live in a bubble. It is a bubble of my own making, my own choosing.

    I think it is both a characteristic of my personality and a self preservation device that I tend to see the best in people. I tend to believe the world is a happier, safer, more loving place than I know it to be.

    I choose to don rose colored glasses in my everyday because to not do so would have me confront the horrible nature of the world around us all the time, and, frankly, who the fuck wants that?

    But life always has a way of breaking my bubble, no more so than in the past month.

    When the shooting happened in Newtown, I was at work. I’d been awake since 4:30am and had been working since 5am. The particular facility I was working in that day had poor cell phone service for my carrier, so I had not bothered to check Twitter or social media.

    During a break, though, around 10am, one of my coworkers, who did have cell service, popped on Twitter. And then the words “school shooting” and “little kids” came out of her mouth. She is a mother of a child close in age to the children who were killed that day. She was alarmed, scared. I was numb.

    I went on with my work day, which would last longer than anyone liked. I got about thirty minutes of sleep that night, not because of concern from the news but because my next gig started at 6am. I didn’t have time to think, really think, about the news as it trickled into my existance. I had to work.

    The following day, after another eighteen hours of work, eight hours of sleep, and four more hours of work, I found myself in a restaurant with some coworkers eating burgers and barely noticing the President talking about the shooting.

    I did, however, have my PDA/hand moment, so I guess my subconscious was tuning in while my id made me push through my job.

    As the holidays came, as I saw family and friends, as I felt myself overjoyed by immersion back into my community, it was easy to blow my bubble back up. The shooting had deflated it, but not quite collapsed the structure. Frankly, “school shooting” is a phrase I’ve heard many times since I was a kid, since Columbine, and another elementary school shooting, and metal detectors, and all the rest you know.

    And then, a few days ago, I was on Twitter. And I happened to click on a link. And I read about the rape in Stuebenville.

    Pop.

    The bubble, which had withstood the shooting mostly because of exhaustion and forced ignorance, finally burst.

    And now I’m hearing all those things I was trying to ignore. Now I am noticing how angry I am. How frustrated I am with our govenment. How much I want to scream at the head of the NRA for his fucked up speech. How much I want to scream at this country’s rape culture. How scared I am for my four year old niece and the world she was brought into.

    I had an appointment with my GYN today. If you’ve read this blog for a while, you will know I have less than stellar thoughts concerning her, but I keep going back because it’s convient. Sometimes I hate how much I put up with because it’s convient.

    And, as per usual, when I mentioned I wanted an STI screening because it’s been six months, and I’ve had two new “sexual” partners since last seeing her, I could just feel the judging going on in her mind. At least this time she didn’t talk. This time she just pursed her lips, mumbled “mmm hmm”, and proceeded to take the cultures.

    But it’s her reaction, that judgement, the belief in the denegration of slut, that is part of the basis for some of the evils in our world.

    Now my GYN is far from evil, just a judgemental prude. But it’s the culture of judgement. Of slut shaming. Of believing “she wanted it but just couldn’t say it”. Believing that some rape isn’t really rape. Believing that there is an inappropriate way of expressing my sexuality with another consenting adult, or an inappropriate amount of sex that I’m having with an inappropriate amount of people, that is more than rage-making.

    Some people have been permeating the thought that if gun laws had been less severe, the Jews could’ve protected themselves against Hitler. Really? Really!?! Read a fucking history book, go visit the Holocaust museum (I have), and shut the fuck up.

    These folks also have a problem with a national registry of guns.  I have to ask, Do you own and drive a car legally?  With the title, tags, and… registration?  Does your car still have its VIN branded on multiple parts of its body?  Then shut the fuck up.

    I don’t know what it will take to curb the evils of gun violence and sexual violence in this country, but I know what won’t. Ignoring the problems won’t solve them, but will instead make them worse.

    Believing that more guns solve the situation is a level of lunacy I am not willing to even entertain.

    Shame around sex, talking about it, teaching it to our children, will only make sexual violence more pervasive.

    What happened to compromise? What happened to working together? Oh, right… It’s much easier to get elected when you rail against a problem than when you fix it.

    Sex is not the enemy; violence is. Sex is not the enemy; rape is. Sex is not the enemy.

    Consent counts. Consent, in fact, is all that matters when it comes to sex. No means no. And being too drunk to walk is not an invitation into someone’s pants.

    When a coach defends his rapist players instead of standing up for their victim, instead of trying to figure out what went wrong, it’s obvious that he is part of the problem. When it takes Anonymous to help pull forth the truth, when people are willing to live Tweet this horrendous crime instead of coming to the aid of the victim, I don’t know what to think about this country except disgust.

    In India, a woman was gang raped and people rioted in the streets. In America, children were killed. In America, a girl was gang raped while people blogged about it. And we are arguing about semantics?

    Land of the free and home of the brave…? Complete and total bullshit.

  • Trust And Intimacy

    “Why do you think I haven’t been in a relationship for as long as you’ve known me?”
    “Do you foster trust and intimacy?”

    I’ve been going to Doc since April of last year. We’ve talked a lot about my emotions, my attachment style, who I find myself attracted to and why, and what I want from my life.

    Recently, while listening to an older episode of Pedestrian Polyamory, in which the hosts were responding to listener mail, the duo gave a piece of sound and poignant advice. They suggested the email writer seek advice from a good friend, going up to them and asking bluntly, So, what’s up with me? What’s my deal? What’s off? Why did the friend think the email writer was not getting responses on a social dating website.

    This got me thinking, as podcasts often do. Maybe I should do this. Maybe I should ask a friend or two what they thought concerning my lack of partners in the time that they’ve known me.

    A good number of my now close friends I met through my explosion into the greater public kink scene, which happened after I left my Ex. None of these folks have met my Ex, have never seen me inside of a commited partnered relationship.

    When I asked a friend, their response was the question above. Of course that go me thinking deeper.

    Trust and intimacy.

    From their viewpoint, the way you find yourself in a relationship, the way one starts a relationship the first place, is through the development of trust and intimacy with another. In the time they have known me, they’ve only seen me foster these two important components of a partnership with one person.

    Thinking back on the past three years, I could not disagree with them.

    As I’ve spoken about with Doc, I have trouble expressing my emotions to others for fear of rejection on basically every level of my life. This has gotten much better since I’ve been speaking with Doc, but the process of therapy is a series of baby steps, small moves. And it hasn’t even been a year yet.

    With that in mind, I have yet another goal for myself for this year, one focused soley on my heart.

    I will trust others with my intimate thoughts and feelings, believing the people I care for and love will care for and love me back even when I let my guard down, even when I’m not full of smiles and cheer.

    I will know that blending in is okay, but being me, and all that entails, is even better.

    I will be open, really open, with those around me, even though it’s scary and nervous making.

    I will be strong by letting go of my defenses.

    I will know, deep in my gut, that I am worthy of my emotions, that they are important and valid and need to be expressed just as much as those of others.

    I will foster trust and intimacy in my life.

  • Guidance

    For the past year I have used three words to guide my days: Bravery, Endurance, and Forgiveness.

    Endurance

    I slogged through twelve events, an often difficult work schedule, writing the hundreds of blogs for this forum, and working on my current trio of novels yet to be published.

    I had harrowing moments, especially my San Francisco and Minnesota travel odysseys. Never have I been so happy to be carry-on only. Nor was I so glad that I had seven hours to make it to the Meet & Greet.

    I made it through my year, eking out tight schedules, including my September of four events (with two literally back-to-back; stepping off a plane, hopping into my car, and driving to the next event for setup), as well as the hardest three work days of my life (fifteen hours the first day, eighteen and a half hours the second day, and eight hours the third, with precious little sleep in between).

    I wrote fifty thousand words while flying to San Francisco, while still making it to gigs, and while still trying to give you fresh words everyday.

    I knew, going into my year, that it wasn’t going to be easy. But, even more than the struggle, even more the hardship, my endurance gave me strength. I learned from my adversity, gained the knowledge of how hard I can push myself, how much I can accomplish when I just put my head down and barrel through.

    I endured.

    Bravery

    I have never been so scared as when I flew out to San Francisco for the first time. I’d never been to the west coast, and I was going to an event where I would know little to no one, save for the two folks I shared a hotel room with.

    On the first day, when I put on my school girl outfit and made my way to my first class, I was beyond nervous. Would anyone here get me? Accept me? Would I find my place in this new sphere?

    After that first day, I relaxed… a little. I let myself just be, even though I was still nervous enough to shake. But with each passing moment, I met someone new. Or I saw a familiar face. Or I allowed myself to explore the city, and just be me.

    Part of me craves adventure, whether it be a completely unfamiliar realm or rediscovering a traveled place. This year afforded me time to go to so many spots I had never been before: Atlanta, Chicago, London!

    I traveled across the pond, saw a dear friend, spent time with another, and made even more connections. Yes, I was scared when I got on the plane, scared when I landed, scared when I got lost for a very uncomfortable hour near the Elephant & Castle station.

    But I didn’t let my fear rule me. I didn’t let my nerves or self doubt stop me.

    I was brave.

    Forgiveness

    One of the biggest changes for me this year has been going to see Doc. I know he’s not some sort of magic man. All the work we’ve done has been small changes, little moves, but enough to slowly reshape my views of myself and my life.

    Often I am hard on myself. Often I don’t give myself the care I give to others, the love and support I offer to others. Doc urged me to be kind to myself, love myself. He encouraged me to share my feelings instead of holding them in for fear of judgement, rejection.

    I know my work with Doc is not done. I know I am not a perfect person; no one is. I know the ideas I have of others, elevated up on pillars, high above what I could ever aspire for, are complete and total bullshit.

    But I’ve stopped calling myself stupid when I make a small mistake at work. I’ve pushed myself to not believe one conversation about how I feel, one small gesture of affection, or one simple misstep will end my connection with another.

    I’ve created this small space for me to just be. It’s tiny, but it’s comfy. And it keeps growing. Every time I look in the mirror and smile. Every time I take a picture of myself and post it on Twitter. Every time I talk to a friend and tell them how crappy something is without fear of them shunning me. Every time I am just a little kinder to myself, that space grows.

    I can forgive myself for just being me.

    And now, with a year gone by, it’s time for three more words to guide me. More on that in a future entry.

  • Wordplay

    ~ a pittance poetry ~


    1)

    Deep in the forest, creeping through the almost night
    Drifts a little girl clinging to a small light.

    She wanders and cries, and holds her beam tight
    Not knowing what dangers lurk or could fright.

    She wishes she were home, weeps at her plight
    For she does not know how exactly to fight

    The fear welling against her little child might
    That there is something in the woods that will bite

    Or claw or tear or scream or scare or quite
    Frankly, more horror the thought, invite

    Her terrors to rise to worse heights
    Like her lost toy, this her search for her white kite.



    2)

    Don’t tell me what to say
    Don’t tell me how to play

    Don’t pretend you’re nice
    Don’t pretend I’m your vice

    Don’t smile and lie
    Don’t ask or pry

    Don’t give or take
    Don’t feint or fake

    Don’t love and leave
    Yet be what I need

    Do smile and ask
    Do test and pass

    Do open yourself up
    Do let it erupt

    Do tell truths
    Do kiss my bruise

    Do hold me tight
    And be just right

    3)

    He loved me
    He left me
    He healed me
    He cleft me

    In two to live
    In two we give
    In true our hearts
    Incur love’s darts