poeticdesires

Category: Therapy

  • Memories

    The first night of Rope Camp featured Midori’s Meat Market, a fun little event to introduce folks to one another and start the dialogue for play.

    After the get together concluded, I eased my way over to Rough.  He was showing off his Fat Ass Rope, and I wanted a taste of the experience.  I asked for the pleasure, and leaned myself over a nearby table.  Instead, Rough called me over to an open area.

    First he gave me a few whacks, which stung a bit and turned out were his warm up.  He then hit me hard on my back.  Then my ass.  Then my thighs.  And my chest.  I starting yelping and eventually wailing.  I fell to my knees.  In a moment of clarity, I took off my glasses and slid them across the floor towards a small group of friends.

    Rough continued to attack my back as I continued to cry.  He grabbed me, pulled me up to sitting, and wrapped the rope around my neck.  In a moment, his blood choke took hold.  I felt my muscles give way.  He released me before my eyes closed.  A bit of drool leaked from my lips.

    When I brought my head up, when he knew I was back, he began beating me again.  And blood choked me again.  And my muscles gave way again.

    He went for my inner thighs, one of my most sensitive spots.  He regretted not being able to hit my cunt.  His rope was natural fiber and I wasn’t wearing underwear.

    When he finished, I got up, thanked him, introduced him to NYRCherryBondage, and went back to chatting with friends.

    ~

    “Ha ha, I made you have feelings.” – an attendee at Midori’s Negotiations class

    ~

    Sometimes I like to fly under the radar.  I know intrinsically that’s not what’s happening, but in my sub-y mind that’s how it feels.

    Wednesday night a few of us had gathered on a porch for cigars and libations.  I sat in front of Gray and Rough as they smoked and talked.

    Rough’s feet rested on my right leg; Gray’s feet rested on my left.  I always had my torch at the ready, as well as a selection of cutters, boxes of wood matches, and a punch.

    They told stories.  Gray taught MissAmyRed about cigar service.  I sat and listened, content, the occasional small sip of strong Japanese whiskey on my lips.

    ~

    “I am the Dom and you will brush your teeth with your left hand this week.  Ha ha ha.” – Rough, during is D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Friday it rained.  And rained.  And rained.

    I’d wanted to wear my new red leather shoes, but I couldn’t abide getting them muddy.  I opted for my boots instead, which completely changed my outfit for the day.

    As the afternoon came, I decided to do something different.  I grabbed my newly purchased camp chair, took it outside under the pop-up, and pulled out my new voice recorder.

    In the rain, with the pitter patter of droplets above, I recorded a Fusion podcast.

    There was a breeze that made the day cool, blowing the chill of the rain towards me, under my cover.  Because the pop-up had been erected before the turn in the weather, the ground wasn’t muddy in my sitting spot.  I couldn’t help but be happy and bubbly, even as the drops continued to come down.

    ~

    “His desires are my priority and he is where I point my devotion.
    “I am his treasure and I am to be taken care of.
    “He is my King… my dragon.” – MissAmyRed, during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Ropetastic had pimped himself, as well as his two partners, during Midori’s Meat Market.  As per his name, I knew he was into rope.  And I wanted a rope scene.

    I happened upon him in the Barn.  Originally I was chatting with my friend Nomad.  She started spinning my LED poi to make herself feel better, so I took the opportunity to speak to a rope guy.

    As we conversed, I realized we were compatible for a scene.  Since we both had time at that very moment, we headed up to the Dungeon immediately.

    We chose a semi-private spot, what seemed to be a lounge room with a few couches but enough open space for us to work.  I stripped down to my underwear, as did he.

    I explained how I liked to be challenged, how I wanted something different besides normal rope forms.  He expressed a desire to explore ichinawa, which I was all for.  We began.

    He wrapped rope around me in asymmetrical patterns, twisting my body this way and that.  He did not make it pretty, but I loved the pain all the same.  He, at times, pulled on my hair, ran a shrimp deveiner over my skin, sucked on my nipples, and tickled my feet.  He rolled my body this way and that, changed his tie multiple times, added a second length of rope, and always kept me guessing.

    We only played for about thirty minutes, but when all was said and done, I felt high, full of erotic and emotional pleasure from being in his binds.

    ~

    “The greasy basement slave…the dirty basement whore.” – a talk on fantasy versus reality during Rough’s D/s Roundtable

    ~

    Friday night we pushed all three of our beds together.  Saturday morning I awoke to dragon cuddles before breakfast.

    ~

    “I want to be treated like a pile of gold.”
    “You want to be a heavy currency?”
    “I am valuable and worthy of protecting.” – an exchange between myself and Dov after a late night run to Waffle House

    ~

    I felt like a voyeur.  No, worse than a voyeur.  I felt like I was intruding.

    It was obvious there was a connection, a slow building of energy as they writhed on the mats.

    I hadn’t witnessed it all.  At times, I was lost in scritches, lost to the rest of the world.  Pulsing pleasure from my scalp kept my eyes closed, my head bobbing about, speech all but impossible.

    But when I came back, I saw them.  Saw the looks in their eyes.  Heard the yelp, the growl.

    I wanted to sit and watch more.  I didn’t want to look away.  That energy.  That pure energy beamed from the two of them.  And I was only, maybe, five feet away.  Had been there the whole time.

    But I did walk away.  Because I wanted them to have their moment.  Without an audience.

    ~

    “You have a natural ability for connection…You seek out people you can connect with.” – Delano, to me, during his Bottoms class

    ~

    He held the balloon away from my body.  I was dirty, filthy from the grim on the stage.  I don’t like stingy, but I take it for the person I’m playing with.  I take it.  And there was the balloon, tied around my chest, and stretched taunt, ready to snap against my skin.

    He held it.  And held it.  And brought it back without snapping it.

    “Really!?”

    He pulled it out again.  I cringed again.  This time would be for real, I just knew it.  This time the pain would come.  And then he brought it back.

    I laughed and hated him at the same time.

    He used a pretty pink dildo on me.  He beat me with a pretty pink dildo, which stung like hell.  He used a collapsible baton and a plastic rod, too.  He punched me and wrestled me about on the dirty stage floor, attacking my thighs.  But it’s the balloon I remember the worst.

    Talk about sadistic.

    ~

    “If you are open to learning, you are open to deeper experiences.” – Delano, during his Bottoms class

    ~

    I spun my poi in the dark.  Spun my poi away from the group sitting in camp chairs out in the chilly night air.

    I stood in the middle of the road.  A cart came by once; I moved.

    I spun my poi and soothed myself.  I accepted my feelings, accepted that was how I felt.  Acknowledged the sad little girl inside me.  Acknowledged what little power I had over the situation except what I did in that moment.

    I spun my poi.

    Then we went to Waffle House, I ate some food, and went to bed.

  • 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.

  • 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.”

  • 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.

  • The Upside to Amputation

    “I know this is hard, and you can totally tell me to fuck off, but can you see an upside to this revelation?” – Doc

    “Well, yes. I invested a lot of emotional energy their way, so now that I’ve accepted that the fantasy in my head won’t happen, I can invest most of that emotional energy elsewhere. And maybe that’ll lead to other things, other connections. But, I mean, really… you can find an upside to amputation.” – me

    I’m not in the best mood right now.

    I had a good therapy session today in that what Doc and I talked about was important and big and a good guide post of where I need to go next. But it also sucked because I accepted a fact that, for quite a while, I didn’t want to and have been doing my best to avoid.

    A fantasy of a life I wanted to have got shot down in the kindest way possible.

    Accepting reality, accepting that a dream I had will not be, is not an easy thing to do or an easy place to live. Yet that is one of the points of me going to Doc in the first place: growing emotionally as a person, being strong enough to face my life instead of creating some story that I live in instead of the cold hard real.

    Doc thought my snarky comment was actually poignant.  He likened how I was feeling to amputation, cutting out a part of myself in order to heal.

    So now, with VD (my not-so-affectionate nickname for Valentine’s Day) approaching, I’m having all these other craptastic emotions along with the new stew I brewed today.

    Thinking back on my VD history, I have no positive memories that aren’t marred in some way.

    There was my Ex, who didn’t believe in giving gifts and never would acknowledge me as his girlfriend or that we were in a relationship. One VD I wrote him little notes and planted them in his cigarettes and his pocket. He liked them, and said thank you, but that was it. We went along as we were after that; nothing really changed til I left, but that’s how it was always going to be with him.

    There was the one time in First Grade (when everything seems to start) when I wrote a VD card for a boy I liked named Noel. The girl sitting beside me saw the card, and then yelled my intention to the entire class like it was some huge horrible thing. I was trying to be sweet and she ruined it. No wonder I have trouble expressing my emotions, little cunt.

    And now, with more of my VD’s spent unpartnered rather than coupled, I have new knowledge crapping all over my mind.

    I suspect things with OKC boy may not work out. From our interactions over the phone, it seems like we want different things. We’re getting together on Friday, and I’ve already resigned myself to the fact that we may have a less than pleasant conversation (though this will probably happen after sex during hang out time).

    Doc pointed out that this was good; in dealing with OKC boy I am solidifying what I want and need from a relationship. As in most things in life, it is a learning experience.

    Also, as in most things in life, it is annoying and frustrating and kind of headache-making.

    The one solace to my VD this year lies in a simple fact: during that day I will be distracted from morning til night.

    VD falls on the Thursday before Winter Fire, and I am again on staff. This year, though, I am on the non-dungeon setup crew. No more music craziness. No crying fits in the bathroom. No stress induced anger. I will setup, have my event, break down, and go home.

    I will make new memories, have new experiences to draw on, to remember, to cherish. I’ve already got eight playdates in the works (nine if you count my hope for a self suspension). There is an opportunity for me to read some of my erotica, catch up with far away friends, and spend time with ones close to home but who I do no see enough.

    I love that, on this VD, I can really just say fuck it to all the shit that normally pisses me off. I will be a happy little kinkster helping other kinky folk have amazing sexy times. I can view no better way to spend my VD than doing that.

  • Ache

    As I walked down a less than crowded DC street, I felt sad. As I strolled, with plenty of time to reach my destination, I pondered my feelings, the subtle ache in my heart. I wondered, Why am I feeling this way?

    As per Doc’s request, I have been more tuned into my emotions in the moment, noticing how people feel about me, and actively noting my feelings towards others. I thought for a moment, thought about my day, and it hit me.

    I didn’t want to admit, still don’t want to admit it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

    I miss the Gent.

    He came up briefly at my last session, just a passing mention that I hadn’t contacted him since August.

    But then, walking towards my gig, it hit me. Yes, I missed… miss him.

    I tried to think of why this was coming up now (since missing him has been mostly just background noise since I stopped contacting him). And I realized, almost as abruptly, that I was inadvertently triggered last night.

    I was pulled over by a cop at 3am, his only comment (since I wasn’t speeding and had not consumed any alcohol that evening) that I needed to change out my bike rack. Apparently part of it obstructs my license plate (grounds for a ticket). He gave me a verbal citation, asked me if there were any illegal items in the car (“drugs, guns.” “Oh God no!”) and then let me on my way.

    One of the last times I saw the Gent, one of the last times I saw his smile, big and wide filling his entire face, he commented on my bike rack. He asked me how often I rode, and when was the last time I used it. And then, in only a minorly asshole-ish way, he verbally jabbed me for having a bike rack but not riding my bike.

    As I walked down a DC street, past the Mall, dark at that time of night, I thought about him. As I passed a few people in the middle of Chinatown, a few faces made me think of him too.

    It was then I also admitted a hard fact to myself: I was sad each and every time his face did not pop into my view.

    I may never see him again, may never speak to him again, may never anything with him again.

    In one of my previous sessions with Doc, I likened my feelings about the Gent to alcoholism. Doc said I wasn’t that far off.

    My feelings, emotions, my desire to keep going back to a man who was not all that good for me is like fighting an addiction. My brain is hard wired to seek out love from unavailable people. I was given the example of an absent father and my brain has equated my mother’s relationship with him as to how love should be.

    But that is not the kind of love I want.

    When we started, the Gent was great. But then he began doing shitty things and never apologized for them. Cutting him off was, and is, a healthy choice for me.

    Everyday, every moment, I make the decision to not call, not text, not contact him. With every breath I am fighting my brain’s impulses, fighting my learned behaviour, fighting for a happier healthier love life.

    So far, I’m winning the battle, but who knows how long the war (and my resolve) will last.

  • Good Session

    “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but you really are clever. You do these really good things, but then you always find a way to put yourself down… How about you instead use your cleverness to find humor in how your brain twists the good you’ve done.” – Doc

    This past Tuesday I had another therapy session. As per normal, it did not go as I envisioned in my head. Don’t get me wrong, it was still great though. Without fail each time I walk out of Doc’s office I feel a million times better than when I walked in.

    For this past session, we touched on a few topics. The first, which I found surprising, was the idea of therapy as work.

    Doc wanted to dissuade me from viewing the homework he gave me, the tools he’s imparted, and the ideas I have swimming through my head as work. To do so he felt was a trap, setting myself up to fail.

    This was all in response to my non-meditation. I’m suppose to meditate fifteen minutes a day using a musical track he gave me. While listening to the song, I am to repeat a mantra, the lines focusing on parts of my life I wish to change.

    I am open to love in all its possibilities. I see the beauty others see in me. I will love others for who they are, not for who I want them to be. I am good enough to accept and receive love from others.

    The closest I’ve come to meditating was listening to the song a few times before I drifted off to sleep, recalling two of the lines as I slipped into rest. I promised Doc I would do better.

    Second, we talked about my cleverness. I spoke to Doc about a good conversation I had recently, but I prefaced it with the fact I used baby steps to ease my way through the talk.

    Doc immediately jumped on my downplay of my accomplishment. He wanted me to be proud of myself for even having the conversation. And he pointed out that “baby steps” was not a bad thing. In fact, it was what I needed to do to get myself through the conversation. It was what I was suppose to do.

    Doc feels I don’t give myself credit. I always qualify the emotional weightlifting I’ve done. I find ways to not acknowledge my work.

    As a deterrent, or at least to shake up my head a bit, Doc suggested I use my cleverness to laugh at myself. Each time I put myself down, or find one small thing to harp on, he wants me laugh at how my brain works.

    Laugh at how, even though I had this great conversation, I chastised my method. Laugh at how, after having an awesome time with a friend, I harped on myself for the lilt in my voice at our parting. Laugh at the ridiculousness that is, ostensibly, my Little Hater.

    The last thing we touched on was The Gent.

    “I’m not going to tell you what to do, but I’m going to tell you what to do.”

    I laughed.

    You won’t be reading much, if any, about The Gent anymore. We’re done.

    Somehow I found myself in a situation similar to my parents; big shocker there.

    I explained to Doc how frustrated I am. How much I don’t understand what’s going on. How I wondered if The Gent even knew what he was doing was shitty.

    I also talked about why the situation was so hard, why it is so hard to let him go.

    The Gent is the stereotypical guy I should want, the guy I should bring home, marry, have kids with. He is handsome, successful, charming, intelligent, an excellent fuck.

    “Emotionally distant and absent.”
    “Yes.”
    “Like your Dad.”
    “Dammit!”

    Doc hit the nail on the head.

    In wanting to make things right with The Gent, in wanting to tell him how shitty he made me feel in hopes that he would do better, be better, I was seeking love from a person who was not giving it back. I was sinking energy into a person who did not reciprocate my efforts. I was repeating the pattern I learned from my parents.

    So now the hard part is not calling him. Not texting him. Not contacting him. The hard part is going against my nature to forgive, to give the second, third and twenty-sixth chance.

    The hard part is being strong by not giving in. The hard part is putting me first.

    So, yeah, good session with Doc this week.

  • Self Soothing

    I could feel it gradually building, waxing and waning throughout my Ropen Space day. I could hear her, just on the edge of my fun, just beyond the chorus of beautiful voices I listened to on Friday.

    She was patient. I finally, really, heard her when classes were over. Few others were in the room.

    I was tired. Dog tired. With each breath it felt like I could fall asleep or faint. I stayed upright through force of will, little pops of adrenalin, and the thought that I was helping a good friend.

    When I finally made it back to my room, she now had my undivided attention. I couldn’t run away, tired and ready to drop.

    So I let myself drop.

    I threw on my pajamas, slipped on my Zim hoodie, grabbed some tissues from the bathroom, and brought along my phone. Out on the patio, the swirl of the wind mixed with the din of cars and temperature control units. It was perfect.

    I sat on the concrete floor. Unlocking my phone, I set my timer for ten minutes.

    Before I was even outside… In fact, the second I grab those tissues, it began. By the time I decided on ten minutes, I already had a head start.

    I let it out. I let. It. Out.

    I cried. I wailed. I hyperventilated into screams. I hugged myself. My chest heaved. I cycled and cycled, never dropping low on my threshold, but merely finding moments to almost catch my breath. And then I started all over again.

    As I wailed, as I wallowed, as I let the pain I’d been holding back all day come out of me, I found myself wondering if the noise were so loud that I did not hear my timer go off. Surely it had been ten minutes. Surely I had wailed that long. Surely this pain would end soon.

    And yet still I wailed. Tears drenched my face. I almost feared some other hotel guest on their balcony would hear me. However, truly, I did not care. I sobbed, consoling myself in my pain.

    I remembered what Doc said. This would not kill me. It is normal to feel pain. It is how we deal with it that dictates suffering. I let the little girl inside be oh so sad.

    And then my alarm went off. It was nearly the longest ten minutes of my life.

    And though my phone made it’s cute little noise, which meant it was time for me to get up, I almost didn’t want to. For a moment, I felt lost in the pain. For a moment, I still needed to sit. I still needed to be on that balcony.

    But then I blew my nose. And I stood up. And I turned on some music.

    I danced about. I took off my jacket. I smiled a bit.

    I danced more. I liked it so much, I played another song. I picked up an apple and ate it while I bopped around the hotel room.

    I found myself looking at my reflection in the sliding glass door, and eventually I stared at myself in the mirror. For a brief second, I thought I saw what others spoke about Thursday night. I thought I saw the weight they say I’ve lost.

    As the second song ended, my apple finished, I smiled a cute grin at myself. My curly hair about. My clothes a mess.

    I felt better.

    Ten minutes later, there was Chicago style pizza, and then a nap before Cigars, Boots, and Chocolate.

  • Nerves

    I leave in about an hour for my first session with my new therapist, who I will henceforth call Doc.

    I am nervous.

    The last time I tried therapy it was… not a resounding success.

    I will say that she got me thinking. She tried to get me to be more forthcoming with my emotions in my relationship with the Ex instead of bottling it all up and waiting for it to erupt at a most inopportune time.

    But then she lectured me about my weight. So no, I cannot say we were a good fit.

    Because that really matters when you spend an hour at a time talking to someone about the most intimate details of yourself. I’m about to open up my head to a man I have never met.

    As a person who finds it difficult to easily communicate my emotions with others because I view them as less than, view myself as less than, expect that I should put everyone before myself, believe that I am suppose to be the easy going friend anyone can turn to without having to worry about how I am feeling… spending a hour with someone talking about nothing but my emotions…

    Yeah, this is going to be interesting.

    There is a lot of shit swirling in my head, some of it occurring just yesterday.

    In my old therapy sessions, I brought a notebook and took notes. I don’t think that’s shocking to anyone. I bought a new little notebook for Doc’s sessions. It’s navy blue.

    I actually stood in Staples and had a conversation with myself about the color. Gray couldn’t work because I have a friend with that name. Black couldn’t work because it seems too morbid, as if I expected to fail. Red was just as bad, evoking thoughts of blood and ripping my heart out. So I chose blue, because though my mind could say it is how I feel, it could also be what I don’t want to feel anymore, hence the work, the sessions, the effort.

    I have an odd mind.

    I opened my netbook this morning, hoping to write about the next section of my last night at Frolicon. It involved two hot people, some rope, punching, and a word I didn’t think I would get to say anytime soon.

    Sorry, but you folks will have to wait just a little bit longer for that.