poeticdesires

Category: Wisdom

  • Stupid

    Boys are stupid. 

    Boys. Are. Stupid.

    But if I keep giving boys second and third and twenty-sixth chances, I think that makes me stupid too.

    It doesn’t take much to placate me. The occasional call or text. A conversation. An acknowledgement that both you and I are still alive. Really, not much.

    Honesty, respect, simple consideration. Really, not much at all.

    And yet I find myself in a situation with a boy where I want to rip my hair out.

    If I text you and say I’m free in the middle of the week, and you say cool I’ll text you and we’ll hang out when I’m free, and then you never do, no phone call, no message, and my free days go by, with me doing other shit because I have come to expect you to cancel (Did you catch that? I expected him to flake even as I asked to spend time with him.), and an entire week goes by, and I don’t hear from you, so I call you, and no pickup, in my mind one of two things has happened.

    1- Are you fucking dead?
    2- You just don’t give a shit. Because even if the shit hit the fan, even if your life blew up, even if work or personal affairs exploded in your lap, one short fucking text would be enough. One text to explain why you flaked on me, again. Or one text to say you needed to flake on me again. One text. I didn’t even get a fucking text.

    This past weekend at The Floating World, I attended an amazing sermon delivered by Laura Antoniou. Laura Antoniou, by the way, is fucking awesome.

    I call it a sermon because that was the disclaimer at the beginning. This was not a discussion, nor a lecture. This was preaching and it was a message we all needed to hear.

    Though many things resonated with me, one in particular hit me today on my way back from TFW when I realized he had not contacted me in a week. When I realized he didn’t call or text. When I realized it would be fun to see him but I didn’t expect it to happen, so much so that I planned aftercare absent him knowing he wouldn’t pick up his phone when I called. I didn’t bother leaving a message.

    Laura spoke about how we have to take responsibility for the people in our lives, take responsibility for the relationships we’ve been in, examine why these people were in our lives, and what that says about us.

    So it got me thinking. Through my work with Doc, we’ve established my skewed vision of love, with my parents as my models. We’ve identified distance, both physically and emotionally. We’ve talked about the doormat nature of my Mother and how I have the tendency to both loathe her actions yet emulate them in different but somehow similar ways.

    And so I think of my current situation. I think of being dangled by a hook. I think of being ignored, strung along. I think of all the times I’ve spent with him. And I wonder, is it worth it? Is it worth it to even try? Why do I try? Why do I give a bazillion chances? Has he earned any of them?

    And I push back the tears because I know I’m better than that. I deserve more. I am worthy of more.

    I didn’t text. I called only once.

    I think this is it. I think I’m done with stupid.

  • Monday Morning

    “I don’t have that effect on people.”
    “Now I have to call bullshit.”

    We sat in the Dining Hall. It was Monday morning, the final moments of camp upon us.

    I was tired, having spent another late night out. I’d already finished eating my meal and was relishing the last few minutes I had before I was relegated to breakdown crew.

    We chatted about nothing important at first. Movie reviews, mostly, of upcoming films. It was talk for the sake of hearing each other speak. I loved the sound of their voice.

    And then we slipped into an actual meaningful conversation.

    I finally had a retort for them. They had previously suggested that my going to so many events and having a grueling work schedule would keep me from having the life I wanted to live.

    “I think that’s bullshit. What if I meet my Daddy at an event?”
    “What if you’ve already met your Daddy? What if they met you, but they saw your life and said, ‘She’s too busy to start a relationship’?”
    “That wouldn’t happen.”
    “Why?”
    “Cause I don’t have that effect on people.”
    “Now I have to call bullshit.”

    They used the perfect argument, an interaction I’d had just minutes before.

    “If I told you, months ago, when you first met X, that you would end up playing with them, being at their side for most of a night, you wouldn’t have believed me.

    “They came into this Dining Hall, sought out you, only you, and made it a point to hug you, thank you for that night, and say bye to you.

    “Do you really think you don’t have an effect on people?”

    Okay, I had to admit my excuse was bullshit.

    But their argument opened up a whole bucket of worms. Yes, I want a certain life, but how much of me has to change to get it? I didn’t want to think about that quandary.

    I wanted, truthfully, to hug them and fuck them in their chair til I came, screaming out their name.  But there are no scenes in the Dining Hall.

    Again, I was left with no other response.

    But my time was also up. I had to go to work. We hugged bye, knowing we’d see each other in a few months.

    My Fusion was full of amazing moments, from heartfelt to hard cocks, hard points and punches. Friends, chosen family, crushes and curses. A storm, so many scenes, and everything in between.

  • My Life, In List Form

    Part of my last session with Doc focused on the idea of life goals. For this week’s homework, he wanted me to make lists of my life goals/desires. He encouraged me to be detailed (“Use that writing of yours.”) when describing what I want.

    In some ways this task is easy. In others it is quite difficult.

    I know I want to finish Sticky. I know I want to publish it, sell butt loads of copies (physical and digital), and develop my main character into an entire series of books.

    I know I want to live off of my writing. But, until I reach that goal, I want to make a certain money level in my current job.

    I know I want to attend at least one new kink event a year, and make sure to stay close and connected with my current (and growing) kinky family.

    But here is the rub. It is so much harder to talk about what I want from a life partner, from my romantic relationships.

    I know I want to fall in love. I know I want to find someone to partner with and create a life together. In theory, I want marriage and at least one kid. I want a Daddy who will give me all this.

    However, I am a slut. A big slut. A super-duper-huge-gleefully-naked-fuck-me-fist-me-forever slut. I am so very kinky. I love fists and cigars and boots and rope. I. Am. A. Slut.

    I want my kinky fetish cake and to eat it too. I want to commit to someone, wholly and fully, and yet still have free leave to go play and fuck whomever I want. And I would freely extend this leave to my life partner.

    Now ask yourself: do you know anyone like this? Cause, well, I don’t. Can I really be owned if I have so much freedom? Is it even possible to have it all? The life, the kink, the fucking, and the love? Who could be strong enough to be by my side for all of that? Could I even be strong enough to be a partner to this person?

    In a previous session, Doc asked me if I was trying to be someone I’m not. I told him about Green Eyes, and how I sometimes feel when watching others play.

    He asked me why I thought I needed to be able to watch someone I care for with another? He insightfully pointed out all the things bothering me stemmed from my comparisons of myself to that other person. He encouraged me to have compassion for “the little girl inside me”, the one who feels less than, not good enough.

    If I can’t do this now, when I am not partnered, when it is just friends, how can I hope to do it later? How can I hope to be that super strong poly cheerleader? How can I hope to be that uber-me? I am so far away from who I strive towards. Will I ever be her?

    It feels more than a little odd, writing about this in the lobby of Shibaricon. How often does one have broad sweeping conversations with themself when they are suppose to be on vacation?

    Even so, after I finish this blog, I’ll pull out my journal, look at the bare bones of my lists, and add or do some tweeking.

    I’ll wonder about money, my job, my hopeful writing career. I’ll think about my family and friends. I’ll ponder if I want to stay a renter or someday own a home. One kid or more? Stay on the east coast or move some where else.

    And, eventually, I’ll crawl back upstairs, collapse into my bed, my mind still dancing around my life, in list form.

  • Not Another Doormat

    “I keep accepting these little pieces of people, and being so incredibly happy with them, which I think is incredibly shitty. It is so much like my mother, and I don’t want that. A friend recently told me I keep settling for small bites when I should be demanding the whole entree.”
    “Yes, but first you have to believe you deserve a seat at the table.”

    This past session with Doc was full of aha moments.

    Doc talked about how, even if I found myself in a relationship, unless I love myself I won’t be able to accept or believe the love my partner would give to me. I can’t take in love unless I first believe and love myself. If I tried (and I have), I’d most likely see (and have seen) the affections of another as a lie, or me tricking them, or a result of me emotionally bribing them.

    The more I look at my life, I more I see what I don’t want to happen happening. And then, of course, Doc made the point that the more we don’t want to be something, the more we become it.

    One of my notes from our session was passing the doormat.

    After our first session, Doc gave me a packet of papers to fill out with background information. It asked general questions about my life. The one section that sticks with me, even now, were adjectives for my parents. He told me not to think about the questions, just whatever came to mind as soon as I read them. For both my parents I put distant. For my Dad, I put strained. For my Mom, I put doormat.

    I see myself inadvertently emulating my mother’s behavior. She spent time with my Dad twice a week, always on the same days. She accepted that all she could get were these small moments with him. She loved him, and I believe still does. She still has a picture of him on her end table, even though she broke up with him almost ten years ago.

    My mother accepted less and called it love. What the fuck do I think I’ve been doing?

    “How do you feel right now?”
    “Very raw, and emotionally open.”
    “Why?”
    “I don’t let others see my pain.”

    It is really shitty to say this, but I don’t know if I ever felt love and affection from my father, nor do I know if I was appreciated from either of parents as a child unless it boiled down to my intelligence.

    When I was young, I was complimented on my grades, even paid money as a reward each time my report card came around. And yes, that made me feel awesome. I most definitely excelled in school and drunk in the praise.

    But, and Doc pointed this out, I don’t know if I was ever complimented, praised, loved for just being me. Not the smart little girl, but just their little girl.

    So again the subject of me crying in front of people came up, though in a round about way. I cried in front of Doc because we were talking about me growing up, how I felt about my parents. And I started to clover, talking logically about my life, and Doc made me go back. He made me stay there, talking about my feelings, and I cried, and thus the quote above.

    I don’t like to talk about how much pain I am basically always in. I have learned to adapt and survive, putting on a smile and going on. But, inside, I could rip apart the world. I could tear and rage forever.

    My parents taught me I was not good enough: not good enough to have a full time father, not good enough to live with my father (and thus loose out on an entire half of my family), not good enough of a daughter. Not fucking good enough, no matter how hard I tried.

    “My mother always called me her smart girl, but it wasn’t until I was in my mid-teens until she called me beautiful. So, for the longest time, I thought I was ugly.”

    Yeah, that one still pisses me off.

    Doc talked about how everyone is broken, and parents end up projecting their faults on their children. Me, being logical, asked when it stopped. If everyone is just passing the shit along, from parent to child ad infinitum, does it ever stop?

    “It stops with you.”

    I know I deserve love. I know I deserve more than I am asking from my life, from the people in my life. I know that instead of quietly asking, I need to start loudly demanding. And I also know that unless I do, I will forever be walked on, never finding or accepting the love I so desperately desire should it come my way. I will be another doormat.

    “That’s good.”
    “What?”
    “You stood up for yourself. That’s progress.”
    “But I was bitchy. And I didn’t properly express my emotions. And…”
    “My god, you’re not cured?”
    “Point taken.”

    During my first session with Doc, he made note that our work is not perfect. At best, therapy is a series of close approximations.

    The problem though is that I have this mindset where I believe things, no people, can be fixed. More specifically, I keep thinking I can be fixed; please fix me. Thankfully Doc is kind (for now) and keeps reminding me how wrong I am.

    “To a certain extent, you will be like this for the rest of your life. And that’s okay. It’s not your fault. There is no other way you would’ve ended up. When you’re old, say 85, you’ll probably still be like this, but hopefully you’ll have learned, you’ll have grown, because when you stop growing emotionally, you’re dead.”

  • My Inner 12Yr Old

    Background:

    There was this boy. His name was Alan.

    I really liked him. He was smart and cute and a genuinely sweet person. We went to the same school and often were paired near each other because our last names both began with the same letter.

    I liked Alan a lot, but, being nervous, I didn’t know how to show it. So instead I was competitive with him, always trying to out quiz, out test, top him in whatever way I could (academically).

    Then, one day, we got our quizzes or tests back, each person called to the front to pick up their piece of paper. As I walked back to my seat, my seat right behind Alan, I saw he had scored a 92 whereas I had scored a 93.

    “Ha! Beat you!”

    I quickly shoved the piece of paper in front of his face and pulled it back. I smiled, sitting behind him.

    That day, during break, a teacher approached me. She asked me to never speak to Alan in that way again. She was, indeed, speaking to me on his behalf. He’d spoken with her about how much that moment, and other moments I can’t (or rather don’t want to) recall upset him.

    We barely, if ever, spoke after that.

    I was devastated. Not only did this boy, who I really liked, not want to speak to me, I had actually hurt him.

    I was eleven.

    Now, the incident:

    I have a friend; we’ll call them Bic.

    I like Bic, a lot. We’ve hung out quite a bit, but not lately because of our jobs. Both of us have been incredibly busy, to the point that Bic had to cancel on me twice, and I have to schedule a week in advance. So, I’ve been peeved.

    Bic randomly texted me this past Friday, and we chatted briefly over text before I asked if I could see them prior to my leaving to attend to Dirty Things. Once again, no good. Bic had plans with a another friend that evening.

    And then this happened:

    Me: I’ve decided to stop worrying about/editing what I say to you.

    Bic: Its a shame you felt like you ever had to.

    – Um yeah… “It’s a shame” (fixed your typo) is a condescending phrase. Please reframe [sic] from using it in reference to me.

    * Wow. Sounds good. Enjoy your night.

    – I like you, and I don’t want to be hurt by you, so please be nice.

    * Are you kidding me? Me be nice? I’m being condescending? Fixing my typos? We are clearly on different pages at the moment.

    – I know you didn’t mean to be, but it felt like you were talking down to me. Since I don’t want to be hurt by you, and I know you don’t want to hurt me, I thought I should speak up. You’ve used that phrase before and it stung then, too, but I didn’t say anything. (And my fixing your typo was a bit bitchy; I’ll own that.)

    About seven hours later…

    – Sorry I was bitchy earlier. I was… frustrated, and took it out on you. For that I apologize.

    So… yeah… That happened.

    When I like someone, and I don’t get what I want, be it small or large, occasionally I get miffed, and my inner 12 yr old boy comes out.

    I lash out, feeling completely justified at the moment, but then incredibly sorrowful later, after I’ve realized what I’ve done. I apologize, and we move on…hopefully, assuming I don’t lash out so badly whomever is in my cross hairs has not been so offended or hurt that they don’t want to talk to me again.

    I still feel bad about what I did to Alan, and it’s been eighteen years.

    The last time I remember this happening, before Friday, was when I was a freshman in college, going out with friends on a Saturday night to play pool. My best friend invited a few guys along, one of which was absolutely gorgeous. Like disarmingly beautiful. Quiet, but engaging.

    As I drove him home, with two others chatting in my back seat, he inquired about my music. I was playing Maroon 5 (judge me as you will), and he said it sounded nice.

    I don’t remember why, but I lashed out, saying something to the effect of, “Do you actually like this? Cause I don’t want to talk about it if you’re not actually interested.”

    Yup. I said that. Did it then, and did it again.

    Not five minutes after I opened my mouth, I knew I had fucked up. This awesome guy had shown an interest in me, and I blew it.

    With Bic, we are friends. I’m open to us being more than that, but life is getting in the way, stoking the fires of my inner 12 yr old.

    I’m wondering when, or if, I’ll ever grow out of this. Maybe, someday, I’ll learn to not snap because I happen to be in a crappy mood and don’t get what I want from a person I like.

    And, hopefully, it’s sometime soon, before I, you know… lash out at anyone else I like.

  • Being Happy Alone

    You’d think by now I’d know how to do this. In my almost twenty-nine years on this earth, I have spent by far more of my time uncoupled and alone than with someone. And yet…

    During my last session with Doc, he talked about how everyone on this Earth has two basic fears. 1- Not being good enough & 2- dying alone.

    Everyone fears being alone.

    Everyone fears being alone.

    Doc said I have a phobia of rejection. Unfortunately, I think he hit the nail on the head. Instead of the instant no, I draw out the situation and just never hear the yes. I settle for less because I fear the instant pain of rejection.

    So what did Doc prescribe?

    Wallowing.

    My current ongoing homework is to take twenty minutes every day (I skipped today because of work; bad patient), and use the time to make myself feel unhappy.

    My session with Doc was on Tuesday, and I’ve automatically taken therapy days off since we’ve started. So when I got back home, I put my sleep clothes back on, crept into our basement, sat behind the bar, and made myself cry.

    You would not believe how hard it was to make myself feel like shit for twenty minutes. I had to resort to saying some awful things to myself to keep my head there.

    You’re always going to be alone. None of them will ever know how much you feel for them, how much you love them. No one will ever love you as much as you love them. You will always be the friend, never the lover. You never had a chance with any of them. Why would anyone love you…

    And on and on.

    I cried and sobbed and silent screamed a lot, to the point that my throat hurt. I immediately wanted to self soothe. I found myself hugging my arms tight, pulling my knees in, and sometimes rocking. More often then not though, I leaned my head against the brick wall and let the tears slowly slip down.

    At the end of the twenty minutes, however, was the second part of my assignment. For five minutes, I was to dance around silly and goofy as could be, preferably to a high energy song. I chose Black Eyed Peas – Party All The Time.

    At first when I tried to dance, I just wanted to cry again. The urge was almost as strong as when I started the wallowing. But I made myself keep moving, made myself dance badly at first. And then I got into the song, got into the movement. I started smiling and swinging my hips. I flung my hair about. I acted silly. And just as Doc knew would happen, I felt better.

    The point of the exercise: feeling pain, feeling rejection is not going to kill you. Pain is a part of life. The fear of rejection, the fear of being alone is something everyone has and everyone has to learn to deal with.  I can choose to be happy, even when I’m sad.

    By taking the time everyday, he wants me to build up my tolerance and acceptance of pain like I would build a muscle. And, hopefully, one day I will no longer avoid rejection because of my fear of pain and instead accept the pain as a possibility I will be able to handle.

    And now, to bring this post full circle.

    I believe part of my acceptance of pain is also the idea of being happy alone. Andrea Zanin gave a wonderful presentation that I was able to attend called 10 Rules For Happy Non-Monogamy based off of a wildly popular blog post she wrote (link love given to the post and the homepage of her blog).  One of her rules was Be Happy Alone.

    If I am truly to get over my phobia of rejection, I think I must be happy alone.

    If I don’t fear solitude, then surely rejection will be lighten.

    If I am happy as I am, just being me, surely the idea that a person not wanting to be in my life would seem small, minuscule.

    If I am happy by myself, then others not wanting to be with me is really their loss.

    I think all of this will be a part of my Bravery for the year: actively working on my phobia of rejection and being happy alone.

    Bring it on.

  • My Necklace

    I walked away quickly, checking that I had everything as I went, when it struck me…

    My neck was bare.

    Rushing back to the guard post, I asked him if he had my necklace. I dropped to the floor and looked all around his station.

    Standing, he said he had found it. His stand was hollow inside, with one hole at the end. My necklace laid at the bottom of the stand, having fallen down that hole, very much out of my or his reach.

    He smiled, saying he didn’t have a key, but his supervisor should. He would call him.

    He shooed me off to the side as others entered the building. I stood, waiting anxiously as he checked them in. After the mini-rush died, he still had made no call, either on a phone or over a radio.

    “Um, Sir, when do you think you’ll be able to get my necklace?” I explained I was in the building to work and would need to leave soon. He took down my name and phone number.

    And then his supervisor approached. I hoped I would not be long parted from my jewelry. But this new man just reiterated with the first had said. They’d call me when they’d retrieved my necklace, saying instead of the key, which no one knew where it was, they would use a clothes hanger to fish it out.

    I walked away, anxious. As I sat waiting for the rest of the crew, I found it hard to think about anything but my necklace.

    There was no way for these men to understand how much the silver at the bottom of their stand (which by-the-way, WHY IS THERE A HOLE IN IT!?!), no way for them to comprehend how much that object means to me.

    The necklace itself is chainmail, bought at my first kink event. On it is a charm with the Chinese symbol for love and a ring, silver in color but certainly not the type of metal, a piece of costume jewelry from a relative who died many years ago.

    My profile picture for most everything is a shot of my necklace (less the ring). What people don’t know, what I don’t talk about much if at all, is the name I have for that picture.

    True, the necklace is a “chainmail collar”. I have had people ask me up front if I’m owned. (More on that in an upcoming podcast.) I tell them no, I am not. But that is only half true.

    The name I gave to my profile picture is “I Own Me”.

    When I was with the Ex, the one way he managed to show affection and give me some reassurance was through a necklace, his necklace which he put on me. It was made of black and red beads with the symbols of his clan. (He’s one of the Pensic folk.)

    Absentmindedly, throughout my day, I used to play with that necklace. When I was stressed, I often stroked it, remembering there was someone who cared for me and would be there when I got home to make things better.

    When I broke up with him, he knew what was coming before I even opened my mouth. I held his necklace in my hand, having only previously taken it off to shower. I gave it back to him that day, ending whatever we were.

    I’ve worn the Chinese character around my neck since college. In my mind, having the symbol for love about me would be my quiet beacon out to the world, hoping someone would hear the call.

    I put down the charm when he gave me his necklace. I put it back on when I left him, reminding myself there was more in this life than my time with him.

    Now I keep it on, wearing it for me. My kink life. My openness. My freedom. My caring, affection, love for others. I feel like, in some small way, the charm works/worked.

    When I finger the ring, I remember Aunties, Uncles, and Ella, a family passed on but not forgotten. So much of my life with three people so long gone…

    When I rub the symbol, I remember that I am loved, that I have so much love to give, and that there are those who want and deserve my affections, both known to me and the yet-to-meets.

    So yes, I was very anxious, and nervous, and downright distraught when my necklace dropped down that hole. I wear it everyday. I sleep with it on at night. I take it off only when I shower, and only rarely don’t wear it out.

    Thankfully, thirty minutes later, I got the call. They returned my necklace with both the ring and charm in tow.

    Crisis averted.

  • Settling

    “Because you don’t require a commitment for you to be in their lives, they never had to make a decision with you. In your effort to avoid the pain of rejection you have this other painful feeling [of never having tried].”

    Twice, less than a month apart actually, I learned two people I care for started relationships with someone else. These persons are about as diametrically opposed as two people can be.  Two different races, jobs, and completely different personalities.    

    What do these two have in common? Towards the beginning of my interactions with them, they gave me almost identical statements: I am not in a position to have a relationship right now. I don’t want a relationship right now. I can offer you friendship.

    In both instances I accepted their statements and tried to build some connection in the constraints given.

    Yet, as I sit here on my bed, about an hour and a half before I jaunt off to work, I can’t help but note that the one thing they have in common is me not being in a relationship with either of them while they just started new ones with someone else.

    I spoke to one friend about this situation; their conclusion was they both were full of shit and what they really should have said was, “I don’t want a relationship with you.” Obviously this hurt to hear, but since anger is an emotion I often quell, and I’m suppose to be allowing myself to feel and acknowledge my emotions, it rang true.

    But when I spoke to another friend, they had a different, though similar, view.

    Both of my friends pointed out that I settle. I know I settle. It is a bad habit that has plagued me far too long.

    My second friend put it a different way. I don’t make others commit. I have a network of people I care for; from no one do I require an iota of title or formal negotiation. I allow a lot of people into my life without asking much, if anything.

    So, sitting here, typing away on my netbook, this is when my footloose and fancy free nature gets me fucked. Because, if I am completely and totally honest with myself, I can say that I care deeply for both of these people who (cliche coming) dropped the bomb on me.

    Of course I cannot blame either of them for the way I am feeling. I brought this all on myself.

    I brought this all on myself.

    I.  Brought this.  All.  On.  Myself.

    I didn’t make them choose. I didn’t ask for a commitment. I didn’t ask for anything. They had me without ever having to choose, to commit, to make a decision. I am in their lives with little effort on their parts.

    If I don’t ask for what I want, how am I ever suppose to get it?

    Ah, but here is the real rub: I didn’t know what I wanted until I didn’t have it, until it was no longer a possibility.

    During my last session with Doc, the subject of a person I will call Zed came up. When I was younger, Zed and I were friends, talking a lot on the phone, and spending lots of time together.

    Because of life, I had to move away from Zed; our friendship waned. When I came back to visit, I learned Zed had started a new relationship. It took me a year to tell Zed how I felt that day.

    I cried alone in the car with the window down and the rain pouring in as I sped, too fast, on the interstate. I sobbed, hard. I pulled away from Zed more. Still, even as I write this, my eyes water.

    I didn’t know I was in love with Zed until I could no longer have Zed (they are not poly and I hadn’t even heard of the term at the time).

    Today Zed is happy, and though their happiness comes from being with someone else, I am still very happy for them.

    It is hard for me to articulate, or even realize, what I want until I can’t have it.

    And that’s not to say I want a huge-monogamous-this-is-it commitment from either of those two; I’m fairly certain I don’t want that from anyone, in fact. But when you open with “I don’t want a relationship right now, nor am I looking for one,” yet somehow you find it with someone who isn’t me, I feel shitty.

    I made an assumption.  I didn’t take a leap.  I accepted.  I settled.

    People don’t need to commit to me to be a part of my life. This gives me a lot of connections, but the ground under my feet never feels solid. I’m always afraid they will just stop being a part of my life.

    I don’t ask for the commitment because I fear they will say no, and yet I still live in the constant fear that, instead of hearing “the no”, they will just stop being there.

    In my avoidance of pain, I’ve woven a web of even more sorrow.

    God, this emotional shit sucks. I need to stop doing that.

    I need to stop settling.

  • Time

    Time.

    Time is the most precious gift any individual can give.

    We don’t know how much of it we have on this earth. The greatest punishments we can levy are taking a person’s time away, or ending their time all together. (Or, worse yet, filling their time with horrors.)

    I was speaking with a friend about their life and the issue of time came up. I helped them articulate why their sudden distance from another hurt so much. It wasn’t jealousy or insecurity; it was time. Though it was unintentional, the other had pulled away, depriving my friend of their time together, which is what my friend missed the most.

    Often I don’t want to think about time. If you look at your life, you can see what is most important to you when you gage how much time you spend on it.

    Everyone has to work to make a living, but I intentionally try to not work as much as I could. There are those in my industry who get three hours of sleep each night during the busy season, camp out in their cars, take on sixteen hour days regularly. I don’t do that.

    I hate it when my job takes away my time. This is especially so because regularly my work occurs when I would otherwise see my family and friends. I have but so many precious minutes on this earth; I strive to work to live, not make my work my life.

    I hate it when I unintentionally deprive one friend of their time because I gave it to another. Thankfully it does not happen often, but it is a hurtful slap in the face both to my deprived friend and to myself when it occurs.

    Ever since college, I’ve scheduled time with friends. Since high school, I’ve had a job on the weekends, thereby ingraining in me a need to set a time & date and stick to it. And though this can be helpful, it can also be complicated and/or disappointing.

    What happens when you can’t see someone for a month? More than a month? What happens when someone, through no fault of their own, cancels? I can’t just reschedule for the next day or the next weekend. And it is very hard to pass up a pop-up gig making a lot of money for very little work.

    We all make choices. Who do you choose to see the most, talk with the most? Who do you make the time for? Cut out a moment for? Always find a way to see or call or email or text? Spy their Facebook status? Troll their Twitter feed? The people who matter the most to you are the people you make the time for, even if they’re not in the room.

    But, and this is the bigger question, who are the people who get the least of your time? 

    (Bigger still: Why?)

  • Stigma

    “Feelings are not facts.” – Doc, on my need to put others first because if I don’t I feel like a bad person. 

    He subsequently pointed out that often the ways we use to avoid pain in fact cause us more pain; my putting others first only reinforces my belief that I am worth less than others, i.e. a bad person.

    Recently I chatted with a coworker as we ate a meal during our break. They confessed to me that they were contemplating seeking couples counseling, citing issues with communication and resulting arguments.

    Previously, I had mentioned that I recently started therapy. My coworker felt the need to have me promise to not divulge their thoughts with anyone we knew. (My coworker is not kinky, and does not read this blog.)

    When I spoke to a second coworker, citing how happy I was that I had started therapy, they asked me why I even sought out the help. I told them how it was difficult for me to express my emotions. They pointed out how I spoke to them about how I was feeling. I agreed; I spoke to them, but who else?

    It is easy for me to talk with this second coworker. Our lives only intertwine at work. I feel comfortable with them, having bit-by-bit revealed parts of myself with no blow black. But I would like to be comfortable talking to anyone about my feelings. I want to be open and honest not just about all the hot kinky sex and play in my life, but also the undercurrent, the inner most workings influencing me.

    It never occurred to me how much of a stigma around psychotherapy still exists. In my opinion, seeing a therapist should be on the same level as seeing your general practitioner. Medical help is medical help.

    Why do we as a culture ignore an entire part of our health and well being?

    In just two sessions, I see the effects my upbringing has had on my adult life, how my parents have influenced the way I operate, my emotional struggles, and the pent up revelations I don’t allow out.

    Two sessions. In two hours I have felt better than years of talking with my friends and writing in my various journals have ever made me.

    So no, I am not ashamed I see a therapist. I know I need to seek counseling. I believe everyone could benefit from a healthy dose of reality reflected in your face.

    I am happy to sacrifice a day’s pay to sit in a room with a professional, and for an hour talk through the maze that is my head. Frankly, I believe it is a small price to pay.

    I have lived twenty-eight years believing the bullshit I tell myself. But, in short order, my therapist has helped me recognize that my anger towards my parents is justified, and that neglect has a lasting emotional impact worse than physical abuse. My two hours with my therapist have been invaluable.

    So yeah, today with the Doc went well. And, if you wish to, don’t be afraid to get your own.