Archive for July, 2012


Actress Extraordinaire

Every time I touch you in a caring way, it feels a little bit forced.

I am in need of space to find out who I really am now, and what I want, and what I’m looking for.

Space from you.

Right now it is a countdown until I can stop living the lie I’m living for you.

It is a hard thing to be a self-diagnosed manic/depressive hypochondriac. 

The problem with being a hypochondriac is that too frequently you are convinced that you must have thyroid disease (3 times now), even though you’ve never had any sort of ailments similar enough and to the scale of comparison with thyroid disease symptoms.

The problem with being manic/depressive (and currently in a, somewhat self induced because of the marijuana dependency/self-medication, depressive phase) is that you are afraid that you are just crying wolf, because haven’t you done that so much before?

The problem is that you wouldn’t be crying wolf this time. This time the wolf is real. 

So I have gone to therapy. So I have stopped, and gotten worse again. So I have gone again to therapy. And stopped. So here am I, on the verge of a new beginning (you should know that I automatically typed nervous breakdown before rewinding and typing in new beginning — that seems pretty indicative of something, eh?) … I am ready to leave. I am ready to start over. 

But I know these things, these real things that I keep trying to deny, survive, bargain with, and overcome, they will follow me. Now I believe the things I carry with me are items of baggage like Anxiety, Depression, Addiction. I am also burdened with Insecurity, Loyalty, and Pride. 

Pride. Sometimes I am so chagrined by admitting I need help that I shut down. And I opened myself up for a man, a beautiful, kind, wonderful, albeit unreliable stoner child. He has grown so much with me, but what he does not understand is the complex state of womanhood and how much more guarded it is compared to the whims of young girls. I am learning this hurt, because I opened myself too soon. I have conducted myself with such poise around attractive, older, sexually charged men that I knew, intellectually, could have taken me, heart and soul. Instead, they, intellectually, took my heart and soul. But did not touch my body.

Instead I gave my body to you, in addition to my heart and my soul, which you learned was a dangerous place. Dangerous, unbridled, I know this all too well because I have powered on in states of delirium because I cannot sleep or because I am feeling too much over something my mind can tell itself over and over is not important but my heart will not stop because it suffers. No matter how much I shouldn’t I still feel it. 

So my Pride is a burden, rather than a Protector. 

But all of these burdens I believe will weaken with time because I still believe in all of the other things I am carrying. All of my Virtues, like Loving, Creative, Thoughtful, and Self-Aware. Like Optimist, Youthful, Empowering, and Passionate. 

Someone, someday, may find me and love me at whatever state of self-appearance I am in. I will once again devote myself to the care and well-being of this person, and he (I anticipate, but am not sure so let it remain a placeholder pronoun) will give himself to my care and well-being. Something will be different, however, and that is that I will not give my entire being to others; I will preserve some part of myself that is merely, truly, and loyally for myself.

That is what will be different the next time. Until then, I must learn to do all of these things. I must learn to love myself. 

I am now emotionally detached.

I realized this tonight as I watched him bring out a tulip of a home-rolled cigarette and I, hoping with all the Benefit of the Doubt I could ever muster, said, “Ooh that’s a big commitment.” [subtext: “that must be filled with a lot of weed.”] And he sheepishly looked back and said, “Nah. Different sort.” [subtext: “Yeah, this is that gross, dried out, 6+ mo. old tobacco my drug-dealing sidekick you don’t like very much because he occasionally ends up passed out in my bed at 3 in the afternoon while I’m holding up shop — he’d take the futon, but I’m already taking up the living room. He’s my buddy, what, so I’m not going to offer him my bed? I’m not going to accept his grody ass tobacco?”]

The fact is, though, that because you don’t eat properly and you smoke too many cigarettes, darling, you are a skeleton of what you once were. I have always known that I am attracted to beefy men. My father used to seem a lot bigger, even in his slimmer years, because I was (believe it or not, given my size now) somewhat smaller. My father has put on weight in his middle years, but he has incorporated it gracefully as a tall man and so simply has a more solid presence in the room … contrary, say, to his former days as a 1970s short-shorted high school varsity basketball player. His downtown corporate office city suits from our suburban American family days filled him out, and my own smaller stature. Also, my admiration for his achievements. My longing for his approval. My eagerness to somehow learn how to truly communicate with my father.

This sure sounds Freudian, but I definitely believe you remind me of my father. You too are from a small town, although you do not come with nearly as much affluence. This means, I think, that you do not believe in yourself (as in, yourself as a success who will continue to succeed). This does not mean that you don’t talk a big talk, but why do you think I try to shoot you down so much? I want you to see yourself as actually describing the reality of the situation, rather than the inflated hyperbole that you mumble on about.

You also both have dreams. I am not disputing that. My father has come a long way from the rural and remote of where my high achieving grandfather placed him to fly from to settle his roots elsewhere. My father has settled his roots down in a place that I’d like to think I helped lead him back to. The place where he married my mother. The place where his mother received her high school degree. I have rooted my parents there, no matter how many other pilgrimages they pursue. My mother, also, has traveled far, and stood strong as a grecian goddess of a pillar in my life.

The real difference, though, between you and my father, darling, is that while my father’s dreams incorporate only those less fortunate, those more needy, those more taxed, yours only include the betterment of yourself. My father is driven by a Divine Leading that I do not fully understand, but I believe is the same spark in me from which the music of my soul flows. My parents have taught me to seek to better those around me, because it is my duty, and also my Divine pleasure, to help. So I have tried to help you.

And now I see you wasting away. And smoking away. And drinking away.

I have become emotionally detached because I need to love myself first. I used to love you, love the idea of saving you and, most of all, used to love the idea of being with you once you were saved. I’ve often been accused of Falling In Love With Potential … Well there I did it again. And now I cannot watch any more. I am stepping above. I am stepping beyond.

I am also tiptoeing around the aura of another former Lovespark in Whom I Imbued Too Much Potential for the Period. But, after stepping away and letting go of the absurd human I wouldn’t watch him become, he stepped out and continues to surprise me with smiles every time I talk to him. Which I find wanting to be more and more frequent. Isn’t it funny, I’ve been in love with this young man since we were 13. Almost a decade. And I’ve never kissed him? Delusional, I know. But I’ve also been the closest to him without going further with the most electric magnetic pressure I’ve ever experienced. I’ve known him at highs and lows and loved watching where he discovers next.

The first play I ever wrote, I wrote about this young man with whom I hope to stay along my voyage away from this compound and towards my family vacation which I get to go on because I wasn’t, in fact, hired at the August internship I’d hoped for. As my mother would say, “Rats.”

I am on the verge of another change. I mentioned at Al-Anon the other day (I’ve started going; I think I will be ready for the real change when I can get away from him) that I was ready to have Freedom from this man. This tortured young man who has too much kerosene and spark and not enough slow burn. The Almost-Second Lover I took was far more gentle, far more loving in his embrace; I questioned it was merely a matter of softer fingertips in the most delicate, and sensitive, of places. I realized, even in my hazy state, that the answer was probably not; the answer was probably more linked to an awareness of the woman and her pleasure. Pursuing mine, because by being as pleasured as possible, he could tell, this temporary target of mine, that I would pleasure him back. Or did he? He just seemed intent on my pleasure. And I intent on his. Had the alcohol not derailed the physiology of our plans … well, we’ll never know, will we.

I am ready to feel a new lover’s touch. I am ready to find touch, if he is ready to give it and I am ready to receive it, the touch from this old Lovespark. As he is also a dear friend, I hope to one day explain our relationship using a term of my mother’s which is bound to surprise her: that he and I are “devoted to each other.”

I have this idea for a play in which a young open hetero couple gets accidentally pregnant and decide to raise the child… a few years later the woman has unprotected sex with another man and gets pregnant with his child. The two fathers decide to both be in her life as love interests, but they have to figure out how to explain it to her family, who is completely traditional. That is not to say conservative, but the idea of having multiple sexual partners, much less child rearing partners … It is not a matter of gender as it is a matter of number. 

But I digress.

I am seeking for a way to pleasure myself, because I deserve to be pleasured. Here I am stuck in a soon to be escaped delusion of being with someone I am ready to transcend. I am ready to grow and he is not. And I will be wounded still when I leave, perhaps more so when I am in nomad mode for a while. But exciting things are on the horizon, if I am just patient enough to get myself there in good enough shape to plant in soil anew and soak in the nutrients of a new, inviting, and exciting environment.

My future lies ahead and, believe me, good things lie in it.

All I Ever Wanted…

Last night I dreamed that there was a new baby in the hands of the field hockey coach from my high school. I looked at her in surprise, since as far as I know, she already has four children under the age of ten. This woman is someone I admire merely from afar, primarily because I find her beautifully shaped and faced, with long glossy brown hair and a dedication to athleticism in addition to mothering four stunning and smiley young people. My dream, therefore, took an emotional descent when she handed the newborn to my former sweetheart with the greeting of, “Here, hold your son.”

My dream self’s heart shattered at that moment, because here was this tangible, living, breathing reminder that somehow, for some reason, he and I hadn’t been able to make it work. He had gone looking for someone else and had found her, someone whom I can only hope to embody one day. He had decided that her body and her time and her love was more appealing than mine; so appealing in fact that he chose to combine his chromosomes with hers for a permanent fusion of history. This baby, this life, was proof that they had been together for at least some part of life.

Other than my memories, I have nothing tangible that proves we ever had such a thing.

All I ever wanted was a photograph of the two of us, sober and in love.
Maybe next time.

The Next Time List Implies A Moving On

I almost slept with someone else.

He couldn’t stay hard enough to put the condom on though.

I propositioned him tonight again with a text mentioning that I was relatively drunk, somewhat emotionally vulnerable, and still capable of consent.
He turned me down. That is not the problem.

The problem is that I had asked my ex-boyfriend if he wanted to potentially spend some sober naked touching time tonight with me in support of my proposed detox. He responded with a ‘we’ll see.’ Instead, he chose to get fucked up.

Let’s put it this way: the next person I date will find the concept of spending time with my body and my self more appealing than substances.

Someone will love me and love loving me more than whatever and however other things make them feel.

I am about to get a rainbow phoenix tattoo designed by a high school friend of mine. No one knows yet. That said, no one knows how to find this blog either. Which is a shame because it stops me from telling the full truth.

Help, someone. I am drowning and suffocating. I wish someone would desire me enough to go through with it when I proposition the possibility.

Perhaps I’m just too horny and drunk. Thanks Internet for giving me space. No one else seems willing; at least, not the humans I wish it were coming from.

Someone will help me understand what it is to rise up from these ashes and be a radiant vibrant loving lovable human again. Towards myself and towards others. Until then, One Day at a Time and The Serenity Prayer. I used you today, even if you couldn’t tell by my actions and consumption. I am resisting but also listening. Keep talking, even if you don’t think I can hear. I am desperately searching for help, even if I can’t yet remove myself from that which is burning me. Burn, baby, burn. Isn’t that what a Phoenix does? But when does the fire cease, friend, when does the fire cease?

Leviathan of Dying Love, Hark!

Why should I be jealous if his company

Is spent with someone who’s not me

If I have slowly come to see

With him I’m not whom I want to be

I shall write thee a requiem

Of our love that once was

Of passion despite those that chose to condemn

In it you will hear how I’ve suffered for you

I know that you never asked for me to

The tides have now turned

And my river’s now soiled

And I’m spinning with whatever’s the message I’ve learned

How do you know if the river is deep

Before you have run and taken your leap

My river for you runs far deeper in me

Than I ever allowed you to see

Except in the tears that I let overflow

I wonder if you ever will really know …