Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Musings in the Arms of Others

It all ends eventually anyway.

"Have you ever been with more than one person?"

How to answer that question?

Is it just sex when you are in love with all the people you are in bed with? When ever minute with them is a minute that you wouldn't trade for the world. When the beginning was wine and kisses in a kitchen, that turned into wine and kisses on a couch that turned into a relationship with two humans, relationship. Relationships.

When does the answer to that question begin to make sense when everything you believe says that sex, life, love, is to be enjoyed and shared.

It's not just sex.

"Do you think you fall in love easily?"

How to answer that question?

When you aren't afraid to let you heart wander and create fantasies of futures that can never be with a person you know for only a few hours, days months? When in your future you lay in bed reading pages of each others novels feeling inspired, feeling in love, feeling the emotions of a city or town and that moment just as real as if it had happened.

And if it only happened in the mind. Isn't that love? And wasn't that worth it?

Maybe my problem is I fall and keep falling and will be falling and have ever been falling in love...falling in is a constant state, but I never seem to fall out. Even when it all comes apart, the depth of my affection is still there. It is there, it has been there, it will be there, it was ever there.

"Doesn't it hurt, though?"

How to answer that question?

If it stops hurting, what's the point? If you know in the beginning that it will only end in tears and you avoid the tears? I'd rather all the loves I've ever had than avoiding them for fear of the pain. It was always worth it. Each love, a walk in the park, pink trees and the wet cool temperature of spring, in love, falling in love with the people who love you, the people who save you. No matter how fleeting. Worth all the hurt.

It's never been finite, in my eyes, it's not a resource you use up, and it's worth losing yourself in it sometimes.



Monday, May 22, 2017

Post Trauma Script

Echos of the past. Every single micro moment of every single event playing out in my head like it is real all over again. Ever single feeling of shame coming to the surface.

Wait

Today I was very good at who I am. I was very impressive at being me even when being me meant an international stage for an audience of thousands at six a.m. The sun rose behind me and there was an aura and there were feelings of being angelic and there were feelings of being above it all someone.

And it was very good.

And I felt good about it. Almost immediately crushingly guilty for feeling good about it. Buried in work today, being good at all the work I do. There is no emotion there, but everyone who interacts with me describes it as "passionate, energized, excited"

Wait

There feels like nothing today and that is the hardest part, but I'm almost through it. I spent the night waking up almost every hour, my heart racing through the entire night. Each dream the same dream, fighting, chasing, losing, fighting, chasing, losing, not quite, not quite there, but

Wait

That's the thing about the way it triggers. It's all just past emotion pulled to the surface with a mirror light. The details you don't want to know. I have five years of details in one of my past lives. I have a year in another. And in another a year more. Put that all together and it becomes a little past anchor rooting you to the spot of it and you want to just circle around and around and around and...

Wait

Some days I have to remind myself that I am so far past my past. I look in the mirror and very little has changed. To my advantage. To my detriment. Sometimes I wonder if there were more changes if it might be easier to let go and move on. What I really want some days is to look in the mirror and be a different person. Some days I look in the mirror and I see the red highlights that come out in my hair and I remember a different face and a different name and a different person and her different traumas and her loss and her suffering and how strong I have been and how easy it is not to be strong and yet, and yet, and yet...

Wait

Tomorrow. I get through tomorrow, and then we find our way to being okay. From there it is a hope skip and a jump.

Writing helps.

People will help more. This weekend there will be nothing but people and we can write new stories together and this will be the best of all. In the end it's five minutes, not five years. Five unexpected minutes, but I refuse to be held hostage to it. The processing time is hard, but lingering is worse. And so, it's just a few more days. I...

Wait.





Sunday, May 21, 2017

Then There Was Dinner

I'm in hyper processing mode and not sure what to do about it. Having had my rape shower it seems like what I want the most is to spill out a series of collected words where it suddenly makes sense. But all the words that seem to come to mind are coming from that dark place in the back of my head.

Sometimes I have crazy fun adventures like having sex in the Sears Tower. I'm a stranger person and I do weird and strange things when I want to, when I like to, when I like the people I'm with, when it all seems to come together in a way that makes me thing "this will be an adventure."

Sure, sure, why not. I'm enjoying who I am right now, and who I am includes a lot of people, good dates, a minor amount of anxiety, and for the first time perhaps in my entire life thinking that I'm entirely attractive enough to be worth peoples time.

Not that I never felt that way before. Just before there was always a stronger self-deprecating side of attraction. That dark shadow again telling me that anyone daring to take a second look at me, not to mention a third, must be out for something. 

Then there was dinner last night. It was a second date. The first date ended in my bed. I am unapologetic about that. I wanted it to end it my bed, I liked the gentleman in question, we had a very good night and I was feeling good about what I was doing. I never felt as if I was making bad decisions or was in any way doing anything I didn't want to be doing. I think that is fine. I think every woman on the planet should feel okay about wanting to sleep with someone when she wants to, assuming she has the freedom, interest and intent do do so. That's where I am.

At dinner, which started thirty minutes late and which I was almost certain was I going to be stood up for, I met my date again. He was still charming, still just the little but of accent, still smart and intelligent and I was still happy to be there. As we dug into why he was late I realized two things 1) I like this person, they have a career and responsibilities 2) this date is not going to end in bed.

My reasoning for number two was entirely valid. I have no shame in saying I went out to have dinner and have a nice round of sex number two with my date. We worked well together and had a good time. However, when the date has a medical issue they are dealing with and surprise emergency that require sleep and full cognitive function I don't feel comfortable going to bed. It would be both selfish and inconsiderate of me. And so, sex was - as it were - off the menu.

The date was fine, the good good. We had nice wine. We talked about life and art and travel. I was happy to be out on a date. I felt beautiful and desired, even if I knew the date was not going to end in bed and that was okay.

I was okay with that.

And as we walked away for me to get a cab.

And as we walked down the street.

And as I finished paying for dinner so we could walk down the street.

And as the couples passed and we held hands for a moment.

And as he kissed me and I enjoyed the warmth of it for a second.

All of those moments were okay.

And then he grabbed my hand and tried to pull it lower and I pulled away.

And then he said come on, let's just go to your place.

And then I said no.

And then he grabbed my face again, pulled me into his lips again. His mouth tasted rotten and like meet.

And I said no again.

I smiled.

I fucking smiled.

And I laughed. And I pushed him away and tried to explain to him why this was not going to happen tonight.

My heart was beating.

My heart was pounding.

My phone was in my hand and I got a car.

Come on. He said.

I have a hard on he said.

It's your fault he said.

The least you can do is take care of me he said.

As long as I leave by one a.m. he said.

And I smiled.

And I laughed.

And I tried to be coy while desperate for the car to come.

That car is big enough for both of us.

Let me come with you he said.

You should take care of me he said.

Next time, I slammed the door.

My wrist were sore from where I wrenched off his fingers. My mind was swirling. That's all fine, I thought.

Fine.

It's all fine.

There is nothing wrong.

Everything is fine.

I drank a shot of vodka when I got home.

Everything is fine.

And then I slept and had uneasy dreams of all the times this has happened before, of all the times I have let this happen before, of all the times I have acutely believed that I have somehow brought this on myself before, on all the times I have believed that I deserved this before, on all the faces, and names and smiling teeth that gnash in the dark corners and I think, I think, I think...that's fine.

This morning I realized it wasn't fine.

I'm mostly fine, because that is what I do, but somehow I feel so drained by it all. Like there is just an emptiness there that doesn't understand what is going on around it. Like somehow this is all my fault and I should be ashamed to have these feelings and even more so I should be ashamed to write them down.

If you write them down anyone can read them. Anyone at all.