Sunday, April 29, 2018

With Strangers

There is an invitation to a dinner party. In my head I believe the only reason I have been invited is that my dogs are adorable. This is true, the little cousins of my dearly, departed monkey are cute as hell. There is an understanding I have that this is also me trying to make excuses for the fact that I have become a somewhat normal person on the outside and the construct that is my identity is one that has some merit.

Construct.

Identity.

It's not the "who am I?" question, as I have a fairly good understanding of who I am. The trouble here, is in the facets of me and trying to figure out where the edges are around the thing that I still can't help but to see as normal.

Where are the edges of the polite conversation and where do I need to plug in. Which part of me do you really want to interact with.

Most of the time, all of me is far outside the bounds of what can be considered desirable.

I believe this.

I'm most likely wrong, but I can't help thinking that the group I interact with that "knows me" contains some sort of special skill that allows me to be entirely who I am without and subtle shifts away from conversation or obfuscation of the essential pieces of me that polite company cannot handle.

It seems like madness, but the truth about me has ended more casual friendships than it has started. Truth is difficult for most, suspect, keep it to yourself.

In the closet in my mind where the abused girl still lives I hear the shadows of the old epitaph "you never speak about what happens here to anyone else." I am a vessel for secrets, for that which cannot be acknowledged, that which cannot be true, that which cannot be fathomed. I hear about the abuses and the trials of others and outwardly I say, because you must say, because you are demanded to say, because it is always important to say "that's so awful, I can't imagine."

Internally, I don't just imagine but I relive to an extant that requires desperate measures to minimize. I smile, feign shock, sadness. The only thing I don't pretend to is the empathy. I understand, but how to share my understanding without minimizing the experiences of others.

And how to engage with a cultural of, for lack of a better description, normal when "normal" cannot know, understand, or desire to explore those depths of what made me, the reasons my edges are so sharp, the wit is so funny, the observation so practiced and weaponized. The things that made me break normal. They always do.

Once I sat outside a fire pit with a family member. It would be our last interaction. As we drank, I let down the walls of all those things. She expounded on what she thought had happened when doors were closed and the small whispered conversations of the possibility of what might be going on. The wine loosened my tongue and I corrected the assumptions with the reality. "I don't, stop, I don't want to know this."

"I want you to know."

My letters are returned now and we will never see each other again. The door is completely closed. The reality was so much worse than the whispered imaginings, the reality was never as dark as anyone suspected. It was so much worse.

People guess at the pain in my past but the reality is so much more difficult to face. Yet, here, in the words, the endless pages upon pages in this public diary I keep, I have explored this often. It's not that I have an issue with the things that I have lived, it's that I understand the audience here. In the professional circles, I understand the audience and easily define the lines that cannot be crossed, the separate between functional, societal contribution me and me. Just me. Just who I am.

Even overseas, it was always easy to know exactly where the lines were, and with whom the lines did not exist.

But, casual interaction with strangers. A group that I do not know, that I have no ability to interpret yet, that I don't have some sort of pre-defined construct of boundaries: I find this daunting and terrifying and look for excuses for reasons, for a knowing to explain "why would you want me here?"

The truth is so much simpler. I am a human and other humans have invited me to interact, without agenda, without some usury purpose. This is a normal thing that normal people do, and so I look for motivation behind it because this is how I keep myself safe from the normal world.

With change, perhaps this is the thing I am most afraid to confront. Being simply, normal, human, flawed, honest and real without pretense or a desire for protection. In the exploration of all those emotions, I'm frozen about the decision, but in the end willing to constantly challenge myself to do more, to understand more and to be better.

This self actualization, above all other things, is as close as I can get to the boundaries of normal.

Saturday, April 07, 2018

Juxtaposition

“You kiss me, With your kiss my life begins. You spring to me, I things to me, don’t you know you’re life itself.” -As Sung By Nina Simone

I sit and wait for a boarding to London, going again.

The last three weeks have been fast paced confusion. The dogs have been pleased because I am home. I am pleased because I love the dogs.

In three weeks I have acknowledged more than I think I was either ready or capable of acknowledging. I am in love again. I am in love again. I am still in love. I am loved. I am loved.

Have I ever been so well loved as I am now.

Am I the only person who doesn’t love me.

I see only my flaws. The things that make me fundamentally not good, not right, not a creature who can be loved. This goes so far beyond the physical stereotypes. I’m not talking about beauty or societal attractiveness.

The thing that holds me back most is in my mind.

I find myself, fully 22 years past my childhood, haunted by my childhood. I realized, in the arms of a most gracious lover last night, that my childhood colors so much of my life. That the impact has been so long lasting.

Here is a thing that is difficult to discuss but that must be discussed.

I love people wanting to love me. To give me more than I give to them.

I enjoy the sensation, I enjoy how it makes me feel. I enjoy losing myself in a lover that wants all the parts of me, and not just what I can do for them.

But…

but…

but…

In order for me to even remotely enjoy myself I have to surprises 5 years of trauma. I have to force through, on occasion, a sudden shadow of my eight year old confused self who was being abused. This is what they do not talk about when they talk about childhood trauma. That half of the process is reclaiming something from the hooks of evil set at a very young age.

I want to be an adult woman who enjoys losing herself in loving.

I am an adult woman who has to make sure my mind doesn’t go in the wrong direction when a generous lover offers more to me, than I to them.

The worst is the moment inside of sexual moment when I realize my mind has slipped it’s bonds to go somewhere bad and dangerous and upsetting.

My lovers, those that love me, those that have accepted their role in my life and love me as I love them...I think I’ve told each to an extension, but…

But…

I continue to strive to be more than a broken women, but sometimes I only feel broken.

Today, I will board a flight to London because I have become accomplished.

“It’s not unattainable”, my lover says last night.

He is right.

What I want, is attainable, and I’ll find some way to attain it, even if it means accepting all the horrors with only a laugh and circling in the embrace of those that I can love without want, or lack, or loss.

Thursday, April 05, 2018

20 days

I've been on the ground for 20 days.

For 20 days I have been asleep in my own bed.

For 20 days I didn't board a plane.

For 20 days I saw the dogs.

For 20 days I ate what I wanted to cook.

For 20 days I saw the people I cared about.

Around day 9 I felt the itch. The "what am I doing here".

The ground confusion.

The stable confusion.

The why am I not going confusion.

Love the dogs, take a shower, workout, eat the food, see the people. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Is this what it is always like this like. The day in and day out, the one place, the one thing, the one time, the ground, the ground the ground.

Feelings around me and I look at myself in the mirror and I feel most exhausted and most offput and mostly on the ground and I want to

The dogs are so cute, in bed snuggles and warmth and I fall down around them all snuggles and warmth and I look out the windows all chill outside making the snuggles and warmth more snuggly and warmly and I


2 days.

It is 2 more days and I am gone again.

2 more days and up and down.

2 more days and movement.

2 more days and it is coming.

And no dogs.
and no bed.
and.
and

Tuesday, April 03, 2018

Strong Emotions

The one thing that has become more challenging for me as I've gotten older is strong emotions.

Mastery of bottling my feeling, level 100.

There is no emotion here. I am nothing.

An unfeeling creature.

Logic and reason. These are things I can fully embody. I feel nothing. For this. For that. For me. For you.

For you.

For you.

All of this is a lie of course. The reality is that I feel so intensely that there are times when it is absolutely overwhelming. I cry alone in a bathroom and hope you don't notice a slight swelling to my eyes or the rasppiness to my voice from choking back tears. All of this is contained in all moments, but contained. Contained.

The world is a tidal wave of strong emotions and I am cresting on the surface, riding, sometimes riding with, sometimes crushed beneath.

My outward appearance is nothing.

When you say you love me, I die inside and I want to bury my head and deny it. I want to grab your clothes and pull you against me and make mad, fierce love. I want to hold you in my body and in my arms, pull your hair, pull your lips between my teeth, pull your tongue into my mouth, pull your arms around me. When I come I want to roll away and cry and lose myself and forget my name until you grab me and whisper my name in my ear and tell it will be okay and hold me until the shaking has passed and I know you are not leaving.

You will not run away because I am broken.

And I will not be any less worthy of your love because I am broken.

I am broken.

And brokenness is worthy of affection.

The world was dark and grey today and full of wanting, and missing, and fretting and dark emotion, and the tendrils of love riding on the tips of the wind slapping the trees and in the fullness of the raindrops that crash against the window pain making a spattering sound that makes me think of what it must be like to hit my heart when it is breaking.

Broken hearts are real, and yet I do not shy away.

And I love you, and I feel the strong emotions, and I don't bend, or break, or run away in the face of them.

I don't know who that makes me.

Sunday, April 01, 2018

Moonlight

The loud-quiet sounds of panting are filling the room as we pull apart from each other, sweat cooling suddenly in the room; the space between us seems suddenly so vast and the light in the room so bright.


Cord dangling from my hand and I pull and pull, lifting up the blind that blocks out the night sky, an evening free of obfuscation and clouds, an evening full of talk, laughter and embrace. 

"Here come hold me, look."

Arms wrapped around bodies, back to front, front to back, and the moonlight in the window shining down on both of us, throwing blue light that combines with the candles to suddenly make the bed feel bright. There is no darkness here now. 

Warm breath against my neck. 

"A full moon."

"Yes, making love under the full moon, surely there is lunacy in that," I respond and snuggle into a warm arm. 

A small laugh. 

"Have you ever wondered why the moon gets such a bad rap. Lunacy and lunatics and the madness of the full moon. Beware the full moon, for it brings out the crazies." 

"Because it changes. We don't like change."

"That's true."

"You can see it changing, going and coming back, and going again. Predictable but changing. Never quite the same."

"I suppose that is true. The sun is constant."

"The sun never changes, never leaves us. Maybe that's why the sun doesn't go hand in hand with madness. We are used to seeing it float there all the time. Always watching, never letting us get away with anything."

"Which explains why there is so much madness when the sun does change."

"Yes."

Lips against the back of my neck, and arms around me. Eyes closed and the milky white moonlight presses against the thin membrane, making shadows that dance against the pressure of my closed eyes. 

"Yes."

And here, in this evening I am changing again, and it is lunacy, and it is madness, and it is terrifying and full of the ever oppressive fear and risk of change. And the hands around me, and the quiet conversation, and the laughter, make it all the more interesting to embrace the change.