It seems as though I'm developing an attachment to someone, or at least the beginnings of a potential attachment to someone.
Someone that isn't GV8.
It's a mixed bag.
My sadness at GV8 leaving me, even if it winds up being temporary, has morphed into a mild lack of respect for him, which I believe I've mentioned recently. When he's reminded of me strongly, through events or actions, he forgets his rules... maybe forget isn't the right word. He discards his rules for the pleasure of my company.
Just tosses them straight out.
And something that I valued in him, the first thing that made me stop and realize that maybe he was one of those few men I truly consider mine (in the sense that this type of man belongs to me, fits with me) was his self-control.
A friend of mine mentioned, when I told her how much I admired his self-control, that it was easy to have self-control when you had no rules for yourself.
I'm finding that more and more true.
I miss him, I truly do. It becomes easier each day, a little bit at a time, to not think of him. But when he does stray into my brain, that gutpunch feeling causes pain and mental doubling up around the source, trying to wad the memories of him in foam, box them up and store them in the furthest corner of my attic.
So I don't think of him.
And I try not to be angry. I try not to think that I opened myself to him fully, was willing to bare pieces of myself that I've held tightly so long, to mesh with him without reserve or doubts... and he said no.
Or, at least, not yet.
How can I return to that? How can I go back to him with open arms? Trust is burnt, respect is damaged, I'm shying away from him again, going back to my wild mustang hindbrain: teeth-bared-eyes-rolling-ain't-never-gonna-to-put-a-bridle-on-me-boy.
How can I expect him to even want me back, with his wild nights ahead of him, the club opening up in two weeks, living the life of a playboy, girls falling on him like they do.
How could he ever look back at me and think that he'd be willing to compromise, he'd be willing to give some of it up, so he could love me?
He's told me so often that he isn't relationship material, but he keeps trying with me anyhow.
I pass his tests. I'm the whole package, he says. The whole package, as far as I can tell from our talks, entails a combination of intelligence, drive, family values, confidence, ability to handle money, constant honesty, and insane sexual ability. I think I'm a bit wishy-washy on the drive and the confidence, but he was mostly okay with it.
Even if he did come back, even if he was able to gentle me, heal the damage between us, do I want a life with a man who won't offer monogamy? Who already donated one STD to my life? Who won't give me children? Who constantly changes his mind and his plans, who is never dedicated to one path if another one arises?
I don't know.
I say that often.
At least I admit it, I suppose.
And then this dark horse shows up, and I end up intrigued.
Makes me wonder if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys say when it comes to women. Toss someone who smells like alpha at me and I'm spreading my legs. That's the belief, right?
No, I'm not having sex. I haven't touched anyone since The Bassist. My body feels like begging for touch, for an hour in bed with someone with hard, smooth skin and a strong jaw.
I feel disloyal.
Imagine.
I feel disloyal who a man who never offered me physical loyalty. To a man that said he'd call me when he figured things out... with no set date. It could be next year when my phone rings. To a man I may never actually talk to again.
I feel inconstant, easily attracted, easily distracted.
In my defense, I wasn't looking for it.
In my defense, maybe it's a good thing to remind myself that there are the occasional rare males out there that I can actually connect with, so I'm not so desperately hinged on GV8, thinking that he's the beginning and end of my world and letting that dictate my behavior.
It makes me wonder if I'll be able to respect a man again, or how long it will take for that respect to develop. GV8 pushed the bar so high, so far out of reach when it comes to certain behaviors and desired traits, and then... then he fell.
I remember, one of the last times we were together, he was sitting at his desk, looking at me. I don't know what we were talking about, but he commented that he wondered how long it would be before I was disillusioned with him, until I looked back at him like I do so many other guys who didn't live up to my expectations- not of a partner, but of a person, the same expectations that I hold to myself, constantly striving for, even if I don't meet them.
I have high demands of the people around me. The closer they are to me, the closer I allow them to me, the higher the demands rise. Those expectations aren't financial, or social, they aren't about wardrobe or who drops the most names. They center around honesty, integrity, self-awareness, ability to communicate, lack of external judgement, self-control, ethics, honor, perception, compassion, emotional stability and intelligence.
It's a lot, I know.
I strive towards those traits. I respect those traits.
So I look at myself and wonder why this is happening. If I'm being weak by allowing it to happen, if I'm guarding myself from the pain that GV8 will inflict when he lets me know he can't compromise his life style for me, if I'm giving myself a platform of objective reality, if I'm cheating on my lack of intimacy rule I've set for myself, if I'm using him as a crutch to feel not so alone as I deal with all these changes in my life, if I'm a disloyal and inconstant whore, if I'm just as bad as all the MRA guys would say, if it's all about that alpha-related tingle, if GV8 will just add it to his mental list of reasons he should not be with me, if this is really as weak as it sounds.
Lots of ifs.
One instinct.
My brain runs wild and I balk. Rare connection, ability, blessed ability to talk, to discuss ideas, to find someone who will be honest with me with their feedback, no rose-colored glasses, no white knighting. Knowing I'm just as wrecked as them.
What am I going to have to give up with these actions?
Which domino will start the chain of events that will unravel this thread?
How much can be held against me, and how much can I hold against myself?
What am I doing? Creating self-loathing or saving myself?
Probably the former.
So weak. Still so weak.
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fear. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
I spent yesterday morning at a clinic on the borders of Compton, in order to get some blood tests done. I've been there before, to do my STD panels, as I love the nurse who draws the blood. She's this stereotypical black woman in her late forties, early fifties. Very blunt, nothing withheld, but very friendly. She doesn't take shit, and she's incredibly efficient at moving through patients.
Walked in ten minutes before my appointment. White girl on the premises. Possibly the only one. I'm sitting in the waiting room occasionally using my Blackberry, legs crossed, book balanced on one knee. Hair pulled back, hadn't washed it in two days, as I had just had it dyed on Sunday, like to let it sit for a few days. My usual, work casual uniform: plain black shirt (that is now very obviously too big for me, hangs off my chest, hides my waist), blue jeans, a pair of original Docs, laces wound around my ankles instead of laced the final three holes. Still hints of mascara from clubbing on Saturday.
Young girls around me with too many kids. Women wearing crazy high heels, giant shiny earrings, neon-bright tops that are much too tight. Jeans that taper to show the curves of wide hips and bubble asses that I have to hide to fit in with my demographic.
Looking around, thinking of attraction, thinking of how much of the women around us we just dismiss, label sexless without even considering them as passionate people, as how they were when they were young and exploring, crushing on boys, whispering to their girlfriends. Too old, too large, too thin, skin shows too much age, too much experience. They show up with their husbands and boyfriends and make you wonder what type of relationship they have, what drew them to each other, what they do with each moment, each year, if things were as they planned, if they even had time to stop and plan as they battled what life gave them.
I left an hour later, arm with a brand new exit hole. Watching the blood leave me, thick darkness winding through a plastic tube. And the remenants in that tube that the nurse tossed into a biohazard bin. What would happen to the blood that did not make it to the vials? Parts of me scattered to whatever overpriced disposal service they use, with hundreds of others taken that same day.
Back to work, then to dinner with a friend I had not seen in nearly two years. I could not deal with his infidelity with one of my friends, my distaste for his rudeness and lack of control distancing us.
But I tried to resolve it, my frustration, my disgust.
There was that distance still, as he told me about his life now. So much has changed for him. He used to be the AMOG, used to be the center of everything. All the girls wanted him, all the boys listened to him, mimed him. His (now ex-) girlfriend is, was, incredibly charismatic as well. Something about her is so very charming, so very endearing. Just talking to her makes you want to be her friend. The two of them would host parties once a month, they were the place to be, something that everyone would make sure to attend, running until 5 or 6 in the morning.
Now he lives out in San Bernardino. He told me about his life, about the girl he settled with, about his day to day activities. The stagnation. The last year and a half, two years, has been a build to settled life. Social activities and parties that would pack his schedule gave way to nights inside with his girlfriend, developed hobbies like Warhammer and World of Warcraft, something he used to make fun of. He never goes out clubbing. No parties.
Is this the standard life?
Graduate college, find a job, find a partner, find a house, stagnate.
You're just done? A backwards butterfly going from beautiful and wild to trapped in a coccoon you've made?
Is this what I want? Is this what is lined up for my friends?
Will I look back on this journal, five years from now, ten years from now, and wonder what happened to that wild girl?
Walked in ten minutes before my appointment. White girl on the premises. Possibly the only one. I'm sitting in the waiting room occasionally using my Blackberry, legs crossed, book balanced on one knee. Hair pulled back, hadn't washed it in two days, as I had just had it dyed on Sunday, like to let it sit for a few days. My usual, work casual uniform: plain black shirt (that is now very obviously too big for me, hangs off my chest, hides my waist), blue jeans, a pair of original Docs, laces wound around my ankles instead of laced the final three holes. Still hints of mascara from clubbing on Saturday.
Young girls around me with too many kids. Women wearing crazy high heels, giant shiny earrings, neon-bright tops that are much too tight. Jeans that taper to show the curves of wide hips and bubble asses that I have to hide to fit in with my demographic.
Looking around, thinking of attraction, thinking of how much of the women around us we just dismiss, label sexless without even considering them as passionate people, as how they were when they were young and exploring, crushing on boys, whispering to their girlfriends. Too old, too large, too thin, skin shows too much age, too much experience. They show up with their husbands and boyfriends and make you wonder what type of relationship they have, what drew them to each other, what they do with each moment, each year, if things were as they planned, if they even had time to stop and plan as they battled what life gave them.
I left an hour later, arm with a brand new exit hole. Watching the blood leave me, thick darkness winding through a plastic tube. And the remenants in that tube that the nurse tossed into a biohazard bin. What would happen to the blood that did not make it to the vials? Parts of me scattered to whatever overpriced disposal service they use, with hundreds of others taken that same day.
Back to work, then to dinner with a friend I had not seen in nearly two years. I could not deal with his infidelity with one of my friends, my distaste for his rudeness and lack of control distancing us.
But I tried to resolve it, my frustration, my disgust.
There was that distance still, as he told me about his life now. So much has changed for him. He used to be the AMOG, used to be the center of everything. All the girls wanted him, all the boys listened to him, mimed him. His (now ex-) girlfriend is, was, incredibly charismatic as well. Something about her is so very charming, so very endearing. Just talking to her makes you want to be her friend. The two of them would host parties once a month, they were the place to be, something that everyone would make sure to attend, running until 5 or 6 in the morning.
Now he lives out in San Bernardino. He told me about his life, about the girl he settled with, about his day to day activities. The stagnation. The last year and a half, two years, has been a build to settled life. Social activities and parties that would pack his schedule gave way to nights inside with his girlfriend, developed hobbies like Warhammer and World of Warcraft, something he used to make fun of. He never goes out clubbing. No parties.
Is this the standard life?
Graduate college, find a job, find a partner, find a house, stagnate.
You're just done? A backwards butterfly going from beautiful and wild to trapped in a coccoon you've made?
Is this what I want? Is this what is lined up for my friends?
Will I look back on this journal, five years from now, ten years from now, and wonder what happened to that wild girl?
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday.
I believe that pegs this as the 28th. Not sure.
I went out with GV8 last night, after posting. I needed comfort.
Instead I got a kick in the ass.
Met up at a favored coffee shop down the street from C's place. I was early, so I did my usual by chatting up the barista. He was flirty, I smiled, probably pulled my usual chin-tilt, looking up over the rims of my glasses.
Of course, GV8 came in behind me and cockblocked my socialization by running his fingers quickly up through my hair and grabbing two fistfuls, tug-tug, his chest against my back.
The problem I've discovered we have is that the simplest hug becomes a monitored issue, placement of hands, faces, hips. Trying to not do what our bodies know is right.
It's hard, the duck and weave, fighting instinct.
Reminds me of a Patricia Briggs book, part of her werewolf series, operating under the idea that the wolf and the human are separately conscious, and the wolf chooses the mate. Two of the characters... mated by beast, but they dislike each other.
Not that we dislike each other, but it is bizarre for both of us to keep returning to each other, since neither of us has done that in the past, and both of us tend to have the control to stop unhealthy things.
But we keep pulling together anyhow. It's a fight to stay apart, even for him.
We talked, and he kicked my ass. Told me that the person who has damaged me the most, the person with the most amount of influence over into turning me into, what another friend calls, a broken doll, is the one that I am about to place myself under the control of.
But it's something I'm used to.
I grew up in an abusive house, psychological terrorism. It was my way of saving my sister from my father that helped her, allowed her, to grow mostly undamaged, at least until her later teens when I moved out. By then, she was okay.
But me, me, oh yes, me. I'm broken. I go into frozen, panicked shock whenever my father raises his voice. I can't function. He shuts me down, puts me into child-terror. 26 years old and my anxiety cripples me having a normal life, my anxiety spawned by growing up in his household.
I have never lived on my own. The thought of doing so sends me into a psychological shutdown. Shakes, paleness, spasms, no appetite, I lose my ability to function.
Broken.
So now, now when my family needs me, I can't function. I can't be there. He has scarred me so badly that I'm unable to protect my mother. A life of taking blows for my sister and mother, and I can't take this one.
Broken. Broken at 26.
So GV8 tells me to confront that anxiety. Stop rushing through school. Stay with my job, my decent job, and get a place of my own. Stop couchsurfing. Stop worrying about every dollar. Stop fighting adulthood. Have faith in myself. Live for myself, by myself. Get away from the man who has poisoned me for so many years.
It would be easier if I could hate him.
But I don't. I love my father. I love my mother. Family is everything.
So what do I do?
GV8, he loves me. He wants the best for me. He's afraid I'm going to spend the next ten years of my life devoted to school, living under my father's roof, terrorized by the thought of him going into one of his rages and having no real job, no real income, to save me.
He says that he would rather me be graduating with my PhD at 37 (or whatever), whole and happy, than graduate with my PhD at 32, successful, doing what I want to do, but still incredibly broken. That school will always be there. I can do one class at a time.
I'm terrified. This is fighting internal demons that I can't even identify because I was too young to remember when they were born. I can't even express my blind fear at this simple thing that everyone does, some before they even turn 18. It's this massive hump in my life. Taking care of myself. Being on my own.
Wish it wasn't so frightening.
Wish my homelife had been healthy.
Wish I could focus on school.
Wish that all these wishes were anything but words.
... ... ...
My mother and sister both have informed me that my father is doing much better today. Almost back to normal. But today is the day that he went to the doctor. Best behavior required.
They also brought the cats home.
Unfortunately, one of them had to be put to sleep today.
GV8 is doing his best to support me, to tell me what others won't. He's probably one of the few people I would listen to at this point, whose words rattle around in my skull.
C and I took a walk today, talking about my anxiety, fear, plans for the coming months.
She told me that she couldn't believe it took her this long to realize how damaged I was, how unsure I was of myself. That I put on such a good front.
I laughed, told her I knew. I'm amazing at pretending to be more confident than I am. It's instinct now, when before it was simply survival. I don't know how to act any other way.
I believe that pegs this as the 28th. Not sure.
I went out with GV8 last night, after posting. I needed comfort.
Instead I got a kick in the ass.
Met up at a favored coffee shop down the street from C's place. I was early, so I did my usual by chatting up the barista. He was flirty, I smiled, probably pulled my usual chin-tilt, looking up over the rims of my glasses.
Of course, GV8 came in behind me and cockblocked my socialization by running his fingers quickly up through my hair and grabbing two fistfuls, tug-tug, his chest against my back.
The problem I've discovered we have is that the simplest hug becomes a monitored issue, placement of hands, faces, hips. Trying to not do what our bodies know is right.
It's hard, the duck and weave, fighting instinct.
Reminds me of a Patricia Briggs book, part of her werewolf series, operating under the idea that the wolf and the human are separately conscious, and the wolf chooses the mate. Two of the characters... mated by beast, but they dislike each other.
Not that we dislike each other, but it is bizarre for both of us to keep returning to each other, since neither of us has done that in the past, and both of us tend to have the control to stop unhealthy things.
But we keep pulling together anyhow. It's a fight to stay apart, even for him.
We talked, and he kicked my ass. Told me that the person who has damaged me the most, the person with the most amount of influence over into turning me into, what another friend calls, a broken doll, is the one that I am about to place myself under the control of.
But it's something I'm used to.
I grew up in an abusive house, psychological terrorism. It was my way of saving my sister from my father that helped her, allowed her, to grow mostly undamaged, at least until her later teens when I moved out. By then, she was okay.
But me, me, oh yes, me. I'm broken. I go into frozen, panicked shock whenever my father raises his voice. I can't function. He shuts me down, puts me into child-terror. 26 years old and my anxiety cripples me having a normal life, my anxiety spawned by growing up in his household.
I have never lived on my own. The thought of doing so sends me into a psychological shutdown. Shakes, paleness, spasms, no appetite, I lose my ability to function.
Broken.
So now, now when my family needs me, I can't function. I can't be there. He has scarred me so badly that I'm unable to protect my mother. A life of taking blows for my sister and mother, and I can't take this one.
Broken. Broken at 26.
So GV8 tells me to confront that anxiety. Stop rushing through school. Stay with my job, my decent job, and get a place of my own. Stop couchsurfing. Stop worrying about every dollar. Stop fighting adulthood. Have faith in myself. Live for myself, by myself. Get away from the man who has poisoned me for so many years.
It would be easier if I could hate him.
But I don't. I love my father. I love my mother. Family is everything.
So what do I do?
GV8, he loves me. He wants the best for me. He's afraid I'm going to spend the next ten years of my life devoted to school, living under my father's roof, terrorized by the thought of him going into one of his rages and having no real job, no real income, to save me.
He says that he would rather me be graduating with my PhD at 37 (or whatever), whole and happy, than graduate with my PhD at 32, successful, doing what I want to do, but still incredibly broken. That school will always be there. I can do one class at a time.
I'm terrified. This is fighting internal demons that I can't even identify because I was too young to remember when they were born. I can't even express my blind fear at this simple thing that everyone does, some before they even turn 18. It's this massive hump in my life. Taking care of myself. Being on my own.
Wish it wasn't so frightening.
Wish my homelife had been healthy.
Wish I could focus on school.
Wish that all these wishes were anything but words.
... ... ...
My mother and sister both have informed me that my father is doing much better today. Almost back to normal. But today is the day that he went to the doctor. Best behavior required.
They also brought the cats home.
Unfortunately, one of them had to be put to sleep today.
GV8 is doing his best to support me, to tell me what others won't. He's probably one of the few people I would listen to at this point, whose words rattle around in my skull.
C and I took a walk today, talking about my anxiety, fear, plans for the coming months.
She told me that she couldn't believe it took her this long to realize how damaged I was, how unsure I was of myself. That I put on such a good front.
I laughed, told her I knew. I'm amazing at pretending to be more confident than I am. It's instinct now, when before it was simply survival. I don't know how to act any other way.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Overwhelmed. Gut-wrenchly overwhelmed. Vomit-inducing levels of tearing emotion ripping through my system with little disregard for basic biological functions.
He left me. He split with me.
Crying. Crying some more. Gravity pulling tears downward as they cling to my skin, leaving shining trails down my face and oh god, oh god it hurts.
Rending. The rending of future, the rending of hope, from my mind, my heart, tossed in with the rest of them, a compost heap to things that will never be, piling up behind my eyes, deposits of shimmering twisted metal wrecks of the accidents of my love life, the accidents of dreams wrecked on this highway inside my skull.
Sirens blaring, social ambulances following my tear tracks, distractions, justifications, rationalizations, theories on why it shouldn't hurt as they run the shovels through the mounds of what things were, assembling it into piles, applying bandages.
It does hurt.
Sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, heart in a sling.
Skeletons of things gone by, adding goliath structure to those that were sacrificed in front of its altar.
The Things We Have Irrevocably Lost.
My ceremonial dance is of sex and sweat, trying to appease the gods of broken hearts, internal validation, superficial-this-does-more-harm-than-good one-night-stands as I take the wrappings of desire and bundle myself against the wind whipping through the hollow in my chest.
My song becomes a scream of the moans I've given to men. To Man. The chorus is a repetitive barking of names I have forgot and things that have gone unforgiven, shoring up the defenses against Men That Have Yet To Come.
It's a monument. It's my monument to hurt and desire, it's my monument to a girl that, according to my mother, is too passionate and gives too myself of herself. They're funeral pyres of innocence, of naivty, of loving without reserve. Breathe in the smoke and prophesize.
You will always be alone.
Crazed oracular ramblings or truth? Fears that echo through my hollow legs. Denial of my constant, overdone romantic nature, something that I'll never be able to kick. A dirty habit, dwelling in daydreams I hide in alleys and dark corners, showing to no one out of shame because I should be harder than this. I should have given up on this.
I should know better.
Better than to leave myself wanting. To leave that opening for that puzzle piece that does not exist because I'm too far outside of the norm, but not far enough to pass into the next social/sexual bellcurve.
Balancing on the tip of a glacier.
Fear-driven words whispering. Knowing I've pushed myself too far. Knowing life would be so much easier if I was ever able to mimic normal.
Bundle up and keen.
Untangle the knots in my stomach, then unweave the threads of the ropes that form them.
This hurts, so I cry.
This hurts, so I withdraw.
This hurts and, for once, I acknowledge the pain.
For once, I will allow myself the time to mourn. Because all I am is what I do. We become the roles we play and I've played being a Dissolved Girl too many times and it is now time to try something new.
Because that obviously isn't working.
He left me. He left me with my burning funeral pyres and the smoke rising out of my eyes, ashes of things I've swallowed under but they still leak out.
I'm a walking ball of relationship debris.
Baggage enough to stuff a 747, my carousel floodeth over.
Aware, but not strong enough to change. Not strong enough to be strong.
Strictly controlled and monitored, 24/7 survelliance through my eyes as I move. But I never swoop in.
Analyze and judge.
I received a bootycall text at 230AM on Saturday night, while I was curled up with GV8. I looked at it Sunday morning and realized that, of things I do, putting up with that is not one of them.
I'm wounded. He drove his knife into me and it clicked and slid along the other blades that I never took out, the ones my flesh has grown over and incorporated into who I am. Living around those things that have been done. My heart adjusts for the lack of space as the weapons of severance trainwreck around it.
I have... so much to give. I am so goddamned passionate and devoted, so freaking loyal and supportive. It makes me ache when I have no one to give these things to, when it loads up inside me and the pressure builds that I have no one to shower my unending love on. That there is no skin at my lips for me to search and trail with my tongue, with my heart.
It hurts.
For the first time, I did something.
For the first time, when a relationship ended and I was left shattered, I took the rest of the day off work. To examine. To mourn. To search.
Since I started dating, whenever something goes south, I've never taken a day off. I've always been told to buck up, suffer through it, distract yourself, responsibilities come first, you can mourn later.
But I never mourn.
I just let myself get distracted by the endless to-do list life presents me. People tell me I wallow in things, and I do, but the wallowing is in my constant analysis, constant judgement. It's never me allowing myself to feel hurt, but distracting myself from the hurt, logic-ing and rationalizing the hurt until I convince myself that it's okay, that I don't feel it anymore.
That it doesn't impact me.
Today, as people were checking up on me, texts, emails, IMs, I found myself saying "Oh well".
To everything. Whenever advice was offered, an apology given, a rationalization, a hug, and then they looked or paused expectantly, the only thing I could say was "Oh well".
Really?
"Oh well"?? Is that all I have? This non-committal conclusion-ish statement? Withdrawing into myself because I can't take the advice and rationalization, because crying, trying not to hit that sobbing level, on the freeway, heading home so I can sit here in bed, wrapped in my grandmother's blanket, stomach growling as I attempt to pretend to others, at least to make them feel not so helpless if not just to stop the advice and rationalizing of why it's "for the best", that it's okay?
Trying to convince myself.
No other words come to my lips as I sit here.
Feeling the tears rolling down my face, that slight drag as the saline attempts to cling but gravity pulls it down, the idea that whenever two things come in physical contact with one another they bond together and then are pulled apart, the stronger surface of the two keeping tiny molecular pieces of the weaker, knowing that the tears are the weaker, so much weaker, and the salt is still on my cheeks even as the liquid dries.
I found myself wanting male contact. Wanting to be pulled into strong arms, strong heat, wide chest, and be comforted.
I found a text message from my sister, asking if I wanted to go shopping today, realizing that that is one of the few times she's ever... done that. Taken care of me. I always take care of her. And how that pushed me into sobbing.
I found myself trying to console myself, trying to feel better, knowing that I had finally jumped that hurdle of opening up. Of being vunerable. Of chasing. Of following my instincts. Of trying to allow myself to trust. Ever.
And I was starting to trust him.
One of three males in my life that I ever started to trust.
Of course, now I trust none of them.
It's not a daddy-issue or an infidelity issue, simply a human issue.
I hurt.
I keep trying to distract myself from this pain. Following my brain down whatever rabbit holes it presents, hoping one will shrink this pain, allow that distance.
Wishing that any rationalization could make this hurt less. Could take the edge off. Wondering if they can. Wondering if I'm simply a failure at this, that I'm too damaged for any real, healthy logic to make sense. To stop the bleeding.
I had fifteen days with him, fifteen days after I left him, fifteen days to show him who I was, how I felt, and what we could be together. Fifteen days to love, to devote, to serve someone worth serving. Fifteen days to cling to threads of hope.
And they were good days. Days full of love and laughter, of sex and cuddling, of walks and lengthy conversations, of discussing dreams.
I should be thankful for them. I should be thankful to myself for finally being willing to be hurt so badly. For taking that step, even knowing that it was entirely likely that I'd simply step into space and tumble down.
They were good days. Days that allowed me time to take pictures of us together.
I wish I could say that I felt this coming. Yes, when I wrote in here, I kept trying to bring myself back to earth, kept trying to keep it realistic. But in my heart, I thought we had made it. In my heart, I thought it was a matter of time until he decided we suited and we'd work all those knots out because he wanted to be with me, he wanted me in his life.
In my heart, I dreamed. In my heart, I erected a circus tent and allowed my fantasies to step into the center ring.
In my heart, he was there.
But I didn't want to be caught off guard. I did not want to be seen being the naively devoted girl to such a man. I wanted to be perceived as strong, as aware, as realistic. I wanted to convince myself of that, as well. If others believed it of me, then maybe I would become that way.
And not a little girl daydreaming at her desk, ignoring the lessons of life and reality.
What good has this done me? In the last seven months, who have I become? In the last fifteen days, what choices have I made? Even though my future with him is gone, he has still impacted who I am going to be.
I want to spend all day in bed, watching movies.
I want to fall into my books, my distractions.
I want to write until my fingers become calloused and the wave of text when this blog is opened by an unsuspecting reader makes them exclaim in shock of the wave of disorganzied mental crap I have tossed up.
I want a man to pretend with. I want those warm arms around me so I can fantasize, just for a moment, that there's someone I can trust, that I can be safe with.
That I'm not just alone.
He left me. He split with me.
Crying. Crying some more. Gravity pulling tears downward as they cling to my skin, leaving shining trails down my face and oh god, oh god it hurts.
Rending. The rending of future, the rending of hope, from my mind, my heart, tossed in with the rest of them, a compost heap to things that will never be, piling up behind my eyes, deposits of shimmering twisted metal wrecks of the accidents of my love life, the accidents of dreams wrecked on this highway inside my skull.
Sirens blaring, social ambulances following my tear tracks, distractions, justifications, rationalizations, theories on why it shouldn't hurt as they run the shovels through the mounds of what things were, assembling it into piles, applying bandages.
It does hurt.
Sitting on the bumper of an ambulance, heart in a sling.
Skeletons of things gone by, adding goliath structure to those that were sacrificed in front of its altar.
The Things We Have Irrevocably Lost.
My ceremonial dance is of sex and sweat, trying to appease the gods of broken hearts, internal validation, superficial-this-does-more-harm-than-good one-night-stands as I take the wrappings of desire and bundle myself against the wind whipping through the hollow in my chest.
My song becomes a scream of the moans I've given to men. To Man. The chorus is a repetitive barking of names I have forgot and things that have gone unforgiven, shoring up the defenses against Men That Have Yet To Come.
It's a monument. It's my monument to hurt and desire, it's my monument to a girl that, according to my mother, is too passionate and gives too myself of herself. They're funeral pyres of innocence, of naivty, of loving without reserve. Breathe in the smoke and prophesize.
You will always be alone.
Crazed oracular ramblings or truth? Fears that echo through my hollow legs. Denial of my constant, overdone romantic nature, something that I'll never be able to kick. A dirty habit, dwelling in daydreams I hide in alleys and dark corners, showing to no one out of shame because I should be harder than this. I should have given up on this.
I should know better.
Better than to leave myself wanting. To leave that opening for that puzzle piece that does not exist because I'm too far outside of the norm, but not far enough to pass into the next social/sexual bellcurve.
Balancing on the tip of a glacier.
Fear-driven words whispering. Knowing I've pushed myself too far. Knowing life would be so much easier if I was ever able to mimic normal.
Bundle up and keen.
Untangle the knots in my stomach, then unweave the threads of the ropes that form them.
This hurts, so I cry.
This hurts, so I withdraw.
This hurts and, for once, I acknowledge the pain.
For once, I will allow myself the time to mourn. Because all I am is what I do. We become the roles we play and I've played being a Dissolved Girl too many times and it is now time to try something new.
Because that obviously isn't working.
He left me. He left me with my burning funeral pyres and the smoke rising out of my eyes, ashes of things I've swallowed under but they still leak out.
I'm a walking ball of relationship debris.
Baggage enough to stuff a 747, my carousel floodeth over.
Aware, but not strong enough to change. Not strong enough to be strong.
Strictly controlled and monitored, 24/7 survelliance through my eyes as I move. But I never swoop in.
Analyze and judge.
I received a bootycall text at 230AM on Saturday night, while I was curled up with GV8. I looked at it Sunday morning and realized that, of things I do, putting up with that is not one of them.
I'm wounded. He drove his knife into me and it clicked and slid along the other blades that I never took out, the ones my flesh has grown over and incorporated into who I am. Living around those things that have been done. My heart adjusts for the lack of space as the weapons of severance trainwreck around it.
I have... so much to give. I am so goddamned passionate and devoted, so freaking loyal and supportive. It makes me ache when I have no one to give these things to, when it loads up inside me and the pressure builds that I have no one to shower my unending love on. That there is no skin at my lips for me to search and trail with my tongue, with my heart.
It hurts.
For the first time, I did something.
For the first time, when a relationship ended and I was left shattered, I took the rest of the day off work. To examine. To mourn. To search.
Since I started dating, whenever something goes south, I've never taken a day off. I've always been told to buck up, suffer through it, distract yourself, responsibilities come first, you can mourn later.
But I never mourn.
I just let myself get distracted by the endless to-do list life presents me. People tell me I wallow in things, and I do, but the wallowing is in my constant analysis, constant judgement. It's never me allowing myself to feel hurt, but distracting myself from the hurt, logic-ing and rationalizing the hurt until I convince myself that it's okay, that I don't feel it anymore.
That it doesn't impact me.
Today, as people were checking up on me, texts, emails, IMs, I found myself saying "Oh well".
To everything. Whenever advice was offered, an apology given, a rationalization, a hug, and then they looked or paused expectantly, the only thing I could say was "Oh well".
Really?
"Oh well"?? Is that all I have? This non-committal conclusion-ish statement? Withdrawing into myself because I can't take the advice and rationalization, because crying, trying not to hit that sobbing level, on the freeway, heading home so I can sit here in bed, wrapped in my grandmother's blanket, stomach growling as I attempt to pretend to others, at least to make them feel not so helpless if not just to stop the advice and rationalizing of why it's "for the best", that it's okay?
Trying to convince myself.
No other words come to my lips as I sit here.
Feeling the tears rolling down my face, that slight drag as the saline attempts to cling but gravity pulls it down, the idea that whenever two things come in physical contact with one another they bond together and then are pulled apart, the stronger surface of the two keeping tiny molecular pieces of the weaker, knowing that the tears are the weaker, so much weaker, and the salt is still on my cheeks even as the liquid dries.
I found myself wanting male contact. Wanting to be pulled into strong arms, strong heat, wide chest, and be comforted.
I found a text message from my sister, asking if I wanted to go shopping today, realizing that that is one of the few times she's ever... done that. Taken care of me. I always take care of her. And how that pushed me into sobbing.
I found myself trying to console myself, trying to feel better, knowing that I had finally jumped that hurdle of opening up. Of being vunerable. Of chasing. Of following my instincts. Of trying to allow myself to trust. Ever.
And I was starting to trust him.
One of three males in my life that I ever started to trust.
Of course, now I trust none of them.
It's not a daddy-issue or an infidelity issue, simply a human issue.
I hurt.
I keep trying to distract myself from this pain. Following my brain down whatever rabbit holes it presents, hoping one will shrink this pain, allow that distance.
Wishing that any rationalization could make this hurt less. Could take the edge off. Wondering if they can. Wondering if I'm simply a failure at this, that I'm too damaged for any real, healthy logic to make sense. To stop the bleeding.
I had fifteen days with him, fifteen days after I left him, fifteen days to show him who I was, how I felt, and what we could be together. Fifteen days to love, to devote, to serve someone worth serving. Fifteen days to cling to threads of hope.
And they were good days. Days full of love and laughter, of sex and cuddling, of walks and lengthy conversations, of discussing dreams.
I should be thankful for them. I should be thankful to myself for finally being willing to be hurt so badly. For taking that step, even knowing that it was entirely likely that I'd simply step into space and tumble down.
They were good days. Days that allowed me time to take pictures of us together.
I wish I could say that I felt this coming. Yes, when I wrote in here, I kept trying to bring myself back to earth, kept trying to keep it realistic. But in my heart, I thought we had made it. In my heart, I thought it was a matter of time until he decided we suited and we'd work all those knots out because he wanted to be with me, he wanted me in his life.
In my heart, I dreamed. In my heart, I erected a circus tent and allowed my fantasies to step into the center ring.
In my heart, he was there.
But I didn't want to be caught off guard. I did not want to be seen being the naively devoted girl to such a man. I wanted to be perceived as strong, as aware, as realistic. I wanted to convince myself of that, as well. If others believed it of me, then maybe I would become that way.
And not a little girl daydreaming at her desk, ignoring the lessons of life and reality.
What good has this done me? In the last seven months, who have I become? In the last fifteen days, what choices have I made? Even though my future with him is gone, he has still impacted who I am going to be.
I want to spend all day in bed, watching movies.
I want to fall into my books, my distractions.
I want to write until my fingers become calloused and the wave of text when this blog is opened by an unsuspecting reader makes them exclaim in shock of the wave of disorganzied mental crap I have tossed up.
I want a man to pretend with. I want those warm arms around me so I can fantasize, just for a moment, that there's someone I can trust, that I can be safe with.
That I'm not just alone.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Nineteen oh one...
Hit another wall.
No, not in my car. I'm not prone to ramming inanimate objects with my vehicle.
I want to write, I want to think with the keyboard and have the discussions that are featured here with myself, but something seems to be causing a sort of muffled internal monologue that isn't translating well to actually figuring out what is going on.
Called GV8 three times yesterday, once on my way into work, once on my way home from work, and once right after the second one because I had to check something.
We just talked. Just... conversation. Surface, trival stuff. I had been worried previously that we would not be able to do that, just talk about the most commonplace stuff. You know "conversation". Talking for the sake of talking, for the company of the person on the other end of the phone. Talking without purpose, without trying to communicate information about yourself to the other.
And we did it for awhile.
He also, without realizing it, addressed my general hatred of the beta-boy routine he goes into in most social situations. We were talking about... gods, I don't know. And he mentioned the act he puts on for people, how he shifts gears in social situations in order to make other people comfortable because they would not be comfortable with him acting himself.
I had not realized that's why he did it.
And I was mildly unsure if he knew that he did, indeed, do it.
It still bothers me, I will admit. It likely will for awhile. First, I don't find it attractive. Second, if I'm to be dating a man who is nearly two decades older than me, and he acts, in public like something everyone knows I would never find attractive, it's going to look like I'm after him for his money. And the people who actually know me, who know that I don't care overmuch about the money, are going to wonder why I'm with someone so different than my usual type. I like representing myself well, being represented well by my partner selection, being proud to be with them.
And I am proud... ah, am I proud? Shoot. Well, my brain just came to a screeching, discordant halt.
When he's being himself, when he's truly opening up to me, when he's revealing all those pieces of himself he hides even when we're alone together, I am thrilled, I am happy, to be with him. Proud? I'm not much one for being proud to be with another person.
But those other times, when he's doing the song and dance, I continue to cringe, wishing that man I know that he seems so often to hide from others in so many different ways, would be with me all the time. I want to feel like we're running alongside each other, a complimentary team.
We're seeing each other on Sunday. I've decided to take tonight and tomorrow to catch up on needed sleep, on homework, on bookwork, on organizing life-stuff. I was hoping to spend more time with him this weekend, but his complaint that I am always tired (accurate) means that I need to sacrifice quantity of time with quality of time.
So I get an afternoon.
Sigh.
I invited him to meet my parents, you know. Saturday, we're going to a little festival and his complaint that I hide him from them (accurate) caused me to speak to them about inviting him to it. And they were actually okay with that. It was the last thing I was expecting, especially since when both of them discovered our age gap, both separately lectured me about how he was too old for me and what the hell was I thinking?
But he turned me down. Said that with everything going on between us, not certain of where we are going, it probably wasn't the best idea.
True. But... I tried.
I feel like a little girl, scrabbling about for a solution.
I'm trying to do this right.
And maybe I should just give up. This isn't the best time for this, and I can't afford the emotional distraction from this in my work or education.
But how much am I supposed to let pass me by?
Just because it's inconvenient? Just because I'm incredibly insecure about so many things and this could just make it worse? So it's easier to run away than to risk being rejected for who I am instead of who I thought he wanted me to be or, rather, what I thought would cause him to want me, to want me to stick around, to want more from me than casual sex?
Fear is a big motivator.
Not just for me.
Fear of being hurt. Fear that every horrible thing you've ever thought about yourself might be true. Fear that every self-doubt was truly self-knowledge disguised with the light of hope or just blind ignorance. Fear that every insult that has been tossed your way was correct. Fear that you're unlovable, that you're unforgivable, that you're horrible, that everything you ever will attempt will fail.
It's easier to hide, easier to not try and rationalize it in a way that you can accept and that you can convince others to accept. If you're good, and most of us are, you can do it so smoothly you don't realize that you're even covering these thoughts up. You live a rationalized reality.
Personally, I'm terrified.
I'd like to say that I'm only afraid but, really, that would just be me trying to convince myself that this bone-vibrating fear isn't as bad as I would wish it to be. That I would, like most things in my life, dissociate myself from the emotion to the point where the experience is simply an echo of what I do not allow myself to feel.
But part of this, part of all of this, is acknowledging.
It's about digging up the mounds of earth that I have buried all my fears and hurts in and examining the fossils that shape the landscape of the person I am now.
Maybe it won't do any good.
I mean, I've been doing this for years. I have writing scattered across the internet, essays and blogs floating around for the last decade. And people always tell me how self-aware I am, how in tune with myself I am, how courageous or honest, brutal and revealing, how knowledgable, mature, whatever.
It doesn't feel like that to me.
I know that, compared to the average person, I do examine myself thoroughly. I try to be aware of myself as much as I can, but I certainly fail more often than not.
I mean, it should be fairly obvious to even the most unaware person that if you are dating one person, hoping for more, and you continue to see other people, that shows you have a lack of true interest in that one particular person.
You think that would be obvious.
But here I was thinking that it would make him want me more, that I would be more of a chase, because so damn many PUA men online have said that I'm a horrible slut, horrible human being, I need to become a born-again virgin because no decent man will have me now, it's far too late, but maybe I could settle for a lower middle-class beta loser and become a chubby soccer mom getting her stubby toes polished by a Vietnamese woman on the weekends.
So I play hard to get.
So I say, sure, men find me desirable, and I'm going to continue to enjoy myself with them and that will illustrate that GV8 better get a move on if he wants me because others want me too.
And what's funny is that, this year, I've had sex with five (5!) men, two of them being hold-overs from last year (Hardwood Floors and SFPlayboy), one of them was a crappy one-night stand (Dose), a not-so-crappy one-night stand (Mr. Brush-off), and GV8. Mr. Brush-off was the only man I've had sex with since I met GV8. I have not had the inclination or the true interest to pursue anyone further.
Anyway, I think that was more of a sidetrack than anything.
GV8 still wants me, at least in some capacity, after all of this. After me acting like someone else entirely, someone I wanted to be, but not someone who I was.
And I did learn. I learned how to be stronger, how to hold back, how to not rush into things. These were things I had never been able to conquer before, but I did so with him and I'm proud of myself, in my own way, for being able to do so.
I faced a fear. I faced an insecurity.
And I tackled it, drove it to the ground. It wasn't the smoothest, at least on an emotional level, but I did force myself to face my anxieties.
Now I have to learn how to let go.
Even if GV8 is not the man for me, even if he rejects me, I need to learn how to do this, and I need to learn how to accept this complete rejection.
Because I know I will never be happy, never have that security or sense of self I desire, if I do not learn how to let go. If I never learn to have faith in myself.
I am much better than the girl I used to be, but it is going to take a lot of work to become the woman I know I have in me.
No, not in my car. I'm not prone to ramming inanimate objects with my vehicle.
I want to write, I want to think with the keyboard and have the discussions that are featured here with myself, but something seems to be causing a sort of muffled internal monologue that isn't translating well to actually figuring out what is going on.
Called GV8 three times yesterday, once on my way into work, once on my way home from work, and once right after the second one because I had to check something.
We just talked. Just... conversation. Surface, trival stuff. I had been worried previously that we would not be able to do that, just talk about the most commonplace stuff. You know "conversation". Talking for the sake of talking, for the company of the person on the other end of the phone. Talking without purpose, without trying to communicate information about yourself to the other.
And we did it for awhile.
He also, without realizing it, addressed my general hatred of the beta-boy routine he goes into in most social situations. We were talking about... gods, I don't know. And he mentioned the act he puts on for people, how he shifts gears in social situations in order to make other people comfortable because they would not be comfortable with him acting himself.
I had not realized that's why he did it.
And I was mildly unsure if he knew that he did, indeed, do it.
It still bothers me, I will admit. It likely will for awhile. First, I don't find it attractive. Second, if I'm to be dating a man who is nearly two decades older than me, and he acts, in public like something everyone knows I would never find attractive, it's going to look like I'm after him for his money. And the people who actually know me, who know that I don't care overmuch about the money, are going to wonder why I'm with someone so different than my usual type. I like representing myself well, being represented well by my partner selection, being proud to be with them.
And I am proud... ah, am I proud? Shoot. Well, my brain just came to a screeching, discordant halt.
When he's being himself, when he's truly opening up to me, when he's revealing all those pieces of himself he hides even when we're alone together, I am thrilled, I am happy, to be with him. Proud? I'm not much one for being proud to be with another person.
But those other times, when he's doing the song and dance, I continue to cringe, wishing that man I know that he seems so often to hide from others in so many different ways, would be with me all the time. I want to feel like we're running alongside each other, a complimentary team.
We're seeing each other on Sunday. I've decided to take tonight and tomorrow to catch up on needed sleep, on homework, on bookwork, on organizing life-stuff. I was hoping to spend more time with him this weekend, but his complaint that I am always tired (accurate) means that I need to sacrifice quantity of time with quality of time.
So I get an afternoon.
Sigh.
I invited him to meet my parents, you know. Saturday, we're going to a little festival and his complaint that I hide him from them (accurate) caused me to speak to them about inviting him to it. And they were actually okay with that. It was the last thing I was expecting, especially since when both of them discovered our age gap, both separately lectured me about how he was too old for me and what the hell was I thinking?
But he turned me down. Said that with everything going on between us, not certain of where we are going, it probably wasn't the best idea.
True. But... I tried.
I feel like a little girl, scrabbling about for a solution.
I'm trying to do this right.
And maybe I should just give up. This isn't the best time for this, and I can't afford the emotional distraction from this in my work or education.
But how much am I supposed to let pass me by?
Just because it's inconvenient? Just because I'm incredibly insecure about so many things and this could just make it worse? So it's easier to run away than to risk being rejected for who I am instead of who I thought he wanted me to be or, rather, what I thought would cause him to want me, to want me to stick around, to want more from me than casual sex?
Fear is a big motivator.
Not just for me.
Fear of being hurt. Fear that every horrible thing you've ever thought about yourself might be true. Fear that every self-doubt was truly self-knowledge disguised with the light of hope or just blind ignorance. Fear that every insult that has been tossed your way was correct. Fear that you're unlovable, that you're unforgivable, that you're horrible, that everything you ever will attempt will fail.
It's easier to hide, easier to not try and rationalize it in a way that you can accept and that you can convince others to accept. If you're good, and most of us are, you can do it so smoothly you don't realize that you're even covering these thoughts up. You live a rationalized reality.
Personally, I'm terrified.
I'd like to say that I'm only afraid but, really, that would just be me trying to convince myself that this bone-vibrating fear isn't as bad as I would wish it to be. That I would, like most things in my life, dissociate myself from the emotion to the point where the experience is simply an echo of what I do not allow myself to feel.
But part of this, part of all of this, is acknowledging.
It's about digging up the mounds of earth that I have buried all my fears and hurts in and examining the fossils that shape the landscape of the person I am now.
Maybe it won't do any good.
I mean, I've been doing this for years. I have writing scattered across the internet, essays and blogs floating around for the last decade. And people always tell me how self-aware I am, how in tune with myself I am, how courageous or honest, brutal and revealing, how knowledgable, mature, whatever.
It doesn't feel like that to me.
I know that, compared to the average person, I do examine myself thoroughly. I try to be aware of myself as much as I can, but I certainly fail more often than not.
I mean, it should be fairly obvious to even the most unaware person that if you are dating one person, hoping for more, and you continue to see other people, that shows you have a lack of true interest in that one particular person.
You think that would be obvious.
But here I was thinking that it would make him want me more, that I would be more of a chase, because so damn many PUA men online have said that I'm a horrible slut, horrible human being, I need to become a born-again virgin because no decent man will have me now, it's far too late, but maybe I could settle for a lower middle-class beta loser and become a chubby soccer mom getting her stubby toes polished by a Vietnamese woman on the weekends.
So I play hard to get.
So I say, sure, men find me desirable, and I'm going to continue to enjoy myself with them and that will illustrate that GV8 better get a move on if he wants me because others want me too.
And what's funny is that, this year, I've had sex with five (5!) men, two of them being hold-overs from last year (Hardwood Floors and SFPlayboy), one of them was a crappy one-night stand (Dose), a not-so-crappy one-night stand (Mr. Brush-off), and GV8. Mr. Brush-off was the only man I've had sex with since I met GV8. I have not had the inclination or the true interest to pursue anyone further.
Anyway, I think that was more of a sidetrack than anything.
GV8 still wants me, at least in some capacity, after all of this. After me acting like someone else entirely, someone I wanted to be, but not someone who I was.
And I did learn. I learned how to be stronger, how to hold back, how to not rush into things. These were things I had never been able to conquer before, but I did so with him and I'm proud of myself, in my own way, for being able to do so.
I faced a fear. I faced an insecurity.
And I tackled it, drove it to the ground. It wasn't the smoothest, at least on an emotional level, but I did force myself to face my anxieties.
Now I have to learn how to let go.
Even if GV8 is not the man for me, even if he rejects me, I need to learn how to do this, and I need to learn how to accept this complete rejection.
Because I know I will never be happy, never have that security or sense of self I desire, if I do not learn how to let go. If I never learn to have faith in myself.
I am much better than the girl I used to be, but it is going to take a lot of work to become the woman I know I have in me.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
You're holding back everything inside you...
"You can't tell him everything. Instead you tell the deepest parts of what is on your mind to a blog.
"That's the problem."
Reading that comment from Hope sent my stomach plummeting into that pit of the things I block from myself and spend days, weeks, months, years trying to shift the rubble to get at the structures beneath.
Though it has been an hour since I read that, the sick, anxious feeling remains.
For the knowledge has been given to me and I have to act, because that's who I am. I can never let things lie and gloss over, not like that. The guilt over the knowledge grows, the anger at the self for not having the courage for dealing directly with the problem, until finally I move because the internal roilings are too much to bear.
GV8 does not disclose, and the one time I did open up to him, when we were on an emotional-outs and discussing that situation, it went poorly.
He apologized later, but his rejection of my fears, concerns, and self-doubts lingered.
I feel that if I open to him again, if I let him see all of the anxiety and doubt in me, he will once more reject me. It makes me feel like a child.
But, with our age gap, that's not overly surprising.
I am a child in relation to him.
He doesn't like weakness, he dislikes women with self-esteem issues. Personally, I think 99.9% of women have self-esteem issues, but that's me.
I just remember coming back to my room, leaning back in my oversized office chair, phone pressed to my ear, barbeque going on downstairs that I could not get involved with on more than a surface level because of the rollercoaster GV8 was putting my emotions through. I was tired, I was stressed, I was beyond anxious, as we had to "schedule" this talk around his work, so I knew it was coming and it built up into a beast stomping around my brain.
I do not remember what he said that unleashed my torrent. Something about pick-up, probably. Something about how people that study the art of seduction, that enjoy picking up others, have self-esteem issues and are just trying to validate themselves and are acting false. Something something something. I don't remember.
I know I wrote a blog on it some months ago.
And then I just unloaded my thoughts on him. The fears, how I view myself within the social spectrum, my distaste with my body, the damage that has been done, the overarching self-doubt that spreads itself through my being, the enjoyment I take in one-night stands because you can make your single-serving partner whoever you want them to be.
You can be with someone who truly understands you.
And you can maintain this illusion as long as you don't spend more time with them than that night.
Because the rush of meeting someone new, someone you click with, is better than the reality of dealing with yet another failed connection that is revealed with time.
He told me I was sick.
I suppose, in a way, in this way, I am sick.
I've come to that point where I know, for the most part, what I am doing, my motivations behind my behaviors, and I engage in them anyway.
I'm not stopping those behaviors.
Just refining them and making them more selective.
Because no harm is being done. It's living in a temporary fantasy, one that you can carry with you, glowing, for months, sometimes years.
Because no person can truly understand another person, and understanding is what I seek. That there is no bridge between you and another. Soul harmony.
He called me sick and it wounded me.
And even though he apologized for it later, that wound did not heal.
I just let time hide it from me, waves drawing it into the sea of my subconscious.
That undertow protects us from ourselves while, at the same time, tainting us and our interactions with others.
So here I am.
Frightened, terrified that when I talk to him about this, he'll wound me once more. That my instinctive knowledge that it's so very likely I will not be able to move past this without some sort of miracle, that I have started binding myself to a man who will not want these parts of me.
Who will create more of these parts, these fears, rejections, withdrawals, and continued knowledge that I am quite alone.
Talking to a tiny bit of space in a vast internet because I cannot face that I have no one to talk to in life, because there are pieces of me I am unwilling to reveal to even my closest friends.
I've become what I've preached for so long against: another person creating false relationships with others because they cannot deal with the thought of true rejection.
Good job.
"That's the problem."
Reading that comment from Hope sent my stomach plummeting into that pit of the things I block from myself and spend days, weeks, months, years trying to shift the rubble to get at the structures beneath.
Though it has been an hour since I read that, the sick, anxious feeling remains.
For the knowledge has been given to me and I have to act, because that's who I am. I can never let things lie and gloss over, not like that. The guilt over the knowledge grows, the anger at the self for not having the courage for dealing directly with the problem, until finally I move because the internal roilings are too much to bear.
GV8 does not disclose, and the one time I did open up to him, when we were on an emotional-outs and discussing that situation, it went poorly.
He apologized later, but his rejection of my fears, concerns, and self-doubts lingered.
I feel that if I open to him again, if I let him see all of the anxiety and doubt in me, he will once more reject me. It makes me feel like a child.
But, with our age gap, that's not overly surprising.
I am a child in relation to him.
He doesn't like weakness, he dislikes women with self-esteem issues. Personally, I think 99.9% of women have self-esteem issues, but that's me.
I just remember coming back to my room, leaning back in my oversized office chair, phone pressed to my ear, barbeque going on downstairs that I could not get involved with on more than a surface level because of the rollercoaster GV8 was putting my emotions through. I was tired, I was stressed, I was beyond anxious, as we had to "schedule" this talk around his work, so I knew it was coming and it built up into a beast stomping around my brain.
I do not remember what he said that unleashed my torrent. Something about pick-up, probably. Something about how people that study the art of seduction, that enjoy picking up others, have self-esteem issues and are just trying to validate themselves and are acting false. Something something something. I don't remember.
I know I wrote a blog on it some months ago.
And then I just unloaded my thoughts on him. The fears, how I view myself within the social spectrum, my distaste with my body, the damage that has been done, the overarching self-doubt that spreads itself through my being, the enjoyment I take in one-night stands because you can make your single-serving partner whoever you want them to be.
You can be with someone who truly understands you.
And you can maintain this illusion as long as you don't spend more time with them than that night.
Because the rush of meeting someone new, someone you click with, is better than the reality of dealing with yet another failed connection that is revealed with time.
He told me I was sick.
I suppose, in a way, in this way, I am sick.
I've come to that point where I know, for the most part, what I am doing, my motivations behind my behaviors, and I engage in them anyway.
I'm not stopping those behaviors.
Just refining them and making them more selective.
Because no harm is being done. It's living in a temporary fantasy, one that you can carry with you, glowing, for months, sometimes years.
Because no person can truly understand another person, and understanding is what I seek. That there is no bridge between you and another. Soul harmony.
He called me sick and it wounded me.
And even though he apologized for it later, that wound did not heal.
I just let time hide it from me, waves drawing it into the sea of my subconscious.
That undertow protects us from ourselves while, at the same time, tainting us and our interactions with others.
So here I am.
Frightened, terrified that when I talk to him about this, he'll wound me once more. That my instinctive knowledge that it's so very likely I will not be able to move past this without some sort of miracle, that I have started binding myself to a man who will not want these parts of me.
Who will create more of these parts, these fears, rejections, withdrawals, and continued knowledge that I am quite alone.
Talking to a tiny bit of space in a vast internet because I cannot face that I have no one to talk to in life, because there are pieces of me I am unwilling to reveal to even my closest friends.
I've become what I've preached for so long against: another person creating false relationships with others because they cannot deal with the thought of true rejection.
Good job.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Wise men talk in analogies and puzzles...
I was too tired for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes last night. I wiped out almost immediately after my post, save for a quick detour stopping by my sister's room due to her calling me as I passed by in order to back her argument against her boyfriend about what type of car he should buy.
I act socially dominant. I am socially dominant, when I choose to be social. I work groups when the mood takes me, when I feel like interacting with people. I always end up being the head of the group or, if a single male alpha is already in control, I get his attention and manuever to become his focus, which puts me at the top of the social food chain.
But, in the end, I will always be socially, sexually, and psychologically submissive to the man of my choice, a man worth submitting to, whether if it's for a night, a month, or a year.
My sister, on the other hand, is, and will always be social to her core. And in that core, she will always be dominant. She commands groups, she commands men and women alike and the word "compromise" is this vague, far off thing that she only engages in with our parents.
And, in the end, she rides roughshod over her boyfriends. She pussywhips them like you would not believe. She has no respect for them, for their needs, for their preferences. If she's ambiguous about something, she'll go with what they want, but if she at all has an opinion, they are going to do it Her Way. End of story.
None of her three boyfriends have managed to stand up to her.
So I walk by and she's laying into him about how he's wrongwrongwrong about the car he wants to get and he's going to get this other car because it's safer and she cares about his safety and there is no way in hell that he's going to get this other car. And she drags me into it.
I'm so apathetic about this, I don't even remember the conclusion other than me telling him, "You should get a safe car, not for yourself, but for your son." He has a three year old boy from his ex-wife.
Well, that was fuel to her fire. I just left the room.
The next morning, this morning really, I went to breakfast with my mother. As I have said before, she is a close friend of mine, so we do go out when we can and talk about what's going on in our lives. We also stay up at night and play near violent card games, insulting each other like crazy.
She told me about her experience up in Portland, how she went through her grief cycles with her best friend, through instructions in a book that was recommended to her, and how much she realized about herself and her relationship with her older brother, who has pretty much abandoned her for his crazy born-again wife.
And, as breakfast wound down, I talked to her.
I told her how badly I felt when I was at home. About how whenever I was upset about something as a child, and even to this day, she and my father would both tell me why I should not be upset, and how the other person had their reasons and I just needed to get over it, and how very unacknowledged that made me feel all through my life.
I explained to her about the shirts that upset her so much the night before, and why I wore them, why I was comfortable wearing them. I explained to her how, because of the things that I have done, that have been done to me, I developed in the way I did, became as I am now, and that I wish she was happy for how much I've learned, and how well I can protect myself. I told her of my female friends that come to me for advice, how women online would read my blogs (at one of my other sites) and send me fan mail, questions, queries on issues they've been having with men or with their own sexuality. I tell her about the mini fanclub I had before I disappeared from that site because the attention was too much, and how I am able protect my friends from harm and being taken advantage of by rogue males because of my experiences. I point out girlfriends I've had in the past and situations that have arisen (some she already knew about), and how I had to deal with things. I tell her about going out with friends to clubs and being in the back, watching over the girls I came with, making sure that they're safe.
This is who I've become.
Because of the things that happened.
And she remembers that time in my life so well, the fragments of what I was going through flying her way, cutting her off at the knees while I self-destructed.
We're sitting there, at this little cafe, and she says,
"I remember, V. Since that time, you've grown into something different, and I've had to let go of the girl you used to be."
We talk, and I cry some. I'm not a crier. I'm the nominated family eulogy reader because the only other person who can keep it together at funerals is my father, and he doesn't like public speaking.
But I do cry. I actually cried due to direct emotional stimulus related to something I was going through.
Usually, when I know I need to cry about something, but I can't let go of my control, I watch a movie that always sends me over the edge. Sweet November, Butterfly Effect, Swing Kids, Benjamin Button. God, when I saw Benjamin Button over at the Arclight I fucking lost it hardcore. Twice.
That make-up didn't actually need to be presentable to public view or anything.
So we talk. We talk about how alienated I feel from the rest of the family because of how my life torqued off at this odd angle, about why, at family gatherings, I'm always behind a camera or off in an armchair somewhere, reading. How I feel I will hurt her if I let who I've become leak through, so I just withdraw entirely.
I talk about my fear that I don't have unconditional emotional support from her, that I can't live the life I want to live because she'll disapprove, and because it'll hurt her. I tell her that I'm worried that her love might be the same, that one day I'll go too far and she'll reject me as her daughter.
I don't think anything was truly solved, but now she's aware of it. She has said that she will not give me her emotional support if she disagrees with what I'm doing, and I'm going to have to deal with that in the future should it be occur. And, knowing me, it probably will.
But she also told me that she knows that I'll never live an ordinary life, like average people.
(Then, of course, she said, "Like your sister." And I looked at her with faux shock, "Did you just call my sister average??" "No, I didn't mean that like that. You know what I mean." And I did. I was just messing with her. Yes, I mess with my mom. And then she hits me and I yell for Child Protective Services.)
I did it, though.
I took a step towards integration.
I addressed my fears, my concerns. I let her know where I was, mentally and emotionally.
Which is what I constantly advocate to my female friends.
Which is why, when I'm one-night-standed by someone I was interested in becoming a regular partner, I never feel used or upset.
I communicate honestly and completely. I let my partner for the evening know where I am, know what I would (and would not) like from the encounter, I am completely open about my sexual history, about what I enjoy in bed, and hope for the same respect from them.
If they, before and after our sexual "interlude", speak of the next time, and yet I never hear from them again, I'm fine. Mild disappointment if the sex was good, but that's the extent to which I am affected the vast majority of the time. Their inability to be honest with me, or with themselves and therefore with me, is their own failing. I have not compromised myself, my values. I respected them as another human being, and therefore satisfied my expections of myself.
You cannot choose how someone else will treat you. You can take responsibility for yourself, for your own actions, and know you treated the other person as best you are able, however it is that you define your best.
I act socially dominant. I am socially dominant, when I choose to be social. I work groups when the mood takes me, when I feel like interacting with people. I always end up being the head of the group or, if a single male alpha is already in control, I get his attention and manuever to become his focus, which puts me at the top of the social food chain.
But, in the end, I will always be socially, sexually, and psychologically submissive to the man of my choice, a man worth submitting to, whether if it's for a night, a month, or a year.
My sister, on the other hand, is, and will always be social to her core. And in that core, she will always be dominant. She commands groups, she commands men and women alike and the word "compromise" is this vague, far off thing that she only engages in with our parents.
And, in the end, she rides roughshod over her boyfriends. She pussywhips them like you would not believe. She has no respect for them, for their needs, for their preferences. If she's ambiguous about something, she'll go with what they want, but if she at all has an opinion, they are going to do it Her Way. End of story.
None of her three boyfriends have managed to stand up to her.
So I walk by and she's laying into him about how he's wrongwrongwrong about the car he wants to get and he's going to get this other car because it's safer and she cares about his safety and there is no way in hell that he's going to get this other car. And she drags me into it.
I'm so apathetic about this, I don't even remember the conclusion other than me telling him, "You should get a safe car, not for yourself, but for your son." He has a three year old boy from his ex-wife.
Well, that was fuel to her fire. I just left the room.
The next morning, this morning really, I went to breakfast with my mother. As I have said before, she is a close friend of mine, so we do go out when we can and talk about what's going on in our lives. We also stay up at night and play near violent card games, insulting each other like crazy.
She told me about her experience up in Portland, how she went through her grief cycles with her best friend, through instructions in a book that was recommended to her, and how much she realized about herself and her relationship with her older brother, who has pretty much abandoned her for his crazy born-again wife.
And, as breakfast wound down, I talked to her.
I told her how badly I felt when I was at home. About how whenever I was upset about something as a child, and even to this day, she and my father would both tell me why I should not be upset, and how the other person had their reasons and I just needed to get over it, and how very unacknowledged that made me feel all through my life.
I explained to her about the shirts that upset her so much the night before, and why I wore them, why I was comfortable wearing them. I explained to her how, because of the things that I have done, that have been done to me, I developed in the way I did, became as I am now, and that I wish she was happy for how much I've learned, and how well I can protect myself. I told her of my female friends that come to me for advice, how women online would read my blogs (at one of my other sites) and send me fan mail, questions, queries on issues they've been having with men or with their own sexuality. I tell her about the mini fanclub I had before I disappeared from that site because the attention was too much, and how I am able protect my friends from harm and being taken advantage of by rogue males because of my experiences. I point out girlfriends I've had in the past and situations that have arisen (some she already knew about), and how I had to deal with things. I tell her about going out with friends to clubs and being in the back, watching over the girls I came with, making sure that they're safe.
This is who I've become.
Because of the things that happened.
And she remembers that time in my life so well, the fragments of what I was going through flying her way, cutting her off at the knees while I self-destructed.
We're sitting there, at this little cafe, and she says,
"I remember, V. Since that time, you've grown into something different, and I've had to let go of the girl you used to be."
We talk, and I cry some. I'm not a crier. I'm the nominated family eulogy reader because the only other person who can keep it together at funerals is my father, and he doesn't like public speaking.
But I do cry. I actually cried due to direct emotional stimulus related to something I was going through.
Usually, when I know I need to cry about something, but I can't let go of my control, I watch a movie that always sends me over the edge. Sweet November, Butterfly Effect, Swing Kids, Benjamin Button. God, when I saw Benjamin Button over at the Arclight I fucking lost it hardcore. Twice.
That make-up didn't actually need to be presentable to public view or anything.
So we talk. We talk about how alienated I feel from the rest of the family because of how my life torqued off at this odd angle, about why, at family gatherings, I'm always behind a camera or off in an armchair somewhere, reading. How I feel I will hurt her if I let who I've become leak through, so I just withdraw entirely.
I talk about my fear that I don't have unconditional emotional support from her, that I can't live the life I want to live because she'll disapprove, and because it'll hurt her. I tell her that I'm worried that her love might be the same, that one day I'll go too far and she'll reject me as her daughter.
I don't think anything was truly solved, but now she's aware of it. She has said that she will not give me her emotional support if she disagrees with what I'm doing, and I'm going to have to deal with that in the future should it be occur. And, knowing me, it probably will.
But she also told me that she knows that I'll never live an ordinary life, like average people.
(Then, of course, she said, "Like your sister." And I looked at her with faux shock, "Did you just call my sister average??" "No, I didn't mean that like that. You know what I mean." And I did. I was just messing with her. Yes, I mess with my mom. And then she hits me and I yell for Child Protective Services.)
I did it, though.
I took a step towards integration.
I addressed my fears, my concerns. I let her know where I was, mentally and emotionally.
Which is what I constantly advocate to my female friends.
Which is why, when I'm one-night-standed by someone I was interested in becoming a regular partner, I never feel used or upset.
I communicate honestly and completely. I let my partner for the evening know where I am, know what I would (and would not) like from the encounter, I am completely open about my sexual history, about what I enjoy in bed, and hope for the same respect from them.
If they, before and after our sexual "interlude", speak of the next time, and yet I never hear from them again, I'm fine. Mild disappointment if the sex was good, but that's the extent to which I am affected the vast majority of the time. Their inability to be honest with me, or with themselves and therefore with me, is their own failing. I have not compromised myself, my values. I respected them as another human being, and therefore satisfied my expections of myself.
You cannot choose how someone else will treat you. You can take responsibility for yourself, for your own actions, and know you treated the other person as best you are able, however it is that you define your best.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Something has changed within me...
I really don't have time for writing this right now, but I know if I do not tackle it before I head home for the day, I'll be up entirely too late writing about it tonight. No bueno.
GV8 made me a proposition.
He wants to live what he calls "the rock star life" for the next year, starting August 1st.
He wants to rent a property somewhere in Hollywood, for about $4000 a month or so, and start throwing gigantic themed parties every Saturday, where he takes all the people he knows, all the people I know, and the people that they know, and turn it into whatever madness he can.
We know lots of people.
In this, he wants me to move into said property for a year and document the entire thing.
We're looking at houses in Hollywood Hills, warehouse/loft/stores on Santa Monica Blvd, houses off of Sunset, and the like.
He will furnish me with a new iPhone, new laptop, new camera, give me a "down payment" of $5000 and also pay me weekly as I set up and host these events, as I furnish and organize. He'd be doing my health insurance, we'd be getting personal trainers, he's getting a vasectomy (whoo!), and I would be writing nearly full-time because it wouldn't take that much of my week to do the organizing and the like once I set a schedule.
I've pretty much turned him down and it freaking kills me.
I'm trying to get away from the party scene. I'm sick of going clubbing so much, sick of partying all the time, and still tainted from the most recent boyfriend's constant need to party and impress everyone around him.
I want to work on me. I want to go back to school, I want to get my Master's, I want to write, I want to work at this company I'm trying so hard to get into. I want to chill out. I want to not go out every single freaking night. I want downtime. I want to relax. I want my phone to stop ringing so much, text messages, emails, all this crap I'm so very done with.
I was so looking forward to having a relaxing, yet very intense sexual relationship with this man, and now he's going to be living the LA party lifestyle and is willing to give me electronics, a fabulous living place for free, a paycheck, a contract to go with that paycheck, and complete freedom to write and explore LA as I see fit, not to mention taking me out all the time and...
I don't want it.
I want parts of it, of course. A fantastic place in Hollywood? Complete and total freedom from having a 9 to 5? Encouragement to write and the stimulation from events that would occur? Electronics? Constant fine dining?
It's too much.
I've known him for less than two months.
I cannot put my life on hold for his. I'm not one to go chasing the random and improbable. If it fails, it could be disasterous. If it succeeded, I'd hate the constant parties. Accepting his offer would basically be forcing myself to be in a near-constant state of anxiety, knowing that every weekend would never be my own, knowing that my living quarters would be subject to invasion by masses of inebriated people.
It would take more than he offered for me to do that for a year.
How much is a year of your life worth?
How much would have to be offered for you to do something every week that would make you extremely ill at ease and cause issue within your own psychology? That you would, each week, have to engineer and advertise for this very thing you've grown to loathe?
And the internal conflict, the "Really, it'd be worth it, having the freedom, being able to write, being able to explore, just put up with the situations that wreck you. Assess the damage later."
The knowing that this will probably take him away from me. The first man I've met in nearly a year that would actually, possibly be boyfriend material. How rare that is. As more time passes, experiences and vibrations stack, making it so hard to find someone who suits me, who I suit.
If I lose him, he's not worth it.
"Those grapes were probably sour anyway," is whispered into my ear.
But it's still painful, still disappointing. Still eats at me and tears me into pieces.
Of course, being torn into pieces is something I have experience with.
I wish I could be that girl for him. I wish chunks of my life weren't dominated by fear of the unknown, and that anxiety didn't have such an incapacitating effect on me. I wish I had been more social, I wish I could rely on the fundamental goodness of man, instead of the fundamental self-interest of man. I wish I was secure enough in myself to know that I could handle any situation at any time, that no matter what happens, I'll be okay, that I can take care of myself.
But I don't. I'm not.
Life has shown me in many ways that things are thrown at you that you can't completely handle, that you just have to make the best of bad situations and fight so you aren't destroyed in the process of attempting to save yourself or those around you.
Probably not the happiest outlook.
I know I need to get over this fear that, somehow, I am unable to truly take care of myself. It's not a healthy fear, but it is certainly one that has been instilled in me for as long as I can remember. You can't take care of yourself, don't go to far from the nest or something horrible will happen.
I've done things to try to break this. Put myself in places or situations where I was taking care of myself and others. But, in the end, it hasn't been enough. Still that fear lingers in me, causes anxiety.
I'm so sick of feeling anxious in certain situations. Like on Saturday, when GV8 and I went out with some of my friends to a club. And one of them, a girl, got shitfaced and started fighting and yelling at the people around us. I've never been to a club and had one of my friends get to that point. Parties, sure. Club? No. She's right next to me yelling at these girls that did nothing to her, chewing them out and about to go knock their skulls together and I'm, while outwardly calm, freaking out inside my head.
I'm so very over drunks.
I'm so over people who can't monitor and maintain themselves, who don't watch and control their behavior, who expect the people around them to watch them to make sure they don't land in the drunk tank or crash their car into a tree (hasn't happened in a while, thankfully).
Maybe I'm jealous of people being able to let go and have total faith in themselves and their friends to have everything come out okay.
It's possible.
Or maybe I'm sick of steering around drunk people.
Maybe seeing my friend climbing between balconies in Vegas on the 17th floor of a casino was too much.
Maybe losing entire groups of people as they get angry, start fighting, and run off into multiple different directions in not the best area did it.
Or having to bust down bathroom doors to get to people that have passed out and might have alcohol poisoning.
Or watching people fall down flights of stairs at clubs.
Or walk into doorways and poles.
Or maybe it was watching a group of friends breaking into apartments in their complex through sheer strength and numbness of the nerves.
Maybe it was having the carpet in every room but one in my apartment vomited on, as well as the kitchen and bathrooms during a single party.
Or trying to control a 6'7" ex-bouncer who was seconds away from a drunken rampage and, really, I wasn't sure if he was going to hit me or not, but I wasn't about to let him get kicked out of his favorite club in a fit of self-loathing induced drunkness. I've got good reflexes, but he's been fighting for over a decade.
It might be years of having to dodge the drunks on the dancefloor, and when said drunks decide they're coordinated enough to dance and drink... and then spill their drink all over the floor, which means you're spending the rest of your evening dancing in a sticky wet spot that is slowly being spread by foot traffic over the rest of the floor because someone was a selfish prick who couldn't stop nursing their drink for a three to five minute song.
It could have been the man I affectionately called "Beer-o", who would get drunk off of beer, strip to the waist, and dance around the clubs, pouring more beer over himself like some wet starlet... except less attractive. Every so often, I'll see someone I think might be him at the clubs, and I won't be certain until he starts dancing.
Maybe it was that time in Venice, when I was hanging out with some of the transient population, they ended up having too much to drink and, if it hadn't been for my ability to handle horny men, I more than likely would've ended up in a gang rape situation.
Gang rape, sure. Gang rape by hobos, no.
You know, maybe I'll never figure out why I just don't like drunk people. I mean, they've got so much going for them. So charming, attractive, and witty. Their intelligence and respect towards other people's boundaries is quite endearing.
Hm. That was a bit of a tangent.
Really, I'm just irritated/disappointed about GV8's decision regarding the next year and my friend getting so embarassingly drunk. I'm also irritated at myself in regards to my ability to believe in myself when it comes to handling situations I've yet to be exposed to. If I did have that faith in myself, in my ability to handle, in my ability to cope, then I wouldn't have anywhere near the amount of fear or anxiety I do in regards to potentially taking up GV8 up on his offer.
It's annoying and frustrating, to realize at least some of the things that hold you back, and yet be unable to control them. I can't logic myself out of this anxiety. I can try, but it doesn't last for more than a day.
And I hate that GV8 put me in this position. Yes, he was trying to be helpful, trying to give me something I wanted: the time and space to write, and weekly, if not daily stimulation and subject matter.
What more could I want?
And now I feel like an ass because I turned down such a generous offer. He wanted me there by his side through all of this, wanted to experience this with me. He was willing to spend the money, was willing to give me what would be a free ride with extras for a year, so I could do this, so I could follow a dream of writing.
What makes it worse is that I don't know if this gut feeling telling me not to take him up on the offer is spawned from instinct, of knowing something is wrong with him or the situation, or if it is spawned from fear. It feels like a mix of both, but I would feel so much better if I could figure out which dominated. If I knew for sure it was the fear speaking, I could work with it.
But instinct? You have to listen to.
Is my body reminding me that my mind isn't ready for this? That I am not healed enough to go into this sort of lifestyle and retain sanity and reality? Since I've yet to truly define my self-concept, going into a year surrounded by people and parties would probably not be good for me.
Or it would force me to recognize myself.
Or I could burn out, as has been cautioned to me time and time again.
This makes me wish I had ever let someone close enough to me. This makes me wish I had another person to bounce things off of, someone who really knows me, someone who wants me to be happy, someone who will encourage me in whatever decision I make. I have friends but, for all my self-disclosure, I keep back the important parts.
I wish I could trust him.
I wish I could leap into his arms and know, know that no matter what, he would catch me.
But to ask that of someone a month and a half in, when you're floating along with each other with no said expectations, that's a little much.
I wish he hadn't.
I wish he had waited until next year.
I wish I could gather up momentum and launch into him with perfect faith, slam into his chest and know he would not move.
It's a lot to ask of a girl.
And, I suppose, a number of girls would be whole enough, undamaged enough, or even wrecked in a particular way that they could do it without hesitation.
I'm cautious. I weigh each step carefully, analyze into the ground all possible outcomes and force myself to realize that of all possible outcomes I've thought of, there's at least six more. I try to watch patterns and habits, see how much follow through there is... but I haven't known him long enough to do that. I've met a few of his friends, but none of his employees as of yet.
I wish I could trust.
And I blame myself. I totally do. For not handling everything in the past as fully as I should have, for not keeping myself healthy on a physical and psychological level. If I had addressed things properly when they should've been addressed, if I hadn't let fear and panic dominate, I'd be healthier.
Stable.
It's funny when stability becomes a lofty goal.
And I'm not talking about external stability. I have that. People rarely seem to realize everything I'm hiding. And, truly, I don't realize everything I'm hiding. I want to take my mind apart and fix it. I want all this damage, all the abuse, all the horrific experiences that linger on in my mind, to become okay. To become acceptable to me, to become normal, to become weightless, so I can stop letting it affect the current me.
Of course, I'm working on it. Journaling, thinking, talking, reading books about different ways to heal, trying to learn about life-areas that I'm so very lacking in. There's so much stuff to deal with and get over, things that I can't even imagine the source of.
But it's in me somewhere.
I took GV8 to my favorite restaurant in Little Tokyo on Saturday, then we went to the club where my friend was drunk and aggressive. Sunday, we went out to Aroma again. I continue to love that cafe. We drove around, looking at properties in Hollywood and Los Feliz, (ended up driving up to Hollywood Ranch by the Hollywood sign and taking a short climb up to view it... funny that I had never seen that sign before, even though I've been here my entire life) then caught UP at the theater in Silverlake on Vermont, next to Skylight Books. Ended up back at one of his stores, again on the white leather couch which is lovely because after sex, squirting, or dripping wet blowjobs, you can just wipe it off without stain.
I had been planning on sex, but ended up going down on him for a half hour or so. I've been messing with my technique lately, and just messing around in general. GV8 is a happy participant to my oral experiments. I've hit the point where I can generally get a guy to orgasm without bobbing my head, just tongue-work. So now it has become an experiment of what else I can do, what is fun for me, what feels good on my hands and mouth, as well as learning to maintain a natural rhythm between tongue, lips, head, and hands. It's like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, wiggle your toes, and spin in a circle counter-clockwise to your belly rubbing.
Okay, I lie. It's not that hard. But I want to get to a point where I can just relax and chill and not have to constantly be checking to make sure everything is moving as it should. Almost there. GV8's a brilliant partner, and yes, it works out well. I'm looking forward to spending time with SFPlayboy again, trying out some of these new movements and seeing how he enjoys them. He already holds my oral in high regard, so this should cause his mind to implode.
Crap. I just had an hour distraction from this at work. Talk about losing flow.
Tonight I'm going to go straight home, shower, pop some Nyquil and put in a movie, and pass out. I'm getting sick thanks to my lack of sleep and the stress put on me this past weekend.
Tomorrow, my sister magically signed me up to be part of a reality show... and they want to audition me. So I'm doing that. Sigh. I'm really just using this as leverage for next time the Rockettes are auditioning in order to force her to go to that, since she wussed out this last time.
Tomorrow is also C's birthday. I think we might go to a strip club.
Wednesday I get to dodge gropes from my friend's soon to be ex husband.
Thursday is winging for an unknowing C so she can get into Crosser's pants. I was relaying that story to GV8 on Saturday, he was laughing so hard.
I don't even want to think about Friday+weekend yet. I think I've purposefully blocked my coming weekend schedule from my mind because I can't remember a thing and that's just not right at all.
...and then I remembered. Dammit.
If I get sick(er), I'm screwed. Well, my schedule is screwed. Might be for the best.
I mean, really, running my body into a state of burning wreckage is like nature's way of telling me to slow down.
GV8 made me a proposition.
He wants to live what he calls "the rock star life" for the next year, starting August 1st.
He wants to rent a property somewhere in Hollywood, for about $4000 a month or so, and start throwing gigantic themed parties every Saturday, where he takes all the people he knows, all the people I know, and the people that they know, and turn it into whatever madness he can.
We know lots of people.
In this, he wants me to move into said property for a year and document the entire thing.
We're looking at houses in Hollywood Hills, warehouse/loft/stores on Santa Monica Blvd, houses off of Sunset, and the like.
He will furnish me with a new iPhone, new laptop, new camera, give me a "down payment" of $5000 and also pay me weekly as I set up and host these events, as I furnish and organize. He'd be doing my health insurance, we'd be getting personal trainers, he's getting a vasectomy (whoo!), and I would be writing nearly full-time because it wouldn't take that much of my week to do the organizing and the like once I set a schedule.
I've pretty much turned him down and it freaking kills me.
I'm trying to get away from the party scene. I'm sick of going clubbing so much, sick of partying all the time, and still tainted from the most recent boyfriend's constant need to party and impress everyone around him.
I want to work on me. I want to go back to school, I want to get my Master's, I want to write, I want to work at this company I'm trying so hard to get into. I want to chill out. I want to not go out every single freaking night. I want downtime. I want to relax. I want my phone to stop ringing so much, text messages, emails, all this crap I'm so very done with.
I was so looking forward to having a relaxing, yet very intense sexual relationship with this man, and now he's going to be living the LA party lifestyle and is willing to give me electronics, a fabulous living place for free, a paycheck, a contract to go with that paycheck, and complete freedom to write and explore LA as I see fit, not to mention taking me out all the time and...
I don't want it.
I want parts of it, of course. A fantastic place in Hollywood? Complete and total freedom from having a 9 to 5? Encouragement to write and the stimulation from events that would occur? Electronics? Constant fine dining?
It's too much.
I've known him for less than two months.
I cannot put my life on hold for his. I'm not one to go chasing the random and improbable. If it fails, it could be disasterous. If it succeeded, I'd hate the constant parties. Accepting his offer would basically be forcing myself to be in a near-constant state of anxiety, knowing that every weekend would never be my own, knowing that my living quarters would be subject to invasion by masses of inebriated people.
It would take more than he offered for me to do that for a year.
How much is a year of your life worth?
How much would have to be offered for you to do something every week that would make you extremely ill at ease and cause issue within your own psychology? That you would, each week, have to engineer and advertise for this very thing you've grown to loathe?
And the internal conflict, the "Really, it'd be worth it, having the freedom, being able to write, being able to explore, just put up with the situations that wreck you. Assess the damage later."
The knowing that this will probably take him away from me. The first man I've met in nearly a year that would actually, possibly be boyfriend material. How rare that is. As more time passes, experiences and vibrations stack, making it so hard to find someone who suits me, who I suit.
If I lose him, he's not worth it.
"Those grapes were probably sour anyway," is whispered into my ear.
But it's still painful, still disappointing. Still eats at me and tears me into pieces.
Of course, being torn into pieces is something I have experience with.
I wish I could be that girl for him. I wish chunks of my life weren't dominated by fear of the unknown, and that anxiety didn't have such an incapacitating effect on me. I wish I had been more social, I wish I could rely on the fundamental goodness of man, instead of the fundamental self-interest of man. I wish I was secure enough in myself to know that I could handle any situation at any time, that no matter what happens, I'll be okay, that I can take care of myself.
But I don't. I'm not.
Life has shown me in many ways that things are thrown at you that you can't completely handle, that you just have to make the best of bad situations and fight so you aren't destroyed in the process of attempting to save yourself or those around you.
Probably not the happiest outlook.
I know I need to get over this fear that, somehow, I am unable to truly take care of myself. It's not a healthy fear, but it is certainly one that has been instilled in me for as long as I can remember. You can't take care of yourself, don't go to far from the nest or something horrible will happen.
I've done things to try to break this. Put myself in places or situations where I was taking care of myself and others. But, in the end, it hasn't been enough. Still that fear lingers in me, causes anxiety.
I'm so sick of feeling anxious in certain situations. Like on Saturday, when GV8 and I went out with some of my friends to a club. And one of them, a girl, got shitfaced and started fighting and yelling at the people around us. I've never been to a club and had one of my friends get to that point. Parties, sure. Club? No. She's right next to me yelling at these girls that did nothing to her, chewing them out and about to go knock their skulls together and I'm, while outwardly calm, freaking out inside my head.
I'm so very over drunks.
I'm so over people who can't monitor and maintain themselves, who don't watch and control their behavior, who expect the people around them to watch them to make sure they don't land in the drunk tank or crash their car into a tree (hasn't happened in a while, thankfully).
Maybe I'm jealous of people being able to let go and have total faith in themselves and their friends to have everything come out okay.
It's possible.
Or maybe I'm sick of steering around drunk people.
Maybe seeing my friend climbing between balconies in Vegas on the 17th floor of a casino was too much.
Maybe losing entire groups of people as they get angry, start fighting, and run off into multiple different directions in not the best area did it.
Or having to bust down bathroom doors to get to people that have passed out and might have alcohol poisoning.
Or watching people fall down flights of stairs at clubs.
Or walk into doorways and poles.
Or maybe it was watching a group of friends breaking into apartments in their complex through sheer strength and numbness of the nerves.
Maybe it was having the carpet in every room but one in my apartment vomited on, as well as the kitchen and bathrooms during a single party.
Or trying to control a 6'7" ex-bouncer who was seconds away from a drunken rampage and, really, I wasn't sure if he was going to hit me or not, but I wasn't about to let him get kicked out of his favorite club in a fit of self-loathing induced drunkness. I've got good reflexes, but he's been fighting for over a decade.
It might be years of having to dodge the drunks on the dancefloor, and when said drunks decide they're coordinated enough to dance and drink... and then spill their drink all over the floor, which means you're spending the rest of your evening dancing in a sticky wet spot that is slowly being spread by foot traffic over the rest of the floor because someone was a selfish prick who couldn't stop nursing their drink for a three to five minute song.
It could have been the man I affectionately called "Beer-o", who would get drunk off of beer, strip to the waist, and dance around the clubs, pouring more beer over himself like some wet starlet... except less attractive. Every so often, I'll see someone I think might be him at the clubs, and I won't be certain until he starts dancing.
Maybe it was that time in Venice, when I was hanging out with some of the transient population, they ended up having too much to drink and, if it hadn't been for my ability to handle horny men, I more than likely would've ended up in a gang rape situation.
Gang rape, sure. Gang rape by hobos, no.
You know, maybe I'll never figure out why I just don't like drunk people. I mean, they've got so much going for them. So charming, attractive, and witty. Their intelligence and respect towards other people's boundaries is quite endearing.
Hm. That was a bit of a tangent.
Really, I'm just irritated/disappointed about GV8's decision regarding the next year and my friend getting so embarassingly drunk. I'm also irritated at myself in regards to my ability to believe in myself when it comes to handling situations I've yet to be exposed to. If I did have that faith in myself, in my ability to handle, in my ability to cope, then I wouldn't have anywhere near the amount of fear or anxiety I do in regards to potentially taking up GV8 up on his offer.
It's annoying and frustrating, to realize at least some of the things that hold you back, and yet be unable to control them. I can't logic myself out of this anxiety. I can try, but it doesn't last for more than a day.
And I hate that GV8 put me in this position. Yes, he was trying to be helpful, trying to give me something I wanted: the time and space to write, and weekly, if not daily stimulation and subject matter.
What more could I want?
And now I feel like an ass because I turned down such a generous offer. He wanted me there by his side through all of this, wanted to experience this with me. He was willing to spend the money, was willing to give me what would be a free ride with extras for a year, so I could do this, so I could follow a dream of writing.
What makes it worse is that I don't know if this gut feeling telling me not to take him up on the offer is spawned from instinct, of knowing something is wrong with him or the situation, or if it is spawned from fear. It feels like a mix of both, but I would feel so much better if I could figure out which dominated. If I knew for sure it was the fear speaking, I could work with it.
But instinct? You have to listen to.
Is my body reminding me that my mind isn't ready for this? That I am not healed enough to go into this sort of lifestyle and retain sanity and reality? Since I've yet to truly define my self-concept, going into a year surrounded by people and parties would probably not be good for me.
Or it would force me to recognize myself.
Or I could burn out, as has been cautioned to me time and time again.
This makes me wish I had ever let someone close enough to me. This makes me wish I had another person to bounce things off of, someone who really knows me, someone who wants me to be happy, someone who will encourage me in whatever decision I make. I have friends but, for all my self-disclosure, I keep back the important parts.
I wish I could trust him.
I wish I could leap into his arms and know, know that no matter what, he would catch me.
But to ask that of someone a month and a half in, when you're floating along with each other with no said expectations, that's a little much.
I wish he hadn't.
I wish he had waited until next year.
I wish I could gather up momentum and launch into him with perfect faith, slam into his chest and know he would not move.
It's a lot to ask of a girl.
And, I suppose, a number of girls would be whole enough, undamaged enough, or even wrecked in a particular way that they could do it without hesitation.
I'm cautious. I weigh each step carefully, analyze into the ground all possible outcomes and force myself to realize that of all possible outcomes I've thought of, there's at least six more. I try to watch patterns and habits, see how much follow through there is... but I haven't known him long enough to do that. I've met a few of his friends, but none of his employees as of yet.
I wish I could trust.
And I blame myself. I totally do. For not handling everything in the past as fully as I should have, for not keeping myself healthy on a physical and psychological level. If I had addressed things properly when they should've been addressed, if I hadn't let fear and panic dominate, I'd be healthier.
Stable.
It's funny when stability becomes a lofty goal.
And I'm not talking about external stability. I have that. People rarely seem to realize everything I'm hiding. And, truly, I don't realize everything I'm hiding. I want to take my mind apart and fix it. I want all this damage, all the abuse, all the horrific experiences that linger on in my mind, to become okay. To become acceptable to me, to become normal, to become weightless, so I can stop letting it affect the current me.
Of course, I'm working on it. Journaling, thinking, talking, reading books about different ways to heal, trying to learn about life-areas that I'm so very lacking in. There's so much stuff to deal with and get over, things that I can't even imagine the source of.
But it's in me somewhere.
I took GV8 to my favorite restaurant in Little Tokyo on Saturday, then we went to the club where my friend was drunk and aggressive. Sunday, we went out to Aroma again. I continue to love that cafe. We drove around, looking at properties in Hollywood and Los Feliz, (ended up driving up to Hollywood Ranch by the Hollywood sign and taking a short climb up to view it... funny that I had never seen that sign before, even though I've been here my entire life) then caught UP at the theater in Silverlake on Vermont, next to Skylight Books. Ended up back at one of his stores, again on the white leather couch which is lovely because after sex, squirting, or dripping wet blowjobs, you can just wipe it off without stain.
I had been planning on sex, but ended up going down on him for a half hour or so. I've been messing with my technique lately, and just messing around in general. GV8 is a happy participant to my oral experiments. I've hit the point where I can generally get a guy to orgasm without bobbing my head, just tongue-work. So now it has become an experiment of what else I can do, what is fun for me, what feels good on my hands and mouth, as well as learning to maintain a natural rhythm between tongue, lips, head, and hands. It's like trying to pat your head, rub your belly, wiggle your toes, and spin in a circle counter-clockwise to your belly rubbing.
Okay, I lie. It's not that hard. But I want to get to a point where I can just relax and chill and not have to constantly be checking to make sure everything is moving as it should. Almost there. GV8's a brilliant partner, and yes, it works out well. I'm looking forward to spending time with SFPlayboy again, trying out some of these new movements and seeing how he enjoys them. He already holds my oral in high regard, so this should cause his mind to implode.
Crap. I just had an hour distraction from this at work. Talk about losing flow.
Tonight I'm going to go straight home, shower, pop some Nyquil and put in a movie, and pass out. I'm getting sick thanks to my lack of sleep and the stress put on me this past weekend.
Tomorrow, my sister magically signed me up to be part of a reality show... and they want to audition me. So I'm doing that. Sigh. I'm really just using this as leverage for next time the Rockettes are auditioning in order to force her to go to that, since she wussed out this last time.
Tomorrow is also C's birthday. I think we might go to a strip club.
Wednesday I get to dodge gropes from my friend's soon to be ex husband.
Thursday is winging for an unknowing C so she can get into Crosser's pants. I was relaying that story to GV8 on Saturday, he was laughing so hard.
I don't even want to think about Friday+weekend yet. I think I've purposefully blocked my coming weekend schedule from my mind because I can't remember a thing and that's just not right at all.
...and then I remembered. Dammit.
If I get sick(er), I'm screwed. Well, my schedule is screwed. Might be for the best.
I mean, really, running my body into a state of burning wreckage is like nature's way of telling me to slow down.
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